Cancer Took Over My Calendar

Cancer Took Over My Calendar

🌼 Date: Friday, May 29, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tired, scheduled, and slightly over being managed by medical portals

❤️‍🩹 Status: Still juggling the full-time job I never applied for

🥰 Outlook: If you’re in this too, I see you — and no, you’re not doing it wrong

No one tells you that cancer doesn’t just become part of your life.

It becomes your life.

Not in a cute little “I have a lot going on right now” kind of way.

More like cancer walks into your house, takes over the calendar, changes the locks, rearranges the furniture, eats the snacks, and leaves a stack of medical bills on the counter.

Rude.

Before cancer, I had doctors.

Normal doctors.

Regular people doctors.

The kind you see for yearly checkups, prescriptions, or when something is annoying enough that you finally admit Google is not a treatment plan.

Now?

I have a medical cast list.

Oncologist.

Surgeon.

Radiation oncologist.

Genetic specialist.

Plastic surgeon.

Primary care.

Physical therapist.

Rheumatologist.

Pharmacist.

Nurses.

Schedulers.

People who call about referrals.

People who call about follow-ups.

People who call to confirm appointments I do not remember making because apparently my calendar belongs to the medical system now.

At this point, I have more doctors than social plans.

Which is honestly rude because doctors rarely include appetizers.

No one tells you how quickly your calendar stops being yours.

It belongs to appointments now.

Scans.

Treatments.

Bloodwork.

Follow-ups.

Physical therapy.

Skin checks.

Medication questions.

Radiation mapping.

Surgery consults.

Plastic surgery fills.

Oncology visits.

Post-op checks.

Lab draws.

Messages.

Waiting rooms.

So many waiting rooms.

And the wildest part?

They don’t even really call to ask if a time works for you anymore.

They just tell you when your appointment is.

“Your appointment is Tuesday at 9:40.”

Oh, is it?

Good to know.

Thank you for consulting my calendar, my body, my energy level, my transportation situation, my nausea schedule, my immune system, my neuropathy feet, and my will to live.

I’ll be there.

Because that’s the thing.

You go.

You go because you have to.

You go because your life depends on it.

You go because cancer does not care if the time is inconvenient.

Cancer does not care if you are tired.

Cancer does not care if you had other plans.

Cancer does not care if you want one week where nobody asks you to sit in a waiting room under fluorescent lighting while wearing a mask and pretending you are not mentally calculating how many germs are floating in the air.

Cancer does not care.

So you show up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

No one tells you how many medications you will take.

Or how they will make you feel.

The pills.

The nausea meds.

The steroids.

The antibiotics.

The pain meds.

The anti-nausea meds for the nausea caused by the meds you need to take for the treatment that is trying to save you.

Very elegant system.

Very “let’s stack side effects like emotional Jenga.”

Then there are the medications you had to stop because of treatment.

The medications you have to restart.

The medications you have to ask about.

The medications you have to refuse because your body and that drug are not friends.

Looking at you, Gabapentin.

The medications that help one problem but invite three new problems over for dinner.

The medications that come with instructions like “take with food,” “take on an empty stomach,” “avoid sunlight,” “may cause dizziness,” “may cause nausea,” “may cause fatigue,” “may cause your entire personality to leave the room temporarily.”

Okay, maybe that last one is not printed on the label, but it should be.

The side effects do not politely ask permission.

They do not knock gently and say, “Excuse me, is now a good time?”

Nope.

They show up like uninvited relatives with luggage.

Exhaustion that sleep does not fix.

Brain fog that makes you forget what you were doing while you are actively doing it.

A body that does not feel like your own.

Emotions that hit out of nowhere.

Nausea.

Pain.

Skin reactions.

Hot flashes.

Cold chills.

Neuropathy.

Swelling.

Lymphedema.

Tightness.

Hair loss.

Hair regrowth.

Hair regrowth in places I was hoping would stay unemployed forever.

The full Cancerland gift basket.

And somehow, in the middle of all of it, you are still expected to be a functioning human.

A spouse.

A mom.

A friend.

A family member.

A person who answers texts.

A person who remembers birthdays.

A person who makes decisions.

A person who keeps track of appointments, medications, symptoms, side effects, questions for doctors, and whether or not you need to send yet another picture of a body part to a medical professional.

You are still expected to participate in life while cancer is busy making life feel like a group project where your body did none of the reading.

And if you are anything like me, you try.

You really do.

You show up.

Even when you are scared.

Even when you are exhausted.

Even when your feet are numb.

Even when your chest feels tight.

Even when your brain is buffering.

Even when your stomach is questionable.

Even when you do not recognize yourself in the mirror.

Even when you are not sure if you are being brave or just too tired to argue with the next thing.

You show up because you have no other choice.

That is the part people call strength.

And maybe it is.

But sometimes strength looks less like a superhero pose and more like sitting in the car outside an appointment taking a deep breath before you walk in.

Sometimes strength is answering one more portal message.

Sometimes strength is asking the doctor the scary question.

Sometimes strength is admitting you are not okay.

Sometimes strength is letting someone else drive.

Sometimes strength is eating cheesecake for dinner because it actually sounds good and calories are calories.

Sometimes strength is showering.

Sometimes strength is not showering because your body said no and you finally listened.

Sometimes strength is surviving the day without making it pretty for other people.

Cancer does not just test your body.

It tests your mind.

Your identity.

Your patience.

Your relationships.

Your faith.

Your humor.

Your ability to sit in uncertainty without completely launching yourself into Anxiety Land.

It tests the version of you that existed before all of this and forces you to meet the version of you that is still standing after.

And that version?

She is different.

She is tired.

She is cautious.

She may have scars, numb feet, compression sleeves, short hair, one boob, a deflated bag, and a purse full of sanitizing wipes.

But she is still here.

And that counts.

No one prepared me for how much of cancer would be administrative.

The paperwork.

The scheduling.

The insurance.

The referrals.

The medication lists.

The appointment summaries.

The instructions.

The follow-up plans.

The phone calls.

The “please arrive 15 minutes early.”

The “bring your ID and insurance card.”

The “you have a new message in your chart.”

The “we’ll see you in six months,” which sounds peaceful until your brain screams, Excuse me, where did my safety net go?

No one prepared me for how much of cancer would be waiting.

Waiting for pathology.

Waiting for scans.

Waiting for results.

Waiting for surgery.

Waiting for drains to come out.

Waiting for chemo to start.

Waiting for chemo to end.

Waiting for hair to fall out.

Waiting for hair to grow back.

Waiting for radiation.

Waiting for skin to heal.

Waiting for side effects to calm down.

Waiting for the next appointment.

Waiting for the next answer.

Waiting to feel like a person again.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

And yet somehow, while waiting, you are also supposed to keep living.

That is the impossible part.

Your life does not pause just because cancer takes over.

Laundry still exists.

Dogs still need potty breaks.

Bills still come.

People still need you.

Dinner still has to happen.

The world keeps spinning like it did not get the memo that your whole life just exploded.

And you are left trying to hold the pieces together with chemo brain, a calendar app, and whatever energy your body allows that day.

So if you are in it right now — really in it — juggling appointments, medications, emotions, side effects, fear, exhaustion, and the impossible task of trying to keep your life from falling apart while your body is fighting for survival, I see you.

I see the version of you that shows up even when you do not want to.

I see the version of you that cries in the shower, or cannot make it to the shower at all.

I see the version of you that smiles so other people will not worry.

I see the version of you that Googles at 2:00 in the morning and then regrets it immediately.

I see the version of you that keeps a list of questions for every doctor because someone has to keep track of this circus.

I see the version of you that is tired of being called strong when what you really want is one day where you do not have to be.

I see you.

And you are doing better than you think.

Even if your house is messy.

Even if your brain is foggy.

Even if you forgot what day it is.

Even if you cried today.

Even if you canceled plans.

Even if you needed help.

Even if you are angry.

Even if you are scared.

Even if you are grateful and grieving in the same breath.

Even if you are tired of the whole damn thing.

You are not failing.

You are surviving something that no one can fully understand unless they have lived it.

And you are not alone in this.

Cancer may take over the calendar.

It may hijack your body.

It may test every part of you.

It may turn your life into appointments, bloodwork, waiting rooms, medications, side effects, and medical portal notifications.

But it does not get to erase you.

You are still in there.

Maybe changed.

Maybe tired.

Maybe held together with ginger ale, dry shampoo, dark humor, and stubbornness.

But still there.

Still showing up.

Still fighting.

Still learning.

Still standing.

And if all you did today was make it through today?

That counts.

Sometimes that is the whole victory.

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One Badass Day at a Time