Some Days Are Just Heavy

🌼 Date: Monday, December 29, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired, stitched, stubbornly upright

❤️‍🩹 Status: Stitched, infused, sleepless

😁 Outlook: Progress… just louder than expected

So, this morning was a plastics appointment and let me be clear: I walked in with zero expectations of getting a fill. At this point, I’m making peace with my baby Capri Sun–sized boobies.

Granted… they’re uneven. Very uneven.

You know how Capri Suns work, right? One pouch takes the straw like a champ, first try. The other one? You have to jab that straw in with the force of a prize fighter trying to win a title belt, and then suddenly juice explodes everywhere like you nicked a main artery. So you take a quick swig just to keep it from spraying the headliner of your minivan.

No two pouches were ever the same.

Yet somehow… my kids never noticed. Or complained.

Huh.
Never thought about that until just now.
Squirrel moment.

Anyway — I’m really enjoying not wearing a bra. Like, a lot. Which made me wonder… after the implants go in, will I have to wear one again? And if so, will it be:

for fun
for looks
for function

Please Jesus, not the confinement straight-jacket binder from hell again.

After taking two anxiety pills (because personal growth ✨), off to the plastics doctor we went.

And y’all… this appointment was like no other.

Today, the doctor decided the skin around that stubborn little hole was pink, healthy, and supple — and announced she was going to put a couple of stitches in it.

I’m sorry… what now?

We are ten weeks post-op, and today we’re deciding, “Hey, maybe we should surgically close this hole”?

Anyone remember my earlier comment about why I don’t get paid the big bucks, but they do?
Too late for a retraction?

I mean… okay. Sure. Let’s do it.

Yes, I’m including two photos — one of the hole before, and one after the stitches. Because this blog is nothing if not educational.

Per the oncologist’s terrorist-negotiated terms, the doctor made sure to seal that puppy up on all sides before sending me off to chemotherapy.

Which, of course, is at a completely different location, a solid 45 minutes away, depending on traffic. Because why wouldn’t it be.

We checked in, my butt barely touched the waiting room chair, and the nurse was already calling my name. Today’s IV? First try. No burning. No irritation. It flushed beautifully — a true Christmas miracle.

Since we had to slow one of the meds last time, my nurse came prepared: warming pack, fresh warm blanket, and a slowed start on that particular drip.

And miracle of miracles…

It worked.

No slowdown required. We are absolutely keeping that little trick in our pocket for rounds three and four.

The whole appointment was quicker this time — only three and a half hours.
And no one walked in on me in the bathroom. Look at me mastering the double lock like a seasoned professional.

I also mastered the IV pole. No spills. No broken ankles. Olympic-level maneuvering.

Naturally, I came fully suited up for battle:

my FU@K CANCER shirt

a breast cancer head wrap I modified (because I can’t leave anything alone)

and the sweetest breast cancer necklace from my friend Debbie, given to me Saturday at the head-shaving party 💗

The ride home was better than round one — no nausea, just that deep, bone-level exhaustion. Still… no sleep.

I am currently in the middle of my wakey wakey, steroid-induced marathon, which in the past has kept me awake for 40 hours at a time. I’ve been up since 11:00 AM Sunday, for those of you keeping score.

I still have steroids to take tonight and again tomorrow morning, so I’m not holding out much hope for sleep. But hey — we’ll see.

At this point, sleep is optional, stitches are new, chemo is done, and I’m still standing.
I may be tired — but cancer should be more tired than I am.

💗
— Tina
One Badass Day at a Time

Some Days Are Just Heavy