Shrinky Dink Survivor Club
🌼 Date: Thursday, May 14, 2026
⚡ Energy: Obedient patient with crispy edges
💔 Status: Back side improving, front side still auditioning for a medical bonfire
😐 Outlook: If this is the entry fee for the survivor’s club, I’ll pay it — but I will complain
Today was updated-picture day for my doctor.
Because apparently this is who I am now.
A woman who sends progress photos of her “radiation reaction” like it’s a weird little medical scrapbook.
Before cancer, if someone told me I would be casually photographing irritated skin, swelling, peeling, scabs, red patches, and whatever fresh nonsense my body decided to present that week, I would have had questions.
Many questions.
Possibly concerns.
Now?
I’m over here like, “Casey, can you get the lighting better? The doctor needs to see the welt situation.”
Cancer changes you.
It also apparently turns your husband into a part-time nurse, medical photographer, skin inspector, and emotional support human with a camera.
And I have to say, I was impressed with Casey’s nursing skills once again.
He took the pictures, helped me check everything, and did the whole thing with that calm, steady Casey energy that makes me feel like maybe we are not completely losing our minds.
At least not both of us at the same time.
Which is probably the secret to a successful marriage during Cancerland.
One person spirals.
One person holds the phone.
Teamwork.
And I was also pretty impressed with my own skills at being an obedient patient.
Look at me.
Sending pictures.
Following instructions.
Checking in.
Not ignoring things.
Not pretending the weird rash/welt/peeling/scabbing situation is just “probably fine” while my body is over there waving a tiny red flag.
Growth, people.
Disgusting, responsible growth.
The good news is that my back looks so much better than it did last week.
The welt-looking part on my side has calmed way down, and the sunburned shoulder and upper area near my neck is almost gone.
There is still some peeling.
There are still a couple of scabs from the peeling.
So, you know, still very glamorous.
But overall, my back finally seems to have gotten the memo.
It is behaving nicely.
Mostly.
I don’t want to praise it too loudly because I do not trust this body not to overhear me and immediately create a new side quest.
But compared to last week, the back side is looking much less angry.
Less “radiation rebellion.”
More “fine, I’ll heal, but I’m going to be dramatic about it.”
Progress is progress.
My front side, on the other hand?
Still a roaring inferno.
Still beet red.
Still swollen.
Still tight.
Still doing the absolute most.
The swelling above my left breast is still going strong, because apparently the left side of my chest has decided it would like to remain the main character.
And my entire chest area feels like someone put me on a spike, spun me like a top, and wrapped me in shrink wrap.
Not regular shrink wrap either.
Industrial-strength emotional damage shrink wrap.
The kind that says, “Oh, you wanted to breathe normally? That’s adorable.”
Sometimes my chest feels so tight that I have to catch my breath.
It is the weirdest sensation.
Not exactly pain.
Not exactly pressure.
Not exactly panic.
More like my skin, muscles, chest wall, expander bags, radiation damage, and all the tiny internal repair crews got into a fight and decided to pull everything in opposite directions.
Like my body is trying to become a vacuum-sealed version of itself.
Like someone took my chest and said, “Let’s see how tight we can make this before she starts side-eyeing the medical portal again.”
It is such a bizarre feeling.
And I know the doctor warned me that radiation reactions can keep showing up for a few weeks after treatment ends.
I know swelling was on the list.
Tightness was basically implied by the whole “we cooked your chest wall from the front and the back” situation.
But knowing something can happen and living inside the sensation are two very different things.
A medical explanation does not make it less weird.
It just gives the weirdness a name.
And sometimes not even a good name.
“Radiation reaction” sounds so neat and tidy.
Like a small rash.
Like a little redness.
Like something you could cover with lotion and a positive attitude.
No.
This is not a “reaction.”
This is my chest hosting a tiny angry bonfire while the rest of my body files complaints with management.
The back is peeling.
The side is calming down.
The front is still screaming.
The left expander area is swollen.
The skin feels tight.
The whole thing feels like I am a human Shrinky Dink left in the oven too long.
And yes, if you are too young to know what a Shrinky Dink is, Google it.
The rest of us antiques had hobbies that involved coloring on plastic, baking it, and watching it shrivel into a tiny hard charm.
Very safe.
Very educational.
Very 1980s.
And now, apparently, very relevant to my chest.
Because that is exactly what this feels like.
Like my skin got baked, tightened, and shrunk around a body that is already tired of participating.
And yet, somehow, I am still grateful.
Annoyed, yes.
Uncomfortable, absolutely.
A little over it?
Deeply.
But grateful.
Because if this is the entry fee for the survivor’s club, it is a pretty small price to pay.
I say that with full awareness that the entry fee is ridiculous.
Cancer treatment is like joining the worst club in the world.
Nobody wants to be invited.
The dress code is terrible.
The snacks are questionable.
The membership process includes surgery, chemo, radiation, hair loss, nausea, scars, swelling, medical gowns the size of festival tents, and more lotion than any one human should ever need.
And yet, when someone tells you that you are clear, you suddenly understand why people go through it.
Because you want to live.
You want more time.
You want more birthdays.
More Taco Tuesdays.
More ordinary days.
More annoying errands.
More puppy snuggles.
More time with the people who make this life worth fighting for.
More chances to be Tina instead of Cancer Tina.
So yes, if feeling like a Shrinky Dink left in the oven too long is part of what gets me across the line, then fine.
I’ll pay the fee.
But I am absolutely going to complain while I do it.
That is also part of my healing plan.
Hydrate.
Rest.
Send the pictures.
Moisturize.
Monitor symptoms.
Complain with flair.
Repeat as needed.
And honestly, complaining does not mean I am not grateful.
That is one thing I wish people understood better.
You can be grateful to be alive and still hate what your body is going through.
You can be thankful treatment worked and still be tired of side effects.
You can appreciate your doctors and still side-eye the entire medical process.
You can celebrate being clear and still be deeply annoyed that your chest feels like it got gift-wrapped by a sadistic elf.
Both things can be true.
Actually, most of cancer recovery seems to be two opposite things being true at the same time.
I am healing, and I am uncomfortable.
I am hopeful, and I am scared.
I am grateful, and I am irritated.
I am clear, and I am still recovering.
I am moving forward, and I am still dealing with the aftermath.
I am not in active treatment, but treatment is still very much active inside my body.
That is the part people do not always see.
Radiation ended.
The appointments slowed down.
The big treatment schedule is over.
But my body is still responding.
Still repairing.
Still throwing tiny tantrums.
Still reminding me that “done” does not mean “back to normal.”
Not immediately.
Not magically.
Not because I want it badly enough.
So today was a check-in day.
A picture day.
A “look how far the back has come and look how dramatic the front still is” day.
A day where I tried to be proud of the progress without ignoring the parts that still feel awful.
And I am proud.
The back is better.
The side is better.
Casey is still an excellent nurse.
I am becoming a very obedient patient, which frankly is shocking to all of us.
And the front?
Well.
The front is still a beet-red, swollen, shrink-wrapped little drama queen.
But she is part of the survivor’s club now too.
So we will keep watching.
Keep healing.
Keep sending pictures when asked.
Keep laughing at the absurdity.
And keep reminding ourselves that healing is not always pretty.
Sometimes it is peeling skin, weird swelling, medical photos, tender chest walls, and trying to breathe normally while feeling like a craft project that stayed in the oven too long.
Tiny Tina: Shrinky Dink Edition.
Still here.
Still crispy.
Still clear.
Want to follow the journey from the beginning?
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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time
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