Lupron Shot #3 and the Mystery of the Missing Plan

Lupron Shot #3 and the Mystery of the Missing Plan

🌼 Date: Monday, August 17, 2026

⚡ Energy: Hormone-shot confusion and appointment fatigue

💔 Status: Shot received, answers not so much

🤔 Outlook: Waiting for oncology to explain the next chapter

Today was Lupron shot number three.

Because apparently my butt cheek hormone jail sentence continues.

If I remember correctly, this was supposed to be the point where we started talking about the next step.

The once-a-day anti-estrogen pill.

Arimidex.

Also known as anastrozole.

The one I will be taking for seven to ten years.

Seven.

To.

Ten.

Years.

You know, just a tiny little commitment.

Practically a second marriage.

So while I was getting my shot today, I asked the nurse about it.

Because silly me, I thought there would be a plan.

A chart note.

A little roadmap.

A tiny medical breadcrumb trail.

Something.

But she could not find anything about it in my chart.

Nothing about starting the pill.

Nothing about the plan.

Nothing about when it was supposed to begin.

Nothing about whether I was supposed to wait for a prescription, a message, a carrier pigeon, or a secret handshake from oncology.

So we waited.

And waited.

For about twenty minutes, the nurses messaged each other back and forth trying to figure out what the plan was supposed to be.

Which I appreciate.

I really do.

They were trying.

But sitting there waiting for answers about medication I may be taking for the next decade did not exactly leave me feeling warm and fuzzy.

Eventually, we left it with me agreeing to keep my eyes out for a message from the oncology nurses tomorrow.

Hopefully, that message will include the actual plan for the new anti-estrogen pill.

Hopefully.

Cancerland does love a good “we’ll message you tomorrow.”

I also thought today was supposed to be my last monthly Lupron shot.

In my brain, after the first three monthly shots, we were going to transition to every three months with a higher dose.

That was the understanding I had tucked away in my mental file cabinet.

The same mental file cabinet that is currently overloaded with appointment dates, lab numbers, surgery timing, medication names, boob cc’s, eye drops, compression sleeves, and whether I remembered to eat enough protein.

So I asked about that too.

And guess what?

She could not find anything on that either.

Of course.

Because why would today only have one missing plan when it could have two?

So I booked another Lupron appointment for thirty days out, just in case, and decided I would include that question in my message to oncology too.

Which means I left today with the shot I came for.

Technically.

So was the appointment successful?

I guess.

The Lupron went in.

My ovaries remain in chemical time-out.

The hormone-blocking train is still moving.

But emotionally?

It did not feel very successful.

Because I left with more questions than answers.

And that is exhausting.

It is exhausting to be the patient and also the reminder system.

It is exhausting to be the one trying to keep track of what was said, what was supposed to happen, what comes next, who is supposed to call, what medication starts when, and whether the chart actually says what everyone thought it said.

It is exhausting to show up for an appointment hoping for clarity and leave with homework.

Again.

I am not saying anyone did anything wrong on purpose.

I know nurses are busy.

I know oncology offices are busy.

I know I am not the only patient.

I know there are messages, schedules, approvals, prescriptions, protocols, and a whole medical machine happening behind the scenes.

But I am tired of feeling like I have to be the project manager of my own cancer treatment.

Especially when my brain is still running on chemo fog, hormone chaos, appointment fatigue, and whatever sleep my body decided to hand out like it was a limited-time coupon.

I wanted today to feel like a step forward.

Instead, it felt like I stepped into another waiting room.

A waiting room inside the waiting room.

Very meta.

Very annoying.

Very Cancerland.

And all of this is happening while I am still trying to rebuild my stamina, keep up with appointments, and prepare myself for returning to work.

I have not been feeling like myself.

My body has been in recovery mode.

My energy has been low.

My brain has been tired.

My patience has been hanging by a thread, and frankly, that thread is looking frayed.

So today was not just a shot day.

It was a shot day with questions.

A shot day with missing chart notes.

A shot day with “we will message you tomorrow.”

A shot day where I had to say:

“Okay, I will keep an eye out.”

As if I am not already keeping an eye out for everything.

Messages.

Phone calls.

Lab results.

Appointment openings.

Surgery scheduling.

Prescription updates.

Body changes.

Side effects.

Signs of infection.

Signs of lymphedema.

Signs that I overdid it.

Signs that I am healing.

Signs that I am not falling apart.

That is the part people do not always see.

Cancer treatment does not end when the big scary stuff ends.

It turns into this long, weird maintenance phase where you are still very much in it, but the world expects you to be moving on.

Except your calendar is still full.

Your body is still different.

Your hormones are being shut down.

Your meds are changing.

Your reconstruction is not finished.

Your stamina is not back.

Your brain is still trying to make sense of the last year.

And somehow, you are still expected to function like a normal adult.

Cute.

So today, I got Lupron shot number three.

I asked about Arimidex.

I asked about switching to the three-month Lupron dose.

I got the shot.

I did not get the answers.

And now I wait for oncology to message me with the plan.

Again.

I wish I had a better update.

I wish I could say everything was smooth, clear, organized, and wrapped in a tiny medical bow.

But nope.

Today’s update is more like:

Shot complete.

Plan unclear.

Questions pending.

Patient annoyed.

Tiny Tina still standing, but definitely side-eyeing the chart.

And tomorrow, hopefully, the oncology nurses will help solve the mystery of the missing plan.

Because if I am going to be chemically shoved into hormone jail for years, I would at least appreciate a printed itinerary.

---

Want to follow the journey from the beginning?
Visit Tiny Tina – Status: Alive (Daily Check-Ins) to see the full timeline of posts.

If you’d like to be notified when a new post goes live, you can subscribe below for free and get an email each time I publish a new entry.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time