Don’t Be Like Tina

Don’t Be Like Tina

🌼 Date: Wednesday, May 6, 2026

⚡ Energy: Ginger ale, regret, and pure stubbornness

💔 Status: Rejecting antibiotics like they personally betrayed me

🙄 Outlook: Apparently awareness is not paranoia — it’s pattern recognition

Today I had a follow-up skin check appointment with radiology.

But before I could even get ready to leave, my body decided we needed a little pre-game activity.

And by pre-game, I mean I threw up my breakfast, my meds, and my antibiotic.

So, you know. Very glamorous. Very healing journey. Very “somebody please take this circus back to wherever it came from.”

This antibiotic and I have had a hate/hate relationship since last week when I started taking it.

Remember me?

The good girl who kept using the lotion I was allergic to because I thought it was just a normal “radiation reaction”?

Yup. That’s me.

Apparently I am the person who can survive chemo, surgery, radiation, and the emotional equivalent of being dragged behind a truck — but hand me the wrong lotion or antibiotic and suddenly my body is like, absolutely not, Susan.

When we picked up the antibiotic, the pharmacist said to take it on an empty stomach unless it made me nauseous. Then I could take it with food, but it might not be as effective.

“If it makes me nauseous.”

That’s cute.

I’ve basically been nauseous since chemo. I’ve been living on ginger ale and anti-nausea meds for the past six months like it’s a meal plan. So the odds were pretty good this pill and I were not going to become besties.

And after this morning?

Nope.

I decided I am no longer playing the good girl.

I am done taking the antibiotic.

I put on a clean shirt, gathered what dignity I had left, and we left for the doctor a few minutes later than we should have.

At the appointment, I mentioned that I thought maybe I was having some kind of issue or allergy with the antibiotic he put me on, and he looked at me like my second head popped out again.

“Well, I hardly ever see that with this antibiotic.”

Umm.

Hello?

Can you hear me from over there in Doctor Land?

It is making me nauseous.

I take it four times a day, which means four times a day I sit there trying to keep down whatever food I was actually able to eat.

I took it for 7 of the 10 days it was prescribed.

But I’m done.

His comment?

“We usually like people to finish the full course of antibiotics.”

And I understand that. I really do.

But also?

Too damn bad.

Is it doing me any good if I take it and then puke it back up?

No.

Does this feel like a productive partnership between me and modern medicine?

Also no.

So we left the visit with a deal: I will send him a picture of my skin next week, and if it starts looking worse, I will call and go back in.

Fair enough.

On the way home, I tried really hard not to spiral completely out of control, because my brain has been very committed to earning frequent flyer miles in Anxiety Land.

So I started thinking about something else that has been sitting in the back of my mind lately.

I have known since I was in my twenties that I had a high chance of getting cancer because of my family history.

In fact, when I met Casey, I told him I already had a plan.

If breast cancer ever showed up, I was going to have a double mastectomy and reconstruction.

Look at young Tina, out there making bold declarations like she was in charge.

Adorable.

But that got me thinking.

Why did it take until I was 54 for cancer to finally show its face, when it hit other people in my family much younger?

Were there signs I missed?

Were there symptoms I ignored?

Enter Google.

And the rabbit hole.

First, let me say this loud and clear:

I am not a doctor.

Google is also not a doctor, even though it sometimes acts like a dramatic little know-it-all in a white coat.

If you have signs or symptoms that feel iffy, weird, new, or different, please get yourself checked out by an actual medical professional.

Not Google.

Not Facebook.

Not your cousin’s neighbor’s best friend who once watched Grey’s Anatomy.

A real doctor.

But I did learn some things that made me sit back and think, Oh. Well, shit.

Because there are several early warning signs of breast cancer that I think I ignored.

And hindsight is 20/20 and all that, but I think ignoring them was my way of not admitting cancer could actually be a possibility.

Having a plan for the past 35 years was the easy part.

Taking action on the plan?

Completely different story.

When most people think of breast cancer, they think lump.

And honestly, I thought I was doing my part.

I was the good girl.

Obviously.

I had mammograms every year starting at 40 because of my family history.

I thought that was enough.

It wasn’t.

Because breast cancer signs are not always just a lump.

Sometimes they are subtle.

Sometimes they are weird.

Sometimes they are easy to explain away when you do not want to deal with what they might mean.

Some things to pay attention to:

Persistent breast itching in one specific area. Not a random itch that comes and goes, but one that keeps showing up in the same spot.

Skin dimpling or a flat spot that only shows up when you lift your arms. Sometimes changes are only visible when your body moves.

New nipple flattening or inward pulling, especially if it only happens on one side and it is new for you.

One breast suddenly sitting higher, looking swollen, feeling heavier, or looking different than the other one.

Clear or bloody nipple discharge from one side, especially if it happens on its own.

And here is the big one:

Most early breast cancers are painless.

Waiting for pain is not a strategy.

Awareness is not paranoia.

It is pattern recognition.

The key is knowing what is normal for your body — and noticing when something changes.

Now for the honest, eye-opening part of my story.

For probably three years, when I lifted my arms, the bottom of my left breast had a flat spot.

Not my right one.

Just the left.

I had zero idea that could possibly be a sign of breast cancer.

Zero.

I did not mention it to my doctor because I figured it was gravity and old age.

Because apparently my official medical diagnosis for myself was: Ma’am, your boobs are just tired.

My breasts had also become different sizes.

Did I think that was concerning?

Nope.

I explained it away by deciding maybe I used one arm more than the other and maybe one pectoral muscle was bigger.

Please enjoy that Olympic-level mental gymnastics.

Every month around the time of my period, I would notice dried discharge on — wait for it — my left nipple.

The left one.

The same side.

And still, somehow, my brain said, “Seems fine.”

And last but not least, I always had this itch near my armpit on my left breast.

Always the left.

But I shrugged that off too.

Maybe I missed that spot when I put lotion on.

Maybe it was laundry detergent.

Maybe my underwire was poking me.

Maybe I was just itchy.

There was always a way to explain it.

And every explanation sounded logical enough in my head that I accepted it and moved on.

You would think the person with a strong family history of cancer, who had a cancer plan since her twenties, and who lost her own son to cancer, would pay closer attention.

You would think.

And yet.

Here I am.

Apparently clueless.

Or maybe not clueless.

Maybe scared.

Maybe avoidant.

Maybe human.

Maybe all of the above.

Because the truth is, sometimes we know just enough to make a plan, but not enough to face the moment when the plan might actually be needed.

I thought yearly mammograms meant I was covered.

I thought if there was no lump, there was no problem.

I thought I was being responsible.

And in some ways, I was.

But I was also explaining away signs my body had been giving me for years.

So here is my public service announcement from the Greased Pig Phase of Cancerland:

Check your body.

Look at your breasts with your arms down.

Then look again with your arms up.

Know what is normal for you.

Notice changes.

Mention the weird stuff.

Even if it feels embarrassing.

Even if you think it is probably nothing.

Even if you have already come up with a completely reasonable explanation involving lotion, gravity, laundry detergent, or your bra being an asshole.

Please do not wait for pain.

Please do not wait for a lump.

Please do not decide you are being dramatic.

Please do not be like Tina.

Because Tina had clues.

Tina had a plan.

Tina also had an Olympic gold medal in denial.

And now Tina is over here throwing up antibiotics, sending skin pictures to radiology, and giving breast cancer awareness talks from the passenger seat of her own shit show.

So let this be your reminder:

Your body whispers before it screams.

Listen sooner than I did.

And since it’s Wednesday, I guess there’s only one thing left to say:

On Wednesdays, we wear pink.

But around here, we also check the boobs, question the weird symptoms, and try not to let denial drive the bus.

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One Badass Day at a Time