Ringing the Bell, Cocked Shoulders, and One Final Cocktail of Doom

Ringing the Bell, Cocked Shoulders, and One Final Cocktail of Doom

🌼 Date: Monday, February 09, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tender, overwhelmed, and stronger than I feel.

🧠 Status: Final chemo in the books. Running on fumes, gratitude, and a whole lot of love.

🔮 Outlook: This road isn’t finished, but the hardest climb is behind me — and I know how to keep going.

Chemo Day.
The last one.
Let that sink in for a second.

My day started off exactly how any good bus driver’s brain starts a day — on time or bust. We arrived at plastics right on schedule because that’s how I’m wired. You’re either early or you’re late and late throws off the entire route. Unfortunately, plastics had other plans and decided today was the day to test my patience… and my heart rate.

Thirty-five minutes behind schedule.

Between being on my third dose of steroids and watching the clock tick closer to my 11:00 chemo appointment across town, my body went into full “flight mode.” When they took my vitals, my heart rate was 121 beats per minute.
Apparently, I was prepared to sprint directly out of my own skin.

Once they realized I had chemo to get to, it was all business. No fluff. No chatting. Just wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

Another 50cc fill on each side, bringing me to 365cc total — which translates to 12.34 ounces. That’s a full can of Coke plus a swig.
Look at me, moving up my drink sizes like a seasoned pro. 🥤

I’m still not thrilled that my left side sits farther back than the right. Same amount of fluid, different realities. The larger tumor on the left pushed everything deeper into the chest wall, which explains the extra scraping, the not-so-clear margins, and why radiation is next on that side only. The right side? Smaller tumor, clean margins, no radiation.
I’ll take the wins where I can get them.

My plastic surgeon reassured me — again — that when reconstruction time comes, she’ll make them match. Adjust the pocket, tweak the size, work her magic. That surgery won’t be until at least six months after radiation, when my skin is cooperative again. So… maybe November-ish. Which feels like forever when you’re walking around with two obviously different-sized boobs.

Casey, ever the problem solver, suggested I simply enter rooms with my shoulders cocked so the smaller boob goes in first.
Problem solved. Chiropractor on speed dial.

Despite everything, traffic was kind, and we even had time to stop for a Jamba Juice with added protein — one of my favorite little splurges. Small joys matter.

Then came the big one.

We made it across town on time for my final chemo infusion. My veins behaved (thank you, veins), I remembered to ask for an extra bag of hydration, and the appointment itself went smoothly. The hydration might help with the dizziness and ringing in my ears, and if not, at least it won’t hurt.

But emotionally?
This one hit differently.

Chemo scared me from the very beginning — not because I didn’t think I was strong enough, but because I watched my son go through it three times. His treatments were far more intense than mine, and he handled every single one like an absolute warrior. Still, watching someone you love endure that kind of fight changes you.

Chemo felt like another mountain I wasn’t sure I could climb. And the truth is, I couldn’t have climbed it alone. Not even close. Without the support system I’ve been blessed with — my family, my friends, my people — there is zero chance I would be sitting here writing this today.

And then…
I rang the bell.

The sound of it wasn’t just metal. It was relief. It was fear leaving my body. It was gratitude. It was exhaustion. It was pride. It was grief for what this journey has taken, and hope for what’s still ahead.

I did it.

Chemo is done.
Not the end of the journey — but the end of this chapter.

And damn… what a chapter it’s been.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time