I am the luckiest.

Dogs are perfect. They forgive easily, love hard, ask almost nothing from us, think our arrival back in their presence is magical, and carry a rare kind of unfiltered, deep joy few can muster. 

Dogs have only one flaw. They don't stay here on earth with us nearly as long as we need them to. I needed Oliver to stay with me forever. Whatever my forever is. But that was never in the cards. Despite the knowledge that their will life will be relatively short, and the entry ticket comes with a required return, we willingly open our hearts to the kind of love that spills out and bursts like fire. 

Oliver gave me unconditional love like no one ever has, the kind of adoration that reminded me daily how much I mattered to him. He sat with me when I was sad, danced with me in times of happiness, let me rub him for as long as I wanted when I needed comfort, and made me laugh out loud in the most small, unimportant moments. 

Endlessly charming, even in his final months everyone who met him assumed he was still in his youth. And so many are surprised he is gone because despite intellectual awareness of his disease he never seemed ill. 

But in the last several weeks, I noticed incremental changes. He tried to hide them, never wanting to feel my hurt or fear. And yet, while his spirit never dampened and his soul remained as sweet as ever, his body decided it had offered enough time.

I've had a few other experiences in life that have left me feeling as ripped open, raw, and lost as I feel right now. And in the moments when the depth of the breathtakingly impossible pain seeps in, I remember the weight of him leaning into me. I hear him playing with his toys. Or barking at absolutely everything that moved. I remember that this precious, kind, trusting, beautiful soul found mine and I got not only ten wonderful years with him - but a final one with something I had been seeking for a long time: Peace. 

Being truly at peace, feeling safe and calm, can be easily taken for granted. He and I found that together in this final year, and I feel immensely grateful for it. Because of him I am better, stronger, wiser, healthier, happier, and know how incredibly fortunate I am. My life doesn't read like a streak of lucky breaks. But when it comes to Oliver, I am the luckiest.

Oliver Miles

fall 2014 - summer 2025

My soulmate, my angel, my greatest love.

The wait is the worst

 This last ten days have been hard, much harder than I let on to most. The waiting and wondering about a new health challenge was a lot to manage emotionally. 

And while I am writing to say I finally have the results and I do not have breast cancer - which is amazing - I want to acknowledge those who waited with me. 

Thank you to those who checked in and hoped for a good outcome with me. And most importantly for acknowledging that even when the result is good news, it can be unbelievably hard to avoid the fear that accompanies the wait. 

Time to exhale.

Don't tell me I'm too young for this

 My PET CT scan that revealed an area of concern, prompting the first of five different scans or tests (including a biopsy), took place on April 24, 2025. So for those who check every so often to hear the latest updates and musings from me (thank you), you now know why I've been so quiet on my blog. It's not to create a sense of drama that I have held off on sharing this part of the journey. It's that I do not see the point in telling however many of you there are I'm facing a possible additional diagnosis until I know enough to warrant the details being shared. 

(feel free to Google this and you'll likely find the one I really wanted to use. It had additional words.)

For those who have experienced an MRI guided breast biopsy, you know. For those who haven't, I hope you never, ever do. 

My best description doesn't include the word pain. But it is very overwhelming and emotionally intense.

(and pro tip: if they don't tell you - shower before you go in because you can't shower for 48 hours after and I'm - at best - annoyed by that).

One thing I've learned in the last month or so is this area of the body, as it relates to things not right, is not taken nearly as seriously as it should be - particularly the younger you are. 

Someone (or several someone's) is going to read this and wonder if I'm referring to them. Let that go and learn this lesson for the future: don't ever (or ever again) tell someone they are 'too young' to have breast cancer, be worried they have breast cancer, or pursuing tests that will concretely identify whether they do.

Ever.

I wish I could give this advice to physicians too, because I heard it (or some version of it) from no less than four adult people with medical degrees in the last month. I even like one of them very much.

I'm always curious about things I'm facing so I looked this up. The difference between someone in their 40's (that's me, I'm 44) and someone in their 50's getting breast cancer is 1 in 65 vs 1 in 42 according to the National Cancer Institute. That's not enough difference to warrant the comment (or the belief) that someone in their 40's is 'too young.' 

So for now and for the next several days, I wait. 

Gratitude & Grace

 It's hard to be 'grateful' for PET CT scans. I have them every eight weeks or so. Overall, they're not really that bad. I can't eat that morning which on any given day is no big deal and on another is a bummer. It's time consuming. But I live really close to the medical facility, so it's not that bad. And they're always on schedule (we all know that's pretty miraculous). It's one of the many occasions I get poked at with a needle each month - which for anyone is never enjoyable and for me can be a challenge. Especially if you took away my ability to hydrate. 

Not the worst experience, certainly...but grateful....that's probably going a tad too far. 

With that said, I became grateful for my most recent PET CT scan. Because it highlighted another area of concern. One that most certainly would not have been found until whatever it ends up being was much more than whatever it is now. 

A mammogram in the fall of 2024 didn't catch it. Maybe it wasn't there then. A new mammogram in April 2025 (requested because something was lighting up on the PET CT scan) didn't really give anyone additional concern. Neither did an ultrasound of the same area. Everyone kept saying (I'm paraphrasing here) 'there's something there, but it looks like nothing.' 

Just not 'nothing' enough to stop the testing, scanning, and poking. 

The cancer treatment I'm on was doing a good job. Actually, if treatments had feelings that would cause offense. It's doing a great job. My pain had decreased immensely. No more nausea. And the most recent scans showed a 'quieting' of the growth of the tumors. 

I'm now grateful no one told me it might not have worked at all. I guess that seems obvious in hindsight; but it never occurred to me it wouldn't work. I've been more consumed by how long until it doesn't work anymore. 

A few days before the next test, an MRI of the right breast, the pain in my liver started creeping back into my life. So did the nausea. And if you've ever had a breast MRI you know the position of the scan puts you face down. My upper abdominal area didn't appreciate that. It's just 23 minutes of scanning. But getting up off that machine was a challenge. 

Getting a call that same evening was unexpected. I suspect that's half the reason I hung up the phone after learning I have a suspicious mass in the right breast that will need an MRI guided biopsy, and sobbed.

It's not my nature to pick up the phone and call someone for support when I'm sad or scared. Not initially. My MO is to sit quietly, to settle into my own thoughts and feelings about something. And maybe more profoundly, my choice not to involve anyone is most definitely because I never want to create drama - particularly around an unknown. And at this point, there's still unknowns.

But I called someone who has become an incredible friend, someone who I subconsciously knew would probably drop everything and beeline for my house without my having to ask. And she did. 

She let me cry and she held my hand and she allowed me to release more than four months of sadness, fear, pain, and disappointment into the room. Despite the unknown. Despite the fact that even if this is yet another terrible challenge I may be faced with, it was caught early and won't be nearly as awful as what I'm already going through. Her grace in that moment let me feel all that was rising to the surface and spilling over. She assured me it's okay to have reached a point where it's all too much. 

Which allowed me to see:

The trick is you gotta name things that don't suck

 

I'm told my absence from writing is starting to become noticeable. That's actually generous of you all...I appreciate so many (even if it just feels like many) sticking around for the story. We all know there's plenty to do in a day (for most) and more than enough content out there to keep you occupied if you're in search of it. I'm flattered to be on your list of things to consider with respect to how to use your time every so often.

My brain has felt like the image above. Some days that curricular mess of confusion and unmistakable pattern of meaningless scratches is how my body feels too. And, well, some days just suck.

It occurs to me I haven't written much about the cancer treatment I take daily, in fact I would say I barely gave it credence other than to acknowledge it won't work nearly as long as I (or anyone else taking it) would like it to. 

Actually, you might recall in one of my earliest blogs I admitted initially sitting in some denial about all of this. That was even more true when it came to this medication. It took weeks to get the paperwork sorted, the compound pharmacy details organized, and a few delays occurred. 

Delays for a treatment, mind you, that was critical with respect to timing. If livers could be compared to phone batteries, mine was red.

The only person relieved about the slowness of this process was me. I have the messages in my health portal from my oncologist and Palliative Care team to remind me how desperate they all were for me to start it.

So you might find it hard believe when I tell you half of me wanted to flush it upon arrival.

No. Most of me. 

I'll spare you any suspense. I take the pills.

It's a sizeable pill. One I get tasked with reordering every seven to nine days (which - for the record - is absolutely annoying and not always as simple as a few clicks on my device). And it requires me to eat first, which is also not always something I'm interested in. Perhaps that would be something to work around except it needs to be taken at the same time everyday.

But mostly the reason I ** dislike it so much

**

is because the symptoms can be rough. And while they were pretty miserable in the beginning, and then they lightened up a bit after a couple three weeks, they seem to enjoy making a special appearance, without notice, from time to time. 

Nothing about this upcoming sentence isn't something all of you can relate to. The lousy things in life are far more exhausting than the good things. And talking about them gets tiring.

For the last several weeks, I simply became sick of my own story. Which makes sitting down to tell it, even a small part of it, about as unappealing as my breakfast on certain days (that's the time of day I selected for my cancer treatment).

My therapist, V💜, who I meet with weekly (which is one of my greatest gifts in this) recently encouraged me to list the things that don't suck when I start to feel bogged down in those things that do.

While I'm certain she appreciated the flattery of me letting her know she's on it, and I mean it, she was serious in the assignment.

You gotta find the things that don't suck. 

So while the list I'll share here will be somewhat vague...I want to acknowledge a few things, in no particularly order, that do not suck. 

I live in a place with pretty amazing weather (and if you live where I live I promise I didn't wish for the recent chilly temperatures and overcast skies) - it smells delightful around here lately with everything blooming. And it's been mostly sunny for two weeks.

I've known the incredible people that might be complaining of gray skies (I used to live in the PNW and I do love that weather) for less than ten months and they have, despite that short time span, wrapped their arms around me. They care deeply about how I'm doing and what I need, and they mean it every single time they ask.

And not a day goes by that I don't receive text messages, phone calls, or voice memos (K💚) and Polos (E💛), cards in the mail, or care packages from people wishing me well and sending me love.

And Oliver is still here. 💕

There's more (lately I am in need of this exercise a lot).

But what I'm remembering right now as I write this is that some of you reach out to me on your sucky days. We all have them. And it doesn't have to have a big, bold, horrible, mean word attached to it to be labeled as such. 

So my thing that doesn't suck, for today, is I am so grateful for everyone being so kind to me. And I'm even more aware of how fortunate I am when I think about the fact that you have sucky days too - that perhaps even on a day when the world felt unfair, you hurt, you slept terribly, you lost, or it feels like you failed - you helped me not feel quite as low. 

I'm not able to offer much these days in return, but I hope you feel my gratitude.

Chatter about my imperfections

Through this blog, one thing has become clear (correct me if I'm wrong): I have cancer. And this blog, as noted, is chatter about life's imperfections. So I thought for kicks I'd share a few (other) imperfections about me. Because I'm more than just a girl with cancer. I'm a quirky girl with cancer.

 I'd like to think of myself as relatively normal but we all have our imperfections and idiosyncrasies...

* I squeeze the toothpaste right in the middle of the tube. I absolutely know I should squeeze it from the bottom but somehow I never do.*

*That just doesn't need to be there. By this I mean people WAY overuse the word 'that.' In every sentence you write, read it aloud to yourself. If you've used the word 'that' then try your sentence without it (out loud.) Chances are, at least 75% of the time, you'll notice it's not necessary. Trust me.

* I firmly believe the following: The toliet paper roll should go on the dispenser the right way. There is only one right way. I will change it if it's wrong.

* Clearly I am a tad OCD. I have preferences on where things go. Coasters on tables, certain towels in certain bathrooms, the placement of items on the kitchen counter - which should not be many. 

* I watch all three hours of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. It feels nostalgic. It got me out of cooking when I was younger which was brilliant until I had to do the cooking myself and realized I didn't know how.

* I am a homebody. I love the idea of going on a Mediterranean cruise for 14 days, traveling to Ireland, Scotland and London, and finally taking a trip to Tahiti and Fiji. But actually being away from home for weeks is not my idea of awesome. I gotta really gear myself up for change in routine. And having zero control on where things are or how the toliet paper rolls.

(Proof I have left the country and spent time in Europe.)

* Without enough sleep I am super cranky.

Life is not good for me when I'm sleep deprived. I need a minimum of seven to eight hours a night. Without it, there are serious problems.

* I'm that girl who tells you what time it is and how they built the clock. In (several) other words, I take what could be simply stated and use too many words. I talk too much. I take too long to tell a story. I love details. But you knew what I meant with the first sentence.

*If you and someone you live with are arguing about this, there's a very simple solution. Get your own tube of toothpaste. Problem solved. You're welcome.

When time is limited

 

Oliver and I were meant to be in each other's lives. I discovered his sweet face on one of those websites that offers pets for adoption. I knew two things - we needed to meet, and I would need to change his name. He wasn't a Roscoe. 

And it was love at first sight. While the woman at the animal rescue wanted me to meet eight or nine small puppies running around, I knew I'd come for him. He was in another area at least 75 yards away, behind a three or so foot fence, and when we locked eyes he literally climbed the fence and bolted over to me. 

Meant to be.

He turned ten years old last fall, and this spring we will celebrate our ten years together. 

Almost two years ago, I wasn't sure that would be possible. He was struggling to walk, to breath, and he had lost so much weight. An exploratory procedure allowed for the discovery of PLE.  Protein Losing Enteropathy has been a battle for both of us since July 2023. 

Oliver and I have climbed our way out of some pretty devastating and challenging times. From divorce, and the loss of his other best friend, a second dog that stayed with her dad, to two surgeries for him and four for me, many moves and changes, and some great losses. 

And we've thrived together as well. From countless beach trips, walks, snuggles, and visits with friends and family, we have taken full advantage of being each's others everything. We know each other by heart.

More than ever before, these last two months has proven we were meant to be in each other's lives. Regular testing and visits with his internist have confirmed, just as I begin to truly face my own terminal illness, his personal battle (and ours together) is coming to an end in the next few months.

Our time together is limited, but the last couple of months have helped reshape my ability to see the gift rather than the loss. Or perhaps not rather than, but more than. He is the greatest love I've ever known. And what we have been able to give to one another is nothing short of true magic. 

And maybe the real lesson is something I've been thinking about almost since the moment I was diagnosed with stage IV cancer. 

I'm one of the lucky ones. Because so many people are taken from this life in a breath. No chance to reflect, make final plans, create or even attempt to tackle a so-called bucket list, and no opportunity to say a goodbye and have some sense of closure.

But Oliver and I have had that chance. And I will continue to have those chances for some time to come. It will be breathtakingly hard to do most of that without him by my side. But I am the luckiest that I've had that chance. What a privilege. 

Just say 'Hello'

 

*

I have never had someone up close and personal in my life - as in they are in my daily life or they were the person I was closest to - go through something like this.

But my best friend's mom had surgery a few weeks ago and I immediately thought 'what can I do?'

It wasn't going to make her heal faster, or make her follow-up PT sessions easier. Nothing I could do would 'make it go away.' But I wanted to do something. 

When I had surgery last fall I got several nice things sent to me and one of them was a gift from Spoonful of Comfort, which I immediately ordered for her mom. 

(I get nothing if you purchase one of these for someone but it is a great company. I wish I'd thought of it.)

However, for the most part food is not my love language (except cake of the gluten free variety). If you're up to speed you know about my auto immune disease which took gluten out of my life. My food allergies list is three pages long. (yep, I'm as fun as I sound).

I already told you I don't have a green thumb. It's remarkable I've kept Oliver alive. Nothing else stands a chance. And that's a succulent. That thing doesn't even need much water and I'd manage to end it.

It's natural when we hear someone is suffering to ask 'What can I do?' and I quickly learned I needed to figure out an answer to that fast or I was going to end up with plants, cassaroles, and things to keep me busy I'd never touch. 

So that's my answer: Just say 'Hello'

Whether you text me, email me, message me online (because we work together), call me, offer to take a walk with me (assuming you're local), or drop a card in the mail (assuming you have my address which I'll give you if you ask but I'm not putting it here obv.) that's going to light me up and improve the chances my day will go better.

And so many of you reading this blog are already doing that. So I guess my reason for writing this is not to specifically give those of you in my life advice on what to do for me. It's more a gentle reminder that when people hurt, they are lonely, sad, lost, or life isn't making any sense whatsoever, a 'hello' (which can be totally free of cost and generally requires a light lift) will likely make a very significant difference. 

It might turn the light back on that day, in fact.

*I mean, if you have eight million dollars...I'll take some of that too. You don't need to bring me any coffee though. I'm allergic to that as well.

Asking & Answering the hard questions

 There are some people in my life who aren't afraid to ask me the hard questions. I actually don't mind it. What are the hard questions, you may be asking...

Well, 'hard' is subjective of course but to them it's questions such as how I'm thinking about life now that I'm aware the clock started on my countdown to when someday I'm not here and the journey ends. Or what I'm feeling about a treatment that will only work for a limited time. 

Not as limited as a sale at Nordstrom's but limited, nonetheless. 

And I don't mind those questions at all because it tells me two things - they are willing to acknowledge I'm probably thinking about it (at least at some level) and they're opening up to the uncomfortable conversation about how life - yours and mine - doesn't last forever. 

Which begs the question: why is it so uncomfortable to talk about life ending when we all at the very least intellectually can acknowledge that is the way it works. 

I can't answer that question for you. 

I've had no less than three highly educated, exceptionally intelligent, incredibly experienced doctors (two of whom have so many degrees you wonder how they found the wall space to display the proof) look me directly in the eye and explain the realities about my disease and how long I can (statistically) expect to live. 

And I still can't answer the question of why we, as human beings, can't wrap our minds around the fact that it'll happen to all of us. And we all know for so many it'll happen sooner than later. We just do not expect it to be us.

And with that heavy psycho-babble out of the way, I think I should tell you a story. It's short, don't worry.

I spent almost two years completely aware that something was terribly wrong with me back when I was in my early 30s. I just didn't know what the problem was for a long time.

I had weird symptoms like a constant film on my teeth, unfortunate but familiar symptoms like foggy brain, and digestive issues that could compete with just about anyone. I'm trying to be real here but we're leaving that right there. 

It took a lot of wasted doctor appointments, failed attempts at elimination diets (that's not true - I didn't fail them all, I just didn't always learn something), and losing my dignity to figure out I had Celiac disease.

When I finally got the call on August 7, 2013 from a doctor who had begrudgingly tested me for it to tell me it was positive, I sat for at least three or four hours as the light in the living room faded away into evening, just stunned. But of all the things I probably thought about in the silence of that day, I only really remember thinking about the two foods I would miss the most.

Pizza & Birthday cake. I love cake.

Do you want to know what I thought of pretty soon after I learned I likely won't see 50 due to this cancer diagnosis?

I have always wanted to live in one of those 55 and older housing complexes. Well, at least since my divorce. I'm serious. In some ways I'm so much like a typical bachelor. I completely dislike cooking (mostly I'm impatient when I get hungry and I don't want to clean up the kitchen when I'm finished), it would mean making so many new friends (which let me tell you can be very hard to do at my age, especially when you're single and have no children), and they do the lawn work and maintenance for you (I'm lacking a green thumb).

So this is crushing.

Now. If you know me well, you know I expect you to both take me seriously and finish reading this post laughing (at me or with me, take your pick.) I'm trying to lighten the mood here friends. 

On the upside, perhaps I don't need to be quite as concerned with wrinkles and I can save the money going toward those products for a trip to the beach.

I love the beach.

If you're willing to ask hard questions, I'm willing to answer them. Or at least discuss ways to get them to lower that 55 year old age requirement.

What is Palliative Care?

 I've mentioned the term Palliative Care a few times now, so I thought it might be best to help define it for those who are less familiar with it. 

The definition: Palliative care is specialized medical care for people living with a serious illness. It has four key goals for patients, and in some cases, their families

• Relieving suffering
• Improving quality of life
• Providing emotional and spiritual support
• Facilitating communication and decision-making

And, what distinguishes it from hospice care is simply the time in which it's given. Hospice care, the term more people are accustomed to hearing, is for end-of-life care. Whereas, the care I'm grateful to be currently receiving allows me to live as best I can before I approach the need for hospice.

My care team includes my therapist (the brilliant and compassionate V💜), Dr. L and his team of RN's (who manages my medications that support the relief of various symptoms due to the cancer, and the treatment I'm currently receiving), and has a host of other services and groups that I can take advantage of. 

I look forward to sharing more about the mentor/mentee program I'm going to be part of soon, for example. 

The best part of this team and these people are they help me to know I'm not alone and they are right there when something doesn't feel like I was told it should, or I have a bad couple of days mentally. And as time goes on, I can lean into these experts and unbelievably kind people for reasons I don't even currently know I'll need. 

We will have established a relationship for the expected and unexpected turns and twists of this journey.

Which is why I wanted to call attention to what this all is. I hadn't even heard of this before I needed it. And I am lucky. I have incredible healthcare. It was handed to me on a silver platter. 

But anyone, regardless of circumstance in terms of healthcare benefits, should look into this if needed. There are so many services, pieces of information, and access to care that I didn't know I'd need when this all started and that I certainly didn't know existed. 

One thing I've come to understand in these last six weeks or so, is I am carrying tremendous grief. But so are others who are in my life. Friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, and even those who I see only occasionally* such my hairstylist or the nail salon I go to.

So know if you are experiencing grief or sadness because of someone else's diagnosis, there are services and resources out there for you too. 

One of the most early lessons from V💜 was how everyone reacts, processes, feels differently and at completely varying paces with this sort of diagnosis. And that is perfectly okay. 

Not knowing what to say - it's okay.

Not knowing how to react - it's normal.

Not knowing how to help - that's real.

And when you're ready, and only when you're ready (patient or person in supporting role), you'll seek out answers, options, and solutions to how it all feels, and what you're supposed to do with it.

I know for myself, I can't always answer those things (what to say, how to react, or how to help myself) so I for sure do not have any expectations on those around me to have figured it out. Which is why people like Dr. L and V💜 and millions of other people who provide Palliative Care are such extraordinary souls.

*okay, okay - pretty regularly :)