Witchita Wednesday and the Best Kind of Medicine
🌼 Date: Wednesday, May 27, 2026
⚡ Energy: Full heart, full tummy, slightly overwhelmed in the best way
❤️ Status: Surprised, hugged, fed, and loved
🥰 Outlook: Sometimes healing looks like walking into a room full of your people
Today I got a welcome but unexpected invite to Witchita Wednesday.
And for those who have no idea what that means, let me explain.
A group of my drivers gets together at a restaurant down the street from the transportation lot, usually one Wednesday a month.
The restaurant is called Witchita Pub.
So naturally, the gathering became Witchita Wednesday.
Because apparently bus people are creative, hungry, and very good at naming things.
Throughout the afternoon, I was getting updates on who was coming and who was not going to make it.
And then I found out I was going to be a surprise.
Yay!
I love surprises.
Especially when I am the surprise.
That feels very VIP.
Very celebrity cameo.
Very “please hold your applause until I enter the building.”
Some of these people I have not seen since I went out for surgery in October.
October.
That feels like a lifetime ago.
Back then, I was heading into the unknown.
Surgery.
Recovery.
Chemo.
Radiation.
All the things I knew were coming and all the things I could not have possibly prepared for.
And since then, so much has happened.
So much has changed.
I have changed.
My body has changed.
My hair left the group chat and is now slowly returning.
My chest has been reconstructed, deflated, radiated, swollen, shrink-wrapped, and entered into a complicated relationship with compression.
My feet are numb.
My arm has lymphedema.
My immune system is still acting like it needs a nap and a motivational speaker.
And emotionally?
Well.
Let’s just say there has been a lot of construction dust in the soul department.
So walking into a room full of people who knew me before all of that felt big.
Really big.
When Casey and I walked in, there were looks of shock.
There were hugs.
There were tears.
Then more hugs.
Then probably even more hugs, because bus people do not do anything halfway.
And let me tell you, it was the best medicine.
Not the kind with side effects.
Not the kind that makes you nauseous.
Not the kind that requires a prescription, a portal message, a pharmacist, or a six-week waiting period.
The good kind.
The kind that reaches somewhere inside you that treatment cannot touch.
The kind that reminds you that you are loved.
The kind that says, You have been missed.
And apparently, I needed that more than I realized.
It is amazing how good it feels to be among your people.
And not just people you know.
Your people.
The ones who understand your humor.
The ones who have seen you in real life, not just through filtered updates and careful check-ins.
The ones who do not need you to explain every piece of yourself.
The ones who can hug you, cry a little, laugh a lot, and then somehow make everything feel normal for a while.
Being in the middle of people who legitimately care about you is healing in a way I cannot fully explain.
There was no fake.
No awkward performance.
No weird “I don’t know what to say to the cancer lady” energy.
No one acting like I was fragile glass.
No one pretending.
No one putting on a show.
Everyone was just themselves.
And I got to be myself too.
That may sound simple, but after months of being looked at as a patient, a diagnosis, a treatment plan, a recovery project, or someone people are not quite sure how to talk to, being allowed to just be Tina felt like a gift.
There is something powerful about being in a room where people let you show up exactly as you are.
No wig.
Short hair.
Mask nearby.
One-boob reality.
Recovery body.
Still tired.
Still healing.
Still funny.
Still spicy.
Still very much me.
And nobody made it weird.
That was the best part.
Nobody made it weird.
Cancer makes so many things weird.
Conversations get weird.
Silences get weird.
People’s faces get weird.
The way they ask “how are you?” gets weird.
The way they look at your hair, your body, your tiredness, your mask, your energy level — all of it can get weird.
But tonight did not feel weird.
It felt warm.
Real.
Easy.
Human.
And I have missed that.
I have missed being around the people who know me as more than this diagnosis.
The people who know Work Tina.
Driver Trainer Tina.
Red Pen Tina.
The Tina who can hold a microphone, run a room, explain a process, train a driver, make a joke, say the thing everyone else is thinking, and somehow keep the wheels turning.
Literally.
I have missed that part of me.
And tonight, I got to feel connected to her again.
Not completely.
Not like nothing happened.
Not like I can just pick up exactly where I left off.
But enough to remind me she is still in there.
Changed, yes.
Exhausted, absolutely.
Possibly carrying sanitizing wipes and needing a nap afterward.
But still there.
And then we ate.
Because obviously.
I had a salad and a piece of cheesecake.
Yup.
That was my dinner.
No apologies.
None.
Not one.
At this stage of the game, I will take calories any way I can get them.
If something sounds good and I am actually hungry, I am running with it.
We do not argue with appetite in this house.
Appetite has been a rare and mysterious visitor for months, so when she shows up, I offer her cheesecake and mind my business.
I was only able to eat half of the cheesecake at dinner, but do not worry.
It did not go to waste.
It made a wonderful midnight snack.
Because healing requires balance.
And sometimes balance is salad at dinner and cheesecake at midnight.
I do not make the rules.
Actually, maybe I do.
Cancer has taken enough.
It does not get to take cheesecake too.
By the end of the night, I came home with a full tummy and a full heart.
And I do not say that lightly.
There have been so many days lately where my body has felt heavy.
My mind has felt tired.
My heart has felt worn out.
Even on the good days, there is usually still a shadow somewhere.
A symptom.
A worry.
A reminder.
A “what now?” hiding in the corner.
But tonight felt like light.
It felt like being pulled back into the world a little bit.
It felt like love in real time.
It felt like laughter and hugs and familiar faces and the kind of people who make you remember you are not doing this alone.
And that matters.
Because cancer recovery can be lonely, even when you are surrounded by support.
There are parts of it that no one else can carry for you.
No one else can feel your numb feet.
No one else can live in your changed body.
No one else can fully understand the fear that still hums in the background.
But they can show up.
They can hug you.
They can cry when they see you.
They can laugh with you.
They can make space for you.
They can remind you that you belong.
And tonight, they did.
Witchita Wednesday may sound like a simple dinner gathering to someone else.
But for me, tonight was more than dinner.
It was a reunion.
A surprise.
A love fest.
A reminder.
A tiny little bridge between the Tina I was before October and the Tina I am becoming now.
It was proof that some connections can survive months of absence, illness, treatment, change, and uncertainty.
It was proof that my people are still my people.
And it was one of the best days I have had in a while.
Not because anything huge happened.
Not because a doctor said something important.
Not because I got a scan result or a treatment update or a new plan.
But because I walked into a room and felt loved.
Really loved.
No performance.
No pity.
No awkwardness.
Just hugs, tears, laughter, food, cheesecake, and the beautiful chaos of people who care.
That is medicine too.
And tonight, I got a full dose.
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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time
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