Status: Alive

Status updates may include sarcasm, tears, dark humor, and unexpected gratitude.

The most recent post will be at the top.

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One Spoon, 150 Steps, and the Tina I Miss

🌼 Date: Monday, June 1, 2026

⚡ Energy: One spoon, maybe half a backup spoon if the puppies cooperate

❤️‍🩹 Status: Fatigue is still running the show, and I am not amused

😪 Outlook: I want my stamina back, but apparently my body did not get the memo

Have you ever found yourself falling asleep in the middle of the day?

Do you sit at your desk and take five-minute catnaps just to keep yourself going?

Can you sleep standing up?

Do you watch TV while “resting your eyes,” even though everyone in the room knows you are absolutely asleep?

Now take that kind of tired and throw it in the trash, because cancer treatment brings on a whole different level.

Tired is not even close to the right word.

Exhausted.

Worn out.

Run down.

Bone tired.

Drained.

Weary.

Fatigued.

None of those really cover it either.

There should be a special cancer fatigue word.

Something dramatic.

Something ugly.

Something that sounds like your soul is dragging a wagon full of wet cement through knee-deep mud while your body is blinking on low battery.

Because that is closer.

Cancer fatigue is not “I stayed up too late.”

It is not “I need a nap.”

It is not “I had a busy week.”

This is a full-body shutdown request.

This is my body saying, Ma’am, we are not accepting additional tasks at this time. Please try again never.

And the frustrating part is that people do not always understand why it lasts so long.

Treatment is done, right?

Chemo is over.

Radiation is over.

The surgery was months ago.

So why am I still so tired?

Why do I have no stamina?

Why does walking to the mailbox feel like a field trip?

Why does taking a shower feel like I just competed in an Olympic event I did not train for?

The answer is because cancer treatment does not just take one thing from your body.

It takes from everywhere.

Surgery takes energy to heal from.

Chemo attacks fast-growing cells, but it does not politely stop there. It can affect blood counts, nerves, digestion, muscles, taste, appetite, sleep, and basically every system that was previously trying to mind its own business.

Radiation keeps working even after the last treatment. Your body is still repairing the damage. The skin, tissue, chest wall, muscles, and everything underneath are still trying to figure out what just happened.

Low white blood cells are part of it, yes, because the immune system is still rebuilding and that takes energy.

But it is not only white blood cells.

It is inflammation.

It is anemia or low red blood cells for some people.

It is poor sleep.

It is medications.

It is pain.

It is stress.

It is months of being on high alert.

It is muscle loss from not being able to move like before.

It is emotional exhaustion.

It is your body trying to repair itself while your brain is still carrying the trauma of everything that happened.

Basically, every department inside me is understaffed, underfunded, and sending passive-aggressive emails to management.

And management is me.

Unfortunately, management is also tired.

I love the spoon analogy people use for chronic illness.

If you only have one spoonful of energy to use for an entire day, what are you going to spend it on?

Are you going to clean the house?

Shower and get dressed?

Go shopping?

Go to a doctor’s appointment?

Meet friends for dinner?

Do laundry?

Take the puppies outside?

Or are you one of the lucky ones who can get two events out of one spoon?

Maybe you can shower and go to an appointment in the same day.

Fancy.

Look at you, rich in spoons.

Those are the choices I am now faced with.

Do I want to spend all of my energy on one thing, knowing I am expected to do another later?

And if I try to squeeze in two things today, am I prepared to be down for the next day or two?

Because that is the part people do not always see.

They see the activity.

They do not see the recovery cost.

They see dinner.

They do not see the nap before, the crash after, the careful planning, the medication timing, the “do I have enough in the tank?” calculation, or the next day when my body says, Cute outing. Now we punish you.

I have to check my schedule before I can commit to anything big.

And by “big,” I mean normal human activities.

A shower.

An appointment.

A grocery trip.

Dinner.

A visitor.

A load of laundry.

A walk to the mailbox.

It is sad that my life has come to that.

And I know I should be gentle with myself.

I know recovery takes time.

I know my body has been through hell.

I know all of that.

But knowing something does not mean I have to like it.

And I do not like it.

Not one bit.

I used to be this bubbly, vivacious, sparkly Tina.

The one who could get up at 4:30 in the morning.

Work a ten-hour day.

Go out to dinner.

Come home.

Do a load of laundry or two.

Clean the kitchen.

Meal prep for the next day.

Watch TV with Casey.

Go to bed.

Get up and do it all over again the next day.

That was normal.

That was just life.

That was me.

I miss that Tina.

I miss her energy.

I miss her stamina.

I miss her ability to just do things without holding a committee meeting with her body first.

I miss not having to ask, Can I afford this?

Not financially.

Energetically.

The new Tina has counted the steps to the mailbox.

It is 150 steps from the porch to the mailbox and back.

One hundred and fifty.

That is now a workout for me.

A mailbox trip.

That is where we are.

By the time I get back to the porch, I have to sit down and rest.

I do not have the strength or stamina to go much farther.

And let me tell you, that is a humbling little piece of information.

There is nothing quite like realizing your cardio program is called Retrieve the Mail Without Needing a Rescue Team.

When I take the puppies out in the morning to go potty, I dread the days when Maizy decides she is not just going potty, she is going exploring.

Because sometimes that tiny little five-pound girl ends up three driveways down the street.

Three driveways.

That is way more than 150 steps.

And I refuse to count those steps because I do not need that kind of negativity in my life.

At that point, I can only focus on my feet hitting the ground evenly with each step and keeping Maizy in my sights.

That is the whole plan.

Step.

Balance.

Breathe.

Find the puppy.

Step.

Balance.

Breathe.

Do not fall.

Do not lose the puppy.

Do not pass out dramatically in the driveway like a Victorian woman in need of smelling salts.

By the time we finally make it back home, I have to catch my breath, sit down, rest, and rehydrate.

From a potty trip.

Not a hike.

Not a workout class.

Not a day at Disneyland.

A potty trip.

It has been eight months since my surgery.

Four months since I finished chemo.

Almost six weeks since I finished radiation.

And maybe I am expecting too much from my body.

Maybe I am.

But also?

Come on already.

I am done playing this Tina the Weakling game.

For those of you who know me, this is definitely not Tina-like.

I am used to running things.

Not having things run me.

I am used to being the one with the clipboard, the plan, the answer, the red pen, the backup plan, and the “let’s get this handled” energy.

Now I am over here negotiating with my own body like it is a dramatic toddler who skipped nap time.

Can we shower today?

No.

Can we walk to the mailbox?

Maybe, but you will regret it.

Can we go to dinner?

Only if you rest all day and do not get fancy.

Can we do laundry?

One load, and don’t get cute.

Can we be normal?

Define normal.

Rude.

My doctors tell me recovery takes time.

And I believe them.

I do.

But no one can tell me how much time.

That is the part that makes me crazy.

Give me a timeline.

Give me a target.

Give me a chart.

Give me a countdown.

Give me something I can circle on the calendar and say, Okay, this is when I might start to feel like a person again.

But recovery does not work like that.

It is vague.

It is slow.

It is rude.

It moves at the speed of a sloth carrying a backpack full of wet towels.

And I am not known for my patience.

This patient has no patience.

I have a life I would like to get back to.

But then the scary question sneaks in.

Is this another thing I have to say goodbye to?

Do I have to accept the loss of the Tina I used to be?

Is the old energy gone?

Is the old stamina gone?

Is the old version of me just another casualty of cancer?

I do not know the answer.

And I hate that.

Maybe some of it will come back.

Maybe slowly.

Maybe in pieces.

Maybe one mailbox trip at a time.

Maybe my body is still rebuilding, and I am standing here tapping my foot like an impatient little gremlin while the construction crew is still pouring the foundation.

Maybe I need to give myself more grace.

Maybe I need to accept that one spoon is still a spoon.

Maybe today’s victory is not ten hours of work, dinner, laundry, meal prep, and TV.

Maybe today’s victory is walking to the mailbox and back.

Maybe it is taking the puppies out.

Maybe it is resting before I crash.

Maybe it is choosing not to spend tomorrow’s energy today.

Maybe it is admitting that I miss the old Tina without giving up on the new one.

Because that is the hard part.

I can miss her and still keep going.

I can grieve her and still build forward.

I can be frustrated with this body and still respect what it survived.

I can hate how weak I feel and still understand that healing is happening underneath the exhaustion.

I can be grateful and pissed off in the same breath.

Honestly, that might be my specialty now.

So today, I am naming it.

The fatigue.

The lack of stamina.

The one-spoon life.

The mailbox workout.

The Maizy driveway marathon.

The grief of missing the sparkly, high-energy Tina who could do it all.

And the frustration of living in a body that currently says, Best I can do is 150 steps and a nap.

I do not know how long this part lasts.

I do not know how much energy will come back.

I do not know if I will ever be the exact same Tina I was before.

But I know I am still here.

Still trying.

Still walking.

Still resting when I have to.

Still annoyed, obviously.

Still hoping.

Still counting spoons.

And still very much wanting my life back.

Even if I have to rebuild it one tiny, exhausting, mailbox-sized victory at a time.

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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

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Rest, Laundry, and the Great TV Queue Crisis

🌼 Date: Sunday, May 31, 2026

⚡ Energy: Recliner level with puppy support

❤️‍🩹 Status: Resting, folding, napping, and accepting TV recommendations

🤔 Outlook: If we’re going to be resting this much, we need a better queue

Today, nothing remarkable happened.

And honestly, I am learning that not every day needs to be remarkable.

Some days are for relaxing.

Some days are for conserving energy.

Some days are for laundry, puppy naps, and trying to store up more of that energy I never seem to have enough of anymore.

Today was one of those days.

A quiet day.

A low-key day.

A “let’s not poke the medical bear” day.

The puppies did their nursing shifts, obviously, because Maizy and Gidget take their jobs very seriously. If Mommy is sitting down, someone must be on or near the lap. It’s in the employee handbook.

In between puppy supervision and laundry, Casey and I continued our current TV binge obsession: Top Chef and Top Chef Masters.

Which is funny because I am over here eating like a medically complicated toddler half the time, but apparently watching professional chefs make stunning food under pressure is now entertainment.

We have burned through a lot of shows lately.

Bridgerton.
Love Is Blind.
Married at First Sight.
Clarkson’s Farm.
Outlander.
Blood of My Blood.
Poldark.
Anything involving kings, queens, castles, corsets, drama, betrayal, questionable marriages, and people dramatically staring across fields.

We have even re-watched Game of Thrones and House of the Dragon, and watched A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

Basically, if there is a crown, a sword, a scandal, a farm, a wedding, a cooking challenge, or someone making terrible life choices on camera, we are probably interested.

But now we need help.

The queue is getting thin, and if I am going to be spending this much time resting, recovering, folding laundry at half-speed, and being supervised by tiny dogs, then we need good TV.

So tell me what you’re watching.

What should Casey and I add to our list?

Period dramas?

Cooking shows?

Reality chaos?

Historical fiction?

British drama?

Something funny?

Something dramatic?

Something that makes you say, “Just one more episode,” until suddenly it is midnight and you have no regrets?

Send me your recommendations.

The recliner recovery command center is accepting suggestions.

And apparently, so are the puppy nurses.

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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

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It’s Officially Hair Now

🌼 Date: Saturday, May 30, 2026

⚡ Energy: Soft fuzz, tiny styling effort, and hot pink ambition

💖 Status: No longer bald, not quite styled, but definitely growing

😏 Outlook: If cancer gave me a blank canvas, I’m painting it magenta

Today I am giving y’all a hair update.

And yes, I can officially call it hair now.

Not peach fuzz.

Not lint.

Not “is that growth or just weird lighting?”

Hair.

Actual hair.

Tiny hair, yes.

Soft hair, absolutely.

Hair that still has a long way to go before it can do anything dramatic, but hair nonetheless.

And let me tell you, it is as soft as a baby’s little butt.

Which is not a sentence I ever expected to write about my own head, but here we are.

Cancer recovery is weird.

It is also coming back salt and pepper.

Which is definitely not a Tina-approved hair color.

No offense to the natural silver fox community. Love that journey for you. Truly.

But this was not on my PC Tina color palette.

A lot of people get what they call chemo curls when their hair starts growing back. Sometimes after chemotherapy, hair comes back with a different texture, color, or curl pattern because chemo affects the hair follicles while they are recovering.

For some people, straight hair comes back curly.

For others, curly hair comes back straighter.

Sometimes the color changes too.

So far, mine is still coming in straight.

Just like it left.

Apparently my hair said, “We will return with the same texture, but in a color Tina did not authorize.”

Rude.

Straight I can handle.

Salt and pepper?

Not without a plan.

I have even started “styling” it.

And I am putting that in quotation marks because let’s not get carried away.

This is not a blowout.

This is not a curling iron situation.

This is not a round brush, product, heat protectant, and hairspray kind of moment.

This is me getting my hands wet, swooping the hair on top over to one side, pushing the hair on the sides toward the front, and calling it a hairstyle.

That’s it.

That is the whole routine.

Wet hands.

Swoop.

Pat.

Hope.

Air dry.

Very high maintenance.

Very salon quality.

Very “please respect the craft.”

I would be lying if I called it a wash-and-go hairstyle, because technically that would imply I can get out of the shower, towel dry it, and go.

Nope.

As soon as I get out of the shower and towel dry it, it is already too dry to style.

Apparently my hair has the absorbency of a paper towel in the desert.

So I have developed a process.

First, I get out of the shower.

Then I towel dry.

Then I apply lotion to my face and body, because this skin has been through enough and we are not tempting the crispy gods.

Then, after all of that, I get my hands wet and do my tiny little styling routine.

Swoop the top.

Push the sides.

Let it air dry.

And then I walk away like I did something.

Because I did.

I styled my hair.

All nine hairs and their friends.

This is a milestone.

Do not minimize my art.

For those of you who know me, you will not be surprised to hear that yes, I have already purchased hair color.

Of course I have.

Did anyone really think I was going to grow back a whole new head of hair and not immediately start planning what color it should be?

Please.

Have we met?

This is Tiny Tina we’re talking about.

The hair may be small, but the plans are not.

I found one that is all organic and made from vegetable dye.

It says it only lasts 30 washings, which made me laugh a little because right now I do not have the energy or strength to shower every day.

So at this point, I’m pretty sure my hair will grow out and need to be recolored before I ever actually wash the color out.

Cancer math.

It’s different.

This time, I went with magenta.

Because if I am fighting the breast cancer battle, I might as well wear the warrior uniform from head to toe and rock the hot pink hair.

Pink ribbon?

Cute.

Pink shirt?

Sure.

Pink accessories?

Always.

But hot pink hair?

Now we are making a statement.

If cancer is going to take my hair, then when it comes back, I get to make it loud.

I get to make it fun.

I get to make it mine.

And maybe that sounds small, but it does not feel small.

Hair is emotional.

Anyone who has lost it knows that.

It is not “just hair.”

People say that sometimes, and I understand they usually mean well, but losing your hair during chemo is a whole thing.

It changes how you see yourself.

It changes how other people see you.

It announces something about you before you ever open your mouth.

It makes you visible in a way you did not choose.

When my hair was gone, I was not ashamed.

I went bald.

I owned it.

I did not hide from it.

But that does not mean it was easy.

It does not mean I did not miss my hair.

It does not mean I did not sometimes look in the mirror and think, Who is this woman, and where did Tina go?

So watching it grow back, even in this tiny soft baby-butt stage, feels like a piece of myself is returning.

Not the same as before.

I know that.

Nothing is exactly the same as before.

But it is something.

A little reminder that my body is still trying.

A little proof that chemo did not get the final word.

A little fuzzy flag planted on my head that says, Still here, still growing.

And yes, I am absolutely going to mess with it.

Because that is part of taking it back.

I spent months with no control over what my body was doing.

Hair falling out.

Skin reacting.

Feet going numb.

Chest swelling.

Energy disappearing.

Medications changing.

Appointments taking over.

Doctors making the schedule.

Cancer calling the shots.

So if I can choose magenta?

I am choosing magenta.

If I can swoop my tiny hair to the side and call it styling?

I am calling it styling.

If I can look in the mirror and smile because there is finally enough hair on my head to have an opinion?

I am going to smile.

Recovery is full of big milestones, but it is also full of little ones.

The first time you notice stubble.

The first time your head feels fuzzy instead of bare.

The first time you realize it is long enough to move in one direction or another.

The first time you compare it to someone else’s hair and realize yours is longer.

Sorry, Casey.

Milestone achieved.

The first time you buy hair color and think, Maybe I am ready to have fun with this.

That is where I am now.

Not quite ready to dye it yet, but close.

The box is here.

The color has been chosen.

The warrior uniform is waiting.

I just need to get up the nerve to actually use it.

And when I do, you know I will update you with a picture.

Because if I go hot pink, we are documenting it.

Obviously.

This blog has seen surgery, chemo, radiation, one boob, giant medical gowns, lymphedema sleeves, neuropathy feet, shaving stones, puppy nurses, bunny chases, lotion experiments, and unsolicited advice warnings that involved shoe violence.

It can handle magenta hair.

Honestly, it might be the least weird thing I have posted lately.

So for today, the update is simple:

My hair is growing.

It is soft.

It is straight.

It is salt and pepper, which was not approved by management.

It is styleable, if you use the word “style” generously and with love.

It may soon be magenta.

And I am starting to see little pieces of myself come back in ways I did not realize I needed.

One tiny swoop at a time.

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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

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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.

---

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

---

When the Safety Net Gets Smaller

🌼 Date: Thursday, May 28, 2026

⚡ Energy: Grateful, grieving, and slightly terrified of the next chapter

❤️‍🩹 Status: Standing at the edge of “now what?”

😐 Outlook: I don’t want to go backward — I want to build forward, even if I’m still figuring out how

With two very important appointments coming up soon, I can feel myself standing in a place on this journey that no one really prepares cancer survivors for.

They prepare you for treatment.

They prepare you for side effects.

They prepare you for appointments.

They prepare you for chemo chairs, radiation tables, surgery, scans, medications, lab work, nausea, hair loss, fatigue, skin reactions, and all the ways your body might throw a tantrum while treatment tries to save your life.

They prepare you to survive.

But nobody really prepares you for what happens after.

Nobody prepares you for the moment life is supposed to “go back to normal.”

Because what the hell does that even mean?

Back to normal.

As if normal is sitting there waiting for me in the driveway with a welcome-home sign and a casserole.

As if I can just walk back into the life I had before cancer and pick up where I left off.

As if nothing happened.

As if I am the same person.

As if my body is the same body.

As if my mind is the same mind.

As if my heart did not get cracked open and rearranged somewhere between diagnosis and “you’re clear.”

And the more I think about it, the more I realize something that surprises even me:

I do not think I want my old normal back.

That feels strange to say.

Because for months, I thought that was the goal.

Get through surgery.

Get through chemo.

Get through radiation.

Get through the side effects.

Get through the fear.

Get through the appointments.

Get through the next thing and the next thing and the next thing until one day life could go back to normal.

But now that I am closer to the “after” than the “during,” I am starting to understand that the old normal might not fit me anymore.

The old me did not know what all of this would cost.

The old me said yes when she wanted to say no.

The old me pushed through when her body was begging her to stop.

The old me survived things she should not have had to survive.

The old me carried stress, swallowed feelings, ignored warning signs, and explained away symptoms because she was too busy being functional, helpful, responsible, and fine.

Always fine.

Fine, fine, fine.

The most dangerous four-letter word in the English language.

And now?

Now I am awake.

Not in some peaceful, enlightened, floating-in-white-linen kind of way.

Please.

I am still me.

I am awake in the messy way.

The raw way.

The “holy shit, I cannot keep living exactly like I did before” way.

I am awake.

But I am also tired.

I am grateful.

But I am also grieving.

I am alive.

But I do not feel like I am fully living yet.

And that is the part nobody talks about enough.

Survivorship is not a clean finish line.

It is not a medal ceremony.

It is not one doctor saying “you’re clear” and suddenly the credits roll while everyone claps.

Survivorship is weird.

It is confusing.

It is emotional whiplash.

It is waking up in a body that fought like hell and realizing you now have to learn how to live in it.

It is trying to figure out who you are when you are not actively being treated, but you are also not magically healed.

It is looking around at your life and wondering what still fits.

What needs to change.

What you can carry.

What you need to put down.

Who you are now.

Who you were before.

And how the hell those two versions are supposed to live in the same body.

Survivorship is not just recovery.

It is an identity crisis wearing compression sleeves.

It is rebuilding.

It is learning how to trust yourself again.

Trust your body.

Trust your instincts.

Trust your limits.

Trust your voice.

Trust that you are allowed to want more than just being alive.

Because that is another tricky part.

People expect you to be happy you are here.

And I am.

I am so happy I am here.

I am grateful beyond words that I am clear.

I am grateful for the doctors, the treatments, the people who showed up, the medicine that worked, and the fact that I get to keep going.

But being happy I am here does not mean I do not want more.

I want joy.

I want peace.

I want confidence.

I want honesty.

I want energy.

I want laughter that does not come with a side of exhaustion.

I want to trust my body again.

I want to make plans without mentally checking my symptom inventory first.

I want to stop calculating whether I have enough in the tank to shower, leave the house, and still be a person by dinner.

I want to feel like myself.

Not exactly the old version.

Not PC Tina untouched by cancer.

She is gone in some ways, and I am still grieving her.

But I want more of me.

The real me.

The Tina who survived, yes, but is not only a survivor.

The Tina who is still funny.

Still sharp.

Still spicy.

Still stubborn.

Still capable.

Still wearing the crown, even if it is sitting on peach fuzz and chemo brain.

That is the work after cancer.

Not going back.

Building forward.

And let me tell you, building forward sounds inspirational until you are the one holding the hammer with neuropathy fingers and a low battery.

Because forward is scary.

Forward means making decisions when you are still tired.

Forward means admitting your old life may not fit anymore.

Forward means being honest about limits.

Forward means disappointing people who thought “done with treatment” meant “done healing.”

Forward is scary because it means I cannot keep measuring my life against the version of me that existed before all of this.

That version had a different body.

A different energy level.

A different sense of safety.

A different relationship with time.

A different trust in tomorrow.

This version of me is not trying to be difficult.

She is not being dramatic.

She is not milking it.

She is not dragging this out because she enjoys having a full punch card at Cancerland.

She is learning how to live after something that changed everything.

And that may require more patience than people expect.

More grace.

More space.

More honesty.

More flexibility.

More understanding that “done with treatment” does not mean “done healing.”

I am not asking people to walk on eggshells around me.

I am asking them to understand that I am still learning where the floor is.

Some days I may look steady.

Some days I may even feel steady.

And some days, I may need to pause, rest, cancel, cry, question, nap, or say no without giving a full TED Talk about why.

That does not mean I am going backward.

It means I am learning how to move forward in a body and a life that both got rearranged without my permission.

One of my upcoming appointments is with oncology, and I already know this next phase is going to be strange.

Because at some point, the appointments that have been holding me up for the last eight or nine months start spreading out.

Instead of constant check-ins and treatment schedules and “we’ll see you next week,” it becomes something like:

“Okay, we’ll see you in six months.”

Excuse me?

Six months?

What do you mean, see me in six months?

For almost a year, my life has been built around medical surveillance.

There was always another appointment.

Another lab.

Another scan.

Another treatment.

Another person checking on me.

Another nurse asking questions.

Another doctor looking at my skin, my blood work, my chest, my symptoms, my healing, my everything.

It was exhausting, yes.

But it was also a safety net.

A weird, inconvenient, medically chaotic safety net.

And now I am supposed to just… go live?

Go home?

Wait six months?

Trust that everything is fine?

That sounds lovely in theory.

In practice, my brain has questions.

What happens if I have a weird pain and I think it is cancer?

What if I feel something strange?

What if a new symptom pops up?

What if the hormone blockers cause side effects?

What if I cannot tell the difference between normal recovery weirdness and something that needs attention?

What if I need reassurance?

What if I panic?

What if the tiny fear monster in the back of my brain starts doing jazz hands at 2:00 in the morning?

Where is my safety net?

Where is the person who says, “That is normal,” or “Let’s check it,” or “Call us if this happens”?

Where is the steady medical rhythm I have had since diagnosis?

I never thought I would miss constant appointments.

But there is something terrifying about going from being watched closely to being released into the wild like a confused little cancer raccoon.

Congratulations, you survived.

Here is a follow-up in six months.

Try not to spiral.

Good luck out there.

That is the part nobody prepares you for.

The silence after treatment.

The space between appointments.

The fear that has nowhere to go.

The responsibility of monitoring your changed body without letting every ache, pinch, bump, or weird sensation become a five-alarm fire.

Because after cancer, your body does not feel neutral anymore.

Your body becomes a crime scene you keep revisiting.

Every pain has a question mark.

Every symptom has a shadow.

Every new sensation makes you pause.

And even when you tell yourself, This is probably nothing, you know that before diagnosis you said that too.

That is the problem.

Cancer teaches you that sometimes “probably nothing” is not nothing.

And now you have to live with that knowledge without letting it eat you alive.

That is survivorship.

Not the pink ribbon version.

Not the shiny bell-ringing version.

The real version.

The version where you are grateful to be alive and still scared of your own body.

The version where you are clear but not carefree.

The version where you want to move forward but do not fully trust the ground under your feet.

Literally, in my case, because neuropathy is rude.

I do not know exactly how to build this next version of my life yet.

I wish I did.

I wish there was a manual.

I wish someone handed you a binder after treatment that said:

Welcome to Survivorship: How to Rebuild Your Life Without Losing Your Mind

Chapter One: What aches are normal?

Chapter Two: How to stop Googling at midnight.

Chapter Three: How to explain to people that “clear” does not mean “completely fine.”

Chapter Four: What to do when your safety net becomes a six-month follow-up.

Chapter Five: How to be grateful and pissed off at the same time.

I would read that binder.

I would highlight it.

I would add sticky notes.

I would bring it to appointments.

But there is no binder.

So I am figuring it out as I go.

Slowly.

Messily.

With naps.

With questions.

With boundaries.

With Casey.

With my puppy nurses.

With the people who actually get it.

With this blog.

With all of you.

Because honestly, building forward is a lot easier when you are not doing it alone.

That is one thing I know for sure.

I may not know what my new normal looks like yet.

I may not know how long it will take to feel steady.

I may not know how to live in the space between “you’re clear” and “see you in six months.”

I may not know how to stop missing the old Tina while trying to honor the new one.

But I do know I do not want to go backward.

Not all the way.

I want to build forward.

I want a life that fits who I am now.

A life with more honesty.

More joy.

More peace.

More courage.

More boundaries.

More confidence.

More room for rest.

More room for laughter.

More room for the truth.

More me.

Not the me cancer tried to erase.

Not the me who performed fine for everyone else.

Not the me who ignored symptoms and kept pushing.

The me who survived.

The me who is awake.

The me who is tired but still here.

The me who wants more than survival.

The me who is learning that being alive is the beginning, not the whole story.

So no, I am not going back to normal.

I am building forward.

And yes, it is scary.

Yes, it is exhausting.

Yes, I would like a safety net, a manual, and possibly a snack.

But I am still going.

One appointment.

One question.

One boundary.

One brave little step at a time.

---

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

---

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.

---

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

---

Maizy Discovers Soccer

🌼 Date: Tuesday, May 26, 2026

⚡ Energy: Soft, smiling, and puppy-supervised

💖 Status: Maizy has entered her athlete era

😍 Outlook: Sometimes healing looks like a five-pound dog chasing a tiny ball

After a couple of heavier posts, today we are going lighter.

Because sometimes the heart needs a break.

Sometimes the blog needs a puppy story.

And sometimes Miss Maizy decides to discover soccer in the yard and suddenly everything feels a little brighter.

Today, Maizy found a soccer ball outside.

Not a tiny dog ball.

An actual big dog soccer ball.

Which, compared to her petite five-pound body and four-inch legs, might as well have been a boulder.

But did that stop her?

Absolutely not.

She walked up to it, gave it a suspicious little sniff, and started nosing at it like she was trying to figure out what this round outdoor creature was doing in her yard.

Then she bumped it.

And it moved.

And let me tell you, the look on her face was priceless.

She surprised herself.

Like, Excuse me? I have powers?

So she nosed it again.

It rolled again.

And just like that, Miss Maizy discovered the magic of ball.

The cutest thing ever.

This tiny little girl, who once seemed afraid of everything, was now out in the yard trying to play with a soccer ball that was basically half her size.

Okay, maybe not half her size.

But emotionally?

Yes.

Half her size.

Maybe more.

After hearing about the cuteness, Auntie Marnie showed up with gifts for Maizy.

Because obviously, if a five-pound princess discovers a sport, she needs proper equipment.

Auntie Marnie brought her a green ball and a red ball, both the perfect tiny size for a petite little girl.

And Maizy absolutely loves them.

Not likes them.

Not casually appreciates them.

Loves them.

She noses them around the house.

She chases them when we nudge them with our feet.

And since my energy level is not exactly giving “full athletic participation,” this works out perfectly.

It is a slowed-down version of fetch.

Recovery fetch.

Tiny dog soccer.

Low-impact entertainment for everyone involved.

We nudge the ball.

She chases it.

She noses it.

She pounces around.

We laugh.

She looks proud.

Then, when she gets tired of playing, she picks the ball up in her mouth and carries it into our bedroom so she can chew on it for a while.

Because apparently the ball needs to be relocated for private inspection.

Then she brings it back out into the living room and plops down on the doggie bed with it.

Like, This is mine now. Thank you for understanding.

It is the cutest thing ever.

And I know I keep saying that about her, but honestly, she keeps earning it.

Every time I think she cannot possibly get any sweeter, she does something else that makes my heart melt into a little puddle on the floor.

Watching her settle in has been one of the softest, sweetest parts of this whole season.

It has only been about ten weeks since we brought her home.

Ten weeks.

That is nothing.

And yet, the change in her is incredible.

When she first came home, she was so timid.

So unsure.

So afraid of everything.

Her shadow.

Sudden sounds.

Movement.

Hands reaching for her.

The whole world seemed too big and too loud for her tiny little body.

You could tell she did not fully understand that she was safe yet.

She wanted love, but she did not know if she could trust it.

She wanted comfort, but she was still bracing for something scary.

That broke my heart.

And now?

Now she follows me around like she has important nursing duties to perform.

She waits for me by my chair so I can pick her up.

She climbs onto my lap and settles in like that is exactly where she belongs.

She keeps an eye on me like she knows I should not be left unsupervised for too long.

Which, to be fair, she is probably right.

This is the same woman who needs reminders to rest, hydrate, not overdo it, and stop pretending “I’m fine” is an actual medical update.

Maizy has clearly taken on the role of tiny nurse, emotional support shadow, and now, apparently, indoor soccer champion.

She no longer cowers when one of us tries to pick her up.

That alone makes me want to cry a little.

Because trust from a dog who has been scared is not a small thing.

It is earned.

Slowly.

Gently.

With patience.

With consistency.

With soft voices and safe hands and time.

And now her favorite place is on someone’s lap.

But especially Mommy’s lap.

Obviously.

Because Mommy needs supervision.

Mommy needs warmth.

Mommy needs puppy weight therapy.

Mommy needs someone tiny and furry to remind her that resting is allowed.

Who knew five pounds could hold so much love?

Who knew a little ball of fur could come into our home and quietly take over such a big space in my heart?

I have loved dogs my whole life, but there is something extra special about watching a rescue dog start to believe they are home.

Really home.

Not visiting.

Not waiting for the next scary thing.

Not holding their breath.

Home.

Watching Maizy discover toys, routines, laps, safety, and now balls has been such a gift.

It is healing in a way I did not expect.

Not medical healing.

Not the kind that shows up on a lab result or gets measured at physical therapy.

But heart healing.

Soul healing.

The kind that sneaks in quietly while you are sitting in a recliner, recovering from cancer treatment, and suddenly this tiny creature looks up at you like you are her whole world.

That does something to you.

Cancer has made so many days heavy.

So many days have been about symptoms, side effects, appointments, fear, pain, fatigue, and trying to figure out what my body is doing now.

But today was about Maizy and her balls.

Today was about a little dog learning how to play.

Today was about laughing at her tiny soccer skills.

Today was about Auntie Marnie showing up with the perfect gifts.

Today was about watching a once-timid little girl carry her new ball proudly into the bedroom like she had just won a championship.

And honestly?

That is exactly the kind of update I needed.

No big medical lesson.

No new diagnosis.

No dramatic symptom.

No “please call the doctor if this gets worse.”

Just joy.

Tiny, fuzzy, ball-chasing joy.

And maybe that is part of healing too.

Finding the small things that make you smile again.

Not forcing yourself to be positive.

Not pretending everything is fine.

Not ignoring the hard stuff.

Just letting something sweet be sweet.

Letting a puppy with a red ball and a green ball remind you that life is still happening.

That laughter is still here.

That love keeps finding its way in.

That even after months of fear and treatment and recovery, there are still moments that feel light.

Who knew you could love a little ball of fur so much?

At this point, I’m not sure who rescued who.

But I do know this:

Miss Maizy is home.

She is loved.

She is safe.

She is spoiled.

She is officially a soccer girl.

And Mommy is still under very close supervision.

As she should be.

---

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

---

There May Never Be a Back to Normal

🌼 Date: Monday, May 25, 2026

⚡ Energy: Reflective, tender, and tired in places people can’t see

❤️‍🩹 Status: Trying to find my new baseline

🫤 Outlook: Maybe healing is not becoming who I was — maybe it is learning to respect who I am now

What is my new normal?

And how do I find it?

That question has been sitting heavy with me lately.

Because after everything — the diagnosis, the surgery, the chemo, the radiation, the appointments, the scans, the side effects, the skin checks, the swelling, the neuropathy, the lymphedema, the waiting, the fear, the “you’re clear” moment — I think people assume there is a finish line.

Like once treatment is done, the race is over.

Like you ring the bell, close the chapter, walk out into the sunshine, and magically return to the person you were before cancer grabbed your life by the throat.

But what happens after the bell?

What happens when the appointments slow down?

What happens when the active treatment is done?

What happens when everyone around you starts waiting for you to get back to normal?

Because that is the part nobody really prepares you for.

For the last eight months, I have been living in a state of panic and urgency.

All of my senses have been on high alert.

Every appointment mattered.

Every scan mattered.

Every lab mattered.

Every symptom had to be watched.

Every new pain, rash, swelling, fever, sore throat, numb foot, tight chest, weird skin patch, or medication side effect had to be sorted into one of two categories:

Normal cancer treatment bullshit.

Or call the doctor.

That is an exhausting way to live.

And then suddenly, active treatment ends.

The schedule gets quieter.

The big appointments are no longer stacked one on top of another.

People start breathing again.

And then comes the expectation.

Friends.

Family.

Co-workers.

Sometimes even me.

Everyone starts looking for the old version of Tina.

The one with more energy.

The one who could remember everything.

The one who could push through a long day and still function.

The one who did not have to cancel plans because her body said, Nope. Not today, ma’am.

The one who could drive herself.

The one who could work like before.

The one who could walk without thinking about her feet.

The one who did not need compression sleeves, puppy nurses, naps, masks, sanitizing wipes, or a full recovery strategy just to go out to dinner.

The one who didn’t have to think about whether she had enough energy in the tank to shower and leave the house on the same day.

And here is the truth nobody really likes to say:

There may never be a “back to normal.”

There may only be a new baseline.

And realizing that can be absolutely devastating.

Surviving cancer does not mean you get handed your old life back.

It means you have to learn how to live in a body that has been through hell.

A body with scars.

A body with missing parts.

A body with tender places.

A body with limitations.

A body that needs more rest than ever before.

A body that has symptoms other people cannot see.

A body that has been cut, poisoned, radiated, burned, swollen, stretched, numbed, and then expected to somehow send a thank-you note because it survived.

And yes, I am grateful.

I am so grateful.

But gratitude does not erase grief.

That is the part I wish people understood.

I can be thankful to be alive and still grieve the version of me that cancer took.

I can be clear and still be scared.

I can be healing and still feel broken.

I can laugh and still be exhausted.

I can look better on the outside and still feel like my body is running on 7% battery with a cracked screen and a charger that only works if you hold it at the right angle.

That is survivorship.

It is beautiful.

It is brutal.

It is confusing.

It is lonely.

Because on the outside, I might start looking okay.

My hair is growing back.

The color in my skin is better.

I laugh again.

I post funny stories.

I go to dinner sometimes.

I make jokes about one boob, hot-coal feet, Shrinky Dink skin, compression chic, and the Greased Pig Phase.

So people see that and think, Boom. She’s healed.

But I know the truth.

I know that some days, taking a shower feels like a full-body workout.

And sometimes I cannot do it.

Sometimes I go longer than I want to admit without a shower because I simply do not have the strength or energy.

Not because I am lazy.

Not because I do not care.

Because my body says no.

And when your body says no after cancer, you learn the hard way that arguing with it comes with consequences.

People do not see that part.

They do not see the calculations.

Can I shower today?

Can I wash my hair and still have energy to get dressed?

If I shower now, will I have enough left to go anywhere later?

If I leave the house, will I crash when I get home?

If I stand too long, will my feet go numb?

If I push too hard today, will tomorrow be ruined?

This is the new math.

And I hate math.

People also do not see the chemo brain.

The brain fog.

The way it makes you feel like pieces of yourself are missing.

Like your thoughts are walking through mud.

Like words are hiding behind furniture.

Like your memory packed a bag and left without telling you where it went.

For someone who was intelligent before cancer, who was organized, sharp, quick, and used to being the person who remembered things, chemo brain is humiliating.

It makes you feel like you are disappearing inside your own head.

So you smile.

You nod.

You make jokes.

You say, “chemo brain,” like it is cute.

But it is not always cute.

Sometimes it is frustrating as hell.

Sometimes it makes me want to cry.

Sometimes it makes me wonder if the old Tina is still in there or if cancer took her too.

People do not see the fear that still lives in the background of every single day.

Good day or bad day, it is there.

A little hum.

A little shadow.

A tiny monster in the corner taking notes.

No amount of “you’re clear” will completely erase that fear.

I wish it would.

I wish those words could walk through my brain with a broom and sweep out every anxious thought, every what-if, every scan fear, every tiny whisper that says, What if it comes back?

But that is not how this works.

I am clear.

I am grateful.

I am relieved.

And I am still scared about my health.

Both things are true.

People do not see how often I wonder if I will ever truly get better.

They do not see how exhausted I am, even when I look okay.

They do not see how much pain I am in most days.

They do not see the neuropathy in my feet.

They do not see the tingling in my fingers.

They do not see the heaviness in my arm.

They do not see the lymphedema.

They do not see the tightness in my chest.

They do not see the grief that sneaks up on me when I least expect it.

They do not see how lonely this journey can feel, even in a room full of people.

They do not see how much I miss the Tina I used to be.

And I do miss her.

I grieve her.

The old Tina.

PC Tina.

Pre-Cancer Tina.

The one who did not have to think about all of this.

The one who could plan her day around shoes instead of symptoms.

The one who could trust her body more.

The one who did not need a medical team, a portal, a compression sleeve, and a side-eye relationship with every new sensation.

I miss her.

And missing her does not mean I am ungrateful for surviving.

It means I lost something.

I lost a version of myself.

And I am allowed to grieve that.

I also hate feeling like a burden.

That one is hard to say out loud.

Because I know the people who love me do not want me to feel that way.

I know Casey does not see me as a burden.

I know the people who truly care about me want to help.

But needing help after being the capable one for so long is hard.

Not driving is hard.

Needing rest is hard.

Canceling plans is hard.

Having to ask for things is hard.

Watching my body set limits I did not choose is hard.

And the guilt?

The guilt is loud.

Even when it is not logical.

Even when I know better.

Even when I would never make someone else feel guilty for needing help.

Still, there it is.

Another little souvenir from Cancerland.

The truth is, I am not failing at recovery.

I have to remind myself of that.

Maybe someone else needs to hear it too.

I am not failing because I still get tired.

I am not failing because I still have symptoms.

I am not failing because my body needs more rest.

I am not failing because I am not the same person I was before.

I am not failing because I cannot snap back.

I am not a rubber band.

I am a human being who went through something unimaginable.

And I am allowed to become someone new.

Slower.

Softer.

More protective of my peace.

More honest about my limits.

More careful with my energy.

More willing to say no.

More aware that my body is not just a machine I can demand more from whenever I feel like it.

And for the people who are waiting for the old Tina to come back exactly as she was before?

You may need to adjust your expectations.

That is not me being rude.

That is me being honest.

If you are expecting me to return unchanged, moving at the same speed, carrying the same load, remembering every detail, saying yes to everything, and pretending cancer was just a temporary inconvenience with a pink ribbon attached, you may be in for a surprise.

Because I am still Tina.

But I am not the same Tina.

I am not less valuable.

I am not less capable.

I am not less worthy.

I am not less me.

But I am different.

And different needs to be respected.

I do not have to prove I am recovered by pretending to be who I was before cancer.

I do not have to perform normal for anyone else’s comfort.

I do not have to push past my limits just so people can feel like the scary part is over.

I do not have to make my recovery look convenient.

Healing is not becoming who I was before cancer.

Sometimes healing is learning how to respect who I am now.

This version of me has been through hell.

This version of me has scars.

This version of me has one boob, one deflated bag, neuropathy feet, a compression sleeve, a cautious immune system, and a nervous system that apparently likes dramatic lighting.

This version of me gets tired faster.

This version of me needs more rest.

This version of me forgets things.

This version of me is more protective of her peace.

This version of me is still funny.

Still smart.

Still spicy.

Still capable.

Still worth listening to.

Still here.

Still standing.

Still Tina.

Just not the exact same Tina you knew before.

And maybe that is not a tragedy.

Maybe that is survival.

Maybe the goal is not to find my way back to normal.

Maybe the goal is to build a life around this new baseline.

A life that makes room for rest.

A life that respects limits.

A life that allows joy and fear to exist in the same body.

A life where I can be grateful and grieving.

Clear and cautious.

Hopeful and tired.

Soft and stubborn.

Changed and whole.

I do not know exactly what my new normal looks like yet.

I am still finding it.

One appointment at a time.

One symptom at a time.

One nap at a time.

One honest boundary at a time.

One day where I choose not to pretend I am okay just because pretending would be easier for everyone else.

I may never go back to normal.

But maybe I can go forward.

Maybe I can become someone new without losing the best parts of who I was.

Maybe I can learn to live in this changed body with more kindness than frustration.

Maybe I can stop asking, When will I be who I used to be?

And start asking, How do I take care of who I am now?

That feels like the real work.

Not ringing the bell.

Not finishing treatment.

Not hearing “you’re clear.”

Those are milestones.

Beautiful ones.

But the real work is learning how to live after survival.

And that is where I am now.

Trying to figure out what comes next.

Trying to honor the old Tina.

Trying to understand the new one.

Trying to build a life that has space for both.

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Family, Lotion, and the Return of Leg Hair

🌼 Date: Sunday, May 24, 2026

⚡ Energy: Family fun, lotion testing, and suspicious leg hair

💞 Status: Reunited, moisturized, and cautiously experimenting

🙃 Outlook: Healing is weird, but at least it smells like vanilla pear

Today we had a family celebration.

A reunion of sorts.

We came together for a wedding reception for my cousin’s son and his new wife, and it was so much fun.

I love getting together with that part of my family because it is never dull.

Never.

There is always good food.

Always great company.

Always laughter.

Always somebody with a story.

And somehow, even in our senior years, we can still shut a place down.

We ended up staying past our reservation time, which honestly feels like an achievement.

Look at us.

Still causing mild scheduling problems.

Still social.

Still standing.

Mostly.

Some of us may be standing with neuropathy feet and compression accessories, but standing nonetheless.

It felt good to be around family, to laugh, to eat, to visit, and to feel like life was happening somewhere outside of doctor appointments, side effects, and my recliner recovery command center.

And as an added bonus, my youngest cousin has started making her own line of all-natural, organic lotions.

Which, if you have been following along, is either perfect timing or a very risky plot twist.

Because my skin and I have had some trust issues lately.

Radiation reactions.

Peeling.

Scabs.

Burning.

Swelling.

The Greased Pig Phase.

The alleged allergic reaction to the cream my doctor had me using.

The antibiotics that followed.

The antibiotics my stomach very firmly rejected.

So when someone hands me lotion now, part of me is excited and part of me hears dramatic movie music.

But she knows about my radiation reactions, and she brought a couple for me to try.

One of them has Calendula in it.

And I admit, I hesitated.

Because the cream the doctor had me using also had Calendula, and after that whole situation, I have been side-eyeing Calendula like maybe it owes me an apology.

But then she asked a very good question.

Did they actually do an allergy test to confirm it was the Calendula that made me break out?

Nope.

No, they did not.

The reaction happened, the cream was blamed, antibiotics entered the chat, and my stomach immediately filed for divorce.

That was pretty much the process.

So I pulled up the cream on Amazon and showed her the ingredients.

And let me tell you, that list looked like it belonged in a chemistry final.

Mostly chemical names I could not pronounce.

The kind of ingredient list where your eyes start glazing over and you think, Is this skincare or are we building a small engine?

She suspected my reaction may have been to one of those chemicals, not the Calendula itself.

And honestly, that makes sense.

My skin has been through enough lately that it is probably taking attendance and ejecting anyone suspicious.

Her Calendula lotion, on the other hand, has collagen, coconut oil, aloe, vitamin E, jojoba, and a bunch of other things you can actually pronounce.

Things that grow in the ground.

Things that sound less like a lab accident and more like something your skin might recognize as help.

And it smells really good.

So she asked me to try it on my radiated areas, but to stop immediately and let her know if I have any kind of reaction.

That feels fair.

That feels cautious.

That feels less like let’s throw chemicals at the angry skin and see what happens and more like let’s gently introduce moisture to the crispy patient and monitor closely.

Progress.

The second jar she gave me is Tallow Butter, and let me tell you, this one smells heavenly.

Vanilla pear.

Vanilla.

Pear.

Why does that sound like a dessert I would eat while wearing fuzzy socks and avoiding responsibilities?

I have been using that one on the rest of my body, and so far, my skin seems to approve.

Or at least it has not started screaming yet.

At this point, silence from my skin counts as a five-star review.

While we were talking about skin, lotion, and all the lovely post-treatment body nonsense, I mentioned that along with the hair on my head, the hair on my legs has started growing back too.

Ugh.

Rude.

I was really hoping chemo had taken that particular chore permanently.

I mean, if chemo is going to put me into early menopause, the least it could do is also cancel leg hair forever.

That seems reasonable.

But apparently no.

The hair on my head is returning.

The hair on my legs is returning.

Everybody is coming back from vacation except my energy.

Cool cool cool.

My legs and arms have also been feeling bumpy.

Almost like ingrown hairs or inflamed hair follicles.

Not exactly cute.

Not exactly comfortable.

Not exactly the smooth goddess era I was hoping to enter after cancer treatment.

My cousin asked if I was still using a razor.

Nope.

I had to stop using a regular razor at least two weeks before chemo started because my oncologist told me I could only use an electric razor.

The idea was to lower the chance of cutting myself and ending up with an open sore that could take longer to heal once chemo started.

Which made sense.

Annoying sense, but sense.

So I have not gone back to a regular razor.

Then my cousin told me about a shaving stone that she uses.

Of course, I immediately looked it up on Amazon.

Because apparently my recovery process includes medical portals, doctor messages, family recommendations, and Amazon research.

We found them listed under a few names.

Shaving stone.

Glass hair eraser.

Crystal hair removal epilator.

There were different shapes.

Different colors.

Different prices.

Some started around $7.99.

And obviously, I chose pink.

Because if I am going to experiment with sanding my leg hair off like a human craft project, it might as well match the brand.

From what I read, these little hair erasers basically work by “sanding” the hair away while exfoliating your skin at the same time.

Which sounds slightly alarming and also kind of genius.

The listing said you can use it on different areas of the body, including arms and face, but so far I have only used it on my legs.

Let’s not get too ambitious on day one.

I have enough going on.

Supposedly, with repeated use, the hair grows back lighter and finer.

We shall see.

I am cautiously curious.

The specific one I bought had instructions listed on Amazon, but there were no instructions in the box, which was strange.

Nothing says “confidence” like opening a product meant to remove hair from your body and finding zero directions inside.

Very reassuring.

Very good luck, girl.

According to the Amazon instructions, you can use it on wet or dry legs, so you could use it in the shower.

You gently rub the hair eraser over the desired area in a circular motion a couple of times until the skin feels smooth and hair-free.

The key word is gently.

Do not push.

Do not scrub like you are trying to remove wallpaper.

Do not get aggressive.

This is skin, not a cast iron pan.

Just glide it over the skin.

Light pressure.

Circular motions.

Patience.

Which, as we all know, is my strongest quality.

Please pause for laughter.

For me, I did my legs while sitting in my recliner watching TV.

Because why not turn hair removal into a recliner activity?

Very on-brand.

Very recovery chic.

Very Tina has entered her exfoliating goblin era.

The first time took about 35 to 40 minutes.

That sounds like a lot, but remember, I was learning.

And I was being careful.

And I was probably stopping every few minutes to inspect my leg like I was conducting a science experiment.

Which, honestly, I kind of was.

Now this part is important.

To avoid razor burn, itching, or irritation, the instructions said to shower immediately after finishing and then lotion up when you get out.

So I did.

Because look at me, following directions like a responsible adult.

I used the hair eraser.

I showered.

I lotioned.

I monitored.

And so far, I have not had any reaction.

Praise be.

Even better, when I was putting lotion on my legs, I noticed the bumps were not nearly as bad as they had been.

That could be from the exfoliation.

It could be from the lotion.

It could be from my skin finally deciding to stop being a drama queen for five consecutive minutes.

I do not know.

But I will take it.

Hopefully after I use this a couple of times, the bumps will be gone.

I am also curious to see how many days it takes before I feel like I need to use it again, and whether the hair feels any different when it grows back.

Will it be lighter?

Will it be finer?

Will my legs remain smooth?

Will my skin stay calm?

Will I accidentally become an influencer for tiny pink leg-sanding stones?

Only time will tell.

I will keep you posted.

Because apparently this blog has evolved from cancer updates into a full-service survival guide that includes radiation reactions, puppy nurses, lymphedema sleeves, neuropathy feet, family gatherings, and now exfoliating hair erasers.

You’re welcome.

But honestly, today felt good.

Family felt good.

Laughter felt good.

Being out in the world for something joyful felt good.

Trying something made by someone I love felt good.

Having my cousin care enough to bring me something gentle for my angry skin felt good.

Even experimenting with the hair eraser felt like a tiny normal-person activity, despite the fact that I am still very much healing from the inside out.

That is the strange thing about recovery.

Some days it is big medical stuff.

Some days it is scary symptoms.

Some days it is exhaustion and ice packs.

Some days it is compression sleeves and doctor messages.

And some days it is family, lotion, vanilla pear, and sitting in a recliner gently sanding your leg hair off while watching TV.

Healing is weird.

Life is weird.

Cancer recovery is extremely weird.

But today had laughter.

Today had love.

Today had good smells.

Today had smooth legs.

And today, for a little while, the weird felt kind of wonderful.

---

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

---

Unsolicited Advice Is Not a Treatment Plan

🌼 Date: Saturday, May 23, 2026

⚡ Energy: Spicy, tired, and fully stocked on opinions I did not ask for

❤️‍🔥 Status: Issuing a public service announcement from Cancerland

🧐 Outlook: Support is welcome. Google University medical degrees are not.

Today’s post is a public service announcement.

And before anyone gets nervous, no, I am not yelling.

Okay, maybe a little.

But in my defense, I have been through surgery, chemo, radiation, neuropathy, lymphedema, radiation reactions, nausea, headaches, a deflated expander, one functioning boob-shaped construction zone, and enough medical waiting rooms to qualify for frequent flyer miles.

So if my tone has a little spice on it, consider it seasoning.

Today, I want to talk about unsolicited advice.

Specifically, unsolicited cancer advice.

Because why is it that the people who have never had cancer seem to have the most to say about how someone else should handle it?

Have you tried drinking alkaline water?

You should go vegan.

My cousin’s friend took this supplement and got cured.

You should cut out sugar.

You should take this vitamin.

You should do this cleanse.

You should try this herb.

You should think positive.

You are so positive.

You’ve got this.

Everything happens for a reason.

You’re so strong.

Meanwhile, I am over here just trying to make it through the day without my feet catching fire, my stomach flipping inside out, my chest feeling shrink-wrapped, or my brain packing a suitcase for Anxiety Land.

But sure.

Tell me more about the supplement your neighbor’s dental hygienist’s cousin saw on TikTok.

I’m listening.

Actually, no.

I’m not.

Let me say this respectfully:

If you have never sat in a chemo chair, please be careful with your advice.

If you have never laid on a radiation table trying to hold your breath exactly right while a machine targets your chest wall, please be careful with your advice.

If you have never watched your body break down in ways you cannot control, please be careful with your advice.

If you have never had to choose between treatment and feeling like yourself, please be careful with your advice.

If you have never had to look at a medication and think, This might help save my life, but it is also going to make me feel like absolute garbage, please be careful with your advice.

Because this is not a wellness trend.

This is not a juice cleanse.

This is not a 30-day challenge.

This is not a “have you tried yoga?” moment.

This is survival.

And survival is already hard enough without someone who Googled for ten minutes trying to tell me how to fight for my life.

Do you really think I have not already Googled everything?

Do you think I have not been down every rabbit hole at 2:00 in the morning?

Do you think I have not researched supplements, side effects, treatment options, medications, diet changes, lab numbers, neuropathy, radiation reactions, lymphedema, reconstruction timelines, and every scary phrase that has ever appeared in my chart?

Do you think I am the type of person who goes to the doctor without a list of questions?

Please.

Have we met?

I do not walk into medical appointments empty-handed.

I show up with notes, screenshots, questions, follow-ups, concerns, and the spiritual energy of a woman who has already read the patient portal three times and found the typo.

I have sent my doctors messages.

Multiple messages.

I have asked about supplements.

I have asked about medications.

I have asked about side effects.

I have asked about options.

I have asked about what is safe and what is not.

I have asked my care team questions because they know my diagnosis, my treatment plan, my medications, my labs, my medical history, my allergies, my immune system, my surgery, my radiation fields, my chemo cocktail, and my current situation.

Google does not know all that.

Your cousin’s friend does not know all that.

The lady from Facebook who cured everything with celery juice definitely does not know all that.

And I promise you, if there was a magical supplement that cured breast cancer and fixed chemo side effects, my doctors probably would have mentioned it somewhere between “you need a mastectomy” and “let’s discuss chemotherapy.”

This is not me saying people cannot mean well.

I know most advice comes from a place of wanting to help.

I know people feel helpless when someone they care about is going through something awful.

I know advice can feel like support when you do not know what else to say.

But here is the thing:

Support does not have to sound like advice.

Support can sound like:

“I’m here.”

“I’m praying for you.”

“What do you need?”

“Do you want me to listen or help problem-solve?”

“That sounds awful.”

“I hate that you’re going through this.”

“I don’t know what to say, but I love you.”

“Can I bring dinner?”

“Can I sit with you?”

“Can I drive you?”

“Can I make you laugh for five minutes?”

That is support.

Support is not standing outside someone else’s battle and shouting instructions.

Support is not telling a cancer patient what they should be doing because you read one article, watched one video, or heard one story about one person who had one experience.

And while we’re here, let’s talk about cancer comparisons.

Because this one is tricky.

Some people have had cancer themselves, or they love someone who has had cancer, and they want to connect.

I understand that.

I really do.

Shared experience can be powerful.

But every cancer journey is different.

Every single one.

The diagnosis can be different.

The stage can be different.

The type can be different.

The surgery can be different.

The treatment plan can be different.

The medications can be different.

The chemo cocktail can be different.

The side effects can be different.

The outcome can be different.

The emotional toll can be different.

The long-term aftermath can be different.

So when someone tries to compare their completely different cancer experience to mine and then tells me what I should expect, it does not always feel helpful.

Sometimes it feels dismissive.

Sometimes it feels like they are trying to make my story fit inside their story, even when the pieces do not match.

If your cancer journey did not include the same diagnosis, the same treatment, the same surgeries, the same medications, the same side effects, the same complications, and the same outcome, then your experience may help you understand parts of this world, but it does not make you an expert on mine.

And that matters.

Because when someone says, “Well, when I went through cancer…” and then launches into advice that has absolutely nothing to do with my treatment, my body, or my reality, I have to stand there and smile while my brain is yelling, That is not the same thing.

Not even close.

It does not mean their journey was easy.

It does not mean their cancer did not matter.

It does not mean their experience was not hard.

It just means it was different.

And different is important.

Cancer is not one-size-fits-all.

It is not a matching tracksuit.

It is not a universal punch card where we all collect the same symptoms and get the same prize at the end.

Cancer is personal.

Treatment is personal.

Side effects are personal.

Recovery is personal.

Fear is personal.

And what helps one person may not be safe, appropriate, or even remotely useful for another.

That is why advice needs to be handled carefully.

Because there is a big difference between saying:

“This helped me. Maybe you could ask your doctor if it is safe for you.”

And saying:

“You need to do this.”

One leaves room for my body, my doctors, and my reality.

The other makes me want to throw a shoe.

And if you know me and my shoe collection, you know I do not throw my precious shoes unless I mean it. I have over 200 pairs, so if I’m willing to launch one in your direction, congratulations — you have earned designer-level consequences.

And I am not saying people should never share information.

I have learned helpful things from other people.

I have appreciated tips, suggestions, and real-life experiences when they were offered with kindness and humility.

There is a way to share without assuming.

There is a way to say, “This helped me, but your team would know best.”

There is a way to care without turning into the Cancer Advice Fairy.

But unsolicited advice hits differently when you are exhausted.

When you are scared.

When you are nauseous.

When you are in pain.

When your body does not feel like your body.

When your hair is gone.

When your chest is healing.

When your immune system is low.

When your feet are numb.

When your arm is swelling.

When you are trying to process the fact that you are cancer free but still not free from everything cancer did to you.

At that point, advice can feel less like help and more like one more thing being handed to you.

One more task.

One more judgment.

One more person implying that maybe if you just did something differently, this would be easier.

And let me tell you something.

There is nothing easy about this.

Nothing.

There is nothing easy about having your breasts removed.

Nothing easy about chemo.

Nothing easy about radiation.

Nothing easy about neuropathy.

Nothing easy about lymphedema.

Nothing easy about body changes.

Nothing easy about trying to rebuild your life while your body is still recovering from the treatment that saved it.

So please, before you give a cancer patient advice, pause.

Ask yourself:

Did they ask?

Am I qualified?

Is this safe?

Do I know their full medical situation?

Am I trying to help them, or am I trying to make myself feel less helpless?

That last one is important.

Because sometimes advice is not actually for the person receiving it.

Sometimes advice is how the giver manages their own discomfort.

They want to fix it.

They want to say something useful.

They want to feel like they contributed.

But cancer is not always fixable from the outside.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is sit beside someone in it without trying to fix them.

Just be there.

Just listen.

Just let them be tired.

Let them be scared.

Let them be angry.

Let them be funny.

Let them be dark.

Let them be hopeful one day and furious the next.

Let them talk about side effects without trying to solve them.

Let them say, “This sucks,” without correcting them into gratitude.

Let them be a whole person, not a project.

Because I am not a wellness experiment.

I am not a cautionary tale for your supplement drawer.

I am not a challenge for someone’s positive thinking philosophy.

I am not here to perform inspiration on command.

I am a woman who got diagnosed with breast cancer, had a double mastectomy, went through chemo, went through radiation, and is now trying to recover while managing the aftermath.

I am clear.

I am grateful.

I am still healing.

I am still tired.

I am still dealing with side effects.

I am still allowed to have boundaries.

And today, my boundary is this:

Please do not tell me what I should be doing unless I asked you.

Please do not compare my cancer journey to one that was completely different.

Please do not tell me everything happens for a reason.

Please do not reduce survival to positivity.

Please do not hand me a supplement suggestion like it is a secret cure my oncology team somehow forgot to mention.

And please, for the love of all things pink and caffeinated, do not make me smile and nod while you explain my own battle to me.

I know people mean well.

I do.

But meaning well and helping are not always the same thing.

If you want to support someone with cancer, start simple.

Ask what they need.

Listen to what they say.

Believe them when they tell you something is hard.

Respect their doctors.

Respect their choices.

Respect their boundaries.

Respect the fact that their journey may not look like anyone else’s.

And if you do not know what to say?

Say that.

“I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”

That sentence is better than 99% of unsolicited advice.

Because sometimes presence is the gift.

Sometimes silence is kinder than suggestions.

Sometimes sitting beside someone in the mess is more powerful than trying to clean it up with a broom you bought at Google University.

So here is today’s public service announcement from Tiny Tina’s Cancerland Headquarters:

Support is welcome.

Prayers are welcome.

Love is welcome.

Kindness is welcome.

Funny memes are welcome.

Flowers are welcome.

Unsolicited medical advice?

Proceed with caution.

Because I have been through hell.

I have researched the hell.

I have asked questions about the hell.

I am still recovering from the hell.

And while I may be small, bald-ish, one-boobed, neuropathy-footed, compression-sleeved, and currently powered by stubbornness and ginger ale, I am still very capable of saying:

No, thank you.

I’ve got doctors for that.

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Recliner Recovery and Sanitizing Wipes

🌼 Date: Friday, May 22, 2026

⚡ Energy: Conserving the tank

❤️‍🩹 Status: Chilling at home with puppy nurses and germ patrol supplies

🤨 Outlook: New normal is weird, but I’m learning the rules

Today was a pretty chill day at home.

Nothing exciting.

No big medical update.

No appointment.

No dramatic new symptom.

No giant hospital gown.

No bunny chase.

No fresh chapter of What Fresh Hell Is This, Breast Cancer Edition.

Just home.

The recliner.

The puppy nursing crew.

Potty trips.

A little dozing.

A little resting.

A lot of trying to conserve whatever energy my body decided to give me today.

And honestly, there is something to be said for a quiet day.

Not every day in recovery is going to be a breakthrough.

Sometimes recovery looks like staying in your recliner with tiny dogs on your lap and letting your body do whatever behind-the-scenes repair work it is trying to do.

Sometimes healing looks suspiciously like laziness.

But it is not laziness.

It is strategy.

Today’s strategy was simple:

Rest enough during the day so there would be enough left in the tank to go to dinner later.

Because these days, even dinner is an event.

Once upon a time, dinner out was just dinner out.

Now it is a whole little production.

Do I have enough energy?

Do I need a hoodie?

Do I have my mask?

Do I have my sanitizing wipes?

Is my body going to cooperate?

Will my feet behave?

Will I need to hold on to Casey?

How many people will be there?

Will I make it through without needing to come home and immediately turn into a medically dramatic pumpkin?

These are the questions now.

Very glamorous.

Very spontaneous.

Very “cancer recovery planner with built-in germ anxiety.”

The puppy potty trips are actually helpful, though.

I am grateful for them because they force me to get up and walk around outside.

Left to my own devices, I could absolutely become one with the recliner.

A tiny, bald-ish, one-boob, compression-accessorized recliner goblin.

But the dogs have needs.

They do not care about fatigue, neuropathy, lymphedema, low white blood cells, or whether Mommy has conserved enough energy for dinner.

They need to potty.

They need to sniff.

They need to investigate the yard.

They need to supervise the wildlife, especially now that Maizy has discovered the bun buns and apparently believes she is property security.

So I get up.

I go outside.

I walk around a little.

I breathe fresh air.

Then I come back inside and return to my recovery throne.

It is not exactly a fitness plan, but it counts.

At this point, I am taking credit for every movement that does not end with me lying on the floor wondering who approved gravity.

By later in the day, the goal was to have enough energy to go to dinner and meet with whoever might show up.

There is always someone.

That is part of the fun.

It keeps things exciting.

Of course, these days, even dinner with just Casey feels exciting because I do not get out of the house much unless it is for appointments.

That is one of the weirdest parts of this season.

Treatment is done.

Chemo is done.

Radiation is done.

I am clear.

And yet I still cannot just throw myself back into the world like everything is normal.

Because my body is still recovering.

My immune system is still rebuilding.

My white cell count is still dangerously low.

And every time I go out, I am putting myself at risk of catching whatever virus is currently trending in the general public.

Which, let’s be honest, is always something.

People are out there coughing, sneezing, touching everything, and saying, “It’s just allergies,” while the rest of us silently back away and reconsider humanity.

I always wear a mask going in and out of places.

But eating with a mask on is one task I have not mastered yet.

I know.

Shocking.

After everything I have learned during this journey — drains, expanders, radiation positioning, self-checks, lymphatic massage, compression sleeves, medical portal messaging, and how to identify the difference between normal weird and call-the-doctor weird — somehow masked eating remains beyond my skill set.

So when we go out to eat, I do what I can.

We stick to familiar places.

Places where we know the people who work there.

Places where we trust the cleaning procedures.

Places where I feel a little safer.

Not perfectly safe.

There is no perfectly safe right now.

But safer.

And that matters.

I am not trying to jinx myself, but so far I have managed to dodge the nasty germs floating around out there.

And I would very much like to keep that streak going.

Cancer may be clear, but my immune system is still walking around like a tired substitute teacher on the last day of school.

It needs help.

It needs backup.

It needs the public to stop being gross.

Since I cannot control the public, which is unfortunate because I do have notes, I control what I can.

I keep sanitizing wipes in my purse.

As soon as we sit down, I wipe the table.

I wipe the chair.

I wipe anything I am going to touch.

I am not saying I have become a full germ-control goblin.

But I am also not not saying that.

This is my life now.

Phone.

Wallet.

Lip balm.

Sanitizing wipes.

Mask.

Possibly snacks.

Probably emotional damage.

It is funny how your habits change after something like cancer.

Before, I probably noticed germs the normal amount.

Now I notice them like a detective.

Who touched that?

Was that wiped down?

Is that person coughing?

Why is that child sticky?

Why is anyone allowed to be sticky in public?

Did the server touch the menu and then the glass?

Should I wipe the salt shaker?

Is wiping the salt shaker too much?

No, it is not too much.

Give me the wipe.

This is not because I want to live in fear.

I do not.

I want to live.

That is the whole point.

I want to go to dinner.

I want to see people.

I want to laugh.

I want to feel normal.

I want to participate in the world again.

But I also want to make it home without bringing back a souvenir virus that my low white cell count cannot properly fight.

So this is the balance.

The new math.

The new normal.

Rest during the day.

Puppy nurses on my lap.

Potty trips for movement.

Doze when I need to.

Save enough energy for dinner.

Mask going in and out.

Wipes in the purse.

Familiar places.

Careful choices.

A little joy.

A little risk.

A lot of hand sanitizer.

It is weird.

But I am learning the rules.

Cancer recovery is full of new rules.

Some are medical.

Some are emotional.

Some are practical.

Some are just things you figure out as you go.

Like how many activities fit into one day before your body starts threatening legal action.

Or how long you can sit upright before the recliner calls your name.

Or which purse has enough room for sanitizing wipes without making you look like you are smuggling a cleaning cart into dinner.

Or how to enjoy going out while still protecting a body that has already been through enough.

Today was not exciting in the big dramatic sense.

But maybe it was exciting in the small way.

Because I rested.

I listened to my body.

I let the dogs force me outside.

I conserved energy.

And I still planned to go out into the world for a little slice of normal.

That is not nothing.

That is recovery.

Recovery is not always a giant milestone.

Sometimes it is a recliner day with puppy nurses and a dinner plan.

Sometimes it is choosing rest before joy so you actually have enough energy to enjoy the joy.

Sometimes it is wiping down a table and chair because your immune system is still under construction and people cannot be trusted.

Sometimes it is accepting that this new normal is weird, but it is still a version of normal.

And for now, I will take it.

With a mask.

With wipes.

With Casey.

With the puppy nursing crew waiting at home.

And hopefully with enough energy left in the tank to enjoy dinner like a semi-functional human being.

---

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

---

The “I’m Fine” Mask Slipped

🌼 Date: Thursday, May 21, 2026

⚡ Energy: Honest, swollen, and slightly annoyed

💔 Status: Physical therapy brought answers I was not exactly hoping for

😜 Outlook: New chapter unlocked: compression chic and lymphatic drainage

Today I had physical therapy.

And when she asked me how I was doing, I had one of those moments where the automatic answer almost came out before the truth had a chance to speak up.

You know the one.

“I’m doing good.”

That polite answer.

That easy answer.

That answer we give because it keeps things moving and doesn’t require opening the full suitcase of physical and emotional nonsense we’re dragging around.

But today, I didn’t say that.

Today I told her the truth.

I told her my neuropathy in my feet is getting worse.

I told her my fingers now have it too.

I told her I’ve been noticing that heavy feeling in my left arm more and more lately.

And by the end of the day, my fingers are swollen.

So, you know. Super fun. Very glamorous. Very What Fresh Hell Is This, Breast Cancer Edition.

The “I’m fine” mask slipped a little today.

And honestly, maybe it needed to.

Because I’m not trying to be dramatic, but I’m also not trying to be that person who smiles through everything while her body is quietly waving red flags from every direction.

The neuropathy has already been bad enough in my feet.

The numbness.

The tingling.

The burning.

The feeling like my feet are sending delayed, half-assed text messages to my brain about whether or not I’m actually standing on the floor.

At home, I can hold on to the wall or the counter.

When we go out, I hold on to Casey.

Because apparently I am now in my “husband as handrail” era.

Very sexy.

Very youthful.

Very “please don’t let me tip over in public.”

And now my fingers are joining the party too.

Which is rude.

Because feet are one thing, but hands?

Hands are how we do everything.

Button clothes.

Open containers.

Hold a cup.

Type.

Text.

Write.

Pet the dogs.

Do all the little normal things we take for granted until suddenly our fingers decide they, too, are going to start buffering.

Then there’s my left arm.

That heavy feeling has been creeping in more and more lately.

Not every second of every day, but enough that I notice it.

And enough that by the end of the day, my fingers are swollen and my arm just feels… off.

Heavy.

Full.

Like it’s carrying more than its fair share.

So after she measured and compared both arms and my fingers, she gave me the answer I was not hoping for.

The dreaded L word.

Lymphedema.

Yep.

The L word has been floating around since my first physical therapy appointment, and somehow I managed to dodge it for seven months.

Seven whole months.

I evaded it.

Outran it.

Side-eyed it.

Pretended maybe it would forget my address.

But apparently it finally found my hiding place.

And now here we are.

Officially.

Lymphedema has caught up with me.

For anyone who doesn’t know, lymphedema is swelling caused by a buildup of lymph fluid, usually because the lymph system has been damaged or disrupted. In my case, between surgery, lymph node removal, and radiation, this was always one of those “possible side effects” hanging around in the shadows waiting to see if it could ruin my day.

Turns out, yes.

Yes, it could.

The good news is that my physical therapist didn’t just drop the lymphedema bomb and send me on my merry swollen way.

She taught me how to do some gentle massage on my own arm, hand, and fingers to help move the fluid and keep it from continuing to pool up.

So now I have one more weird skill in my ever-growing collection of Things Tina Never Wanted to Learn But Here We Are.

I should also be getting a referral letter sometime next week so I can get fitted for custom compression arm sleeves, gauntlets, and gloves.

Because apparently this is my life now.

Compression couture.

Medical accessories.

Lymphedema chic.

I did leave my appointment with a temporary sleeve and gauntlet, which at least gives me something to wear right now, but they only came in standard sizes.

So we had to go with the best fit available, not the perfect fit.

And after everything my body has done in the last seven months, I would really like the custom ones to fit like they were made by tiny angels with a tape measure.

Hopefully those will be much better.

The frustrating thing is that this is just one more reminder that treatment may be over, but recovery is still very much alive and kicking.

Chemo is done.

Radiation is done.

The surgeon says I’m clear.

And still, my body keeps finding new ways to remind me that we are not exactly back to normal.

Now I’ve got neuropathy in my feet.

Neuropathy in my fingers.

A heavy left arm.

Swollen fingers.

And lymphedema officially joining the cast.

Cool cool cool.

Love this for me.

The old version of me would have wanted to downplay it.

To minimize it.

To say, “It’s probably nothing.”

To explain it away.

To smile and say I’m fine.

But I’m trying very hard not to be that Tina anymore.

The last thing I need is to keep ignoring symptoms just because they are inconvenient or emotionally annoying.

So today I told the truth.

And telling the truth got me answers.

Not the answers I wanted, exactly, but answers.

And answers mean action.

Action means treatment.

Treatment means maybe keeping this from getting worse.

So while I am not thrilled to add lymphedema to my growing list of post-cancer souvenirs, I am glad I said something.

I am glad she measured me.

I am glad I know what we are dealing with.

And I am glad there are things I can do to help manage it.

Because that is the thing about this whole journey.

Half the battle is just learning what the hell is happening in your own body.

The other half is figuring out how to live with it without completely losing your sense of humor.

So today’s lesson is this:

Sometimes the “I’m fine” mask has to come off.

Sometimes you have to say the uncomfortable thing out loud.

Sometimes the thing you have been hoping to avoid finally catches up with you.

And sometimes you leave physical therapy wearing a compression sleeve and gauntlet, trying to convince yourself that you are not one dramatic accessory away from becoming a very niche Marvel character.

Still, I’ll take answers over uncertainty.

I’ll take a plan over guessing.

And I’ll take temporary compression gear over pretending this isn’t happening.

So here we are.

Neuropathy.

Lymphedema.

Self-massage instructions.

Custom sleeves coming soon.

And Tina, once again, learning how to adapt to a body that just keeps rewriting the rules.

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Welcome Back, Methotrexate, You Rude Little Miracle

🌼 Date: Wednesday, May 20, 2026

⚡ Energy: Horizontal with an ice pack

❤️‍🔥 Status: Methotrexate is back, and so are the side effects

😴 Outlook: Sleeping this one off and hoping tomorrow comes with fewer regrets

Welcome back, Methotrexate.

And apparently, welcome back to the full-fledged nausea and headaches that I had somehow forgotten came with you.

Isn’t memory adorable?

There I was, so excited to restart the medication that has helped manage my psoriatic arthritis for the last 25-ish years, that I conveniently forgot about the part where my body sometimes reacts like I swallowed a tiny toxic goblin with a hammer.

To be fair, the last several months have been a little busy.

Surgery.

Chemo.

Granix shots.

Radiation.

Skin reactions.

Neuropathy.

Swelling.

Tightness.

The Greased Pig Phase.

The Shrinky Dink Phase.

The Giant Medical Coachella Gown.

So forgive me if I accidentally filed “Methotrexate makes me nauseous and gives me headaches” under “general cancer treatment bullshit.”

Because honestly, at this point, the side effects have all started sharing office space.

But believe it or not, this nausea and this headache hit different.

This is not chemo nausea.

This is not radiation yuck.

This is not “maybe ginger ale and crackers will gently talk my stomach down from the ledge” nausea.

Nope.

This is Methotrexate nausea.

The kind where ginger ale is not your friend.

The kind where you look at your trusty emotional support beverage and think, How dare you fail me in my hour of need?

The betrayal.

After everything ginger ale and I have been through together.

I thought we were bonded for life.

Apparently even ginger ale has limits.

And the headache?

Also rude.

This is the kind of headache where an ice pack on top of your head is not optional.

It is standard operating procedure.

There is no negotiating.

There is no “maybe I’ll just sit quietly for a bit.”

No.

You get the ice pack.

You climb into bed.

You assume the full recovery position.

And you hope your brain stops trying to escape through your forehead.

By mid-morning, I was climbing back into bed with my puppy nurses next to me.

Because obviously, if Mommy is sick, the tiny medical staff must report for duty.

I had supervision.

Furry supervision.

Judgmental supervision.

Very cute, very serious, very “we don’t know what Methotrexate is, but we know Mommy is not acting right” supervision.

And honestly, they were correct.

I was not acting right.

I was acting like a woman who had just remembered that getting one medication back does not mean getting comfort back immediately.

How rude.

I knew restarting Methotrexate was not going to be magic.

I knew it was not going to stroll back into my system wearing a cape and instantly fix 25 years of psoriatic arthritis, months of inflammation, chemo aftermath, joint pain, and the snap-crackle-pop soundtrack that now plays every time I stand up.

I knew it would take time.

I knew my body might need to adjust.

But apparently I forgot the first adjustment phase might involve nausea, headache, and me crawling back to bed like a Victorian woman overcome by bad news.

The funny thing is, I still want to be glad I can take it again.

And I am.

I really am.

I am grateful to have this tool back.

I am grateful my radiation reaction cleared enough for my doctors to say yes.

I am grateful there is something that might eventually bring some relief to the psoriatic arthritis side of this mess.

But today?

Today gratitude is wearing an ice pack.

Today gratitude is lying down.

Today gratitude is located closer to the bathroom for strategic reasons.

Because sometimes healing is not graceful.

Sometimes progress feels like crap.

Sometimes the thing that helps you also makes you want to remove your own head and put it in the freezer for a while.

And sometimes getting back on a medication you need comes with a very loud reminder that your body is still a sensitive little drama queen.

This is the weird part of recovery.

You get good news, and then the good news comes with instructions, side effects, waiting periods, and a tiny asterisk that says, May cause additional suffering before improvement begins.

Cool.

Love that.

Very thoughtful.

Cancer recovery really is the gift bag that never stops rustling.

But I am trying to keep the bigger picture in mind.

Yesterday, Methotrexate was back on the menu.

Today, my body is complaining about the restaurant.

Hopefully this is temporary.

Hopefully my system remembers the routine and stops acting brand new.

Hopefully this nausea calms down.

Hopefully the headache backs off.

Hopefully tomorrow feels better.

For today, though, the plan is simple.

Bed.

Ice pack.

Puppy nurses.

Bathroom nearby.

No unnecessary movement.

No pretending I feel fine.

No pushing through just to prove something to absolutely nobody.

Just rest.

Because sometimes being an obedient patient means sending updated skin pictures to the doctor.

Sometimes it means taking the medication.

And sometimes it means admitting the medication kicked your ass and climbing back into bed before your body files a formal complaint.

So yes, welcome back, Methotrexate.

I missed what you do for me.

I did not miss what you do to me.

But if this is the price of getting a little relief from psoriatic arthritis after months of being off the one drug that helped, then I guess I will pay it.

With nausea.

With an ice pack.

With puppy supervision.

And with the kind of dramatic sighing that makes recovery feel more official.

Today is a yuck day.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

And if not, I will be right here, horizontal, chilled at the skull, supervised by tiny nurses, and still somehow moving forward.

One nauseous little step at a time.

---

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

---

Methotrexate Is Back on the Menu

🌼 Date: Tuesday, May 19, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cautiously hopeful with a side of snap, crackle, pop

❤️‍🩹 Status: Cleared to restart the miracle drug

😇 Outlook: Praying for relief, because this body is loud

Today I got two emails I have been waiting for.

One from my radiation oncologist.

One from my rheumatologist.

And both of them basically said the same beautiful thing:

My skin has been cleared from its “radiation reaction,” and I can start taking Methotrexate again.

Cue the tiny celebration.

Not a full parade.

My joints are not ready for choreography.

But maybe a little seated jazz hands.

I had to stop taking Methotrexate the week before I started chemotherapy back in December, and let me tell you, my body noticed.

Methotrexate has been one of my long-term medications for psoriatic arthritis, and I have been on it, in one form or another, for at least 25 years.

So when they took it away, my body was like, Excuse me? Who approved this?

Now, before anyone hears the word “arthritis” and thinks, “Oh, sore joints, I get that,” let me explain.

This is not your ordinary arthritis.

This is not “my knee hurts when it rains” arthritis.

This is not “I slept weird and now my hand is cranky” arthritis.

Psoriatic arthritis, or PsA, is a chronic inflammatory disease that happens in some people who have psoriasis. It is autoimmune, which means the body’s defense system gets confused and starts attacking healthy joints and skin like it is defending the kingdom from invaders.

Very dramatic.

Very rude.

Very on-brand for my body.

PsA can cause pain and inflammation where tendons and ligaments attach to bone, like the Achilles heel or the bottom of the foot. It can cause stiff, swollen, throbbing joints, especially in the fingers and toes. It can affect the lower back and neck. It can come with red, scaly, itchy skin patches. It can mess with fingernails and toenails, making them thick, pitted, or just generally rude.

And then there is the fun little symptom where an entire finger or toe swells up like a sausage.

When I was diagnosed, it was all five toes on my left foot.

Not one toe.

Not a cute little “hmm, that looks swollen” situation.

All five.

My left foot looked like it had been inflated for a parade.

So yes.

Psoriatic arthritis and I go way back.

Unfortunately.

When I was first diagnosed, I started on Methotrexate. Over the years, I have also tried several biologics that are used for both psoriasis and arthritis. Those were weekly shots I had to give myself.

Because apparently my life needed more needles.

I did that for a while, but now I take a pill, and I like that much better.

A pill feels a little less like I am running a tiny medical clinic from my kitchen.

Methotrexate is interesting because its classification depends heavily on how it is being used and the dose someone is taking.

When Methotrexate is used for cancer, it acts as an antimetabolite chemotherapy drug. At higher doses, it works by interfering with how cells use folate, which can stop rapidly dividing cancer cells from making DNA and multiplying.

So yes, technically, Methotrexate can be a chemo drug.

But when it is used in much smaller doses for conditions like rheumatoid arthritis, psoriasis, psoriatic arthritis, or Crohn’s disease, it is used differently.

At those lower doses, it acts more like an immunosuppressant or a DMARD, which stands for Disease-Modifying Anti-Rheumatic Drug.

Fancy name.

Big job.

In that smaller-dose world, the goal is not to kill rapidly dividing cancer cells. The goal is to calm down the immune system and reduce inflammation.

Basically, it tells my immune system to stop acting like a drunk security guard tackling innocent people at a wedding.

And for me, it has been one of the few things that gave my body even a little bit of relief.

So now I want you to paint this picture in your mind.

Take Tina, who has lived with psoriatic arthritis for decades.

Take away the medication that helps keep some of that inflammation under control.

Do that cold turkey.

Then start chemotherapy.

Then add Granix shots every day for a week after each infusion to help boost white blood cells.

Then add the severe bone pain those shots can cause.

Then layer that on top of the joint pain I already live with.

Then sprinkle in chemo fatigue, nausea, baldness, surgery recovery, radiation, neuropathy, skin reactions, and my general commitment to being medically ridiculous.

Not a pretty picture.

More like a Picasso painted during a flare-up.

The Granix bone pain was no joke.

It felt like my bones were being remodeled from the inside by a crew with no permit and zero concern for customer satisfaction.

And while that was happening, my psoriatic arthritis was over in the corner, unsupervised, saying, Oh, Methotrexate is gone? Wonderful. I live here now.

It has been a lot.

And I know I say that a lot, but honestly, “a lot” is doing some Olympic-level lifting on this journey.

Cancer treatment did not happen in a vacuum.

It did not pause all my other health issues politely and say, “You deal with breast cancer first, and we’ll circle back later.”

Nope.

Psoriatic arthritis stayed.

Joint pain stayed.

Inflammation stayed.

The old body problems did not pack a bag and leave just because cancer showed up with a clipboard and a treatment plan.

They all moved in together like terrible roommates.

And now I am learning that some of the lasting side effects from chemo can include sore joints, stiffness, and that lovely snap, crackle, pop sound every time I stand up.

So that is exciting.

Apparently my future may include me sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies with medical debt.

I am not exactly looking forward to that part.

I already had joint pain.

I already had stiffness.

I already had days where my body felt like it was assembled incorrectly by someone who lost the instructions.

I did not need chemo to add a bonus track.

But here we are.

Clear of cancer, but still very much dealing with the aftermath.

That is the part people do not always understand.

Being clear is amazing.

It is huge.

It is everything.

But it does not mean my body instantly returns to factory settings.

There is no magical reset button.

No little tech support person appears and says, “Congratulations, Tina. We have removed the cancer and restored all previous mobility, hair, energy, immune function, nerve sensation, and emotional stability.”

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Instead, it is more like:

Cancer is clear.

Radiation reaction is improving.

Neuropathy is still being a jerk.

Your chest feels shrink-wrapped.

Your feet are numb.

Your immune system is rebuilding.

Your joints are angry.

And now we can finally restart the medication you had to stop months ago.

Progress?

Yes.

Simple?

Absolutely not.

But today’s news is still good news.

Really good news.

Because starting Methotrexate again feels like getting one of my tools back.

Not a magic wand.

Not a cure-all.

Not an instant fix.

But a tool.

And after months of feeling like my body has been fighting a war with one hand tied behind its back, I will take every tool I can get.

I am hopeful it will bring some relief.

Maybe not overnight.

Maybe not dramatically.

Maybe not enough for me to leap out of a chair like a spring chicken, which is rude because I have always wanted to be a spring chicken at least once.

But maybe it will help quiet some of the inflammation.

Maybe it will help my joints calm down.

Maybe it will help me feel a little more like I am living in a body instead of a haunted house with bad plumbing and angry hinges.

And right now, a little relief would be a big deal.

Because this body is tired.

This body has been cut open, rebuilt with temporary bags, poisoned, radiated, burned, peeled, swollen, stretched, numbed, tingled, and forced into more hospital gowns than anyone should ever have to experience.

This body has earned a break.

Or at least a medication that tells the immune system to sit down and use its inside voice.

So yes, I am celebrating this one.

My skin is cleared enough.

The radiation reaction has calmed down enough.

The doctors have agreed.

And Methotrexate is back on the menu.

That may not sound exciting to everyone, but to me?

It is hope in pill form.

It is a step toward getting some control back.

It is a tiny little light at the end of a very swollen, stiff, snap-crackle-popping tunnel.

And if it helps even a little, I will be grateful.

Annoyed that I needed it?

Sure.

Tired of needing medications at all?

Absolutely.

Still going to take it?

Yes, ma’am.

Because I have places to go, things to do, a body to drag back into working order, and a life I am trying very hard to rebuild.

So pray for me.

Pray for the joints.

Pray for the toes.

Pray for the feet that already have neuropathy and really do not need psoriatic arthritis adding backup vocals.

Pray for the hands.

Pray for the snap, crackle, pop situation.

And pray that Methotrexate comes back into my system like a tiny bouncer and tells inflammation:

You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Miss Maizy and the Bun Bun Olympics

🌼 Date: Monday, May 18, 2026

⚡ Energy: Laughing until my sides hurt

💓 Status: Witness to the cutest wildlife chase in recent history

🤠 Outlook: The bunnies have been warned — Miss Maizy is new in town

Today I was a witness to the cutest thing ever.

Miss Maizy discovered bunnies.

And before any of you go all “save the animals” on me, let me explain.

We live on a couple of acres, and we have all kinds of wildlife that either lives here, wanders through here, or just decides to use our property like a tiny forest Airbnb.

We have deer.

Bunnies.

Moles.

Quail.

Owls.

Bald eagles.

And whatever else decides to travel through or stay awhile.

Basically, if it has feathers, fur, tiny feet, or questionable decision-making skills, it has probably crossed our property at some point.

We do not spray anything out here for that exact reason.

So yes, everything is overgrown.

And I love it.

I have never had a green thumb, and I am okay with that.

Some people might look at our yard and think, Ewww, y’all need to spend some time outside pulling weeds. Maybe throw down a little bark dust. Plant a few flowers. Pretend civilization has reached this property.

And sure.

They are not wrong.

A little landscaping probably would not hurt.

But here’s the thing: the animals eat everything that grows here.

The weeds.

The grass.

The flowers.

Any poor innocent plant we have tried to put in the ground over the years.

The wildlife looks at our yard and says, Thank you for the salad bar.

And honestly?

I would rather watch the animals than look at flowers anyway.

Flowers are pretty.

Bunnies are hilarious.

No contest.

This morning, I took Maizy and Gidget outside to go potty, and sitting next to the car was a young bunny.

Now, the wild bunnies around here think they are pretty smart.

Normally when they see us pull into the driveway, they freeze like little statues.

They must think we cannot see them as long as they do not move.

Very stealthy.

Very serious.

Very “I am invisible because I believe I am invisible.”

When I get out of the car and see them sitting there frozen, I always holler:

“I can see you, bun buns!”

Because I can.

Obviously.

Their statue game is not as strong as they think it is.

Usually, once we open the front door, they know the puppies are coming out, and they hop off as fast as their little bunny legs can carry them.

They understand the assignment.

Door opens.

Dogs appear.

Bunnies exit.

Simple.

But not today.

Today, this little bunny decided to play the still-as-a-statue game.

And I could tell immediately that he was a novice.

A rookie.

A bun bun in training.

Still learning the safety protocols of our driveway.

Maizy noticed him right away.

And when I say noticed, I mean her whole tiny body locked onto that bunny like she had just discovered her life’s purpose.

This was not just a potty trip anymore.

This was a mission.

She got within about two feet of him before he finally realized that being a statue was not working in his favor.

At all.

The bunny turned tail and took off toward the neighbor’s fence.

And Miss Maizy?

Miss five-pound, four-inch-leg, lap-warming, mommy-supervising Maizy?

She launched.

What neither the bunny nor I knew was just how fast this little furball could run.

I swear, her tiny legs turned into a blur.

One second she was my sweet little recovery nurse.

The next second she was an Olympic sprinter with a full predator soundtrack playing in her head.

It was the funniest thing I have witnessed in a long time.

I laughed so hard my sides were aching and my cheeks hurt by the time I was done.

And listen, after everything my body has been through, laughing until my sides hurt feels like a medical event.

A good one.

No portal message required.

Luckily for the bunny, he made it through the fence just in time.

Barely.

Because Miss Maizy was hot on his tiny cotton-tailed heels.

Once he escaped through the fence, Maizy paced back and forth along the fence line for a couple of minutes like she was filing an official complaint.

Excuse me. The suspect has fled the scene. I require access.

Then she ran back up to the car where the whole chase had started.

And let me tell you, this little girl has a good sniffer on her.

She kept her nose to the ground and ran back and forth between the car and the fence three or four times, following that bunny trail like a seasoned detective.

Never lost it.

Not once.

Miss Maizy said, I may be tiny, but I am thorough.

Meanwhile, Gidget was off in la-la land doing her own thing.

Completely unbothered.

No urgency.

No concern.

No interest in joining the Bun Bun Olympics.

In fairness, Gidget grew up on this property.

She has seen the bunnies.

She knows the bunnies.

The bunnies do not excite her that much anymore.

She has entered her seasoned-property-dog era.

Very “been there, sniffed that.”

Maizy, on the other hand, is new in town.

And the bunnies need to understand that.

This current batch of young bunnies needs some schooling.

They really need to up their statue game.

Because the old rules may have worked with Gidget, but Miss Maizy did not receive that memo.

Miss Maizy is not impressed by stillness.

Miss Maizy is not fooled by your “I am a rock” routine.

Miss Maizy has four-inch legs, a suspiciously powerful engine, and a nose that apparently belongs in law enforcement.

So consider this your warning, bun buns.

There is a new sheriff on the property.

She weighs five pounds.

She naps on Mommy’s lap.

She helps supervise cancer recovery.

And she will absolutely chase your fluffy little butt to the fence if you underestimate her.

The best part of the whole thing was how normal it felt.

Not normal in the boring way.

Normal in the beautiful way.

A morning outside.

The dogs going potty.

A bunny by the car.

Me yelling, “I can see you, bun buns!”

Maizy discovering her inner wild kingdom warrior.

Gidget ignoring the drama like an old pro.

And me laughing so hard I forgot, for a minute, about the neuropathy, the tight chest, the swelling, the radiation skin, the medical messages, the waiting, and all the other pieces of recovery that have been taking up space in my brain.

For a minute, it was just funny.

Just sweet.

Just life.

Real life.

The kind of tiny ordinary moment that sneaks in and reminds you that joy does not always arrive with a big announcement.

Sometimes it shows up as a baby bunny with terrible survival instincts and a five-pound dog who suddenly discovers she has a need for speed.

And honestly?

I needed that.

After months of heavy things, scary things, painful things, and medically complicated things, watching Maizy chase a bunny across the yard felt like pure sunshine.

A ridiculous little gift.

A reminder that laughter still lives here.

That normal moments still happen.

That the world is still doing its weird, sweet, messy little thing while I am healing.

And that Miss Maizy should probably be promoted from tiny nurse to tiny security officer.

She has range.

So today was not a big medical update.

It was not a dramatic cancer milestone.

It was not a new symptom or a doctor visit or another episode of What Fresh Hell Is This, Breast Cancer Edition.

It was better.

It was Maizy versus the bun bun.

And for once, the only thing hurting was my cheeks from laughing.

I will take that kind of pain any day.

---

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

---

The Hot Coal Foot Club

🌼 Date: Sunday, May 17, 2026

⚡ Energy: Pins, needles, hot coals, and a little bit of rage

❤️‍🩹 Status: Neuropathy has entered the chat and turned up the volume

🧐 Outlook: Looking for Plan B, because Gabapentin and Tina are not friends

Today, the neuropathy in my feet and hands decided to ramp itself up a notch.

Because apparently my body looked around at all the healing, recovering, peeling, swelling, tightening, and general post-cancer nonsense and thought, You know what this needs? More nerve drama.

Enter: chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy.

Or CIPN, because cancer treatment loves an acronym.

Chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy is nerve damage caused by certain cancer treatments. It can cause numbness, tingling, burning, pain, weakness, sensitivity to touch or temperature, balance issues, coordination problems, and trouble doing everyday tasks like walking, buttoning clothes, or picking things up.

Thank you, Google.

Very informative.

Very rude.

Certain chemo medications are known for being more likely to cause neuropathy, and one of them — Docetaxel — was part of my chemo cocktail.

So once again, the gift bag from Cancerland keeps on giving.

And this is where the “it’s not so fun to be Tina” portion of the program enters the picture.

Now, before I go any further, let me say this clearly:

Everybody’s journey is different.

Not every person with breast cancer gets the same chemo cocktail.

Not every person has the same side effects.

Not every person gets neuropathy.

Not every person experiences it the same way.

Some people get mild tingling.

Some people get pain.

Some people get numbness.

Some people get weakness.

Some people get lucky and do not get invited to this particular bullshit party at all.

I, apparently, received an invitation.

With glitter.

The neuropathy started for me about two or three months ago.

At first, it was mostly in my feet.

Just tingling toes.

Aching fingertips.

Annoying, but manageable.

The kind of thing where you think, Okay, this is weird, but maybe it will pass.

Then the ball of my left foot went numb.

All the time.

Not sometimes.

Not after walking too much.

Not only at night.

Just numb.

Like my foot had quietly resigned from full sensation without giving proper notice.

And now?

Now about 80% of the time, both of my feet are numb from my toes to my arches.

Which makes walking feel unstable.

Not dramatic, falling-down-the-stairs unstable.

More like my feet are sending delayed, blurry text messages to my brain.

Brain: “Are we standing on the floor?”
Feet: “Maybe.”
Brain: “Are we balanced?”
Feet: “Define balanced.”
Brain: “Are we safe?”
Feet: “LOL.”

When I am at home, it is not quite as big of a deal.

I can hold on to the wall.

I can grab the counter.

I can shuffle around like a tiny haunted grandma and pretend this is all part of my charm.

But when we go out, I hold on to Casey.

Because apparently we have reached the stage of recovery where I need a husband, a hoodie, a mask, and a handrail.

Very sexy.

Very youthful.

Very “please don’t let me eat pavement in public.”

And then there are the nighttime episodes.

Because why should neuropathy respect business hours?

Sometimes in the middle of the night, my feet start burning like I am walking on hot coals.

Which is extra fun because I am not walking.

I am lying down.

Trying to sleep.

Minding my own business.

And my feet are like, What if we pretended the floor was lava, but internally?

Beautiful.

Love that for us.

I have tried lotions and creams that are supposed to help with neuropathy.

I have tried recommended supplements.

I have tried being patient.

I have tried ignoring it.

I have tried bargaining with my nervous system like it is a toddler in the cereal aisle.

So far?

Nothing has really helped.

And I know the first thing my oncologist may want to prescribe is Gabapentin.

Which is why I already told her I have been on it before, and I do not want to be on it again.

I will politely ask for Plan B.

Or Plan C.

Or Plan “please do not turn me into a dizzy zombie who also feels like pudding.”

Gabapentin and Tina are not friends.

Now again, this is just my experience.

Some people take Gabapentin and it helps them.

Some people tolerate it beautifully.

Some people swear by it.

So do not hear me saying nobody should take it.

Medication is personal.

Bodies are weird.

Side effects vary.

Talk to your doctor.

Don’t take medical advice from a bald-ish woman on the internet whose feet are currently filing a complaint with management.

But for me?

Gabapentin was a no.

A hard no.

A no with a security escort.

When I took it before, the side effects far outweighed any positives it had to offer.

It made me dizzy.

Tired.

Zombie-like.

Jittery and jello-like at the same time, which feels like something that should not be physically possible and yet there I was, experiencing it like a science experiment nobody approved.

Have you ever felt like you were having an out-of-body experience?

Like you are hovering slightly above yourself, watching yourself try to function, and thinking, Wow. She is not okay.

That was me on Gabapentin.

Present, but not really.

Awake, but not useful.

Moving, but not trustworthy.

Like my body and brain were on two different Wi-Fi networks and neither one had a strong signal.

That is how Gabapentin made me feel, and I do not want to feel like that again.

But the neuropathy itself is also making something else make a lot more sense now.

I understand why I have not been cleared to go back to work yet.

I understand why I have not been cleared to drive my own car.

Because, as it turns out, being able to feel the pedal under your foot is kind of important.

Who knew?

Apparently, the Department of Motor Vehicles frowns upon operating a vehicle when your feet are sending your brain vague Morse code from somewhere near the floorboards.

And honestly, they are not wrong.

Driving requires trust.

You have to trust your foot to know where the gas pedal is.

You have to trust your foot to know where the brake pedal is.

You have to trust your body to respond quickly and correctly.

Right now, my feet are not giving “trustworthy.”

They are giving “buffering.”

They are giving “maybe we’re touching something, maybe we’re not.”

They are giving “good luck, girl.”

So as frustrating as it is, I get it.

I hate it.

But I get it.

Because the last thing I need after surviving cancer treatment is to accidentally launch myself through a Starbucks drive-thru because my numb little chemo feet could not properly identify the brake.

I miss my independence.

I miss driving.

I miss being able to just get in my car and go somewhere without needing another human, a plan, or a full risk assessment.

But safety matters.

And right now, my feet are not exactly making a strong case for freedom.

So here we are.

Clear of cancer, but not cleared to drive.

Cancerland really does love a plot twist.

The frustrating thing about neuropathy is that it is invisible.

If you look at my feet, they look like feet.

Tiny, possibly adorable feet, depending on your personal opinion.

But from the outside, you cannot see that they feel numb.

You cannot see the burning.

You cannot see the weird buzzing.

You cannot see the instability.

You cannot see that walking sometimes feels like I am stepping on someone else’s feet and hoping they know where we are going.

You cannot see the calculation happening in my head when I stand up.

Where is the wall?

Where is Casey?

Is the floor uneven?

How far do I have to walk?

Can I make it without looking like a newborn deer on roller skates?

And the hands are starting to join in too.

Because why should the feet have all the fun?

The fingertips ache.

They tingle.

They feel off.

And I know enough to worry about where that could go.

Buttoning clothes.

Opening jars.

Holding small things.

Typing.

Writing.

Doing all the little daily tasks we take for granted until the nerves in our hands start acting like they are buffering.

Neuropathy is not just uncomfortable.

It is inconvenient.

It is unsettling.

It is one more way cancer treatment follows you home after the big treatment days are supposedly over.

That is the part people do not always understand.

When chemo ends, the side effects do not all line up politely and leave the building.

Some of them linger.

Some of them show up late.

Some of them get worse before they get better.

Some of them knock on the door months later like, Hey girl, did you miss me?

No.

No, I did not.

Please leave.

But here we are.

Trying to figure it out.

Trying to manage it.

Trying to keep walking.

Trying to keep using my hands.

Trying to stay safe.

Trying not to spiral into the terrifying Google results that live three clicks past “common symptoms.”

Because Google is helpful until it isn’t.

Google will tell you what something is.

Then Google will put on a cape, turn off the lights, and lead you straight into Anxiety Land.

So I am trying to stay in the practical zone.

I emailed oncology.

I explained what is happening.

I told them I have been on Gabapentin before and do not want to be on it again.

I asked what my options are.

And now I wait.

Again.

Because apparently waiting is the unofficial mascot of cancer recovery.

Waiting for replies.

Waiting for healing.

Waiting for skin to calm down.

Waiting for hair to grow.

Waiting for swelling to go down.

Waiting for nerves to behave.

Waiting for my body to stop acting like a haunted house with medical billing.

I know there may be other options.

Medication.

Physical therapy.

Acupuncture.

Maybe labs to check if anything else is contributing.

Maybe things I have not thought of yet.

Maybe something that helps.

Maybe something that doesn’t.

Maybe more waiting.

But I am trying to stay hopeful.

Even if I am also annoyed.

Those two things are basically roommates now.

Hope and annoyance.

They live together in my chest, right next to the tightness, swelling, and whatever the expander bags are doing today.

The truth is, neuropathy scares me.

Not in a panic way.

More in a quiet, deeply irritating way.

Because I want my life back.

I want to walk without thinking about it.

I want to sleep without my feet pretending to be on fire.

I want to use my hands without wondering if this is going to get worse.

I want one part of my body to just do its job without requiring a meeting, a medical message, or a support plan.

But I also know this:

I have made it through every other awful thing this journey has thrown at me.

Surgery.

Chemo.

Radiation.

Lotion betrayal.

Antibiotic betrayal.

The Greased Pig Phase.

The Shrinky Dink Phase.

The Giant Gown of Coachella.

The bag checks.

The staring strangers.

The waiting.

The fear.

The “you’re clear” joy with the tiny anxious asterisk.

So now I will deal with this too.

I will ask the questions.

I will push for options.

I will protect my boundaries.

I will hold on to Casey when I need to, and apparently I will keep letting him be my chauffeur until my feet remember how pedals work.

I will use the wall, the counter, the furniture, the husband, the dogs, the universe, and sheer stubbornness to keep myself upright.

And I will keep telling the truth about what recovery actually looks like.

Because being “clear” is beautiful.

It is powerful.

It is the best news.

But being clear does not mean every side effect packed its bags and left.

Some of them are still here, dragging their feet.

Literally.

So today’s update is this:

The cancer may be clear, but the nerves are still pissed.

My feet are numb.

My hands are tingling.

Gabapentin is not invited.

And I am still here, walking carefully through this next weird chapter.

One hot-coal footstep at a time.

---

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

---

Staring Is Not a Medical Exam

🌼 Date: Saturday, May 16, 2026

⚡ Energy: Normal human outing with celebrity-level side-eye

💕 Status: Out in public, hoodie on, dignity mostly intact

😎 Outlook: If you’re going to stare, at least ask for a selfie

Today we did something wild.

Something daring.

Something I have not done much of in the last seven months.

We acted like normal human beings.

I know.

Bold.

We met some friends for breakfast, then went shopping for a wedding gift.

That’s it.

No appointment.

No doctor.

No portal message.

No medical gown.

No radiation table.

No weird new symptom that required me to send pictures of my skin to someone with a medical degree.

Just breakfast.

Friends.

Shopping.

Normal life.

And let me tell you, after seven months of cancer taking up every square inch of my calendar, my body, my brain, my patience, and my ability to enjoy a day without wondering what fresh nonsense was coming next, acting like a normal person felt like a breath of fresh air.

Not a perfect breath.

My chest is still tight enough to make breathing feel like a group project no one prepared for.

But still.

Fresh air.

For a little while, I was not just a patient.

I was not just Cancer Tina.

I was not just a woman recovering from surgery, chemo, radiation, skin reactions, swelling, fatigue, nausea, and the full deluxe package of medical betrayal.

I was a woman having breakfast with friends and shopping for a wedding gift.

Look at me.

Out here participating in society like I have a membership card.

But of course, because the universe cannot simply let me live, there were still the looks.

The stares.

The little double takes.

The “I’m trying not to look, but I’m absolutely looking” faces.

And honestly?

I do not understand people.

I really don’t.

I mean, listen.

It has been a struggle being this damn sexy for so long.

I have suffered my entire life being drop-dead gorgeous.

The burden is heavy.

Pray for me.

But come on already.

I am pretty sure I am not the first person these people have ever seen who does not fit whatever little mold of “normal” they have built in their heads.

And at this point, I can’t even say I’m bald anymore.

I have hair.

Actual hair.

Peach fuzz has turned into real growth.

In fact, I just cut Casey’s hair, and mine is now longer than his.

Milestone achieved.

Everybody please hold your applause until the end.

Okay, fine, clap now.

Because honestly, after watching my hair disappear, feeling every stage of shiny bald, fuzzy bald, weird bald, and “is this hair or static?” bald, having my hair be longer than Casey’s feels like a tiny victory parade on my head.

Still short.

Still cancer-adjacent looking to the general public, apparently.

But growing.

Fast.

And yet, even though my hair is coming back, and I was not wearing anything pink, and nothing about my outfit screamed HELLO, I HAVE BEEN THROUGH CANCER TREATMENT, PLEASE STARE DIRECTLY AT ME, people still stared.

I was just existing.

In public.

Rude of me, apparently.

When I go out, I still wear a hoodie for two reasons.

First, I am freezing cold most of the time.

Chemo broke my internal thermostat, and now my body seems to think every building is located inside a meat locker.

Second, the hoodie makes it harder to tell that I am currently a uni-boober.

Not impossible.

Just less obvious.

And right now, that feels easier.

Not because I am ashamed.

I am not ashamed of my body.

This body has been through hell and still gets me to breakfast, Target, and the couch. She is doing her best.

But sometimes I do not want my chest to be the first thing people notice.

Sometimes I do not want to watch their eyes do the confused little math.

Sometimes I do not want to wonder if they are trying to figure out whether something is missing, uneven, hidden, or contagious.

Spoiler alert: one boob is missing, the hoodie is intentional, and cancer is not airborne.

You’re welcome.

I also wear a mask in public because I still do not trust people to keep their asses home when they are sick.

Sorry, but I said what I said.

My immune system will probably be the last thing to heal itself, and after everything I have been through, I am not interested in catching someone’s “it’s just allergies” cough because they needed to browse throw pillows while actively brewing the plague.

No thank you.

I will be over here in my mask, protecting my fragile little immune system and minding my business.

Which is apparently a skill not everyone has mastered.

And here’s the thing: lots of people still wear masks.

So I do not think the mask alone is why people stare.

It is the whole package, I guess.

The short hair.

The hoodie.

The mask.

The one-boob energy.

The general aura of “this woman has been through something, but we are too awkward to know what to do with that information.”

And I get it.

Humans are curious.

Humans notice differences.

Humans sometimes look before their manners catch up.

But sweet baby tacos, enough with the staring already.

If you have a question, ask.

I am a very open person.

Clearly.

I mean, I have put my entire cancer journey and most of my life on this blog.

I have written about my mastectomy, my expanders, my bald head, my radiation skin, my nausea, my boob decisions, my weird swelling, my giant medical Coachella gown, and the fact that my husband has become part-time nurse, photographer, and emotional support witness.

I am not exactly a locked diary.

If someone came up kindly and said, “Can I ask you something?” I would probably answer.

Depending on the question.

And depending on whether they approached me like a human being or like a raccoon who just found a flashlight.

But staring?

Staring is not a question.

Staring is just awkward with eyeballs.

And I am tired of being someone else’s silent curiosity project.

Ask me.

Or don’t.

But please stop trying to solve the mystery of me from across the breakfast place like you are in a true crime documentary called The Woman in the Hoodie.

Unless, of course, you recognize me for the celebrity I have clearly become.

In that case, let’s not be weird about it.

Come on over.

Ask for the selfie.

I will pose.

I will give you my good side.

Which is complicated now, because one side has the boob and one side has the storyline.

But we’ll make it work.

The funny thing is, even with the stares, today still felt good.

That is important.

The stares did not ruin it.

They annoyed me.

Obviously.

They made me want to hand out business cards that say, “Yes, cancer. No, not contagious. Yes, I’m still cute. Please return your eyes to your own plate.”

But they did not take away the fact that I was out.

They did not take away breakfast with friends.

They did not take away wedding gift shopping.

They did not take away the little taste of normal.

And that matters.

Because normal is still new right now.

Or maybe not new.

Maybe it is familiar, but I am different.

I am trying to learn how to move through the world again in a body that looks different, feels different, and gets treated differently.

That is not easy.

Cancer recovery is not just about getting through treatment.

It is about figuring out how to re-enter your own life afterward.

It is going out in public and realizing people may stare.

It is deciding whether to wear the hoodie.

It is choosing the mask.

It is noticing your hair is growing but still feeling marked by what happened.

It is trying to be casual while also carrying an invisible backpack full of surgery, chemo, radiation, fear, hope, trauma, and snacks.

Always snacks.

It is wanting to be seen as Tina, while knowing some people will see the evidence first.

The short hair.

The mask.

The covered chest.

The changed body.

The possible cancer story they are writing in their heads without permission.

But here is what I am learning:

Their staring does not define me.

Their curiosity does not own me.

Their discomfort is not my responsibility.

I can be visible without being available for public inspection.

I can be different without explaining myself to strangers.

I can protect my immune system, cover my chest, grow my hair, wear my hoodie, and still be fully, completely, unapologetically me.

I can go to breakfast.

I can shop for a wedding gift.

I can laugh.

I can be annoyed.

I can be stared at and still not shrink.

Which is good, because radiation already tried to turn me into a Shrinky Dink, and frankly, I have done enough shrinking.

So yes, today I went out.

I acted like a normal human.

I wore the hoodie.

I wore the mask.

I did not wear pink.

I did not carry a sign.

I did not announce Cancer Tina’s public appearance schedule.

I just lived.

And even with the stares, it felt like progress.

Maybe this is how normal comes back.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not without awkward strangers and internal commentary.

But one breakfast at a time.

One shopping trip at a time.

One outing where I notice the looks, roll my eyes, make a joke, and keep going.

Because I am still here.

Still healing.

Still growing hair faster than Casey.

Still freezing cold.

Still masking in public because people cannot be trusted.

Still a uni-boober in a hoodie.

Still drop-dead gorgeous.

Still waiting for the paparazzi to be less rude.

And still very much Tina.

---

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

---

Under Maizy’s Supervision

🌼 Date: Friday, May 15, 2026

⚡ Energy: Resting, recovering, and heavily supervised

💓 Status: Chair-bound with a tiny nurse on duty

🥰 Outlook: Healing may be slow, but at least the staff is adorable

Today was a lazy day around the house.

And honestly?

Good.

Not every day needs to be a medical update, an emotional breakthrough, a doctor message, a new symptom, a mystery swelling, or another episode of What Fresh Hell Is This, Breast Cancer Edition.

Some days are just for resting.

Some days are for letting your body do the work it has been begging for time to do.

Some days are for sitting down, staying put, and reminding yourself that recovery is not laziness.

Recovery is work.

It just happens to look suspiciously like doing absolutely nothing.

And after surgery, chemo, radiation, skin reactions, swelling, tightness, nausea, neuropathy, antibiotics, and the full deluxe Cancerland experience, I think my body has earned a lazy day.

Several, actually.

Possibly a punch card.

Ten lazy days and the eleventh comes with tacos.

Luckily, I was not left alone to make any questionable decisions.

I had supervision.

Miss Maizy has apparently decided that my recovery is now part of her official job description.

She is getting so comfortable at home, and it is the sweetest thing to watch.

She now follows me to my chair and waits for me to sit down so I can pick her up.

Because obviously, if Mommy is sitting down, that means Maizy has been summoned.

Not verbally.

Not officially.

But spiritually.

The chair is her signal.

Mommy sits.

Maizy appears.

The tiny nurse clocks in.

And then she settles on my lap like a very small, very furry, very serious weighted blanket.

Apparently I cannot be trusted to rest properly without a Yorkie supervisor.

And honestly, she may be right.

Normally she lays on my lap until she gets too warm.

Then she moves to the corner of the chair to cool off for a bit, because even tiny dogs have labor laws.

She needs a break from her shift.

A little personal space.

A little air circulation.

A moment to think about her career in patient care.

But she never goes far.

She always comes back.

Because even Miss Maizy knows I should not be left unsupervised for too long.

And let’s be honest, she has a point.

I am the same woman who kept using lotion I was allergic to because I thought it was a normal radiation reaction.

I am the same woman who explained away breast cancer symptoms for years with gravity, laundry detergent, underwire, hormones, and whatever other nonsense my brain found in the junk drawer.

I am the same woman who will say, “I’m just going to do one thing,” and then accidentally start a full project because apparently sitting still is harder than chemo some days.

So yes.

Maizy is necessary.

She is tiny.

She is fluffy.

She is dramatic.

She is committed.

She is also much cuter than a medical alert bracelet.

There is something really healing about having a little dog decide you are her person.

Not in a big flashy way.

Not in a “look at me being inspiring” way.

Just in the quiet way she follows me around and makes sure I am where I am supposed to be.

In the way she waits by the chair.

In the way she settles her tiny body on me like she has decided my lap is her home base.

In the way she looks at me with those little eyes that say, “I don’t know what’s happening, but I know you’re mine.”

And maybe that is enough.

Cancer recovery is weird because people expect big milestones.

Done with chemo.

Done with radiation.

Clear.

Cancer free.

Those are huge, and I am not minimizing them for one second.

But healing also happens in much smaller, quieter ways.

It happens when you take a day to rest instead of pushing through.

It happens when you let the laundry wait.

It happens when you stop measuring your worth by how much you got done.

It happens when you sit in your chair with a tiny dog on your lap and realize that maybe doing nothing is actually doing something.

Because my body is still working.

Even on quiet days.

Especially on quiet days.

My skin is healing.

My chest is calming down, or at least trying to.

My energy is rebuilding one slow, irritating little brick at a time.

My nerves are figuring out whether they want to behave or keep filing complaints.

My body is trying to recover from months of being cut, poisoned, radiated, stretched, burned, and medically managed like a problematic group project.

That takes time.

Apparently.

Rude.

And it takes rest.

Also rude.

Because I am not always good at resting.

I like to feel productive.

I like to feel useful.

I like to check things off a list.

I like to believe that if I can just keep moving, I can outrun the part where I have to feel all of this.

But recovery does not work that way.

Cancer does not hand you a medal and say, “Great job, you’re clear, now resume normal programming.”

No.

Cancer leaves you with healing skin, weird sensations, emotional aftershocks, medical follow-ups, and a body that sometimes says, “Sit down before I make this weird.”

So today, I listened.

Mostly because Maizy enforced it.

There is no arguing with a tiny dog who has decided your lap is a medical necessity.

And maybe that is the lesson for today.

Rest does not have to be dramatic.

It does not have to be earned through collapse.

It does not have to come only after you have pushed yourself too far.

Rest can just be part of healing.

Part of survival.

Part of getting back to yourself.

Part of letting the body that carried you through hell have a minute to breathe.

And if that rest comes with a tiny supervisor curled up on your lap, even better.

So today was not exciting.

It was not eventful.

It was not a big cancer update.

It was just a lazy day around the house.

A recovery day.

A Maizy day.

A reminder that healing is allowed to be quiet.

And honestly?

After everything, quiet feels pretty damn good.

Miss Maizy agrees.

And since she is clearly the nurse in charge, I guess we are listening to her.

---

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

---

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?
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

---

You’re Clear

🌼 Date: Wednesday, May 13, 2026

⚡ Energy: Hospital gown couture and cautious celebration

💕 Status: Officially clinging to two beautiful little words

🥰 Outlook: Cancer free, with a tiny anxious asterisk in the back of my brain

Today I had my six-month follow-up with the surgeon who performed my mastectomy back in October.

And before y’all start doing calendar math and saying, “Tina, that was seven months ago,” let me explain.

I had a follow-up one week after surgery.

Then one month after surgery.

Then today was six months after that appointment.

Which is actually seven months after the actual mastectomy.

Confusing, right?

But honestly, has anything about this journey been simple?

Why start now?

First things first, they put me in the largest gown ever created by modern medicine.

I am not exaggerating.

I’m pretty sure both Casey and I could have fit inside that thing with room to spare. Maybe the nurse got confused and thought I requested the family-size gown. Maybe it was from the medical circus tent collection. Maybe they were preparing me for flight.

Whatever the reason, this thing was enormous.

It was giving Coachella vibes.

If I was one of the tents.

I stood there in that exam room looking like a tiny bald woman who had been swallowed by a hospital curtain and somehow lived to tell the tale.

Fashion icon.

Medical edition.

But giant gown aside, today’s visit was actually really informative.

And I learned something I had not really thought about before.

From this day forward, I will no longer need yearly mammograms.

Because I no longer have breast tissue.

Huh.

Never thought of that.

I guess that makes sense, but still, it felt weird to hear.

For years, mammograms were my yearly “responsible adult” thing because of my family history. I started getting them at 40, and I thought I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do.

And now?

No more mammograms.

Instead, my screening plan from here on out will be self-checks and exams every six months with my oncologist.

Not exactly the person I ever imagined would be handling that particular life category, but I guess if we are checking to see whether breast cancer has come back, she is probably the right person for the job.

Still weird.

Cancer takes the ordinary parts of your life and rearranges them like furniture in a room you used to know.

Same house.

Totally different layout.

And let me tell you, the exams now are not like any breast exam I have ever done on myself or had done before in my life.

This is not just the old-school shower check where you feel around for a lump and try to remember if you’re supposed to go in circles, lines, wedges, or whatever method they taught us back when we were also learning to use dial-up internet.

This is a full-body search party.

First, I was sitting upright while she felt all the lymph nodes in my neck and along my clavicle.

Then I laid down and did the classic one-hand-over-my-head position.

She checked the lymph nodes in my armpit.

Then down the side of my torso.

Along my ribcage under the boob area.

Across my sternum between the boobs.

Then the boob area itself, which right now is basically one inflated construction zone and one deflated bag situation.

Then we did the whole thing again on the other side.

Rinse and repeat.

Tiny Tina: Deluxe Inspection Package.

Basically, from now on I need to be checking every inch of my body from my chin down to my ribs and all the way out to each side of my body.

So that’s fun.

It is a lot more involved than just checking your boobs in the shower.

Casey said it is no longer a boob check.

It is now a bag check.

And honestly?

He is not wrong.

At this point, I’m not feeling for the classic “grain of rice” lump like we were all taught back in the day.

Apparently things have come a long way, baby.

Now I am feeling for anything unusual.

Lumps.

Bumps.

Hard spots.

Weird swelling.

Changes.

Anything that feels new, different, suspicious, or like one of the aliens currently renting space in my chest decided to redecorate.

It is strange to learn your body all over again.

To realize the map has changed.

The landmarks are different.

The warning signs are different.

The places to check are different.

And instead of just checking “the boobs,” I am checking the whole surrounding neighborhood.

Neck.

Clavicle.

Armpits.

Ribs.

Chest wall.

Sternum.

Side body.

All of it.

Which makes sense, medically.

Emotionally?

It’s a lot.

Because every new instruction is another reminder that this is not over just because treatment is done.

There is still follow-up.

Still monitoring.

Still watching.

Still checking.

Still learning what this body feels like now.

Still trying to separate “normal healing weirdness” from “call the doctor immediately” weirdness.

And that is a full-time job with terrible benefits.

But then, after the exam, I got the best news I have heard since I was diagnosed on September 4, 2025.

She said I am clear.

Clear.

She felt confident enough to say cancer free.

And I am running with it.

Do I fully understand what that means in the long-term medical sense?

Maybe not.

Do I know there is follow-up and monitoring and oncology visits and hormone blockers and all the other fine print?

Yes.

Do I also want to grab those two words with both hands and run through the streets like I won the world’s worst marathon?

Absolutely.

I feel like I should have a sign.

Maybe a T-shirt.

Maybe a billboard.

Maybe one of those airplanes that flies over the beach with a custom banner behind it.

Except mine would say:

TINA IS CLEAR, BITCHES.

Too much?

Possibly.

Accurate?

Also yes.

Because after everything — the diagnosis, the scans, the surgery, the drains, the expanders, the chemo, the nausea, the bald head, the radiation, the burns, the lotion betrayal, the antibiotics, the swelling, the bag checks, the emotional spirals, and the endless waiting — hearing “you’re clear” felt almost unreal.

Like my brain heard it, but it did not know where to put it.

Part of me wanted to cry.

Part of me wanted to laugh.

Part of me wanted to ask her to say it again.

Part of me wanted it in writing, notarized, laminated, and maybe embroidered on a pillow.

And part of me, because she is a tiny anxious goblin who apparently lives rent-free in the back of my skull, immediately whispered:

But are we sure?

That little seed of doubt is still there.

It might always be there.

The tiny voice that says I will not really believe I am cancer free until I see another PET scan with my own eyes and there are no more hot spots anywhere.

And as of right now, I do not have another scan scheduled.

So that thought may just set up shop in the back of my mind for the foreseeable future.

Probably with a folding chair, a clipboard, and a terrible attitude.

But today?

Today I am not feeding it.

Today I am not letting the doubt take the microphone.

Today I am clinging to the words I was given.

You’re clear.

Two little words.

Two words I have been waiting to hear since the day everything changed.

Two words that somehow feel both huge and fragile.

Two words that do not erase what happened, but do open a door.

Two words that give me permission to breathe a little deeper.

To hope a little bigger.

To imagine a future that is not just appointments and treatment plans and “let’s wait 4–6 weeks.”

I know there is still more ahead.

I still have reconstruction.

I still have follow-ups.

I still have medications.

I still have body changes, nerve weirdness, swelling, skin healing, and whatever other surprises Cancerland has shoved into the gift bag on my way out.

But today, I got to stand in a ridiculously oversized gown and hear that I am clear.

And that matters.

That is not a small thing.

That is a stop-and-feel-it thing.

That is a mark-the-date thing.

That is a “holy shit, maybe I made it through the worst of this” thing.

So yes, I am still cautious.

Yes, there is still a tiny anxious asterisk.

Yes, I will keep checking.

Yes, I will keep going to my appointments.

Yes, I will keep listening to my body.

But I am also going to celebrate.

Because cancer has taken up enough space.

Today, joy gets some room too.

Today, hope gets the good chair.

Today, I am clear.

And if you need me, I will be mentally running through the streets in my giant medical Coachella tent gown, waving an imaginary banner behind me that says:

Cancer free. Tiny Tina. Still standing.

---

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

---

Taco Tuesday and the Reposted Spiral

🌼 Date: Tuesday, May 12, 2026

⚡ Energy: Homebody mode with a side of mental gymnastics

💔 Status: Mostly normal until my brain found something to chew on

😣 Outlook: Trying not to let one reposted door slam the whole hallway shut

Today was mostly a normal stay-at-home day.

And honestly, after the last several months, “normal” deserves more credit than it gets.

Normal used to sound boring.

Now normal sounds like a luxury package.

No appointment.

No waiting room.

No radiation table.

No chemo chair.

No one asking me to rate my pain, expose a body part, hold my breath, or explain which flavor of medical nonsense we are dealing with today.

Just home.

Laundry-adjacent living.

Existing.

Trying to feel like a person instead of a full-time patient with a side hustle in emotional survival.

And because the universe has not taken everything from me, it was also Taco Tuesday.

Praise be to tacos.

There are very few things in this world that can still hold the line between me and a full psychological collapse, but tacos remain on the list.

Tacos do not ask complicated questions.

Tacos do not require portal messages.

Tacos do not say, “Let’s wait 4–6 weeks and reassess.”

Tacos show up, do their job, and improve morale.

We respect tacos in this house.

So, for a while, today was fine.

Quiet.

Ordinary.

Manageable.

The kind of day where nothing big happens, and you think, Okay, maybe this is what healing looks like sometimes. Not dramatic. Not inspirational. Just tacos and staying home.

And then my brain found a stick and started poking the emotional bear.

Because a possibility I had been excited about popped back up in a confusing way.

That is about as specific as I am going to be, because sometimes real life and blog life need a privacy fence between them.

Let’s just say I saw something that made my brain go from “maybe this is a good sign” to “everyone panic and gather in the emotional basement” in approximately four seconds.

That is all I actually know.

One small piece of information.

No explanation.

No context.

No official answer.

Just enough uncertainty to make my brain grab a flashlight, kick open the basement door, and start writing a horror movie.

Maybe it means nothing.

Maybe it means everything.

Maybe I misunderstood.

Maybe there is a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Maybe the universe is testing my ability to stay calm.

Spoiler alert: I would like to retake the test.

Because when you do not have the answer, your brain will happily make one up.

And mine does not write cheerful little stories.

Mine writes dramatic courtroom scenes, secret meetings, whispered concerns, worst-case scenarios, and entire imaginary conversations where everyone explains all the reasons I was not enough.

Very rude.

Very creative.

Not helpful.

The hardest part is that Monday gave me such a strong feeling of hope.

For the first time in months, I felt like I walked into a room as Tina.

Not Cancer Tina.

Not Patient Tina.

Not Recovery Tina.

Just Tina.

Smart Tina.

Capable Tina.

Funny Tina.

Experienced Tina.

PC Tina and Future Tina trying to meet somewhere in the middle.

It felt like a door cracked open.

And then today came along and showed me the same door might still have a lock on it.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

I don’t know.

That is the whole awful point.

I do not know.

And apparently “not knowing” is where my brain likes to open an Etsy shop called Handcrafted Worst-Case Scenarios by Tina.

Everything is custom.

Nothing is helpful.

Fast shipping.

No refunds.

I tried to remind myself that one confusing detail is not an answer.

It is not a rejection.

It is not proof.

It is not the whole story.

It is just information without context.

And information without context is basically emotional glitter.

It gets everywhere.

You think you cleaned it up, and then six hours later it is still on your face.

That was today.

A normal day with one sharp little piece of uncertainty stuck in it.

I wanted to be calm.

I wanted to be mature.

I wanted to say, “Whatever is meant for me will find me,” and float through the day like a peaceful woman in linen pants who drinks herbal tea and trusts the universe.

But I am not that woman.

I am a short, bald-ish, one-boob, taco-eating, overthinking gremlin who has been through cancer treatment and is currently trying to rebuild a life with the emotional stability of a folding chair in a windstorm.

So instead, I spiraled a little.

Maybe more than a little.

But here is the thing I am trying to hold onto:

The confusing detail does not erase Monday.

It does not erase how I felt.

It does not erase the fact that I showed up.

It does not erase my experience.

It does not erase my voice.

It does not erase the moment when I felt seen as Tina again.

Even if that door closes, that feeling was real.

And maybe that matters too.

Maybe the win was not only about whether something works out.

Maybe the win was walking into a room and remembering I could still do hard things that have nothing to do with cancer treatment.

Maybe the win was feeling normal for a little while.

Maybe the win was hope showing up, even if it scared the absolute crap out of me the next day.

Because hope is risky.

Hope makes you care.

Hope gives your brain something to lose.

And when you have already lost so much, caring about something new can feel dangerous.

But I do care.

I care about moving forward.

I care about having options.

I care about feeling useful again.

I care about being seen for what I can do, not just what I have survived.

And yes, that makes waiting hard.

It makes incomplete information feel huge.

It makes one confusing detail feel like a personal attack from the internet.

But it also means I am still invested in my own future.

And that is not nothing.

That is actually pretty damn big.

Cancer has a way of shrinking your world.

Appointments.

Treatments.

Side effects.

Medical timelines.

Skin checks.

Medications.

Messages.

Recovery.

Rest.

Repeat.

But now my brain is starting to reach outside that world again.

And apparently when it reaches, it sometimes grabs anxiety with both hands and shakes it like a maraca.

We are working on that.

So today was not exciting.

It was not dramatic in the medical sense.

There was no new alien invasion, no lotion betrayal, no antibiotic uprising, no Breathing Olympics, no Disco Ball Tina episode, and no major cancer circus event.

There was just home.

Taco Tuesday.

A confusing little piece of information.

And a brain trying very hard not to turn a question mark into a tombstone.

I do not know what it means.

I do not know what happens next.

I do not know if that door is opening, closing, or just standing there being annoying.

But I do know this:

I showed up.

I told the truth.

I was myself.

I felt like Tina.

And one confusing detail does not get to take that away from me.

So for now, I am going to try to let Tuesday be what it was.

A normal day.

A taco day.

A spiral day.

A reminder that healing is not just about skin, scars, hair, energy, or medicine.

Sometimes healing is learning how to hope again without letting every unanswered question eat you alive.

And if all else fails?

There are tacos.

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

A Glimpse of PC Tina

🌼 Date: Monday, May 11, 2026

⚡ Energy: Hope with a little bit of holy-shit-is-this-normal?

💖 Status: Seen as Tina, not Cancer Tina

😍 Outlook: Maybe normal isn’t gone forever after all

Today felt different.

Not loud different.

Not dramatic different.

Not the kind of different that comes with a medical update, a new symptom, a prescription change, or another episode of What Fresh Hell Is This, Breast Cancer Edition.

This was quieter.

Softer.

Stranger.

Better.

Today was the first day in a very long time — since October, actually — that I walked into a room and felt like people saw me.

Not cancer.

Not a patient.

Not a diagnosis.

Not someone in active treatment.

Not someone recovering.

Not someone bald.

Not someone sick.

Not someone fragile.

Not someone people look at with that careful little expression, like they are trying to decide whether to say something encouraging, ask a question, or back away slowly in case cancer is contagious.

Just me.

Tina.

Like PC Tina.

Pre-Cancer Tina.

And let me tell you, I had almost forgotten what she felt like.

PC Tina was smart.

Witty.

Knowledgeable.

Wise.

A little spicy.

Okay, sometimes more than a little.

She had opinions.

She had experience.

She had things to say.

And people listened.

Not because they felt sorry for her.

Not because they were checking on her.

Not because she was brave, strong, inspirational, or any of the other words people use when they do not know what else to say to someone going through hell.

They listened because she had something valuable to bring into the room.

Today, I felt that again.

For the first time in months, I did not feel like cancer entered the room before I did.

I did not feel like my body was the headline.

I did not feel like my bald head, my one boob, my radiation skin, my missing energy, my medical history, or my giant invisible backpack full of trauma were the main event.

I felt like Tina showed up first.

And cancer had to sit its ass in the back row for once.

That may not sound huge to someone who has never had their identity hijacked by a diagnosis.

But for me?

It was everything.

Because cancer does not just attack your body.

It takes up space in your name.

It walks into rooms with you.

It changes how people look at you.

It changes how you look at yourself.

It changes conversations.

It changes silence.

It changes the way people ask, “How are you?” because suddenly that question weighs 400 pounds and comes with follow-up questions, sad eyes, and sometimes casseroles.

Cancer turns you into a walking update.

A treatment plan.

A prayer request.

A timeline.

A “how many more rounds?”

A “when do you start radiation?”

A “how are you feeling?”

A “you look good!”

Which, by the way, is a very loaded sentence when your body has been through surgery, chemo, radiation, hair loss, nausea, fatigue, swelling, burning, itching, and enough lotion to grease a farm animal.

But today was not that.

Today, I was not an update.

I was not a medical summary.

I was not the inspirational cancer lady in the corner.

I was just Tina.

And I cannot even explain how normal that felt.

Almost normal.

Not completely.

I am not going to pretend the last several months suddenly disappeared because I had one good day.

My body still knows.

My skin still knows.

My energy still knows.

My reflection still knows.

My calendar full of medical appointments still knows.

The one-boob situation still has some notes.

But for a little while today, normal peeked around the corner and waved.

And I waved back like a desperate woman seeing land after floating in Cancerland on a pool noodle made of trauma and ginger ale.

It felt like a glimpse of my future.

A tiny flash of what life might look like after all of this.

Not exactly the same as before.

I know that.

I am not the same person I was in October.

How could I be?

That version of me had no idea what was coming.

She did not know about surgery.

She did not know about chemo.

She did not know about radiation.

She did not know about expanders, burns, nausea, neuropathy, antibiotics, skin checks, lymph massage, or the emotional damage of trying to decide whether to wear a wig or a prosthetic boob into a room.

She did not know how many times she would have to be brave when she was tired of being brave.

She did not know she would learn to joke about things that would have horrified her a year ago.

She did not know she would become fluent in medical portal messages, side effects, and dark humor as a survival skill.

She did not know.

But I know now.

And maybe that is what made today feel so powerful.

Because this was not me going back to who I was.

This was me realizing that Tina is still in here.

Changed, yes.

Scarred, absolutely.

A little feral, obviously.

But still here.

Still smart.

Still funny.

Still capable.

Still able to walk into a room and bring more than a cancer story.

I think that is one of the hardest parts of recovery that nobody really prepares you for.

You spend so much time just trying to survive the next thing.

The next appointment.

The next treatment.

The next symptom.

The next doctor message.

The next medication.

The next “normal but annoying” side effect.

The next 4–6 week waiting period from the Department of Medical Patience, where joy goes to die.

You get so used to being in survival mode that you forget there might be something after it.

You forget there might be a future where every conversation does not start with your health.

You forget there might be rooms where people see your brain before they see your bald head.

You forget there might be moments when you feel useful instead of exhausted.

You forget there might be days when you are not just recovering.

You are living.

Today gave me that.

A little piece of living.

A little piece of normal.

A little piece of hope.

And hope has been tricky lately.

Not gone.

Just complicated.

Hope during cancer is not always shiny and inspirational.

Sometimes hope is a doctor saying the scan looks good.

Sometimes hope is being able to eat something and keep it down.

Sometimes hope is making it through radiation without crying in the parking lot.

Sometimes hope is a tiny bit of peach fuzz on your head.

Sometimes hope is your skin not looking worse.

Sometimes hope is realizing you folded laundry and answered messages like a functional human.

And sometimes hope is walking into a room and feeling like people see you again.

Not the diagnosis.

Not the damage.

Not the treatment history.

You.

That was today.

And I needed it more than I realized.

I have been wondering if “normal” was gone for good.

I thought maybe normal was a pipe dream.

A thing from the before-times.

Something I could remember but not reach.

Something that belonged to PC Tina, and not to this current version of me who has been rebuilt in layers of scars, radiation burns, medical tape, survival instincts, and sarcasm.

But after today?

Maybe normal is not gone.

Maybe it is just different.

Maybe it comes back slowly.

In pieces.

In moments.

In rooms where you feel like yourself again.

Maybe normal is not a place you return to.

Maybe it is something you rebuild.

One appointment.

One decision.

One brave outfit.

One honest conversation.

One tiny victory.

One room at a time.

And maybe dreams really can come true.

Not in the Disney way.

Not with singing birds and magical lighting, although frankly I would accept a woodland creature cleaning my house at this point.

But in the real way.

The hard way.

The way where you drag yourself through the worst months of your life and then one day, unexpectedly, you feel a tiny spark of who you used to be.

And instead of making you sad, it makes you believe.

Maybe I can still have a future.

Maybe I can still be more than this.

Maybe cancer changed me, but it did not erase me.

Maybe PC Tina and Cancerland Tina and Future Tina are all somehow becoming one person.

A person who has been through hell.

A person who still has something to say.

A person whose opinion still matters.

A person who can still walk into a room and be seen.

Today, I was seen as Tina.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt possible again.

Not like a memory.

Not like a fantasy.

Not like something cancer stole forever.

But like a door opening.

Just a crack.

Enough to let a little light in.

Enough to remind me that I am still here.

Enough to make me think maybe the future might have a bit of normal in it after all.

I sure hope it does.

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

A Mother’s Day PSA from the One-Boob Committee

🌼 Date: Sunday, May 10, 2026

⚡ Energy: Emotionally complicated, medically suspicious, still standing

💖 Status: Wishing moms love while handing out boob-check homework

😘 Outlook: If I have your attention today, I’m using it

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there.

And I do mean all the moms.

The moms with babies.

The moms with grown kids.

The moms with complicated relationships.

The moms who raised children they did not give birth to.

The foster moms.

The adoptive moms.

The bonus moms.

The stepmoms.

The grandmas doing round two.

The aunties who became the safe place.

The moms whose babies have paws, claws, fur, feathers, scales, or tiny judgmental faces.

The moms grieving children.

The moms grieving mothers.

The moms who are loved loudly.

The moms who are overlooked quietly.

The moms who are doing their best while pretending they are not running on caffeine, spite, and whatever crackers were still in the car.

Happy Mother’s Day.

And if today is sweet for you, I hope you soak up every bit of it.

If today is complicated for you, I see you.

If today feels like an emotional landmine wrapped in pastel tissue paper, I see you too.

Because Mother’s Day is not always brunch, flowers, soft lighting, and matching family photos where everyone looks like they remembered how to act right for twelve consecutive minutes.

Sometimes Mother’s Day is weird.

Sometimes it is tender.

Sometimes it is awkward.

Sometimes it comes with expectations no one talked about and feelings no one knows where to put.

Sometimes it reminds you of what you have.

Sometimes it reminds you of what you didn’t get.

Sometimes both things are true at the same damn time.

And because I do not have a shiny, sappy, greeting-card version of today to hand you, I’m going to do what I do best:

I’m going to take the attention this day gives women and use it for something useful.

So here we go.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Now check your boobs.

Yes, that is where we are going with this.

From flowers to self-exams.

From brunch to breast awareness.

From “thank you for all you do” to “please get familiar with your own body before your body starts sending certified letters through the medical system.”

You’re welcome.

Listen, I know this is not the traditional Mother’s Day message.

Most people are posting flowers, breakfast in bed, sweet tributes, and photos with captions about love and gratitude.

Beautiful.

Love that for them.

But over here, in Tiny Tina’s One-Boob Awareness Corner, we are going to talk about the thing too many of us put off, ignore, explain away, or assume we are already doing “good enough.”

Breast cancer awareness is not just pink ribbons in October.

It is not just mammograms.

It is not just something that happens to other people.

It is knowing your own body well enough to notice when something changes.

And I am saying that as someone who had yearly mammograms.

I thought I was doing the responsible thing.

And I was.

But I also missed signs.

Or ignored them.

Or explained them away.

Or shoved them into the very crowded mental file labeled:

Probably Nothing Because I Do Not Have Time For This Shit.

Spoiler alert:

That file is not medically reliable.

So today, on Mother’s Day, while we are celebrating women and caregivers and all the people who spend their lives making sure everyone else is okay, I am asking you to make sure you are okay too.

Not someday.

Not when life slows down.

Not when the kids are older.

Not when work calms down.

Not after the next holiday.

Not after you Google it seventeen times and decide you are either fine or dying.

Now.

Check yourself.

Schedule the appointment.

Make the call.

Send the message.

Ask the question.

Mention the weird thing.

Even if it feels small.

Even if it feels embarrassing.

Even if you think you are being dramatic.

Because here is the thing:

Most of us are excellent at taking care of everyone else.

We notice when the dog is limping.

We notice when the kid has a weird cough.

We notice when someone seems quiet.

We notice when the groceries are low, the laundry is behind, the schedule is a disaster, and somebody is about to have a meltdown over the wrong brand of cereal.

But when our own bodies start whispering?

We turn into defense attorneys for denial.

“It’s probably hormones.”

“It’s probably age.”

“It’s probably my bra.”

“It’s probably dry skin.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s probably because I slept weird.”

“It’s probably because my body is just being dramatic.”

And sometimes it is nothing.

I hope it is nothing.

I would love for your weird symptom to be nothing.

I am a huge fan of nothing.

Nothing is my favorite diagnosis.

But please let a medical professional help decide that.

Not your anxiety.

Not your avoidance.

Not your best friend’s cousin.

Not Dr. Google and his unhinged assistant, WebMD.

And definitely not the tiny voice in your head that says, “We’ll deal with it later.”

Later is not a plan.

Later is how things get missed.

Breast self-checks do not have to be scary or dramatic.

You do not need candles, spa music, or a full clinical strategy.

You just need to know what is normal for your body.

Look at yourself.

Touch your body.

Notice changes.

Check with your arms down.

Check with your arms raised.

Pay attention to new dimpling, pulling, flattening, swelling, discharge, itching that keeps coming back in one spot, changes in shape, changes in size, or anything that makes your brain go, “Huh. That’s new.”

And please remember:

A lump is not the only sign.

Say it louder for the people in denial in the back.

A lump is not the only sign.

I had things I now know I should have mentioned sooner.

A flat spot that showed up when I lifted my arms.

Changes on one side.

Dried nipple discharge.

A persistent itch near my armpit.

And because I am apparently very committed to being a cautionary tale with good eyeliner, I explained every single one of those things away.

Gravity.

Hormones.

Laundry detergent.

Bra issues.

Aging.

Dry skin.

Whatever excuse sounded reasonable enough to let me move on with my day.

And I moved on with a lot of days.

Too many days.

So this is me, standing here on Mother’s Day, not with a bouquet, but with a giant pink flashing sign that says:

Please do not be like Tina.

Check your boobs.

Check your chest.

Check under your arms.

Check your skin.

Check the area around your collarbone.

Check the places you normally ignore because they seem awkward or inconvenient.

And if you are due for a mammogram, schedule it.

If you have a family history, talk to your doctor about what screening schedule makes sense for you.

If you notice something new, say something.

If your gut tells you something feels off, listen.

If a provider brushes you off and you still feel uneasy, ask again.

You are not being annoying.

You are not being dramatic.

You are not being difficult.

You are living in your body every single day.

You are allowed to advocate for it.

Actually, no.

You are required to advocate for it.

Because your body is not just transportation for everyone else’s needs.

It is not just the thing that carries groceries, remembers birthdays, walks dogs, folds laundry, makes appointments, shows up to work, makes dinner, holds grief, absorbs stress, and keeps going because everyone assumes you will.

Your body matters.

You matter.

Not because of what you do for other people.

Not because of who needs you.

Not because of whether someone remembered to celebrate you today.

You matter because you are a whole person.

A tired one, maybe.

A complicated one.

A slightly feral one.

A one-boob one.

But a whole person.

So yes, Happy Mother’s Day.

To every kind of mother.

To the women who are celebrated today.

To the women who are quietly disappointed today.

To the women who are grieving today.

To the women who are mothering themselves through hard things today.

To the women who love with their whole hearts and still forget to check their own bodies because everyone else’s needs are louder.

This is your reminder.

Your homework.

Your loving shove from the One-Boob Committee.

Do the self-check.

Schedule the mammogram if you are due.

Ask the question.

Send the message.

Take the symptom seriously.

Because awareness is not fear.

Awareness is not paranoia.

Awareness is pattern recognition.

And today, while the world is paying attention to mothers, caregivers, and women, I am using my little corner of the internet to say:

Please take care of you too.

The flowers are nice.

The cards are nice.

The brunch is nice.

But early detection?

That might save your life.

And I don’t know about you, but I would like us all to be around long enough to complain about bras, hormones, mammograms, hot flashes, laundry, and the audacity of gravity for many years to come.

Happy Mother’s Day, beautiful humans.

Now go check your boobs.

With love.

With snark.

With one very serious pink ribbon wrapped around the whole damn message.

---

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

---

The Chin Shelf Situation

🌼 Date: Saturday, May 9, 2026

⚡ Energy: Suspicious swelling and side-eye

❤️ Status: Monitoring the newest alien invasion

🤨 Outlook: Hoping this boob calms down before it applies for permanent residency under my chin

Apparently, my body has decided that we were getting a little too comfortable.

Because today, I think I have a new “radiation reaction” symptom rearing its ugly little head.

And by little, I mean swollen.

Sore.

Rock hard.

And suspicious.

I had finally made friends with the alien trying to claw its way out of the middle of my chest.

You know the one.

The hard, pokey parts of the expander bags that look like they are about to pop through the surface of my skin at any second and introduce themselves to the room.

That alien and I had reached an agreement.

I don’t like it.

It doesn’t care.

We coexist.

But today?

Today there is a new alien.

Because now my left boob is swollen and super sore.

And this is not the same center-of-the-chest situation I’ve been dealing with. This is different. This is an entirely new production.

New location.

New texture.

New attitude.

New “What the hell are we doing now?” energy.

Today my boob is back to being rock hard, which it has not been since my last physical therapy session when she did deep tissue massage around the lymph nodes in my armpit.

That session loosened things up, helped some of the tightness, and made my body feel like maybe it had briefly remembered how to be a body instead of a haunted medical storage unit.

But today?

Nope.

Back to rock hard.

And then there is the area above my boob, on my chest, right at the very top part of the expander bag.

It almost feels like I can feel a tab or edge or something from the bag sticking out through my skin.

Not actually through the skin.

Let’s be clear.

Nothing has popped out and waved at me.

Yet.

But it feels close enough that my brain is now on official monitoring duty.

Which is super relaxing.

Love that for me.

The doctor did say I could still have radiation reactions for a few weeks after treatment ended, and swelling was on the list.

So technically, this could fall under the category of “normal but annoying.”

Cancer treatment has many delightful categories:

Normal but annoying.

Gross but expected.

Painful but not alarming.

Alarming but probably fine.

Call us if it gets worse.

Send us a picture next week.

Drink water.

Rest.

Wait 4–6 weeks.

You know.

The classics.

This swelling feels like it is coming from the chest wall, which makes sense since they targeted that area from both the front and the back during radiation.

It feels like the swelling is pushing the expander bag upward toward the surface of my skin.

And I am not a fan.

I remember at my very first appointment with the plastic surgeon back in September, I told her I did not want my new boobs to sit so high up that I could rest my chin on them.

Because listen.

I am all for perkiness.

But I do not need built-in chin support.

I am 55, not a decorative shelf.

And yet here we are.

The swelling above my boob is so bad that it is getting dangerously close to ledge territory.

If this keeps up, I may have to start calling it my emotional support chin shelf.

Luckily, these are just the temporary skin-stretching bags and not the permanent implants.

Because if these were the finished product, we would have a problem.

A big one.

Possibly a structural engineering problem.

The expander bags have one job: stretch the skin and make room for the real reconstruction later.

They are not meant to be beautiful.

They are not meant to feel natural.

They are not meant to behave.

They are basically the construction cones of breast reconstruction.

Necessary.

Awkward.

Unattractive.

Always in the way.

And somehow still capable of injuring you emotionally.

I do remember my plastic surgeon telling me that after reconstruction surgery, the implants will sit a little higher at first.

Then, as healing progresses and the swelling from surgery goes down, everything should calm down and settle into place.

Apparently implants can take up to six months to fully “settle.”

Six months.

Because of course.

Nothing in this journey can just be normal and quick.

Everything has to involve phases, healing windows, swelling timelines, and the patience of a saint, which I do not have.

This is also why they do not do nipple reconstruction at the same time as the implant surgery.

Because if they did the nipples before everything settled into place, they could end up completely out of position later.

And honestly, that is not a surprise I need.

I have already had enough body plot twists.

I do not need my future nipples playing pin the tail on the donkey.

So maybe today I am just getting a little preview of what post-reconstruction swelling might feel like.

A tiny sneak peek.

A coming attraction.

A “coming soon to a chest near you” situation.

Except right now it is only on the left side, because apparently my one remaining boob wanted to practice being dramatic all by herself.

And she is nailing it.

One boob.

One chin shelf.

One new alien trying to bust its way out.

One woman standing in front of the mirror thinking, Really? This is what we’re doing today?

The weirdest part about all of this is how quickly something can become your new normal.

A few months ago, if I felt something hard and pokey under my skin, I would have been fully alarmed.

Now I’m over here like, “Okay, which alien are we dealing with today? The chest alien or the upper-boob ledge alien?”

That is not normal.

And yet, somehow, it is my normal.

Cancer treatment turns you into a weird little body detective.

You notice everything.

You poke.

You compare.

You stare in the mirror at angles no human should ever have to use.

You ask yourself questions like:

Was this here yesterday?

Is this more swollen?

Is this redder?

Is this radiation?

Is this infection?

Is this healing?

Is this bad?

Is this normal?

Should I call?

Should I send a picture?

Should I wait?

Should I panic?

Should I stop poking it?

The answer to that last one is always yes.

And yet.

Here we are.

The truth is, I am trying really hard not to spiral.

The doctor warned me that radiation reactions can keep showing up after treatment ends.

Swelling was on the list.

Tenderness was on the list.

Skin weirdness was basically the whole damn list.

So I am reminding myself that this may just be part of the healing process.

An annoying, sore, rock-hard, ledge-forming part of the healing process.

But still.

Healing.

I will keep watching it.

I will keep listening to my body.

I will call if it gets worse, because apparently I am now a person who emails doctors and uses MyChart like a responsible adult.

Disgusting growth, honestly.

But for today, I am documenting the newest episode of What Fresh Hell Is This, Breast Cancer Edition and trying to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Because if I don’t laugh, I will absolutely start Googling, and we all know that road leads straight to Anxiety Land with no snacks and terrible lighting.

So instead, I am naming the situation.

The chin shelf.

The upper-boob alien.

The expander bag rebellion.

The left boob construction zone.

Whatever we call it, it is here.

It is sore.

It is suspicious.

And it is being watched.

I asked for future boobs that would not sit high enough to rest my chin on.

Today, apparently, my body decided to show me what the alternate timeline could look like.

Just on one side.

Because symmetry is apparently too much to ask from this circus.

---

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Wig, Boob, and a Secret Little Spark

🌼 Date: Friday, May 8, 2026

⚡ Energy: Nervous excitement with a side of closet panic

💓 Status: Planning from the bald head down instead of the shoes up

😘 Outlook: Authentic Tina is reporting for duty

Today brought me a little spark of exciting news.

I am not going to share all the details here, because sometimes the internet is a little too internet-y, and sometimes people from real life read the blog.

And by “real life,” I mean the people who know enough to make things awkward if I hand them the whole script before the next scene even happens.

So for now, I am keeping some of the details tucked safely behind the curtain.

But I will say this:

Something came my way that made me feel seen.

Something that made me excited.

Something that made my brain go, Oh. Okay. Maybe we are not just surviving right now. Maybe we are still moving forward.

And that is a big deal.

Because when you have been living inside cancer treatment, it can start to feel like your whole identity has been reduced to appointments, labs, scans, side effects, medication instructions, and whether or not your skin is currently trying to escape your body.

Then suddenly, something good shows up.

A possibility.

A door cracked open.

A tiny little reminder that I am still a whole person with skills, experience, personality, and a future that is not just scheduled in 4–6 week increments.

Naturally, after about three seconds of feeling excited, my brain did what my brain does best.

It immediately launched into crisis planning.

Because apparently I cannot simply receive good news and say, “How lovely.”

No.

My brain heard exciting news and said, Wonderful. What are we wearing?

And that is where things got complicated.

For those of you who know me, this will make perfect sense:

I usually plan my outfits from the shoes up.

I am a bit of a shoe diva.

Okay, fine.

Maybe “a bit” is doing some very heavy lifting in that sentence.

Shoes are the foundation. The mood. The personality. The entire business plan.

But now I am in a totally different playing field.

A weird, unfamiliar, post-chemo, post-radiation, one-boob, peach-fuzz, sensitive-skin, medically dramatic playing field.

And let me tell you, this is not the glamorous makeover montage I was promised.

My first big question was:

To wig or not to wig?

Because even though I have some peach fuzz growing back — probably somewhere between 1/8 and 1/4 inch long — I still get the same looks I got when I was shiny bald.

You know the look.

That quick little scan people do when they are trying not to stare, which somehow makes it even more obvious that they are absolutely staring.

The look that says, “Oh, cancer,” even when no one says it out loud.

And I am not embarrassed to be bald.

Not even a little.

This bald little head has earned its place in the room.

But I also do not want to walk in and instantly become a walking cancer billboard.

I do not want people to see cancer before they see me.

I do not want someone quietly wondering if I am too fragile, too sick, too complicated, or too risky.

And yes, I know legally health is not supposed to factor into decisions.

I know that.

We all know that.

But we also know how the real world works.

When it comes down to final decisions, people absolutely think about possible future absences.

They think about medical situations.

They think about whether someone might need time off.

I have seen it happen.

Whether it was a person with a newborn, a medical condition, or some other life circumstance that made them look “complicated,” people find ways to make the safer choice and then wrap it up in a nice little HR-approved sentence.

“We have decided to go in a different direction.”

Please.

Give me a break.

Find some balls and tell me the truth already.

And whatever you do, please do not send me some cold form letter that basically says, “A decision has been made, and surprise, it was not in your favor,” with no actual feedback, no explanation, no humanity, and no useful information whatsoever.

Because you know me.

My creative brain will fill in the blanks.

And she is not kind.

She is dramatic.

She is mean.

She writes entire rejection novels by lunch.

So yes, the wig question mattered.

Not because I am ashamed.

Not because I feel like I need to hide.

But because I had to ask myself what version of me feels strongest walking into that room.

And the answer is:

No wig.

I feel more confident without it.

The real Tina shines through when I show up as myself, not when I am trying to hide behind fake hair that will probably make me feel sweaty, itchy, distracted, and like I am playing a character in my own life.

Cancer has already taken plenty.

It does not get to take my authenticity too.

So the head decision was made.

Bald-ish Tina is going.

Peach fuzz and all.

Then came the next question.

And this one is where I am really struggling.

One boob or two?

Because apparently this is my life now.

Some people wake up and wonder whether they should wear the black shoes or the leopard flats.

I wake up and wonder if I should visually balance my chest for the comfort of other people.

Cool cool cool.

I am not planning to go in wearing just a T-shirt and jeans. I want to look polished. Professional. Put together.

But most of my dressier tops are definitely going to show that I am currently a uni-boober.

And here is the honest part:

I am not uncomfortable living with one boob right now.

I really am not.

Most days I am in my compression tops with a hoodie over everything, and it is not that obvious unless someone is really looking.

But dressier clothes are a whole different beast.

Dressier clothes have opinions.

Dressier clothes like structure.

Dressier clothes do not always understand that one side of my chest retired early and the other side is still reporting to work.

I also cannot comfortably wear a bra right now because of the radiation reaction I still have.

The skin is still tender, irritated, and not interested in being trapped under elastic, hooks, wires, or anything that looks like it might have a customer service complaint attached to it.

And if I tried to wear a bra with a prosthetic on the right side, I know my brain would not relax.

Not for one second.

A little piece of my mind would be worrying the entire time.

Is it staying in place?

Are they even?

Is one side higher?

Did it shift?

Do I look lopsided?

Can they tell?

Am I sitting weird?

Is my fake boob trying to make a break for it?

And honestly, I do not need that running in the background while I am trying to be impressive.

I already have enough tabs open in this brain.

So I am leaning toward going with one boob.

Just me.

As I am.

But then the fear creeps in.

What if they are thrown off by it?

What if they notice?

What if they do not know where to look?

What if I walk in and instead of seeing Tina — experienced, capable, funny, organized, reliable, and ready — they see Cancer Tina, the limited edition collector’s item with one boob and no hair?

And that is where I have to remind myself:

Hello.

My eyes are up here.

My brain is up here.

My experience is up here.

My leadership, my humor, my work ethic, my resilience, my problem-solving skills, my ability to walk through absolute hell and still show up — all of that is up here.

The missing boob is not the headline.

The peach fuzz is not the headline.

The radiation skin is not the headline.

Cancer is not the headline.

I am.

And if I walk into that room acting like I am something to be pitied, people may follow my lead.

But if I walk in like I belong there?

If I walk in confident?

If I walk in as the full, real, slightly lopsided, completely determined Tina?

Then that is the energy I bring into the room.

Not shame.

Not apology.

Not “please ignore the obvious.”

Just presence.

Just truth.

Just me.

And honestly, after everything this body has been through, maybe walking in exactly as I am is not a weakness.

Maybe it is power.

Maybe confidence does not always look like perfect hair, a matched set of boobs, and shoes chosen first.

Maybe sometimes confidence looks like peach fuzz, one boob, tender skin, and deciding, You know what? I still belong in every room I walk into.

So that is the plan.

No wig.

Probably one boob.

Hopefully great shoes.

Definitely Tina.

And whatever happens next, I want to know that I showed up as myself.

Not the edited version.

Not the hidden version.

Not the “please don’t notice I’ve been through hell” version.

The real one.

The one who has survived surgery, chemo, radiation, lotion betrayal, antibiotics from the depths of Satan’s medicine cabinet, and the emotional Olympics of trying to rebuild a life while still healing from the one that got body-slammed.

The one who is still here.

Still funny.

Still capable.

Still slightly feral.

Still planning outfits around shoes, even when cancer tries to complicate the whole damn closet.

So here we go.

A secret little spark.

A closet full of decisions.

A bald head.

One boob.

And a woman who is about to walk into that room like she has every right to be there.

Because she does.

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Six-Week Waiting Game

🌼 Date: Thursday, May 7, 2026

⚡ Energy: Laundry, impatience, and mild medical portal side-eye

❤️‍🩹 Status: Waiting for answers like it’s my full-time job

🤨 Outlook: Hopeful, but one “wait 4–6 weeks” away from becoming feral

Yesterday was not exactly an action-packed episode of Tiny Tina: Cancerland Edition.

There were no dramatic appointments.

No major medical procedures.

No new alarming skin adventures.

No surprise side quests involving lotion, radiation, antibiotics, or my body choosing violence before breakfast.

I mostly stayed home and did laundry.

Which sounds boring, but honestly? At this point, boring is underrated.

Boring means I was not sitting in a waiting room.

Boring means nobody was poking me, scanning me, measuring me, radiating me, or asking me to rate my pain on a scale from 1 to “ma’am, why are you still standing?”

Boring means the house got some attention and I got to pretend, briefly, that my life is normal.

And then, of course, MyChart entered the chat.

Because apparently even on a laundry day, the medical circus likes to send a little confetti cannon through the patient portal.

I got a message back from my rheumatologist about going back on one of the medications I had to stop before starting chemotherapy.

For those keeping track at home — and honestly, someone should be, because I am tired — I had to stop certain meds before chemo because cancer treatment apparently likes to walk into your already complicated body and say, “Everyone out. I’m redecorating.”

So now that chemo is done and radiation is done, I am trying to figure out when I can restart the medication that helps keep my body from acting like a haunted house with joint pain.

My rheumatologist responded and asked when my last radiation treatment was.

And listen.

I am sure there is a reasonable medical-system explanation for this.

I am sure there are charts and tabs and portals and notes and departments and seventeen places where information might be hiding like it owes somebody money.

But from my little outsider patient perspective?

Isn’t that information in my chart?

The same chart you had to access to read my message and respond to me?

The chart that contains my appointments, treatments, labs, scans, medications, allergic reactions, probably my blood type, and possibly the exact moment I lost my will to sit in another waiting room?

Again, I am not saying I know how the system works.

I am just saying that from this side of the screen, sometimes it feels like I am the only one carrying the full binder of Tina: The Medical Miniseries.

And I don’t even have a binder.

I have chemo brain, screenshots, random notes, and the emotional stability of a raccoon holding a cupcake in traffic.

So yes, I answered the question.

But I also had a tiny internal moment of:

“Ma’am. Please check the file labeled: All The Things That Have Been Happening To Me Since November.”

Now I am waiting for the actual answer.

And I am really, really hoping the answer is not:

“You need to wait 4–6 weeks after your final radiation treatment before restarting it.”

Because apparently 4–6 weeks is the magic number for everything in Cancerland.

Need to recover from surgery before chemo?

Six weeks.

Need to wait before starting radiation?

Six weeks.

Need your body to heal?

Six weeks.

Need your skin to stop acting like it joined a rebellion?

Give it time.

Need your immune system to stop being dramatic?

Probably six weeks.

Need your soul to re-enter your body?

Please allow 4–6 business weeks.

I swear, at this point, “4–6 weeks” is less of a medical timeline and more of a lifestyle brand.

And I am over it.

Because this patient has no patience.

None.

Zero.

Fresh out.

Backordered.

Unavailable until further notice.

Which, naturally, will take 4–6 weeks.

The hard part is that I understand why waiting matters.

I really do.

I understand healing takes time.

I understand medication decisions are not the same as picking a nail polish color.

I understand my body has been through surgery, chemo, radiation, allergic reactions, infections, nausea, fatigue, and whatever the hell category “Greased Pig Phase” falls under.

I understand that doctors are trying to avoid making one problem better while accidentally lighting another problem on fire.

I get it.

But understanding something does not magically make me less annoyed.

That is an important distinction.

You can understand the reason and still want to throw a slipper.

You can respect the process and still be tired of being processed.

You can appreciate medical caution and still sit there thinking, For the love of all things pink and caffeinated, can one thing just move forward already?

Because this part of the journey is sneaky.

The active treatment part is hard in a very obvious way.

Surgery is hard.

Chemo is hard.

Radiation is hard.

Everybody understands those words.

But the in-between waiting?

That’s a whole different kind of hard.

The waiting does not look dramatic from the outside.

You are not hooked up to an infusion pump.

You are not lying under a radiation machine doing the Breathing Olympics.

You are not coming home with fresh surgical drains or trying to figure out how to sleep without accidentally angering your entire torso.

You are just waiting.

Waiting for messages.

Waiting for instructions.

Waiting for your skin to heal.

Waiting for your energy to come back.

Waiting for nausea to calm down.

Waiting for your immune system to stop being a diva.

Waiting to restart medications.

Waiting to feel like your body belongs to you again.

Waiting to stop being “in recovery” and start being “in my actual life.”

And somehow, that waiting can feel just as exhausting as the big medical stuff.

Because at least during treatment, there was a schedule.

A plan.

A next step.

A box to check.

Now it feels like I keep standing at the edge of the next chapter, but every time I try to step forward, someone pops out with a clipboard and says, “Not yet, Tina. Let’s give it 4–6 weeks.”

No thank you.

I would like to speak to the manager of Time.

Yesterday, while I was doing laundry, I kept thinking about how weird it is to be living this almost-normal life while still very much being tangled in cancer recovery.

I am folding clothes.

Answering messages.

Checking the portal.

Thinking about medications.

Wondering what my body is doing.

Trying not to spiral.

Trying to be patient.

Trying not to eat my feelings, because half the time my stomach is still like, “Absolutely not.”

It is such a strange mix of ordinary and overwhelming.

A laundry basket on the bed.

A medical question in my inbox.

A normal chore.

A not-normal life.

And there I am in the middle of it, trying to remember if I washed the darks, when my last radiation appointment was, and whether I am emotionally prepared for another doctor to tell me to wait.

Spoiler alert:

I am not.

But I will.

Because that is what this whole thing keeps teaching me.

I can be annoyed and still keep going.

I can be impatient and still follow instructions.

Mostly.

I can grumble at MyChart and still answer the message.

I can roll my eyes at the six-week magic number and still understand that my body needs time.

I can be grateful and irritated in the exact same breath.

That might actually be my current specialty.

So now I wait.

Again.

For the rheumatologist to tell me what the next step is.

Maybe I will get lucky and the answer will be, “Yes, Tina, you can restart it now.”

Maybe the answer will be, “Let’s check with oncology first.”

Maybe the answer will be the dreaded 4–6 weeks, and I will have to practice my breathing exercises for a completely different reason.

Either way, I am still here.

Still healing.

Still doing laundry.

Still waiting.

Still sending messages.

Still trying to be the tiniest bit patient, even though patience and I are not currently on speaking terms.

And if the medical world could maybe pick a new magic number besides six weeks, that would be great.

I vote for six minutes.

Or six snacks.

Or six uninterrupted hours where nobody asks me a question that is already in my chart.

But until then, I will keep checking the portal, folding the laundry, and trying not to become feral in the comments section of MyChart.

Growth, people.

That’s growth.

---

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

---

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.

---

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

---

Taco Training, Spa Queens & Cinco de Maizy

🌼 Date: Tuesday, May 5, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tired, proud, and slightly taco-motivated

💗 Status: Survived puppy spa day and honored Taco Tuesday like a professional

🥰 Outlook: Full belly, happy pups, and calling that a win

Today was a big day.

Not just any Tuesday…

Cinco de Mayo.
On Taco Tuesday.

This is the day we have been training for.

All of those Tuesday nights…
All of those Friday nights…
All those hours spent sitting in José’s section, perfecting our ordering skills, building our tolerance, and committing to the craft…

Tonight was the culmination of years of hard work.

But before we could celebrate properly…

We had a very important event to attend.

Puppy Spa Day.

Now, Gidget is a seasoned professional in the grooming world. She knows the drill.

Maizy?

This was her first time.

And we had absolutely no idea how this was going to go.

Would she panic?
Would she try to escape?
Would she leave a lasting impression… for all the wrong reasons?

About 30 minutes after we dropped her off, we got a text from the groomer.

Apparently… she adjusted just fine.

Not only did she settle in, she located the largest dog bed in the entire place and claimed it like she pays rent there.

Queen behavior.

Also, as a bonus, this picture serves as her “before” photo, where you can’t even see her face under all that fluff.

When we picked her up, we were told she did amazingly well for her first visit.

Cue the proud momma moment.

Once everyone was home, we were finally able to get a picture of both pretty girls with daddy.

And just like that…

Maizy has a face again.

A very cute one, I might add.

At this point, we were cleaned up, feeling accomplished, and fully ready to move on to the main event.

Taco Tuesday: Cinco de Mayo Edition.

And let me just say…

We showed up like the professionals we are.

Years of dedication.
Countless chips and salsa.
A strong relationship with José.

This was our moment.

And while I may not have the stamina I once had (thanks, cancer), I still managed to show up, enjoy the night, and appreciate the normalcy of it all.

Because honestly?

After everything…

A simple dinner out, full of laughter, good food, and familiar faces feels like a pretty big victory.

So today?

We’ll call it a win.

Spa day success.
Taco mission accomplished.
And two very happy, very fluffy girls.

---

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

---

Twister, Cymbals & The Peeling Phase

🌼 Date: Monday, May 4, 2026

⚡ Energy: Exhausted, uncomfortable, and slightly over it

💓 Status: Sleep is now a competitive sport I am losing

🤨 Outlook: Hoping for rest… even if it comes in small, broken pieces

Well… sleeping has officially become a challenge that I am not able to conquer.

I can still only sleep on my back because—well, obviously—sleeping on my stomach is out of the question thanks to the expanders.

And my right side?

That’s not much better.

For starters, my hip hurts too bad to lay on it for very long. Joint pain after chemotherapy and radiation is pretty common, caused by inflammation, hormonal changes, and immune system activation.

Now add in the fact that I already had psoriatic arthritis before any of this started…

That’s what we call a double whammy.

Also, I’ve lost over 25 pounds, so I don’t exactly have much cushion left on my hips anymore.

So that’s fun.

Then there’s the expander situation.

When I try to lay on my side, the expander shifts toward the center of my chest and—

CLANG.

It’s like cymbals crashing together inside my body, and I can feel the reverberations everywhere.

Highly recommend. Zero stars.

And now, just to make things even more interesting…

Thanks to the radiation reaction in my left armpit, I can’t lay with my left arm comfortably against my body.

So now I’m stuck trying to position my arm either behind me or in front of me without letting it touch anything…

Which basically turns bedtime into a solo round of Twister.

In my own bed.

No spinner required.

And just when you think it couldn’t get any better…

We’ve entered the peeling phase.

Remember those days of slathering on baby oil, squeezing lemon juice into your hair, and laying out in the backyard trying to get the perfect tan?

Now picture the palest girl with freckles doing that…

And the burn that showed up the next day.

Now multiply that by about ten…

And wait for it to start peeling.

That’s about where I am right now.

So, for now…

I’ll be over here, trying to get a couple hours of sleep wherever I can find it…

Waiting for my skin to calm down…

And hoping that eventually, my body and I can come to some kind of agreement again.

---

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Naps, Negotiations & The Return of Hair

🌼 Date: Sunday, May 3, 2026

⚡ Energy: Exhausted, fuzzy, and cautiously amused

💗 Status: Post-radiation fatigue is real… but so is the peach fuzz

😁 Outlook: Rest, patience, and possibly magenta hair decisions pending

Today was exactly what I needed.

A calm, stay-at-home, do-nothing kind of day.

And apparently… my body fully agreed.

Because this fatigue that comes with radiation?
It is no joke.

During treatment, I would come home after every appointment and need a nap.

Now that treatment is done?
The fatigue has decided to level up.

I feel like I could easily take two naps a day.

Not that the puppies would complain.

In fact, they have fully embraced this new routine. They join me every time, although I’m pretty sure it’s less about bonding and more about supervising to make sure I’m napping correctly.

Today I attempted to get some housework done.

That was… ambitious.

Because apparently now, one chore = full system shutdown.

So the chore list and I have come to an understanding.

I’m lucky if I complete one item a day.

Gone are the days when I could knock out the entire list in one go.

Vacuuming, sweeping, and mopping all in the same day?

PC (pre-cancer), absolutely.
No problem.

Laundry at the same time?
Sure, why not?

Now?

It’s like my appetite when we go out to eat.

I can no longer order off the adult menu.

“Pick two?”
Nope.

“Pick one?”
Also no.

Do you have a happy hour menu?
Maybe a senior menu?
Actually… do you have a kids menu?

How about a smoothie?
That feels more my speed.

And honestly, with the bald head, I don’t get much pushback.

Which brings me to today’s big revelation…

I have hair, y’all.

Now… let’s manage expectations.

We are not talking hair.

We are talking peach fuzz.

But still — it’s there.
It’s happening.
We are making progress.

And for those of you who have always wondered what my natural hair color is…

Same.

Because I had no idea either.

Turns out?

We’re rocking a little salt and pepper situation.

Not exactly the look I had in mind.

So naturally… I did what any reasonable person would do.

I ordered hair dye.

Yes. I did.

Before anyone starts in with the “chemicals caused this” lecture — relax.

I went full responsible adult on this one.

We’re talking plant-based, all-natural, chemical-free, semi-permanent henna.

And not just any color…

Magenta pink.

Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.

Now… I haven’t used it yet.

Because there is a very real fear that I will end up looking like Uncle Fester with a pink scalp.

At this stage, I have significantly more scalp than hair, and I’m not entirely convinced the color will know the difference.

But…

I guess I won’t know unless I try.

So stay tuned.

And maybe say a little prayer for me.

---

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

A Sea of Blue & A Pair of Boots

🌼 Date: Saturday, May 2, 2026

⚡ Energy: Heavy, reflective, and heart full

💓 Status: Showing up, remembering, feeling everything

🥰 Outlook: Holding onto the good while making sense of the hard

Today we attended a celebration of life for one of the kids who practically grew up alongside our son.

I’m not going to go into details, because some things feel better left protected.

But I will say this…

He used to say he didn’t have many friends.

Standing there today, surrounded by hundreds of people his age, I can confidently say he was wrong.

There were easily over 300 people who showed up.

Three hundred.

That’s not just a crowd… that’s a life that mattered.

The outpouring of love was everywhere.

Stories being shared.
Memories being passed around.
Tears, hugs, laughter… all mixed together in that way only these kinds of gatherings can hold.

The good stuff.

The real stuff.

We were asked not to wear black, but to wear something colorful — and blue was his favorite color.

You should have seen it.

A sea of blue.

Everywhere you looked, people showed up in his color, in his honor, carrying a piece of him with them.

And I just hope… wherever he is… he can see it.

I hope he knows how many lives he touched.

Because even the smallest moments — the little things we say or do — can leave a mark on someone that we may never fully understand.

There’s something else that stayed with me today.

He had more than one mom in his life.

And without getting into details, life wasn’t always simple or easy for him growing up. Which is probably why he spent so much time at our house over the years.

All of the kids knew our home was a safe place.
A place to land.
A place to be loud, or quiet, or just be.

And somewhere along the way, I became Momma Day.
Or Mrs. Day.
Or just… Mom.

On Saturday, as we walked around the park, I was getting hugged left and right. Everywhere I turned I heard, “Momma Day!” or “Mrs. Day!”

And while part of me felt an overwhelming sense of pride and love, there was another part that felt something deeper.

Something heavier.

Because my momma heart has already been shattered once.

Almost four years ago, when we lost our son, I learned a kind of pain that changes you forever. And standing there, I shared that understanding with his mom—the kind that doesn’t need many words.

I told her I will always be here.
To listen.
To sit.
To hold space for whatever she needs.

Because some pain… you don’t just “get over.”
You learn how to carry it.

But standing there surrounded by all those kids, something else hit me too.

A sense of responsibility.
A need to protect.
A quiet, impossible wish.

Lord, please let me be the one to take this pain for the whole team of mothers out there.
Because no one should ever have to live through this kind of excruciating, heartbreaking, numbing pain.

And yet… here we all are.

Still gathering.
Still showing up.
Still trying to make sense of something that will never fully make sense.

And somehow, even through all of this…

Our house is still full.

Kids coming over.
Sitting, talking, processing.
Trying to find their way through something this big.

And I am so incredibly honored…

To still be that home.

And then…

As we were leaving, I saw them.

His boots.

Sitting by the door.

Those same boots I used to tease him about… calling them his “clown shoes” because of how big they looked.

Just sitting there.

Like he had kicked them off for a minute.

Like he’d be right back to slip them on.

And that’s the moment that broke me.

Because it makes you stop and think…

About life.
About time.
About how quickly everything can change.

Why does it always feel like the good ones are taken too soon?

I don’t have an answer for that.

But I do know this…

If today showed anything, it’s that he was loved.

Deeply.

Widely.

And in ways he may not have even realized.

And maybe that’s what matters most.

---

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Sleeping In, Sticky Situations & The Sisterhood

🌼 Date: Friday, May 1, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tired, sticky, and slightly annoyed

❤️‍🩹 Status: First day post-radiation… and my body is still protesting

😑 Outlook: Hoping for healing, relief, and maybe one comfortable shirt

Today was my first official day of sleeping in and not having to go to radiation.

And of course… my body said, “Absolutely not.”

Apparently, after weeks of early mornings, my internal alarm clock has decided this is just who we are now.

So much for that plan.

The good news is, I got to be home all day with my girls.

And let me tell you… they are officially sisters in every sense of the word.

At this point, you can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins.

Gidget has fully stepped into her role as the protective, slightly overbearing big sister. She mothers Maizy like she personally signed up for the job and takes it very seriously.

Meanwhile, Maizy follows Gidget around like she’s the expert in everything and clearly has all the insider information on how this household runs.

If there’s tea to be spilled, Gidget has it.
And Maizy is here for it.

As for me…

My radiation reaction is still very much overachieving.

“Uncomfortable” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I’ve now added cortisone cream into the mix to help with the itching, and I’m still layering Aquaphor on top to keep some moisture in.

Which sounds great in theory.

In reality?

I am now… sticky.

My left arm has officially started sticking to the side of my body, and my left armpit is basically glued shut unless I physically peel it apart.

Yes. That’s as fun as it sounds.

Getting dressed has turned into its own special kind of challenge.

I still haven’t found a comfortable top to wear.

The nurse suggested I keep wearing the compression tops I’ve been using since I was released from what I lovingly refer to as my maximum-security bras after surgery in October.

The problem is, the armholes rub directly on the sore areas under my arm.

I tried switching to a compression t-shirt, which works okay during the day…

…but at night?

The seams under the arm become tiny little torture devices.

Because apparently even fabric has chosen violence.

So here I am.

Done with radiation.
Officially in recovery.
And somehow still negotiating with my own clothing.

Progress looks different these days.

---

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Bell, The Break, & The Beginning of the End

🌼 Date: Thursday, April 30, 2026

⚡ Energy: Emotional, relieved, and a little crispy

💖 Status: Radiation complete — finally!

😍 Outlook: Healing ahead… even if it gets worse before it gets better

Today was my last day of radiation.

It’s hard to believe we’ve been doing this every single weekday for more than three weeks.
Early mornings. Daily drives. The Breathing Olympics. The Lotion Police. The Frozen Vegetable Parade. The Greased Pig Phase.

And just like that… it’s done.

I am so incredibly thankful to be finished.

What I’m not looking forward to is what comes next.

Because here’s the fun little detail they don’t always emphasize — radiation doesn’t just stop when the treatments stop.

The effects are cumulative, meaning the damage builds with each session and continues for weeks after the final treatment.

So even though I’m done going in every day, my skin is not done reacting.

The burning will likely get worse.
The itching will likely get worse.
My already angry, crispy skin may decide it has a few more tricks up its sleeve.

This reaction — called radiation dermatitis — happens because while radiation is busy targeting cancer cells, it’s also taking out healthy skin cells along the way. And since treatments happen daily, there isn’t enough time for those cells to repair themselves in between.

So the damage builds… and builds… and builds.

Kind of like interest on a really terrible credit card you never signed up for.

But today wasn’t about that.

Today was about finishing.

After my treatment, I had my scheduled skin check — where the nurse added to my ever-growing modeling portfolio (seriously, at this point I should at least get copies).

Then, when I went to change back into my clothes, something unexpected happened.

Casey got called back from the waiting room.

When I walked out, the nurses were all gathered around holding a certificate that had been signed by everyone — including the team that sets me up every single day.

And then it was time.

I got to ring the bell.

The second bell of this crazy journey.

And, in true Tina fashion… I broke it.

First ding.

Done.

Bell broken.

Apparently I don’t do anything halfway — not even ringing a ceremonial bell.

So, I fixed it (because of course I did), and then I rang it again — loud and proud.

And then they sang me a goodbye song.

And I cried.

Because it wasn’t just about finishing radiation.

It was everything.

The surgeries.
The chemo.
The appointments.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
The fight.

All of it wrapped up in one moment… standing there, ringing that bell.

And just when I thought I was walking out done forever, they gently reminded me:

“I’ll see you next week for your follow-up.”

Of course.

Because cancer doesn’t exactly do clean endings.

But you know what?

I’ll take it.

One day a week sounds a whole lot better than five.

I will take that win all day long.

---

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Shrink-Wrap, Allergic Reactions & My Greased Pig Phase

🌼 Date: Wednesday, April 29, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tight, tired, and slightly irritated (understatement of the year)

💖 Status: My skin is mad, my chest is tight, and I’m officially entering the Greased Pig Phase

😕 Outlook: Hoping for relief, more oxygen, and that my skin and I can make peace soon

Today during the setup for my treatment, I noticed something that made me raise an eyebrow.

The green box on the screen (my dear old VCD – Visual Coaching Device) is getting lower and lower each day.

And that means one thing… my breathing is becoming shallower every day.

Here’s what the VCD breathing screen looks like during treatment:

The light blue background is the screen I watch while I’m lying on the table.
The green box is the “safe zone.”
The white line moves up when I inhale and down when I exhale.

My job is to take a deep breath and hold it, so the white line stays inside the green box while the machine delivers the radiation.

Lately I’ve noticed that green box keeps getting lower and lower on the screen, which means my breaths are getting shallower — most likely because my chest skin is so tight right now it feels like shrink-wrap.

I don’t think that’s a good thing.

It feels like I’m trying to wear an XS sports bra when I normally wear a L.
And no, that’s not a good look for anyone.

Thanks to my best friend Google (seriously, what did we ever do without you?), here’s what’s going on.

Radiation causes inflammation, dehydration, and the development of fibrosis — thickening and scarring of the skin. It damages skin cells and reduces elasticity, leading to dryness and that lovely “shrink-wrap” effect.

And this is also the reason my plastic surgeon is making me wait at least six months after radiation before doing my reconstructive surgery.

Apparently once radiation tightens and thickens the skin, it becomes what they politely call “not friendly.” Meaning it’s no longer soft or pliable enough for surgery to be successful.

So, before any reconstruction can happen, my skin needs time to calm down, soften back up, and start behaving like normal skin again.

No wonder it’s so hard to take a deep breath.

That probably also explains the lightheadedness and the daily headaches.

My body would really appreciate some more oxygen please.

According to Google (again, never lets me down), here’s how to manage this tightness:

• Moisturize frequently — apply recommended creams or lotions to help with dry skin.
• Gentle movement — stretching and physical therapy can help improve flexibility in the affected area.
• Contact your care team for any signs of blistered or broken skin.

Well… looks like I may have been doing Option #1 a little too faithfully.

Fast forward to after today’s treatment.

It’s Wednesday, which means I get to meet with the doctor.

He was definitely not impressed with how my skin is behaving.

That makes two of us.

He’s also concerned that the redness and itchiness are now spreading to the right side — the side that is not receiving treatment.

Lovely.

After he took some pictures (at what point will my portfolio be complete? Can I ask for copies in case I decide to pursue a modeling career later? These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my head while I’m being asked to pose in different positions), he dropped the bombshell.

He thinks I’m allergic to the Calendula cream that I’ve been faithfully slathering on my torso for the better part of three weeks now.

And, on the order of the nurse, for the past week I’ve been sealing in the cream that I’m apparently allergic to with Aquaphor so my poor skin can’t breathe at all.

Wonderful.

Since when did I become such a good girl — a rule follower, a goodie two-shoes?

Looks like I’m going back to being the rebel, the naughty rule breaker, because honestly that would have served me much better in this situation.

So I left the appointment with:

• A prescription for a new antibiotic
• An appointment to see the nurse tomorrow after treatment for a skin check
• Instructions to discontinue the Calendula cream and only use Aquaphor everywhere

Which means I am now officially entering my next phase of radiation treatment.

The Greased Pig Phase.

Aquaphor is now my new best friend.

We are going to be spending a lot of time together.

I’m basically a slip-n-slide waiting to happen.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be over here shining like a disco ball and leaving a trail of sparkle behind me.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Cup Noodles, Tokamaks & One Very Crispy Boob

🌼 Date: Tuesday, April 28, 2026

⚡ Energy: Fried, itchy, and slightly delusional

❤️‍🩹 Status: Officially entering the “crispy” stage of radiation

😒 Outlook: Hoping this is the peak before things start healing

When I woke up this morning and looked at my chest, I knew immediately that things had escalated overnight.

The color was darker.
The welts were bigger.
The bumps looked angrier.

Basically, my boob and the entire side of my torso decided to enter what I’m now calling the “extra crispy” phase of radiation treatment.

(See photographic evidence above. Yes, I added a heart over the bump that could potentially be mistaken for the beginning of a nipple. You’re welcome.)

At this point my skin looks like it lost a bar fight with the sun.

So on the drive to radiation this morning, my brain started wandering — which is always dangerous territory these days.

I started wondering…

When they’re radiating my boob, does the saline inside the expander heat up the same way my skin does?

Because if it does, that would technically make my boob something like a Cup Noodles container.

Think about it.

Perfect size.
Add some boiling radiation heat.
Wait a few minutes.

Boom.

Lunch.

If we worked this right, maybe my Breathing Olympics routine could double as the cooking timer.

Deep breath… hold it… noodles halfway done.

Deep breath… hold it again… add seasoning packet.

Because honestly, when you’re driving 45–60 minutes each way for less than twenty minutes on the table, it feels like we should at least be able to multitask.

But the heat coming off my red-hot boob this morning did make me curious about something else.

What’s actually hotter than the surface of the sun?

Naturally, I Googled it.

The answer: a fusion nuclear experiment called a tokamak, which can reach temperatures around 100,000 degrees Celsius.

Good to know.

Because judging by the way my chest feels right now, I’m pretty sure the radiation department is secretly running their own little tokamak experiment directly under my left boob.

Science is amazing.

My skin, however, is not impressed.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Frozen Vegetable Parade

🌼 Date: Monday, April 27, 2026

⚡ Energy: Fried, itchy, and mildly nauseous

❤️‍🩹 Status: Managing the side effects one frozen vegetable at a time

😣 Outlook: Hoping tomorrow my skin decides to behave

Today has been one of those days where my body decided to remind me that radiation treatment is not a spa package.

I’ve been nauseous, tired, and itching so badly that at one point I was convinced I had popped the little blister-like pustules in my armpit. If you’ve never wondered what it feels like to want to scratch your skin off while simultaneously trying not to touch it at all… congratulations, you’re living a blessed life.

Enter the Frozen Vegetable Parade.

The nurses told me if the itching or burning gets bad, to use a frozen bag of peas or corn because it molds better to the body than an ice pack. And let me tell you, whoever discovered that trick deserves some kind of medical award.

So now the freezer has become part pharmacy, part produce aisle.

Frozen peas: deployed.
Frozen corn: standing by.
Both taking turns doing their tour of duty.

At this point I’m pretty sure if someone opened our freezer they would think we were preparing for the world’s strangest dinner. Instead of cooking the vegetables, I’m rotating them around my body like some kind of icy pit crew.

Peas on the armpit.
Corn on the boob.
Back to peas again.

The glamorous life of cancer treatment continues.

Casey walked by earlier while I was holding a bag of frozen peas under my arm and just shook his head like this is completely normal behavior now. Which, in our house, I guess it kind of is.

The good news is that the cold does help calm the itching down a bit. The bad news is that once the peas thaw out, it’s time to swap them out for the corn and start the whole process over again.

So if anyone was wondering what the cutting-edge treatment plan looks like at this stage of radiation, apparently it involves a steady supply of frozen vegetables and a whole lot of patience.

At this point I’m just grateful none of the neighbors can see through the windows, because trying to explain why I’m icing myself with produce would probably require a conversation I’m not prepared to have.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Laughter Therapy

🌼 Date: Sunday, April 26, 2026

⚡ Energy: Surprisingly good

💖 Status: Recharged by laughter

😆 Outlook: Turns out laughter might actually be the best medicine

Today I got to meet a couple of friends from work for brunch, and honestly, it was kind of amazing.

For a couple of hours, I got to talk about something other than appointments, schedules, doctors, treatments, and all the other medical and cancer-related crap that has taken over my life lately.

It was refreshing.

Actually, it was more than refreshing — it felt normal.

We laughed so hard that by the time we left, my cheeks actually hurt. I’m not kidding. I had to massage them like they were cramped muscles just to get them to relax.

Apparently when you spend weeks mostly talking about cancer, your face forgets how much work real laughter requires.

And I kind of loved it.

For a little while today, I wasn’t a cancer patient.

I wasn’t someone in the middle of radiation treatments or dealing with side effects or counting appointments.

I was just Tina.

Sitting at a table with friends.

Laughing so hard my face hurt.

And honestly, that might have been the best therapy I’ve had all week.

---

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Itching Phase & Chemo Brain Glitches

🌼 Date: Saturday, April 25, 2026

⚡ Energy: Itchy and mentally scrambled

❤️‍🩹 Status: Surviving the side effects

🤨 Outlook: Hoping my brain and my skin both decide to behave

The itching phase has officially begun.

I’m pretty sure anyone who sees me right now thinks I either have bed bugs or some kind of contagious skin condition. Don’t worry — at least it’s not contagious. Just another glamorous little side effect of radiation.

The double coat of lotion seems to be helping a bit, and having the weekend off from treatment will hopefully give my skin a chance to calm down before we start zapping it again on Monday.

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But something else happened today that honestly scared me more than the itching.

The words I was trying to say were just… gone.

Not floating around somewhere in my brain waiting to be retrieved. Not the usual moment where the word is “on the tip of my tongue.” Just completely gone.

You know that feeling when you walk into a room and forget why you went in there?

Now imagine that feeling multiplied by about a thousand.

That’s what chemo brain feels like some days.

People joke about chemo brain like it’s just being a little forgetful. Misplacing your keys. Losing your train of thought.

But what they don’t talk about is how much deeper it can go.

It’s like parts of your brain start glitching. Words disappear in the middle of a sentence. You stop talking because the next thought simply isn’t there anymore. Conversations slip away while you’re still in them.

You walk into a room and your mind goes completely blank.

Sometimes it feels like pieces of your memory just evaporate.

From the outside, everything looks normal. Your hair might be growing back. You’re smiling. You’re alive.

But inside your head, it can feel like the control panel is malfunctioning.

And that part is terrifying.

Because it doesn’t just feel like forgetfulness. Some days it feels dangerously close to something much bigger — like dementia knocking softly at the door.

People tell me all the time that it will get better.

My husband. My mom. Friends. Co-workers.

“It’s okay.”
“This too will pass.”
“You’ll get your brain back.”

I want to believe them.

But what if it doesn’t get better?

What if my brain never quite works the way it used to?

What if I come out the other side of this cancer free, but not quite the same Tina who started this journey?

Maybe the snarky, quick-witted, smart-assed version of me takes a hit.

Maybe the new version of Tina is a little slower. A little quieter. A little more cautious.

…Yeah right.

Have you met me?

Not even cancer is going to shut me up.

But it may take me a few extra seconds to remember what I was trying to say.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Modesty Ship Has Sailed

🌼 Date: Friday, April 24, 2026

⚡ Energy: Crispy and getting crispier

❤️‍🩹 Status: Radiation reactions expanding their territory

😑 Outlook: Lotion, Aquaphor, and a whole lot of deep breathing

Radiation Treatment: Day 12 – Reaction Continues

This morning as I was applying my first coat of lotion for the day, I noticed that I had a new bump to add to my radiation-reaction armpit collection.

Like the good girl that I am, I applied my lotion and then the Aquaphor, and asked Casey to do the same for me on my back. It’s beginning to hurt so badly that I have to hold my breath and grab the edge of the bathroom counter while he applies it.

He keeps apologizing and I feel so bad for him, so I try to act like it doesn’t hurt.

But I’m not sure how long I can keep that performance up.

When it came time to do my left boob, though…

Oh lordie.

The pain literally took my breath away.

Everywhere I touched to apply lotion left white fingerprints on my skin.

The strange thing is that most of my boob is still numb, but let me tell you — I could feel every bit of this.

I’m pretty sure my boob spent the night having a sleepover on the surface of the sun.

Throughout the day I also noticed that the left side of my neck is extremely hot and tender to the touch. I can’t even rest my head on my hand without it hurting.

And today I wore a hoodie.

Even through the hoodie, I could still feel the heat radiating from my boob.

The fun part?

I still have four treatments left, and they say radiation reactions will continue to grow for at least a couple of weeks after treatment ends.

Well, that’s something to look forward to.

During setup for my appointment today, they added a new nurse to the mix.

On a normal day, I lie on the table totally exposed while they get me aligned just right. They use my little radiation tattoos to get the measurements correct, they measure the height of the table plus the height of my chest while I’m holding my breath, and they use all of that to determine exactly how far the table needs to be from the machine that shoots the radiation beam.

Once they’re satisfied with all the measurements, they cover my chest with a folded piece of what looks like a bedsheet for modesty.

The funny part about that?

They cover me up right before they close the giant lead door and leave the room.

So, while the whole team is standing in the room, I’m lying there fully exposed for anyone to see.

But once they leave, suddenly modesty becomes important.

Yesterday we had a new nurse, and she forgot to give me the modesty cover.

At this point in my life, though, is there really any modesty left?

I’ve had kids, which pretty much strips all modesty away immediately.

Then there are the annual exams women get to enjoy, where apparently you are never far enough down the table.

I always scoot down until I can literally feel my cheeks hanging off the end of the table, and still I hear:

“Just a little more please.”

Like seriously… should I just line up the end of the table with my lower back?

For years I thought those stirrups were some sort of medieval torture device, but eventually I realized they were actually helpful.

If you push against them with all your body weight and arch your back just right, you can prevent yourself from falling off the end of the table and landing in an embarrassing puddle at the doctor’s feet.

Anyway… back to radiation.

Today we had another new nurse, and this one placed the modesty cover before they started taking measurements.

Then she tried to pull it down or shift it slightly to get the measurement she needed.

When they measure things, they call the numbers out loud because another nurse on the other side of the lead door is entering them into the computer and comparing them to the original measurements from my first setup day.

Since I have nothing else to do while lying there like a science experiment, I’ve been paying attention to these numbers.

So when she called out 3.5 inches from the center chest tattoo to a point on my boob, I spoke up before the “voice in the sky” could.

I said,

“It’s supposed to be 4.5.”

Then I added helpfully,

“It would probably be easier to measure if you took the cover off my boobs.”

The look on that poor nurse’s face!

I felt bad for the young thing, so I told her it was okay — she could put it back on when she was finished.

The worry lines on her forehead disappeared instantly.

A few minutes later she called out another measurement.

One of the other nurses came over, lifted the bottom of the modesty cover, and said,

“It’s because she has…”

Then both of them said,

“Oh.”

And I couldn’t hear what it was that I apparently have.

Dang it.

Was he showing her my scar?

Was it the expander bag?

The underside sunburn (sorry — radiation reaction)?

Casey thinks maybe he was showing her that I don’t have a nipple anymore.

I guess I’ll never know.

And yes, that probably makes me sound a little nosy.

But this is still my body, even if lately it feels like it has been checked out of the hospital library and labeled “teaching specimen.”

It would be nice if someone occasionally looped the owner of the boobs into the conversation.

But after that he told her something interesting.

Apparently I’m one of the patients who gets an x-ray every day before treatment.

That was news to me.

I knew they took one if they made changes the day before, but no one had told me they were doing it every single day.

The first thought that popped into my head was:

Great.

An x-ray every day.

I’m going to end up with radiation poisoning.

I mean, when you go to the dentist, they put that heavy lead apron on you before taking x-rays of your teeth to avoid the risk of overexposure.

But I guess in the grand scheme of things…

They are already cooking me from the inside out with a commercial-sized microwave, so what’s one more tiny little x-ray every day going to hurt?

---

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Hot Pink Is Not a Natural Skin Tone

🌼 Date: Thursday, April 23, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slightly crispy

❤️‍🩹 Status: Radiation reactions have officially arrived

🤔 Outlook: Apparently the solution is… more lotion.

Radiation Treatment: Day 11

Last night as I was slathering on my final coat of lotion before bed, I noticed a few bumps in my left armpit.

My immediate thought was blisters, because that is one of the reactions they warned me to watch out for during radiation.

So naturally, I called in my favorite medical consultant.

Casey.

He took one look and said they looked more like heat rash.

Great. Two completely different theories already.

I decided I would just have the nurses take a look when I got to radiation in the morning.

This morning while I was getting ready, Casey was helping lotion my back (because apparently there are places on your own body you simply cannot reach no matter how determined you are).

While he was doing that, he noticed something else.

A welt on my back.

Fantastic.

Now I had two new things to bring to the nurses.

I was starting to feel like they might need to grab a pen and paper.

Fast forward to my appointment.

I decided to spice things up a little today and chose a different pattern combination on my gowns just to mix things up.

Feeling spicy.

Once I got into the treatment room and started shedding my new fashion choices, I showed the nurses my new badges of honor and told them I was taking a poll.

My guesses so far were:

• Blisters from radiation (my theory)
• Heat rash (Casey’s theory)

The nurses all leaned in for a look.

“Hmmm…”

Then the brainstorming began.

One nurse thought maybe bug bites.

Another suggested clogged hair follicles (which is the polite way to say “zits”).

Meanwhile another nurse had already gone into full problem-solving mode and was typing a message to the front nurses station.

She told me by the end of my treatment they would have an answer.

Already I felt like I was getting better service than I had received in my last couple meetings with the doctor.

Treatment itself went smoothly today.

No equipment issues.

No breathing Olympic do-overs.

Everything worked exactly the way it was supposed to.

And when they finished, I was told to head up to the nurse’s station.

Dianne was expecting me.

And they told me to please keep my gown on.

Now that is what I call service.

I trotted up there with my beautiful robe flowing behind me like some sort of radiation spa guest, and Dianne was already waiting with her iPad.

She led me into the nurse’s area, pulled the curtain closed, and took one look.

Her verdict?

None of our guesses.

Not blisters.
Not heat rash.
Not bug bites.

It’s a radiation reaction.

All of it.

Even the part under my left boob.

Now hold on a minute.

What part under my left boob?

Remember, when they did the double mastectomy they basically cut through all the nerves, so a lot of my chest area is still numb.

So I had no idea something was going on there.

Dianne held up a mirror so I could see it.

And let me just say…

We are not talking about a mild sunburn.

We are talking about my favorite shade of pink.

Hot pink.

Which is definitely not a natural color for human skin.

I asked if that was why it feels warm to the touch.

She looked at me and said,

“Uh… yeah.”

Now hold on a minute.

What part under my left boob?

Remember, when they did the double mastectomy they basically cut through all the nerves, so a lot of my chest area is still numb.

So I had no idea something was going on there.

Dianne held up a mirror so I could see it.

And let me just say…

We are not talking about a mild sunburn.

We are talking about my favorite shade of pink.

Hot pink.

Which is definitely not a natural color for human skin.

I asked if that was why it feels warm to the touch.

She looked at me and said,

“Uh… yeah.”

So now we have a new care plan.

I am officially upgrading from three lotion sessions per day to four.

Each time I slather on the lotion, I am supposed to seal it in with Aquaphor.

If the areas start to itch or burn, I am to grab a frozen bag of peas or corn, because they mold to your body better than a regular ice pack.

And if any of the areas start to:

• weep
• bleed
• or get significantly worse

I am to call them immediately.

She also told me that if the reaction continues to worsen, they can prescribe a medicated cream.

Which immediately made me wonder…

If they know radiation reactions typically show up around day 11, and it happens to something like 9 out of 10 patients, why don’t they just prescribe the cream from the beginning?

If someone turns out to be the lucky 1 out of 10, great — they never need it.

But making the rest of us suffer until someone finally offers the prescription seems a little backwards.

Apparently that cream is treated like some rare artifact.

Locked away.

Guarded.

Protected like the one ring everyone is searching for.

“My precious.”

She also told me that if I have any concerns at all, I can stop by the nurse’s station after any of my treatments and have them take a look.

Now that is bedside manner.

A huge improvement over the doctor.

Casey and I were talking about it tonight and I said,

“Maybe next Wednesday when we meet with the doctor we should ask him for his credentials just to make sure he actually went to medical school.”

Because honestly?

I think he could learn a thing or two from the nurses.

They seem to be the real heroes in the radiation department.

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

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Mystery X-Rays, Squirrely Patients & Throat-Numbing Magic

🌼 Date: Wednesday, April 22, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cautiously relieved

💖 Status: Radiation ongoing, mystery solved

😍 Outlook: Grateful for throat-numbing magic

Today was my weekly meeting with my oncologist after treatment, and I’m happy to report that he was well mannered today, which meant Casey did not have to step in and defend the honor of his queen.

Whew.

But before we get to that part, let’s talk about what happened earlier during radiation.

This morning they got me all lined up on the table — arms up in the trays, head turned to the right, breathing screen dropped down in front of my face — and then everyone left the room like they normally do.

The 12-inch thick lead door sealed shut, and there I was.

Just Tina.

Lying on the table.

Practicing my breathing exercises.

Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting some more.

Usually they start the treatment pretty quickly once the door closes, but today nothing was happening. So I’m laying there staring at the screen, breathing in and out like I’m training for the Olympic trials, already starting to feel that familiar post-radiation headache creeping in.

And the zapping hadn’t even started yet.

At one point I started wondering if I was about to hyperventilate myself right off the table before they even turned the machine on.

Finally, the door opened and someone came in and said,

“Sorry it took so long, the doctor came and had to check something he saw on the X-ray from yesterday.”

Acca-excuse me?

Then they quickly added,

“Just stay still. We just need to make an adjustment and measure a couple of things.”

Now hold on just a minute.

Because when you say something like that to a cancer patient, you can’t just toss it out there casually and expect our brains not to go straight to the worst possible conclusion.

You know exactly where my mind went.

Did he see a spot?
Did he see cancer on the X-ray?

And here I am lying on a table with my arms pinned above my head, the lead door sealed shut again, practicing my breathing like a good little Olympic trainee while my brain is busy writing an entirely different medical drama in the background.

You know… totally calm and rational thoughts while waiting to be zapped with radiation.

After my treatment I had my weekly appointment with my oncologist, so of course I asked him about what they had found on the X-ray yesterday.

And he looked at me like I had three heads.

He had no idea what I was talking about.

Excuse me again?

So he left the room to go ask.

Which immediately raised another question in my mind.

Why was it not in my chart?

Was I being punked?

Because let me tell you something about these medical charts. They keep literally everything in there:

• my maiden name
• my mother’s maiden name
• the city I was born in
• my emergency contact information
• the date of my last period

…but apparently not the important things like “another doctor saw something on your X-ray.”

I’m sure I had a look on my face.

When he came back he explained that the doctor had simply noticed that yesterday it looked like I was rotated slightly to one side during positioning and wanted to make sure I was more level today.

Okay.

That sounds rather important to me.

And also something that might be worth putting into my chart as a note.

Personally, I would word it something like this:

“Tina is a squirrely one and likes to roll. Please check that she is level on the table and not listing too far to the right.”

And these people get paid the big bucks.

Huh.

The good news from the appointment, though, is that he was able to give me a prescription for a numbing liquid gargle that I can use before eating.

Because the pain when swallowing lately has been unreal.

I tried it tonight before dinner and for the first time in days I was able to eat a bowl of soup without wincing.

That is a huge improvement.

Before this, even taking a sip of water hurt.

Now I just have to be careful that I don’t bite my cheek or bite my tongue off, because this stuff numbs anything it comes in contact with.

And being a vegetarian, I certainly do not want to accidentally turn into a meat eater.

That would be a very unfortunate side effect.

---

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

---

Cords, Gold Medals & The Breathing Olympics Continue

🌼 Date: Tuesday, April 21, 2026

⚡ Energy: Gold medal contender

💓 Status: Wi-Fi restored, cords discovered

😑 Outlook: Slightly annoyed, but still showing up

At radiation today the Wi-Fi was back up and running, and so was my VCD!

Victory!

That meant I was able to make it through all four of my daily zappings on the first try. No do-overs today. Which also means I am absolutely crushing it at my Breathing Olympics.

I’m pretty sure my gold medal is currently being forged somewhere as we speak.

On a not-so-fun note, while I was slathering myself with my second coat of lotion today, I noticed something new.

Underneath my left arm, I can actually see the cording.

Not good news.

Time for a quick Medical Terminology Moment.

Cording, also known as Axillary Web Syndrome (AWS), is a common side effect after mastectomy or lymph node removal. It appears as tight, rope-like cords under the skin that can run from the armpit down the arm. It can cause pain, stiffness, and limit shoulder movement.

Symptoms include:

• visible or palpable cords under the skin
• sharp pain in the underarm when reaching
• shoulder stiffness
• tightness that limits movement

The cause is believed to be hardening of connective tissues and lymphatic vessels due to trauma from surgery.

Treatment usually involves:

• specialized physical therapy
• manual stretching to break up scar tissue
• specific exercises to restore shoulder movement
• gentle massage or manual lymphatic drainage
• sometimes pain medication to manage discomfort

Thanks, Google.

So what I’m hearing is this means I will most likely have to go back to physical therapy, where they will give me another list of exercises that I will probably manage to do wrong, and I will once again get to experience the special joy known as deep tissue massage.

Lucky me.

The cording has already started limiting what I can do. I can no longer straighten my arm all the way, and reaching up into the cupboard for a glass is now out of the question.

In order to even take the picture of the cording, I had to hold my phone down near my waist and aim it upward toward my armpit, because that is about as high as I can lift my arm right now.

Which makes putting my arms above my head for radiation treatment every day…

so much more enjoyable.

Not.

But hey — at least today I didn’t have to redo any of my zappings.

Small victories.

---

Want to follow the journey from the beginning or catch up on earlier posts?
Visit Tiny Tina – Status: Alive (Daily Check-Ins) to read them all.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Radiation Olympics & The Brian Command Device

🌼 Date: Monday, April 20, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slightly toasted but still sarcastic

❤️ Status: Olympic breath-holding hopeful

🙂 Outlook: Grateful for technology… even when it glitches

Today when I arrived for my daily dose of radiation, I locked the door to my dressing room and started taking off my sweatshirt when I realized something horrible.

I forgot to stop by my personal walk-in closet and choose my matching outfit for the day.

Forehead slap.

So I redressed myself and paid a visit to the wardrobe to make my selection. Priorities, people.

When I finally get called back, I climb up onto the cold table and wait for what has become one of my favorite parts of this entire process: the towels that have been heated to approximately 108 degrees. Yes folks, I checked the temperature on the cabinet. If I’m going to be here every day, I might as well do some investigative journalism.

Once I’m positioned on the table, I take my arms out of the gown, exposing myself and probably traumatizing everyone in the room. They place my arms in these trays above my head where I have to hang onto little hand grips. Then they cover my arms with the towel that has clearly kissed the sun and drape another one across my legs.

For a brief moment, it almost feels like a mini spa treatment.

That illusion ends quickly when they start repositioning me into a shape that is not comfortable for any human skeleton.

Then they turn my head to the right because they are blasting the lymph nodes on the left side of my neck and clavicle. That’s when the little screen drops down in front of my face and I begin my breathing exercises — also known as training for the Olympic Breath-Holding Trials.

Only today, the screen wasn’t showing the nice calming woodland scene.

Instead, it had the letters VCD floating across it.

I mentioned it to the nurse and he said the Wi-Fi was acting up and they had just reset the screen so hopefully it would reconnect and wake up soon.

But you know me.

I always need a Plan B.

So I asked what happens if it doesn’t wake up from its slumber.

“Well,” he said, “we’ll have to use BCD the old-school way.”

One of the nurses is named Brian, and he would be my Brian Command Device for the day — manually telling me over the intercom whether I needed to take a deeper breath or a shallower one.

The nice thing about the VCD — the Visual Command Device — is that I can see where the white line is sitting inside the green box. That way I know exactly how much room I have to play with before the machine decides I’ve dipped below the safe zone and shuts off.

So far, knock on wood, when I can see the line myself I haven’t had any problems.

But today, with Brian guiding me over the intercom…

It took longer.

For some reason I wasn’t taking a deep enough breath — even though it felt exactly the same as every other day — and apparently I wasn’t able to hold the breath long enough for the entire treatment.

The one targeted at my armpit took three tries before we got it right.

Ugh.

As if this ordeal isn’t torture enough, let’s prolong it.

It definitely made me thankful for technology… even though it glitches from time to time.

And it also made me wonder:

How in the world did we survive without it?

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Well… This Escalated Quickly

🌼 Date: Sunday, April 19, 2026

⚡ Energy: Grateful

💖 Status: Completely Blown Away

🤯 Outlook: Still Processing

Today’s post is a little different.

Today is about you.

Every single person who has taken the time to stop in and read some of my writing.

This blog didn’t start as some grand idea or a plan to build an audience. It started as a digital diary.

In the early days after my diagnosis, my brain wouldn’t stop. My therapist always told me I am what she calls a ruminator. My thoughts tend to get stuck in what she calls the spin cycle.

Her advice?

Write them down.

Get them out of your head and onto paper.

Well… I can type faster than I can write, so I figured I’d just do it on the computer. At first it was just one long document that I added to whenever the thoughts got loud enough that I couldn’t sleep.

Then I started realizing I had pictures taking up space on my phone.

Dates.

Details.

Moments I knew I wouldn’t remember years from now.

And somewhere along the way… my blog was born.

At first I truly thought maybe a small handful of friends and a few family members might read it.

That was the entire expectation.

But when I checked the stats this week, I had to sit down for a minute.

Because right now this little corner of the internet has:

804 visitors.

Let me explain what that means.

Visitors means individual people.

And honestly?

I’m not even sure I know 80 individual people who would want to read what I write, let alone over 800.

That number alone left me stunned.

Then I looked a little closer and saw that those 804 people have come back to read posts over 2,100 times.

Which means many of you didn’t just stop in once.

You came back.

And in the words of Taylor Swift…

“You like me? You really like me?”

I am honestly a little speechless.

Because if I’m being completely honest, I fully expected this blog to quietly find a little hole somewhere in the corner of the internet and disappear into it.

Kind of like the awkward kid at the middle school dance who ends up standing against the wall with their hoodie pulled up.

(Although in my case the hoodie would mostly be to keep my body heat in.)

But are you ready for the stat that really knocked me over?

This blog has been read in 21 different countries.

Twenty-one.

I had to count the list six times to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.

Every time I got the same number.

And I just sat there staring at the screen thinking…

How in the world did that happen?

There have been a lot of tears watching those numbers grow.

Some tears of joy.

Some tears of disbelief.

And maybe a few tears because I accidentally broke my website while trying to figure out how to build it in the first place.

Because let me tell you something…

I have learned more about technology in the last few months than I ever needed to know in any of my “real” jobs.

Apparently cancer comes with a surprise side effect:

Learning how to build a website.

And create graphics.

And post blogs.

And now… apparently make Instagram reels.

Complete with editing audio, timing slides, and figuring out how to make it all work without accidentally deleting something important.

Not bad for someone who used to think uploading photos to Facebook was cutting-edge technology.

But somehow all of those late nights, messy thoughts, puppy interruptions, and slightly chaotic technology lessons have turned into something bigger than I ever expected.

And that is because of you.

Whether you’ve been here since the very first post while I was still figuring out what I was doing…

Or you just found your way here recently…

Please know that I truly appreciate you.

Maybe you are walking this same journey.

Maybe you’re caring for someone who is.

Maybe you have a friend or family member going through something similar.

Or maybe you simply stumbled across my little corner of the internet and decided to stay for a while.

Whatever the reason…

Thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for returning.

Thank you for being part of this story.

Because what started as a way to quiet the noise in my own head has turned into something I never expected:

A place where we can share the hard days…

Laugh at the ridiculous ones…

And keep moving forward.

One badass day at a time.

If something you read here resonates with you, feel free to share it with someone who might need a laugh, a little hope, or proof that life can still be messy and beautiful at the same time. You can also subscribe (for free!) so you get a notification whenever a new post goes live.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Drama Queen on a Leash

🌼 Date: Saturday, April 18, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cozy but chilly

💗 Status: Puppy Mom Mode Activated

🥰 Outlook: Small wins count

Ahhh… it was so nice to sleep in this morning!

Even though for the past eight years I had to get up at the ass crack of dawn (AKA 4:30am) for work, I am still not a fan of these 8:00am appointments on the other side of town.

So today I took full advantage of having no appointments and just lounged around working on my blog and being a girl puppy mom.

Yes, that includes ordering new harnesses, leashes, and of course baby girl clothes for Maizy.

Even though spring is technically here, it has been dang cold in the mornings lately. Casey teases me when I come out to the car each morning wearing my winter parka over a hoodie, with both hoods up, and carrying a blanket to throw over my lap.

Umm… hello.

I’ve lost a crap ton of weight, and I have no hair to keep the heat inside my body. I’m basically walking around like a human Popsicle.

This might be a good time to introduce another one of my grandma’s famous sayings:

“Were you born in a barn?”

That’s what we heard every time we left the front door open.

It was usually followed by:

“We’re not rich enough to heat the outside.”

Well grandma, I must have won the lottery because I’m pretty sure I’ve been heating the outside since the end of December.

Although… I do have some fuzz growing back on my head!

Unfortunately, it is not enough yet to hold in any body heat.

---

Since it was so cold this morning, I put Maizy in a new pair of her jammies. And because she has been testing the boundaries and learning her independence, I had to play the mean mommy and put her harness on her.

Yesterday the little cutie followed Gidget across the street and up the neighbor’s driveway.

Shock and awe!

First of all, Gidget should not have gone up the neighbor’s driveway… but I can’t really be mad at Maizy for following her. She is only just beginning to learn all the rules around her new kingdom here.

If I had been living in a pen for the last six years, I would want to explore as much as possible too.

But after yesterday’s little adventure, today Maizy had to go outside on a leash.

And this… is where the fun begins.

Maizy has never been on a leash.

Like… ever.

I’m sure you’ve seen those videos of cats on leashes where they just freeze and flop over like they’re dead.

Yep.

Drama Queen Maizy must have watched those videos too.

I set her down on the front porch and she froze.

Like a stone statue.

I took a couple tiny steps in front of her calling her name in the baby voice that normally gets her attention.

She slowly turned her head further away from me so I knew she was purposefully NOT looking at me.

Well…

I did what any good puppy mommy would do.

(After I was done giggling.)

I picked her up and set her down in the grass.

This time she mimicked the bunnies in our yard.

When they see us, they freeze. It’s hilarious. It’s like they think if they don’t move a hare (see what I did there), we can’t see them.

I always yell:

“We can see you, Bun Buns!”

Because I’m very mature like that.

Eventually Maizy got over her fear of the leash and we made it about 20 feet down the driveway.

Not bad for her very first time!

As a reward (besides a puppy treat, because I’m a softie) I took her off the leash.

She turned toward me and gave me an honest-to-goodness smile.

We will continue working on the leash.

After all…

aren’t we all a work in progress?

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Ceiling Tiles and Comic Bubbles

🌼 Date: Friday, April 17, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slightly stretched, slightly punchy

💞 Status: Radiation Day #? (who’s counting)

🤗 Outlook: Two glorious days off

Today when the nurse came to collect me from my Zen-like patient waiting room trance, he asked the standard question:

“How are you doing today?”

And without thinking, I replied:

“I’m happy it’s Friday because that means I don’t have to see you for the next two days.”

Cue immediate realization.

Open mouth.
Remove foot.

“Sorry,” I quickly added. “That sounded cruel. What I meant is… I don’t have to come here and do this whole thing.”

(At which point I made a vague hand-waving motion like I was holding a magic wand and casting a spell called Radiation Be Gone!)

Thankfully he laughed and said he didn’t blame me one bit for feeling that way.

Good man.

During treatment today though, my left arm felt extremely tight, and I could feel that familiar pulling sensation that tells me the cording is trying to build up again.

My physical therapist is definitely not going to be happy about that.

Which probably means there are exercises I either forgot to do…did incorrectly…or decided to procrastinate on.

But my next PT appointment isn’t until mid-May, and honestly I’m a little hesitant to call and move it up.

Because the last two times I went in for deep tissue massage, things got…interesting.

And not in a good way.

So for now we will pretend everything is fine and hope that my arm cooperates.

While I was lying on the table today, another delightful sensation popped up.

My left boob suddenly felt like it was about to split open.

Now logically I know that can’t actually happen.

Right?

…Right?

But the higher they position my left arm so they can aim the radiation at my lymph nodes, the more it seems to pull on the incision scar.

And the longer I lay there holding my breath during each beam, the more vivid my imagination becomes.

In my mind, it’s going to happen during either the third or fourth radiation blast.

Because that’s when the machine moves over to the left side of my body.

Which creates a perfectly clear trajectory.

And suddenly my brain starts narrating this entire scene like a cartoon.

The incision pops open…

POP!

Out shoots the expander bag and it launches across the room like a champagne cork.

I look up…

…and there it is.

Stuck to the ceiling tiles.

Just like when my aunt throws a spaghetti noodle at the ceiling to see if it’s done cooking.

If it sticks, the noodles are ready.

Honestly, sometimes I wish we all walked around with those little thought bubbles above our heads, like in the comics.

Because I guarantee the internal dialogue going on in people’s minds would be wildly entertaining.

Mine is already a pretty ridiculous running commentary.

And I’m sure there are people out there with even better ones.

Frankly, I think this is a missed opportunity for humanity.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Brass Bra Activated

🌼 Date: Thursday, April 16, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slightly congested and mildly annoyed

❤️‍🔥 Status: Brass bra engaged

😘 Outlook: Learning to trust my own voice

This morning I woke up with a stuffy nose and a tickle in my throat.

Now, normally I would chalk that up to allergies, a cold, or Oregon just being Oregon. But considering that I am currently undergoing daily radiation treatments, it made me wonder if this was yet another delightful little side effect of the process.

One of our friends who went through radiation last year told me she felt like she had the flu during treatment. I’m not sure if she meant the body aches kind of flu or the runny nose, congestion, sore throat version…so naturally I did what every modern patient does these days.

I Googled it.

My first search:

“Is a stuffy nose a side effect of radiation?”

Google answered:
Yes…if you are being treated for head or neck cancer.

Well, that’s not my situation.

So I refined my question.

“Is a stuffy nose a side effect of radiation for breast cancer?”

Google said:
No.

Hmm.

But then I remembered something important. One of the beams they are aiming at me is targeting the supraclavicular lymph nodes, which are located just above my collarbone.

So I tried again.

“Can radiation to the supraclavicular lymph nodes cause congestion?”

And suddenly Google said:

Yes.

Apparently when radiation is directed toward that area, it can irritate nearby tissues that connect to the upper respiratory and sinus regions. The most common side effects are still skin irritation, fatigue, and sore throat, but nasal congestion can happen as well, because the treatment area is close enough to affect the sinus passages.

Well look at that.

Mystery solved.

And if I had to guess, the congestion probably also explains the headaches I’ve been getting after each treatment.

Now, I’m not a doctor.

But if I had listened to my patient with my ears open instead of in my pocket, as my grandma used to say, I might have connected those dots a little sooner.

That realization also helped me understand why my appointment with the radiation oncologist yesterday bothered me so much.

It wasn’t just the lack of helpful answers.

It was the feeling that I wasn’t really being heard.

Like it was one of those classic situations where the person with the authority assumes the person without it must be mistaken.

And unfortunately, that’s not a new feeling for me.

When I was younger, I experienced that dynamic more times than I can count. Being dismissed, talked over, or treated like my observations didn’t carry any weight.

It’s a trigger I thought I had long since learned how to handle.

Apparently not.

But the good thing about moments like this is they remind you of something important.

Next Wednesday, when I walk into that exam room again, I won’t be walking in unsure of myself.

I’ll be walking in with my notes, my questions, and as my grandma used to say…

my brass bra on.

And now that Casey knows exactly how that appointment made me feel, I can pretty much guarantee he’ll be walking in there on high alert right alongside me.

He already treats me like a queen and has always been my protector and my knight in shining armor. But if this doctor continues to treat my concerns like background noise, there’s a very good chance Casey will politely — but firmly — suggest that we might be better off under someone else’s care.

Because when it comes to my health, he doesn’t play around.

And honestly?

That kind of backup makes it a whole lot easier to stand your ground.

Because I promised myself a long time ago that I would never let someone make me feel small again.

And here I went and allowed it to happen.

Shame on me.

…although to be fair, I’m going to blame that one on chemo brain.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Waiting Room Was More Helpful

🌼 Date: Wednesday, April 15, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on stubbornness and puppy supervision

❤️‍🩹 Status: Slightly crispy but still standing

😑 Outlook: One treatment closer to the finish line

Today was my first weekly check-in with the radiation oncologist after treatment.

After finishing radiation for the morning, Casey was released from his post in the main waiting room (poor guy gets exiled out there while I go through the back door club of gowns and lockers). We headed into the exam room together, armed with my list of questions.

And yes…of course I had a list.

If you know me, you know this should surprise absolutely no one. Between chemo brain and my general love of organization, if it isn’t written down, it’s gone forever.

So here we go.

My questions for the good doctor:

1. Should I be taking anything to prevent bone loss from radiation?
2. I’ve been getting headaches after every treatment.
3. The nausea has come back most mornings. Isn’t that supposed to be over now that chemo is done?
4. Why does my chest feel like someone wrapped a giant rubber band around it?
5. Isn’t it a little early to already be feeling the itching and general “radiation ick” when today was only treatment #5?

When the doctor walked in and saw my list, he kind of froze for a second.

Like a deer in headlights.

Which made me wonder…do people not normally ask questions?

Sir…have we met?

I am a list person.

Anyway, we went through them one by one.

For the bone loss question, he recommended calcium and vitamin D, which I had already started taking. He also reassured us that because of the location of my radiation field, the only bones at risk would be my ribs, nothing structural like my spine.

Okay. That was helpful.

Then we moved on to the headaches and nausea.

Apparently those are not typical side effects of radiation, which he said in a way that almost made it sound like I had invented them for fun.

But interestingly enough…he still refilled my nausea medication from chemo.

So…make of that what you will.

As for the tightness across my chest and the early itching and discomfort?

His answer was essentially:

“Make sure you’re using the lotion.”

When I asked exactly how far across my shoulder blade and into my back I should be applying it, he said:

“Just as far as you can reach.”

Well.

That certainly clears things up.

By the time we left the appointment, Casey and I both kind of looked at each other like:

Did we really just spend 30 minutes of our lives for that?

Honestly, I feel like Google might have provided the same answers…possibly with better bedside manner.

But speaking of lotion, I have now become something of a radiation skincare connoisseur.

I currently have three different lotions in rotation:

• The one the radiation team recommended (which, to me, smells a little…questionable).
• The oncology lotion from the same brand that helped me through my snow globe phase. I still use that on the non-radiated parts of my body.
• And the new one that arrived this weekend.

I have to say…this third one is the winner.

It feels like silk going on, still contains the calendula they recommended, and it also has aloe, cocoa butter, and shea butter. Best of all, the smell doesn’t make me wrinkle my nose.

So for now, Team Lotion #3 is in the lead.

Once we got home, the normal post-radiation routine kicked in:

Feed the puppies.
Wash their faces.
Wash their dishes.
Take them outside.
Lotion time.

Then it’s straight into my trusty silky jammies and off to nap.

Radiation may be exhausting, but at least I have two very dedicated assistants making sure I follow doctor’s orders.

And by assistants, I mean two tiny supervisors who insist on napping directly on top of me to make sure I don’t get up too soon.

Apparently this is serious work.

And when you’re paid in treats…you take your job very seriously.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Radiation Day 4: It’s Okay to Not Be Okay

🌼 Date: Tuesday, April 14, 2026

⚡ Energy: Frustrated

💗 Status: Honest

🤨 Outlook: One Step at a Time

Today was a hard day.

I really did not want to get up early this morning. I was already dressed and ready to go when I remembered I forgot to put my first coat of lotion on for the day.

Instead of getting undressed again, I just tossed the lotion in my purse.

I figured since I have to get undressed and put on two gowns when I get there anyway, I might as well take advantage of the time and the wonderful fluorescent lighting in the dressing room to slather lotion on this completely unrecognizable body staring back at me in the mirror.

Which leads me to an important question.

Why do they even have mirrors in those dressing rooms?

Do they really think we want to stand there and look at our misshapen, scarred bodies?

Mine with one boob and one flapjack?

Yeah… that wasn’t happening today.

I had to turn around with my back to the mirror while I put the lotion on.

And when I finished, I may have thrown the bottle into the locker a little harder than necessary.

Or maybe it just slipped out of my overly moisturized hand.

We may never know.

Thankfully they have that Zen waiting room back there where I could go cool my heels for a bit.

While I was sitting there today, I had a realization.

It’s okay to not be okay.

I don’t have to automatically say “I’m doing great!” every time someone asks how I’m doing.

I don’t have to smile back every time someone gives me that pity smile when they see my bald head.

I don’t have to say thank you every time someone holds the door for me with that look of condolence like I’ve already been handed a death sentence.

And my personal favorite…

When a mother grabs her child and moves them out of my path because they see me walking toward them with a mask on like I’m about to spread some sort of contagious disease.

People mean well.

I know they do.

But there’s a part of this journey that people talk about in a way that makes me want to scream.

You know the one.

“Oh well… at least you’ll get new perky boobs out of the deal!”

Yeah.

It’s not that simple.

What most people don’t realize is that before reconstruction ever happens, there’s this whole in-between stage that nobody really prepares you for.

After surgery they place expanders in your chest.

They’re basically like empty pockets that get slowly filled with fluid week by week.

Little by little they stretch your skin to make room for the implants that will come later.

On paper it sounds simple.

In reality?

It’s tight.
It’s heavy.
It feels like constant pressure.

Every fill appointment stretches your skin a little more and your body has to adjust all over again.

And emotionally… that part is just as strange.

Because this stage isn’t the “before” anymore.

But it’s not the “after” either.

It’s this weird middle place where your body doesn’t quite feel like your own.

You look down and see changes… but it doesn’t feel like you.

You know it’s progress… but it doesn’t feel like healing yet.

I’ve caught myself wondering more than once:

How many times am I supposed to learn to accept a new version of my body?

But here’s the truth I’m learning.

The expanders have a purpose.

They aren’t meant to be comfortable.

They’re meant to prepare the body for what comes next.

They create the space that makes reconstruction possible.

And even though this stage can feel uncomfortable, frustrating, and emotionally exhausting…

It’s still progress.

It’s my body adapting.

It’s my body stretching in ways I never imagined — physically and emotionally.

And if you’re in this stage right now, or heading into it soon…

I want you to know something.

You are not alone in this strange in-between space.

You’re not wrong for feeling disconnected from your own body.

And you’re not weak for having days where you just want to throw the lotion bottle into the locker.

This part of the journey is hard.

But it’s also part of how we get through it.

One appointment.
One stretch.
One day at a time.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Radiation Day 3: Supervised by the Lotion Police

🌼 Date: Monday, April 13, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on Empty

❤️ Status: Radiation Day 3 Complete

🥱 Outlook: Nap Required

Even though today was only Radiation Day #3, I cannot believe how tired it already makes me.

And before anyone asks — yes, I am getting plenty of sleep. I’m logging about 8–9 hours every night, and I even manage to sneak in a little cat nap on the ride home from radiation.

But apparently radiation fatigue doesn’t care about my sleep schedule.

Once we get home, we have officially developed a new routine.

First up:

• Feed the puppies
• Wash their dishes
• Wipe off their precious little faces
• Take them outside for potty time

Then it’s time for Round Two of the daily lotion ceremony.

Of course, this process does not happen without supervision.

Because I now have two very dedicated members of the Lotion Police making sure I apply the cream exactly where I’m supposed to.

They may be small, but these two run a very tight operation. When you’re paid in treats, professionalism matters.

After that, I change into my trusty silky pajamas, which has quickly become my favorite part of the day.

And then…

Nap time.

Apparently I’m not allowed to nap alone anymore though.

I now have two very serious nap supervisors who insist on laying directly on top of me to make sure I don’t wander off or skip my rest.

They take their jobs very seriously.

Honestly, I’m not sure if they’re providing emotional support…

or just making sure I stay still long enough for them to get a good nap in.

Either way, Radiation Day 3 is officially complete.

And if anyone needs me for the next hour or two, I’ll be right here…

under the supervision of my very strict nap enforcement team.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

When Hearts Gather

🌼 Date: Sunday, April 12, 2026

⚡ Energy: Heavy but Grateful

💔 Status: Holding Space

🥰 Outlook: Love Always Shows Up

This week reminded me of something important.

Sometimes life brings moments that stop everything in its tracks. Moments where schedules, plans, and everyday worries suddenly feel very small.

And when those moments happen, people gather.

Our home has always been what our kids and their friends jokingly call the safe house. Over the years there have been sleepovers, late-night talks, celebrations, heartbreaks, and more pizza boxes than I could possibly count.

This week the house filled again.

Not with noise and laughter this time — but with something just as powerful.

People.

Friends. Parents. Kids who have grown up together. People who needed somewhere to sit, breathe, cry, hug, and remember.

Sometimes the most important thing a house can do is simply hold people while they hold each other.

There were stories shared.

Memories remembered.

Tears.

Laughter too — because somehow even in the middle of heartbreak, the funny stories always find their way back to the surface.

Grief is strange like that.

It hurts deeply, but it also reminds you just how much love exists in the world.

Losing my own son nearly four years ago broke my heart in ways I still can’t fully explain. But this week it also reminded me that grief has a language all its own.

It allows broken hearts to recognize each other.

Sometimes there are no perfect words.

Sometimes the most meaningful thing you can offer someone is simply understanding.

A hand to hold.
A hug that lasts a little longer.
Someone who knows what it feels like to carry a love that never goes away.

If there is any meaning in the pain we carry, maybe it’s this:

That the love we hold for the people we’ve lost can still help us show up for others when they need it most.

This week reminded me that even in the hardest moments, people still come together.

And when they do, love shows up too.

Always.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Radiation Reality Check

🌼 Date: Saturday, April 11, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slowing Down

❤️ Status: Observing and Adjusting

🫤 Outlook: Learning as I Go

One of the nice things about radiation is that it only happens Monday through Friday, so today was a treatment-free day.

Which gave me a chance to notice something.

Today I didn’t have a headache.

And that made me realize that I actually did have headaches the last two days after radiation.

Interesting.

So I think starting Monday I’m going to try taking some Tylenol before leaving for my appointment and see if that makes a difference.

Then this morning when I went to put my lotion on, I noticed something else.

My skin is already a little tender, and last night I had a couple spots that were itchy.

Excuse me?

I have way too much of this journey left for my skin to already be getting cranky. It needs to calm itself down immediately.

So naturally, like any modern problem solver, I turned to the most trusted medical advisor known to mankind:

Amazon.

I ordered a different lotion that still contains calendula, but this one comes from the same company that makes the oncology cream that helped me so much during my snow globe phase.

So we’ll see how their radiology cream performs.

It should arrive tomorrow, and I will of course provide a completely unbiased product review.

Because if this journey has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the real MVPs are the random products that help you survive treatment.

I’ve also started keeping a running list in the Notes app on my phone of things I want to ask my oncologist.

Part of the radiation protocol is that I meet with him every Wednesday after treatment so he can check in, inspect my skin, and make sure everything still looks okay to continue.

My current list includes:

• The headaches
• The itchiness and tenderness
• The fatigue that seems to already be showing up

I honestly expected radiation fatigue to behave more like chemo did, where it builds up gradually over time.

But apparently my body had other plans.

I guess that’s what I get for thinking I knew what to expect.

I also added one more question to my list:

Should I be taking something to prevent bone loss from radiation now that I’m officially a senior citizen?

😁

Because if we’re going to do this whole radiation adventure, we might as well try to keep the rest of the skeleton in good working order.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Radiation Day 2: Apparently, I Need to Relearn How Mornings Work

🌼 Date: Friday, April 10, 2026

⚡ Energy: Sleepy but Functional

❤️ Status: Radiation Day 2 Complete

🙂 Outlook: Getting the Hang of This

After not setting an alarm for quite a while now, having one go off at 6:30 AM is going to take some getting used to.

Actually… I woke up before the alarm.

Geesh.

Whose bright idea was it to schedule my appointments for 8:00 in the morning anyway?

Oh wait… that was probably me.

And in my half-asleep, barely functioning state this morning, I managed to completely forget one very important part of the routine:

Lotion.

So after I was already dressed, I had to undress, lotion, and get dressed all over again.

Clearly this new routine is going to take a little practice.

The good news is that today the nurses managed to get me lined up correctly on the table on the first try. The sticker with the crosshairs on my side did its job, and I was only on the table for about 25 minutes today instead of 45 minutes like yesterday.

That alone felt like a huge victory.

I’m also starting to understand the check-in process a little better now.

Apparently all I have to do is say good morning to the receptionist and she buzzes me through the door to the back treatment area.

Casey, however, has to stay out front in the main waiting room.

😒

Once I’m buzzed in, I walk back to an area with private dressing rooms, lockers, several bathrooms, and a patient waiting room.

During my tour yesterday, the nurse explained that patients wear two gowns during treatment.

One that opens in the back…
And another on top like a robe for warmth and privacy.

I actually thought that was really nice. They seem much more concerned about patient comfort than they are about dirtying twice as many gowns a day.

But here’s the real challenge.

When I opened the cupboard to grab my gowns, I discovered there are multiple different gown prints.

Which means…

Anyone who knows me knows exactly what happened next.

Yes.

I absolutely had to find two that matched.

My OCD would never allow me to wear two different patterns.

Once I’m changed and my clothes are locked in a locker, I head to the patient waiting room.

And let me tell you — that place is so peaceful it’s almost dangerous.

They have soft calming music playing, and the big screen TV alternates between beautiful scenery from around the world and videos of animals in their natural habitats.

There’s also a table set up with puzzles and a huge fish tank filled with colorful fish and plants.

The whole room is basically designed to put you into a full Zen state.

Honestly, it’s hard to stay awake in there.

The nurse told me yesterday that there are cameras in that room so they know when patients are ready and waiting.

That’s actually really helpful for me, because our drive there takes 45–60 minutes depending on traffic, and I usually drink my protein smoothie on the way.

Which means by the time I arrive, I almost always need to use the restroom.

Also — and this might be a little TMI — I seem to get the nervous sh!ts when I get there.

So it’s nice to know they won’t be calling my name the second I walk through the door.

It reminds me of the old restaurant trick.

You know when your food is taking forever?

You send someone to the bathroom…

…and magically the food arrives.

Every single time.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Radiation Day 1: Apparently This Is an Olympic Sport Now

🌼 Date: Thursday, April 9, 2026

⚡ Energy: Determined (and slightly sore)

❤️ Status: Radiation Day 1 Complete

😐 Outlook: 16 more to go… I think

Today was Radiation Day 1.

And let me tell you something right off the bat — nobody warned me that radiation therapy would involve competitive-level breath holding and extreme yoga positions.

Even though I was told earlier this week that I wouldn’t need to redo my CT scans and measurements, every day before treatment they take an x-ray to compare everything to the original CT scan to make sure I’m lined up perfectly on the table.

Which sounds simple enough.

It is not simple.

First of all, they position me like this:

Both arms stretched up over my head holding little posts, but because one of the radiation beams is aimed at the lymph nodes in my left armpit, my left arm has to go higher than my right.

By the time we got started, my arms and shoulders were already falling asleep.

Then they couldn’t get my torso lined up quite right, so one of the nurses kept coming in and pulling on the sheet under me to shift my position.

At one point I was twisted into some kind of weird S-shaped position that was about as comfortable as it sounds. I also had to concentrate really hard to keep my feet from flopping outward, which was putting pressure on my hips.

All I could think while laying there was:

“Holy crap… they haven’t even started the radiation yet, and I have to do at least 17 of these.”

I may not survive.

Then all three nurses came in and said:

“Something isn’t working. We’re going to reset. Go ahead and sit up.”

Reset?!

We hadn’t even started yet!

Alrighty then… let’s try this again.

The second time around they realized the tattoo on the right side of my torso wasn’t lining up properly, so now they’re using a Tegaderm sticker with crosshairs to help line everything up. That sticker should stay on about a week and they’ll replace it when needed.

Thankfully the second setup went much smoother, and they were finally able to start treatment.

Now here’s where things get really interesting.

Since they are also radiating my lymph nodes, I have to lay there with my head turned completely to the right.

They tape a little monitor box on my stomach and I have to watch a tablet that shows my breathing.

When I inhale, a white line rises up on the screen. I have to take a deep breath and hold it so the white line stays inside a green box.

If that line drops below the green box?

The radiation automatically shuts off.

The reason for this breath-holding Olympic event is to push my heart and lungs as far away from the radiation beam as possible.

Which makes sense, because those are two organs I would very much like to keep functioning and uncooked.

Each radiation beam lasts about 30 seconds.

Do you know how long 30 seconds is when you’re holding your breath like your life depends on it?

It’s a really long time.

They hit me with four different beams:

• One aimed at the lymph nodes above my left clavicle (also catching part of my neck)
• One aimed at the chest wall under my left breast
• One aimed at the lymph nodes in my left armpit
• And one aimed at the chest wall from behind, coming up through the table

Between each beam I get one quick breath while the machine repositions.

So really it’s like holding your breath for about two minutes total, with a couple tiny oxygen refills sprinkled in.

All while trying not to move a single muscle.

This feels like some kind of Olympic sport I forgot to train for.

Do you think they give out medals at the end of treatment?

I would happily accept a participation ribbon at this point.

When the nurses finally came back in and released me from the table for real this time, one of them walked over with a washable marker and drew a roadmap on my chest.

Apparently the area inside the drawing is the target zone where I need to focus my lotioning efforts.

Because now I get to develop a new life skill:

Professional Lotion Application Specialist.

My new routine:

• Lotion when I wake up
• Lotion after treatment
• Lotion before bed

And if I really want to be an overachiever, I can lotion anytime my skin starts itching, burning, blistering, or peeling.

That part… I’m not really looking forward to.

You know how people joke about their life’s bingo card?

Let’s just say this cancer journey has added quite a few squares to mine that I never expected to fill.

But hey.

Radiation Day 1 is officially in the books.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

When You’re Excited for Radiation… You Know It’s Been a Journey

🌼 Date: Wednesday, April 8, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cautiously Optimistic

💓 Status: Game On

😊 Outlook: Let’s Do This

Today I got THE call from radiology.

And guess what?

I can start radiation tomorrow!

Now let me just pause for a second and acknowledge how strange that sentence sounds. I don’t think most people ever get excited to start a treatment that is widely known for being… well… pretty evil.

But here I am.

Actually excited.

Does that make me a little sick in the head?

Maybe.

But after everything we’ve been through on this journey so far, moving forward feels a whole lot better than sitting around waiting for the next phone call. The good news is that the measurements they took yesterday didn’t change enough to affect my treatment plan. Which means I do not have to redo the CT scan or the measurements.

Huge win.

That also means we didn’t have to drain the expander and start the whole radiation planning process over again.

So tomorrow morning I officially begin the next chapter of this adventure.

Before we hung up, the nurse gave me my final instructions:

• Shower before bed tonight
• Use the lotion with calendula like I was instructed
• Use it again in the morning before my appointment

Yes ma’am.

I will happily follow every instruction if it means we can finally keep this train moving.

Tomorrow we start radiation.

Let’s do this.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Hurry Up and Wait…Again

🌼 Date: Tuesday, April 7, 2026

⚡ Energy: Medium

❤️‍🩹 Status: Waiting Game

😒 Outlook: 🤷‍♀️

Today’s adventure took me back to the plastics department for another round of measurements and photos. Think glamorous “before and after” mugshots… except the only thing we’re really documenting is my ongoing medical science project.

The goal of the appointment was to see what kind of damage might have happened during the cruise incident when my left expander decided it might want to leak a little. The plastics team took new measurements and photos and then sent everything over to my oncologist so they could put their heads together and decide whether we can move forward with radiation… or if the plan needs to change.

So once again, we are playing my least favorite game:

Hurry up and wait.

I was actually supposed to start radiation this morning at 7:45 AM, but that appointment obviously didn’t happen. Now we’re just waiting to hear what the next step will be.

If the expander leak is bad enough, they might have to drain the left side and redo all of the imaging and measurements before radiation can even start. And of course, every time something gets postponed in this process, it pushes everything else further down the timeline.

Which means the question now bouncing around in the back of my mind is:

How long is my reconstruction surgery going to be delayed?

But here’s the thing…
I have exactly zero control over any of that.

So instead of driving myself crazy thinking about it, I spent the rest of the day doing what any responsible adult would do after a vacation:

Laundry.
Blog writing.
And quality snuggle time with my two newest employees.

Meet my official blog assistants, Gidget and Maizy.

Their job responsibilities include:
• Keeping my lap warm
• Providing emotional support
• Sleeping through most of the workday
• Occasionally supervising keyboard activity

Honestly, they’re not the most productive staff I’ve ever hired… but they are extremely cute, so they get to keep their jobs.

For now, we wait and see what tomorrow brings.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Great Pink Luggage Tragedy

🌼 Date: Monday, April 6, 2026

⚡ Energy: Sleepy and Slightly Frozen

💔 Status: Forced Off the Ship

😒 Outlook: Homeward Bound (With a Minor Casualty)

Today was travel day, which in cruise terms means one thing: getting kicked off the ship at the butt crack of dawn.

For reasons I will never fully understand, cruise ships seem to think that vacationers who have spent the last several days relaxing should immediately switch back into real-life mode at 8:00 AM sharp.

So up we got.

We had an Uber scheduled to pick us up at 9:00 AM at the pier, figuring it would take a while to get off the ship, locate our luggage, and make our way through customs.

But today, the travel gods were smiling on us.

We breezed through the whole process and were standing outside the terminal by 8:30 AM.

Which would have been fantastic… if it hadn’t been so unbelievably cold.

Apparently Texas decided to throw us one last surprise before we left.

Even with my trusty black scarf wrapped around my head, neck, and face, I was shivering like crazy. Casey and Marnie ended up sitting on one side of the bench acting as human wind blockers while I pressed my back against them trying to steal as much body heat as possible.

That was possibly the slowest 30 minutes of my life.

Once the Uber arrived, though, the rest of the travel day actually went pretty smoothly.

Despite all the recent horror stories about the Texas airport security lines, we barely had to wait at all. By the time the people in front of us grabbed their belongings from the bins, we were already sliding ours through.

Easy.

And yes… once again we were the mean parents flying first class while the rest of the group flew in economy.

Some traditions must be maintained.

Everything went perfectly until we landed in Portland and went to collect our luggage.

That’s when we discovered the tragedy.

My hot pink suitcase, the one that had bravely survived countless flights, road trips, train rides, and cruises… now had a giant hole in the side.

We’re talking hard-sided luggage here. This thing had been through battle and survived it all.

Until now.

My knight in shining armor walked the wounded bag over to the airline counter and started the claim process. Now, I’ll admit, I wasn’t overly optimistic. We’ve been through this before with luggage casualties, which is exactly why we switched to hard-sided bags in the first place.

So imagine my surprise when we left the airport with a claim number, a brochure, and a promise of an email in 2–3 days… and by the time we got home, the email had already arrived.

I was able to choose from several replacement bags.

Sadly, none of them were pink.

But I did find a pretty fabulous black suitcase, and it’s actually a little bigger than my beloved pink one.

It should arrive sometime this week.

And since I refuse to live a boring luggage life, I immediately went on Amazon and found some leopard print luggage covers with matching tags.

These things are actually pretty cool. They slide over your suitcase almost like a sock and zip underneath near the wheels. They come in different sizes depending on your bag, and the ones I found are under $20.

So while my pink warrior suitcase may be gone…

A leopard print upgrade might be in my future.

I know I’m officially a senior now, but apparently even luggage technology has gotten fancy in the last few years.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Kings, Queens, and a

21-Year-Old Cowboy

🌼 Date: Sunday, April 5, 2026

⚡ Energy: Full Celebration Mode

💓 Status: Proud Birthday Mama

🌞 Outlook: Cake, Crowns, and One Very Legal Drink

Today was a special day on the cruise because we were celebrating two birthdays in our family.

Casey turned 54, and Nicholas hit a huge milestone — 21 years old!

I’m not quite sure how that happened so quickly. One minute Nicholas was a little boy running around the house, and now he’s sitting at a dinner table on a cruise ship ordering his first legal drink.

When Nicholas was little, his nickname was “Toots in Boots.”

Now before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me explain. As a baby, he never burped after feeding. Nope… it all came out the other end, which earned him the nickname Toots. And the Boots part came later, because no matter what time of year it was, he would always slip on his rubber boots instead of waiting for someone to tie his shoes… or heaven forbid learning to tie them himself.

So yes, our sweet little Toots in Boots is now 21 years old.

Time really does fly.

To celebrate the birthdays, Casey was crowned King Casey for the day, complete with a royal crown. And of course, Aunt Dee wasn’t about to let that opportunity pass her by, so she became Queen Dee. The best part was that most of the cruise crew completely played along, bowing and greeting her with “Your Majesty” whenever we walked by.

It was hilarious, and she absolutely loved every second of it.

At dinner that night Nicholas ordered his first official legal drink, and the wait staff came out to sing Happy Birthday to both of the birthday boys.

Did I get a picture of that moment?

No.

Apparently after raising four kids and surviving cancer treatment, I still somehow forgot to capture the one moment every mom is supposed to photograph.

Great wife. Great mom. Ten out of ten.

But honestly, the best part of the day wasn’t the crowns or the drinks or even the birthday singing.

It was simply getting to be together.

After the kind of year our family has had, standing there on a cruise ship celebrating life, laughter, and another year with the people I love felt like an incredible gift.

Two birthdays.
One cruise ship.
A whole lot of memories.

And somewhere out there, the little boy known as Toots in Boots is still in there… he just happens to be wearing a cowboy hat and ordering cocktails now.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Cozumel Shenanigans

🌼 Date: Saturday, April 4, 2026

⚡ Energy: Vacation Mode Activated

💗 Status: Temporarily Escaped From Reality

😎 Outlook: Sun, Music, and Just a Little Bit of Chaos

Today we woke up in Cozumel, Mexico, and let me tell you, this day did not disappoint.

Our pier was quite a ways from town, so instead of walking in the heat like sensible adults, we hopped into a couple of pedicabs and immediately turned it into a race. Because clearly the only logical way to start a day in Mexico is by yelling encouragement at two guys pedaling their hearts out while our group laughs like maniacs behind them.

Once we made it into town, I had a mission.

Every cruise I take has two required souvenirs:

1. A magnet from the port
2. A hoodie

The magnet is easy. The hoodie…not so much when you’re shopping in tropical climates where the temperature is roughly the same as a sauna.

Most of the time when I ask shop owners if they have hoodies, they laugh and say no. But today we lucked out. By the second or third shop, we found both a hoodie and a cute Cozumel magnet in the same place.

Mission accomplished.

With the shopping checklist complete, the rest of the day was free for wandering, sightseeing, and generally acting like tourists. There were colorful shops, beautiful views, and more than a few ridiculous photo opportunities along the way.

Eventually we all met back up at a local bar, and that’s when the real fun started.

The DJ was playing music that somehow managed to bridge the generational gap between the 20-somethings and the seniors, which meant the entire group was dancing, singing, and enjoying the frozen drinks that were absolutely necessary in the Mexican heat.

Then someone made the mistake of daring Nicholas to get up on the pole.

And to everyone’s delight (or horror, depending on who you ask), he did.

Between the music, the laughter, the ridiculous dancing, and the people I was with, this was probably the funnest day I’ve had in a very long time.

For a little while, everything felt normal again.

And honestly…
if I had to travel all the way to Mexico to get that feeling back for a day, it was completely worth it.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Double Nickels at Sea

🌼 Date: Friday, April 3, 2026

⚡Energy: Birthday Bliss

💖 Status: Feeling Grateful

🥰 Outlook: Let the Celebrations Continue

I woke up on my birthday to one of my favorite sights in the world.

The sun shining across the ocean.

There’s something about standing on the balcony of a ship and watching the sunlight dance across the water that just instantly puts your soul at peace.

Today was a fun day at sea, and one of our favorite cruise traditions made an appearance — the travel game bag.

Every trip we bring a small bag filled with:

• a few decks of cards
• some dice
• our favorite board game, Sequence

And because we’ve learned our lesson over the years, I also bring a few printed pages explaining how to play some of our favorite card games…because when you’re in vacation mode and trying to teach someone else, somehow everyone forgets the rules.

And that was happening long before cancer, so we can’t blame chemo brain for that one.

After breakfast we usually head up to the Lido deck, find a comfy spot near the windows, and pull out the games. We’ll sit there playing for hours.

Sometimes crew members stop and ask us to explain the game so they can go play with their friends after their shift.

Sometimes other cruisers stop and tell us how much they love that game at home.

Over the years we’ve actually made a lot of cruise friends just by playing games.

We are also very courteous cruisers though. Once lunch time rolls around and the cafeteria starts filling up, we pack up the games and free the table.

And if we still have open seats, we always invite anyone looking for a place to sit to join us.

One of the things we love most about cruising is meeting people from all over the world. It’s amazing how far people travel just to spend a week out on the water.

For my birthday dinner, we dressed up and went to the fancy Italian restaurant on the ship.

Dinner was incredible.

And tonight marked another small milestone…

It was the first time I’ve had any alcohol since my cancer journey began.

I ordered a bottle of my favorite wine — Moscato D’Asti.

Light.
Sweet.
Just the way I like my wine…

and apparently the way I like my man too. 😉

After dinner the wait staff surprised me with a huge slice of ice cream birthday cake that was big enough for all of us to share, and they all gathered around the table to sing.

It was such a sweet moment — both the gesture and the cake.

After the year I’ve had, I think birthdays hit a little differently now.

I feel a lot more grateful just to be here celebrating another trip around the sun.

And yes, for those of you doing the math…

I officially hit 55 today.

Double nickels.

Apparently that also makes me a senior citizen now.

Who would’ve thought?

And apparently this birthday came with a little bonus milestone.

This post officially marks Post #100 on this blog.

What started as a way to quiet the chaos in my brain long enough to fall asleep has somehow turned into a place where I’ve been able to share my cancer journey, my life, the hard days, the funny days, the puppy days, and everything in between.

I never imagined anyone besides maybe a couple friends would ever read it.

But here we are.

100 posts.
Readers from more than 20 countries.
And a whole lot of life lived in between.

Thank you to everyone who has followed along with me on this wild ride.

Now let’s see what the next 100 posts bring.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Waffles, Tourists, and the Color of the Ocean

🌼 Date: Thursday, April 2, 2026

⚡ Energy: Vacation Vibes with a Side of Tourist Mode

💓 Status: Finally on the Ship!

🌞 Outlook: Let the Floating Birthday Party Begin

We woke up in Galveston knowing we couldn’t check in to board the ship until 1:00pm, which meant we had a little time to kill.

So naturally, we decided to do something we cannot do in Oregon…

We went to Waffle House.

Now listen — when you’re traveling somewhere that has a Waffle House and you don’t, you kind of have to go. It’s basically a tourist obligation.

So the six of us piled in for breakfast and, like the complete dorks we are, we took a group photo in front of the sign afterward.

Because if you don’t take a picture in front of Waffle House, did you even really go?

After breakfast we returned the rental car and headed toward the cruise port, but on the way we spotted the perfect tourist stop along the Gulf.

Naturally we pulled over to take a quick selfie like the professional vacationers we are.

Then it was finally time.

We boarded the ship.

And just like that…

Vacation officially began.

Our room was a balcony cabin at the very back of the ship, which is my absolute favorite place to be. Once we got settled and the ship started moving, I stepped out onto the balcony to watch the water behind us.

And there it was.

My favorite color in the world.

Not pink.
(Not even hot pink.)

This unbelievable teal/jade/aquamarine color that only shows up in the water when the ship cuts through the ocean.

I don’t know exactly what the right name for it is, but it’s the most beautiful color I’ve ever seen.

Every night on a cruise, before I go to bed, I step out onto the balcony for one last look at the ocean.

It’s quiet.
The air smells like salt.
And the water behind the ship stretches out forever.

It’s my favorite little moment of the whole trip.

And this time, after everything the past year has thrown at us…

Standing there watching that color in the water felt like the perfect way to begin this birthday cruise.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Adventure Begins (And Yes, We’re the Mean Parents in First Class)

🌼 Date: April 1, 2026

⚡ Energy: Vacation Mode Warming Up

💓 Status: Cold, Masked, and Ready for Adventure

🌞 Outlook: Galveston Tonight, Cruise Tomorrow!

The birthday cruise adventure officially began today!

We woke up early, grabbed our bags, and headed to the airport to start our journey to Galveston, Texas. The cruise ship doesn’t leave until tomorrow, but we learned long ago that you never risk flying in the same day you board a ship. Flights get delayed, cancelled, rerouted, or decide to have emotional breakdowns for absolutely no reason.

And missing the ship would be a terrible way to start a vacation.

So we played it safe and flew down the day before.

Now let’s talk about the plane for a minute.

First of all… it was FREEZING.

And when you have no hair, you realize very quickly that hair apparently serves a very important purpose: keeping your head warm.

Even though I had a sweatshirt on, my head and neck were freezing. Luckily, I remembered to bring a scarf, which quickly turned into a multi-purpose survival accessory.

Head wrap.
Neck warmer.
Face shield.

Because when I started hearing the sneezing and coughing orchestra somewhere behind us, that scarf went right over my mask for extra protection.

Cancer may have taken my hair, but it did not take my ability to improvise.

And yes… Casey and I were sitting in first class.

But before anyone thinks we’ve suddenly become fancy travel snobs, let me clarify something.

This is not new behavior.

Casey and I have always flown first class… while the kids sit back in coach.

Now apparently that rule also applies to girlfriends, friends, and even beloved aunties.

Yes.

We are those parents.

Cruel? Maybe.

Comfortable? Absolutely.

Somewhere between chemo, surgeries, and radiation planning, we decided if we were going to travel, we might as well travel comfortably.

While we were up in the air, I snapped a picture of the most beautiful puffy clouds floating below us. It was one of those moments where you look out the window and realize the world is a lot bigger than the little bubble you’ve been living in lately.

And that felt good.

Once we landed in Texas, the whole crew piled into our rental car, which I have officially named:

“A Barrel Full of Monkeys.”

Because that is exactly what it looked like.

This cruise isn’t just for my birthday.

Yes, I turn 55 on April 3rd, which apparently means I will officially be a senior citizen. Ugh.

But Casey’s birthday is April 5th, and so is Nicholas’s.

For those who have followed our story for a long time, Nicholas came into our lives through foster care. When we got the call to pick up a newborn baby from the hospital, we saw his little bassinet tag with his birthdate — April 5th — and there was an instant connection.

A few weeks later the caseworker told us he had a two-year-old sibling already in care, and the case looked like it might end in adoption.

Would we consider taking both?

Um… yes.

Just like that, we went from having one boy and one girl to two boys and two girls overnight.

And we wouldn’t change a thing.

So this trip ended up being a triple birthday celebration:

🎂 My 55th
🎂 Casey’s 54th
🎂 Nicholas’s 21st

Nicholas didn’t want to travel alone in a room by himself, so we brought his girlfriend Lily along.

Then our friend Marnie wanted to go, but she didn’t want to pay for a room alone, so she invited my Aunt Dee.

Which is how we ended up with a party of six.

And let me tell you…

We had an absolute blast. But the rest of the story is yet to come…

By the time we got to our hotel in Galveston that night, everyone was tired from traveling but excited for the next day.

Tomorrow we board the ship.

And after the past few months of hospitals, appointments, scans, and treatments…

This little escape was exactly what the doctor ordered.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Foob Photo Shoot

🌼 Date: Tuesday, March 31, 2026

⚡ Energy: Relieved but Still Frustrated

❤️‍🩹 Status: Medically Examined From Every Possible Angle

😒 Outlook: Waiting… Again

Finally.

My plastics appointment.

After an entire weekend of worrying and one extra day of waiting, it was finally time to go in and figure out what is going on with my “soft foob.”

At this point, walking into the exam room has become a pretty predictable routine.

I walk in.

They walk in.

And then I bare it all.

Which apparently is now standard operating procedure and no longer awkward.

(Yeah… right.)

Next comes the usual round of medical entertainment:

Poked.
Prodded.
Felt up.
Measured.

Then came the photos.

And when I say photos, I mean the full medical mugshot experience.

Turn to the left.
Turn to the right.
Face forward.

I even smiled for the front-facing shot even though my face wasn’t even in the picture.

All of the photos and measurements were immediately sent over to my radiation oncologist so the two departments can review everything together.

Then came the part I wasn’t expecting.

Radiation is now postponed until further notice.

Great.

We already had a plan.

We had already booked the 8:00 AM slot for 20 consecutive days of radiation treatments. The schedule was perfect. Casey could take me to treatment in the morning and still make it to work afterwards.

Everything was lined up like a perfectly orchestrated routine.

Now?

That plan is gone.

When radiation eventually starts again, we will be at the mercy of whatever time slots are available, and hopefully Casey’s customers will be flexible and understanding while we juggle appointments.

The plastics and radiation departments are now working together to figure out the next step in the plan.

In the meantime, I have another plastics appointment scheduled the day after we return from our birthday vacation so they can remeasure everything and take a new round of photos to compare with today’s data.

After that, my radiation oncologist will decide how we move forward.

The plan — once they figure it out — will be sent to me by email, text message, and voicemail.

At least one of those should reach me while we’re out of the country on vacation.

So for now, the only thing I know for sure is this:

I will not be starting radiation the day after we get home.

Instead, I will be heading back to plastics for more measurements, more pictures, and hopefully some answers.

And until then…

I wait.

Again.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Ripple Effect

🌼 Date: Monday, March 30, 2026

⚡ Energy: 😬 Frustrated but Trying to Stay Calm

❤️‍🩹 Status: Schedule Chaos

😢 Outlook: One More Day of Waiting

Well… I was patient all weekend.

And for those of you who know me well, you know that patience is not exactly my strongest personality trait.

So after spending the entire weekend doing my best to stay calm and trust the process, I got a phone call this morning from the plastics office.

My appointment for today?

Cancelled.

But don’t worry — they had an opening on Thursday.

Yeah… that doesn’t work for me.

We leave Wednesday morning at 5:00 AM for my birthday vacation, and the morning after we get back I am scheduled to start radiation treatments.

So this appointment needed to be today or tomorrow.

(Truthfully, I still think it should have been Friday when I called… but I am not a doctor and apparently no one was interested in my professional opinion.)

My fear in all of this is that my left expander has changed shape. It feels softer and possibly smaller than it did when I was measured and scanned for my radiation treatments.

Which means my brain immediately goes to the worst possible scenario.

Did I just mess everything up?

Because if the size or shape has changed enough, that could mean starting the radiation planning process all over again.

And that tiny little change would ripple through everything.

Radiation treatments.
Refilling the right expander.
Finishing the left side fills.
Reconstruction surgery that we’re hoping will happen in November or December.

Then there is still the nipple reconstruction, and finally the tattooing of the areola and nipples.

Every little setback may seem insignificant in the moment…

But that tiny ripple becomes a huge wave by the time it reaches the end of this journey.

We have worked so hard to orchestrate this very carefully planned timeline, and I have already put my life on hold to walk this unexpected road.

So when something outside of my control threatens to derail that plan, I panic a little.

Okay… maybe more than a little.

I think the nurse on the phone could hear all of that running through my head, because somehow she managed to work some sort of medical office dark magic and squeeze me into an appointment tomorrow.

So now…

I wait.

Again.

Another 24 hours of the waiting game.

Which, if we’re being honest, might be the hardest part of this entire journey.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Tiny Explorer & The Yorkie Tour Guide

🌼 Date: Saturday, March 28 – Sunday, March 29, 2026

⚡ Energy: ☀️ Sunshine, Fresh Air, and Tiny Puppy Adventures

💕 Status: Two Yorkies Living Their Best Lives

🥰 Outlook: Proof That Healing Sometimes Looks Like This

This weekend blessed us with something we haven’t seen much of lately…

SUNSHINE.

And when the sun shows up in Oregon, you drop everything and go outside like it’s a national holiday.

Casey was out mowing the lawn, which meant the puppies were also outside enjoying the weather and exploring their kingdom.

And let me tell you — Gidget has fully stepped into her new role as Big Sister and Official Yorkie Tour Guide.

She took the job very seriously.

She showed Maizy where to walk.
Where to sniff.
Where to investigate.

And more importantly…

She also showed her where NOT to go.

Apparently there are sections of the yard that are not appropriate for puppies, and Gidget made sure Maizy understood the rules of the land.

Watching Maizy follow Gidget around was the cutest thing. She stuck to her like a tiny fuzzy shadow, faithfully trailing behind her everywhere she went.

It’s like she decided:

“Yep… this one knows what she’s doing. I’m just going to follow her.”

And when I say tiny, I mean tiny.

Five pounds of fur standing in the middle of our big front yard looks a little bit like someone accidentally dropped a stuffed animal into a football field.

But Miss Maizy is clearly enjoying her new outdoor freedom.

Another thing we discovered?

She loves sunbathing just as much as Gidget does.

Apparently laying in warm sunshine is a skill that transfers naturally between Yorkies.

No training required.

Between the exploring, supervising Casey’s lawn mowing, and soaking up the sun, the girls had themselves a pretty perfect weekend.

And honestly?

Watching these two together — the seasoned professional and the brand-new trainee — was exactly the kind of simple, happy moment that makes everything else feel a little lighter.

Sometimes healing doesn’t look like doctor’s appointments and medical charts.

Sometimes it looks like:

A sunny yard.
Two tiny dogs.
And a little Yorkie learning how to be part of a family.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Waiting Game

🌼 Date: Friday, March 27, 2026

⚡ Energy: Morning Routine Meets Medical Limbo

❤️‍🩹 Status: Waiting (my least favorite sport)

😒 Outlook: Answers Coming Monday

Our new morning routine is officially a thing now.

First, we wake up Miss Maizy.
Then both puppies go outside.

Then it’s breakfast time for the girls.
Then… back outside again.

Apparently when you are 5 pounds of adorable, your bladder schedule runs the household.

Once the puppies were squared away, it was time for my normal morning ritual.

Temperature check.
Protein-packed fruit smoothie.
Then my medicine.

I’ve discovered that if I have something in my stomach before taking my meds, I don’t feel nearly as nauseous. Even though chemo is finished, there are still plenty of days where the nausea decides to hang around like an unwanted house guest.

I guess I assumed once chemo was done, the side effects would pack up and leave too.

Yeah… apparently that’s not how this works.

So this morning I called the plastics department about the foob situation from last night.

When I was explaining the pain under my expander, I told the nurse it felt like when the underwire in your bra breaks and starts poking you.

She understood immediately.

Which honestly made the conversation way easier than trying to answer the usual questions like:

“Is it dull?”
“Is it sharp?”
“Does it radiate?”

Sometimes the best medical descriptions are just:

“It feels like a broken underwire stabbing me.”

Unfortunately my plastic surgeon wasn’t in today, but another surgeon was covering. The nurse said she would run my symptoms by him to see if I needed to come in right away or if it could wait until Monday.

And then came the worst part…

Waiting.

Waiting for them to call back.
Waiting to hear if something is wrong.
Waiting to know if I should be worried or not.

Finally the nurse called back with the update.

The surgeon didn’t think it sounded urgent enough to be seen today.

So now I have an appointment scheduled for Monday at 11:00 AM.

Which means…

Now I wait.

And if there’s one thing this whole cancer journey has taught me, it’s that waiting might be the hardest part of all of it.

But in the meantime, I’ll focus on the things I can control today:

Two tiny Yorkie girls.
A cozy house.
And learning the daily schedule of a brand-new princess.

Because sometimes the best medicine for your brain…

Is a 5-pound distraction with ears.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Tiny Steps, Big Feelings

🌼 Date: Thursday, March 26, 2026

⚡ Energy: Soft Puppy Snuggles + Slightly Panicked Brain

❤️ Status: Cautiously Watching Things

🤔 Outlook: Calling the Experts in the Morning

Miss Maizy is starting to get a little braver today.

This morning she ventured farther out into the front yard and followed Gidget around like a tiny fuzzy shadow. It was honestly the cutest thing. Gidget would move… and Maizy would toddle right behind her like, “Wait for me! I’m learning the ropes here.”

She’s also starting to explore more inside the house and outside, and I think she’s beginning to recognize her name.

Which, let’s be honest, is a big deal for a 5-pound princess who just moved into a completely new kingdom. 👑

There was also a lot of cuddling today.
Some on mommy’s lap…
And at one point she even took a nap with daddy.

Apparently, Casey is now a certified tiny dog mattress.

Meanwhile Gidget has fully embraced her new role as Senior Co-Pilot and Life Coach.

Things were feeling pretty peaceful… until bedtime.

And that’s when my brain decided to take a hard left turn into Anxietyville.

When I was putting on my jammies tonight, I noticed something weird.

My left foob felt extremely soft.

Like… natural boob soft.

Which is the complete opposite of how it normally feels. Normally the expander is rock hard because it’s filled with saline. The only part that still feels firm right now is the top where the metal port sits.

At the same time, I’ve been having these strange pains near the bottom of the expander, but tonight they were much worse. The kind that send a lightning bolt zinger straight through your entire body.

And if you know me, you know my brain immediately goes to:

Worst. Case. Scenario.

So instead of drifting off peacefully to sleep, I grabbed an ice pack, took a couple Tylenol, and laid there running through every possibility my brain could come up with.

Did the expander spring a leak and the softness I’m feeling is saline that leaked into the pocket where the implant will eventually sit?

Did the massage during physical therapy yesterday push too hard or deep and cause a bruise or a seroma (which is a fluid buildup that sometimes has to be drained)?

And these zingers? They’re getting more frequent and feel like the sharp corner of something is poking inward toward my sternum or down toward my abdomen.

Anytime I bend over it triggers the pain.
Anytime I use my abdominal muscles… same thing.

The good news is I’m not running a fever and there’s no extra redness beyond the normal post-surgery stuff.

So for tonight, I’m icing it, trying not to spiral too far down the WebMD rabbit hole, and planning to call the plastics department first thing in the morning.

Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop guessing and call the professionals.

But for now, I’m laying here listening to the tiny breathing sounds of two little Yorkie girls sleeping nearby…

And reminding myself that today still had a lot of good in it.

Tiny steps.
Tiny paws.
Tiny princess in pink jammies.

And tomorrow we figure out the rest.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Princess Training, Physical Therapy & The Science of Dog Breakfast

🌼 Date: Wednesday, March 25, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cozy Morning Meets Physical Therapy Reality

😍 Status: One happy rescue, one very small princess, and legs still under construction

❤️‍🩹 Outlook: Healing… for both of us 💗

Last night was Maizy’s first official night at home, and I’m happy to report…

She did amazingly well.

The rescue sent us home with the little puppy bed she had been sleeping on in her foster home, so I placed it right next to our bed. Her foster mom said Maizy likes to go to sleep around 9:00 PM, stays in her bed all night, and waits for her human to wake up and take her outside in the morning.

And sure enough…

After we got her into her jammies (because obviously… duh), she curled up in her bed and slept through the night like a tiny angel.

When I got up in the morning to let Gidget outside, I brought Maizy with us and…

Success!

She went potty outside like a champ.

Now because our little warrior had 20 teeth pulled last week, she’s still on soft food. The rescue sent us home with the food she’s been eating to help with the transition.

But here’s something I’ve never had to do before…

Actually cook my dog’s food.

Apparently Maizy is living the five-star dining experience life now.

Her breakfast consists of freeze-dried food mixed with warm bone broth, and the preparation instructions are basically a small science experiment.

Step 1: Add broth and stir
Step 2: Cover and wait 10 minutes
Step 3: Stir again
Step 4: Cover and wait another 5 minutes
Step 5: Serve to tiny princess

Last night I only made enough for two meals.

Clearly there is a learning curve happening here.

Today I will be making a bigger batch since it can be refrigerated and used within 72 hours.

After breakfast we had a little morning routine…

Faces washed.
Human and puppy.

Then we changed out of our jammies and into daytime clothes.

And of course…

We had to go with the Princess shirt.

Because if the shirt fits… the title is clearly accurate.

I also realized something funny today when I saw her laying on the giant dog bed in front of the fireplace.

Five pounds is really tiny.

She looks like a stuffed animal that accidentally wandered onto the furniture.

Later in the afternoon I had to head to my physical therapy appointment.

First topic of discussion?

My legs.

Apparently the exercises I was given to strengthen them after chemo and surgery were either:

A) not done enough
B) not done correctly
C) or my body has decided it currently prefers allocating energy elsewhere.

So I now have additional exercises added to my homework list.

The good news though is that my arm range of motion continues to improve every visit.

To keep that progress going, my therapist did some deep tissue massage around the area where my lymph nodes were removed and down my left arm.

This helps prevent something called “cording.”

Cording can happen after lymph node removal and feels like tight rope-like bands forming under the skin of the arm. It can limit movement and cause pain if scar tissue tightens along the lymph pathways.

So the massage helps keep everything loose and moving the way it should.

Another one of those things no one tells you about until you’re living it.

After therapy we met my parents for dinner, and my mom and I talked about something pretty amazing.

She helps make something called Knitted Knockers.

These are soft, lightweight knitted breast prosthetics made from the gentlest yarns and filled with fluffy cotton.

They’re worn inside a bra after mastectomy or reconstruction surgery and can be made in any size, shape, or color.

You can choose to match your skin tone,

Or go with wild neon pink if that’s more your personality.

The best part?

They are made and donated so that any woman going through this journey can receive a pair for free.

My mom is one of the volunteers who knits them.

Which is pretty darn cool if you ask me.

And since I need one for my right side, we had to take some measurements.

Which meant Casey had the honor of measuring my left expander/foob. (That’s short for fake boob.)

Now if anyone remembers Madonna’s cone bra phase, that is currently the closest visual comparison to what I’m working with over here.

So apparently we are putting in a custom order to mirror the situation happening on the left side.

Fashion-forward?
Maybe not.

Functional?
Absolutely.

If you or someone you know might need a pair, you can learn more here:

www.knittedknockers.org

So today was a little bit of everything.

A rescued princess settling into her new life.

A human still working on rebuilding strength.

And another reminder that healing…

comes in many different forms.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Gotcha Day: Two Co-Pilots, One Lap, and a Floor Incident

🌼 Date: Tuesday, March 24, 2026

⚡ Energy: Road Trip Excitement

💞 Status: Officially a Family of Four

🥰 Outlook: Two girls, one lap, and a whole lot of love ahead

TODAY WAS THE DAY!!!

We made the 3-hour drive up to Seattle to bring our girl home.

And first things first… the most important moment of the entire trip happened right at the door.

The Gidget Inspection.

Because let’s be honest… I may have filled out the application, written the essays, and passed the background check…

…but Gidget is the one who has the final say.

So Maizy and Gidget met.

There was a sniff.

A pause.

Another sniff.

No barking.
No growling.

And then Gidget basically said:

“Okay… she passes.” 🐾

Ladies and gentlemen, the approval has been granted.

So we sat down on the floor of the entryway so the girls could get comfortable together.

And here is where my body decided to betray me in front of strangers.

Now I don’t know if this is because of chemo, or because I’m turning 55 next week, but apparently…

sitting crisscross-applesauce is no longer a viable life choice for me.

After about 20 minutes of sitting there holding Maizy and letting Gidget get used to her, it was time to stand up.

Except…

my legs had other plans.

When I tried to get up, they basically said:

“Nope. Not right now.”

Casey tried to help me up.

The sweet woman who has been fostering Maizy joined Casey to help me up.

But my legs were like two overcooked noodles that had simply given up on life.

So there I was.

Stuck on the floor.

At my first meeting with the rescue.

Making what I can only describe as a very memorable first impression.

Eventually I had to sit there with my legs stretched straight out in front of me for a few minutes before attempting to stand again.

And thankfully, on round two, Casey managed to get me up and help me over to the window seat.

So yes…

I definitely left an impression.

Just maybe not the one I was aiming for. 😅

But paperwork was signed…

…and just like that…

Maizy was officially ours.

Before hitting the road we took both girls outside for a potty break, then loaded up for the 3-hour drive back home.

And of course we had to take our first official “family of four” photo.

Since Momo passed, Gidget has taken over the very important position of co-pilot.

But today I noticed something that made me laugh.

Maizy had already claimed the role of co-pilot from my lap.

Apparently, these girls take their responsibilities very seriously.

Eventually the excitement wore off and they both curled up on the pillow on my lap.

And here’s a funny little side note about that pillow…

When we first got Gidget, she used to get carsick unless she could see out the window.

So I bought a breastfeeding pillow (yes, really… don’t laugh) so she could sit higher and look out without me holding her the entire time.

Regular pillows didn’t work.

They slid off my lap.
She slid off the pillow.
Chaos.

But this one wraps around my waist, stays in place, and keeps her up high enough to see out the window.

Car sickness solved.

Under $30.

No medications needed.

And now…

Apparently it’s big enough for two tiny co-pilots.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, I was sitting there with both baby girls mirroring each other on the pillow in my lap.

And in that moment it hit me…

Our little family just got a whole lot bigger.

And our hearts did too. 💗🐾

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Operation: Make It Smell Like We’re Classy

🌼 Date: Monday, March 23, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cleaning Tornado Meets Slightly Delusional

💝 Status: Exhausted but Ready

🫣 Outlook: Tomorrow = LIFE CHANGING

Today I turned into a full-blown cleaning tornado…because tomorrow is THE day. Miss Maizy is (hopefully) coming home! 💗

And listen…when you’re bringing home a tiny 5-pound queen who has been through what she’s been through, you don’t just tidy up. Oh no. You go full “HGTV meets crime scene cleanup.”

✔️ Vacuumed
✔️ Swept
✔️ Mopped
✔️ Carpet cleaned the oriental rug by the front door (because first impressions matter, obviously)
✔️ Washed every throw rug in the house like I was prepping for a white glove inspection

Basically, if there was a smell in this house, it has officially been evicted.

The goal? Eliminate any “previous tenant” nature break smells so our girl doesn’t get confused. Her foster parents said she’s been doing great with puppy pads AND going outside, so I’m trying to set her up for success and keep that consistency going.

Because let’s be honest…this girl has had enough chaos in her life. We are now Team Calm, Clean, and Slightly Overprepared.

Plot twist for tomorrow:
We are bringing Gidget with us for the official meet and greet. Because let’s be real…she is the boss, the judge, the jury, and the final approval committee. 😆🐾

So as long as Gidge gives us the nod of approval and everything goes well…
I won’t just be coming home with one baby girl…

I’ll be riding back as a full-blown passenger princess with TWO little loves in my lap. 💗🐾💗

By the time I finished all of this, I was DONE. Like… “sit down and question all life choices” level tired.

But tomorrow?
Only one job.

Ride to Seattle.
Trust the process.
Bring our girl home.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

She’s Coming Home 💗🐾

🌼 Date: Sunday, March 22, 2026

⚡ Energy: Through the roof (in the best way!)

💓 Status: ROAD TRIP READY 🚗

🥰 Outlook: Full heart, happy tears, and counting down the hours

Today… we got THE CALL.

You know the one.
The call you’ve been waiting for.
The one that makes your heart jump into your throat before you even answer.

And guess what???

Our baby girl is ready to come home Tuesday!! 🐾💕

The shelter asked if we were still available…

Um…
YES MA’AM. WE ARE AVAILABLE. 😆

Cancel nothing.
Move nothing.
We are GO for launch.

🚗 Road trip to Seattle: ON
💗 Hearts: FULL
🐾 Dog mom excitement level: UNHINGED

And as if that wasn’t enough to send me over the edge…

They sent us an updated picture of our girl today.

And you guys…

She is doing so good.
Healing right on track.
Looking like the tiny little warrior she is.

And I can’t help but smile because…

Yeah.

She’s a fighter.

Just like her mommy. 💪💗

When they rescued her, they named her Marcine…
But she’s only had that name for a few weeks, and they told us we could rename her if we wanted.

We started thinking about it… and we want to keep the “M” so it still feels familiar to her.

So…

Let me introduce you to…

✨ Amazing Grace ✨

Nickname:

Maizy 💕

Because honestly?

After everything she’s been through—
6 years of being used, neglected, and treated like she didn’t matter…

And she still comes out on the other side sweet, loving, and okay?

That’s not just survival.

That’s amazing grace.

And that name?

She earned it.

I cannot wait for Tuesday.

I cannot wait to hold her.
To bring her home.
To show her what love, safety, and spoiled rotten really looks like 😆

And maybe… just maybe…

We help each other heal a little along the way.

Because something tells me…

This tiny 5-pound bundle of love is about to change everything. 🐾💗

Stay tuned, friends…

Next chapter loading.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Snow Globe Status: Improving

🌼 Date: Saturday, March 21, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low but peaceful

💓 Status: Resting, healing, and slightly less flaky 😆

🥰 Outlook: Cautiously optimistic (and moisturized!)

Today was what I would call a professional level nothing day.

And honestly?

I needed it.

No appointments.
No chaos.
No unexpected medical plot twists.

Just rest… a shower… and me minding my own business.

And I’m happy to report…

We may have a breakthrough.

After weeks of feeling like a human snow globe every time I took my clothes off…

I am officially noticing a difference.

Less flaking.
Less shedding.
Less “did someone shake me before I walked into this room?” energy. 😆

And I’m pretty sure I know why…

👉 The dry brushing experiment?
Working.

👉 The new lotion lineup?
Also working.

Look at me out here accidentally becoming a skincare influencer 😂

At my radiation “set-up” appointment, they recommended a specific cream to start using 2–3 times a day beginning with my first treatment and continuing for a few weeks after.

Because apparently (and this feels slightly rude), radiation has a cumulative effect…

Which means even after treatments are done, your skin can continue to react—
burns, irritation, even blisters can show up weeks later.

Good times.

So the goal is to get ahead of it as much as possible.

The cream they recommended has calendula in it (yes, I Googled—it’s a flower 🌼 because of course it is), and it’s known for being super soothing and healing for the skin.

And then… because I don’t do anything halfway…

I also found an oncology lotion that’s specifically made for chemo skin and all its lovely side effects—

Including what I have now officially named:

Snow Globe Syndrome™ ❄️

So now?

I am armed with two lotions.
A dry brush.
And a whole lot of determination not to molt in public. 😆

We are entering a new chapter, friends:

Hydration Nation.

Will this fix everything?

Who knows.

But for the first time in a while, I feel like I might actually be one step ahead of something instead of constantly playing catch-up.

And I’ll take that win.

Small progress is still progress.

And today?

Felt like progress.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Strep… But Make It Unexpected 🙃

🌼 Date: Friday, March 20, 2026

⚡ Energy: Annoyed but amused

❤️‍🩹 Status: Switching antibiotics (again… because why not?)

😉 Outlook: Rolling with it… because that’s what we do

So today’s episode of “What Fresh Hell Is This?” comes with a fun little twist…

I got a message from my doctor saying the culture from my specimen came back…

Positive for strep.

Now… let me just pause right there.

Strep?

As in… strep throat’s cousin??

Because I don’t know about you, but my entire life I thought strep was strictly a throat-only situation.

Like… sore throat, no voice, popsicles, and complaining level 10.

Apparently…
that is not the case. 😳

Because surprise! You can, in fact, get strep in the downtown region.

Who knew?

Not me.
Definitely not me.

So today’s lesson is:
👉 The human body is wild
👉 Chemo lowers your defenses enough that bacteria just start freelancing wherever they want
👉 And apparently… strep does not respect boundaries 😆

Now what does this mean for me?

It means the antibiotic I just started for my UTI…

is not effective against the strep.

So we’re switching things up to a new antibiotic that can handle both the UTI and the strep.

Which translates to:

🚗 Another trip to the pharmacy
💊 Another round of meds
🙄 Another “are you kidding me right now?” moment

But hey… at least we caught it, right?

And we adjust.
We pivot.
We keep moving forward.

Because that’s what this journey has been from day one—

Adapt and overcome… one weird medical surprise at a time.

Now, on a MUCH better note…

We got to go out to dinner tonight with a couple of people from work 🥰

And let me tell you—
after all the appointments, meds, and medical randomness…

Just sitting down, laughing, and having a normal conversation felt like a little slice of old life.

And I needed that more than I realized.

So today wasn’t all bad.

It was just… educational 😆

Moral of the story?

You really can learn something new every day…

Even if you didn’t ask to.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

20 Teeth Later & Sisters from Another Mister

🌼 Date: Thursday, March 19, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tender-hearted but hopeful

💖 Status: Officially obsessed dog mom x2 (pending pickup!)

🫣 Outlook: Counting down the days

Today we got a call from the shelter with an update on our little Seattle sweetheart… and my heart did that thing where it both breaks and melts at the same time.

Our tiny girl had her dental and spay surgery… and you guys…

They had to remove 20 teeth. 😢

Twenty.

Out of 42 total dog teeth (yes, I Googled—because of course I did).

Which means this poor baby had almost half her teeth pulled.

And suddenly everything about her past just hits a little harder.

Being used as a breeder… not getting the care she deserved… and now paying the price for it.

But here’s the part I’m holding onto—
✨ she’s safe now
✨ she’s cared for now
✨ and she will never go through that again

If all continues to heal well (please keep those good vibes coming 🙏), we are looking at Tuesday the 24th as pickup day!

Yes, I am already mentally planning the road trip.
Yes, I am already emotionally attached.
No, I am not pretending to be chill about any of this. 😆

The shelter also asked me to send another picture of Gidget…

And I just happened to have one on my phone because I had sent a side-by-side to a friend earlier.

You guys…

It is actually kind of wild how similar they look. (Our new baby doll is on the left, Gidget is on the right.)

Same teddy bear ears.
Same little face.
Same “I will absolutely run this household” energy.

So naturally, I told the shelter:

“I know she came from Missouri… but I’m pretty sure these two are sisters from another mister.” 😂

And honestly?

I think Gidget might agree.

Or at least… she will after a brief adjustment period where she evaluates this new situation like the tiny queen she is.

Either way, this little toothless (well… less-toothed) angel is already so loved.

And soon… she’ll be home. 🐾💕

Stay tuned, because I have a feeling life is about to get a whole lot cuter… and a little more chaotic.

And I am HERE for it.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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UTIs, Broccoli Science & Going Down the Rabbit Hole

🌼 Date: Wednesday, March 18, 2026

⚡ Energy: Frustrated but curious

❤️‍🩹 Status: Back on antibiotics (again 🙄)

🤓 Outlook: Learning, adjusting, and doing everything I can

Well… overnight my body decided it needed a little more excitement.

And by excitement, I mean another UTI. 😑

If you’re keeping track, the last one was in January.

Which, in my opinion, is way too soon for a sequel.

So here we are again… back on antibiotics (a different one this time), because apparently my body is currently running on a “minimal defense system” setting.

When I asked my oncologist why this is happening so close together, the answer actually made a lot of sense:

With my white blood cell count still so low, my body just doesn’t have the ability to effectively fight off bacteria right now.

So things like UTIs can develop more easily and more frequently.

Cool. Cool. Cool.

Love that for me. 😆

BUT…

In true Tina fashion, instead of just sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I decided to take a little trip down an internet rabbit hole.

And this one led me to something called Sulforaphane (SFN).

(Stay with me… I promise I’ll translate this out of science-speak.)

SFN is a compound that comes from broccoli and other cruciferous vegetables—and there have been studies looking at how it may play a role in supporting the body’s natural defenses against cancer.

Now before I go any further, let me be very clear:

👉 I am NOT a doctor.
👉 I am NOT giving medical advice.
👉 Please do your own research and talk to your doctor before trying anything new.

I’m just sharing what I’ve been learning and what I’ve personally decided to explore.

So here’s the “human version” of what all that research basically says:

SFN may help the body by:

• Supporting your natural defense systems
• Helping your body deal with damaged or abnormal cells
• Reducing inflammation (which is linked to a lot of health issues, including cancer)
• Potentially targeting certain stubborn cells that don’t respond well to traditional treatments

Now… does this mean it’s a magic cure?

Absolutely not.

Does it replace chemo, radiation, or anything my doctors are doing?

Also no.

But what it does mean—at least for me—is that there may be additional ways to support my body alongside the treatment plan I’m already on.

And if there’s something out there that might help even a little?

I’m at a point where I’m willing to explore it—responsibly and thoughtfully.

So I started taking it a couple of weeks ago.

And here’s my personal experience so far:

I feel like my chemo brain has lifted just a little bit.
I feel like I have slightly more energy.

Now, am I back to my old self?

Not even close.

But when you’ve been operating at 10%, even getting to 20% feels like a win.

So I’ll take it.

Again—this is just my experience, not a recommendation.

But I promised from the beginning of this journey that I would share all of it:

The hard stuff.
The weird stuff.
The “why is this happening again?” stuff.
And the “huh… this is interesting” stuff.

Because if something I share sparks a question, a conversation, or helps someone feel a little more informed or empowered…

Then it’s worth it.

So today’s lesson?

My immune system is still on vacation.
Antibiotics are back in my life.
And apparently… broccoli is having a moment. 🥦

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Laser Beams, Breath Holds & My Free Freckle Tattoos

🌼 Date: Tuesday, March 17, 2026

⚡ Energy: Focused with a side of “what in the sci-fi is this?”

💗 Status: Measured, mapped, and officially marked

🧐 Outlook: Precise plan in place… let’s do this

Today was my radiation mapping appointment—and let me tell you, this was not a quick in-and-out kind of situation.

This was a full-on “let’s map your body like a GPS system so we can zap cancer with laser-level precision” kind of day.

Because my tumor was so close to my chest wall—and possibly even touching it—and because two of my lymph nodes came back positive, they are not messing around.

We are going after FOUR different areas.

Let me break this down for you in non-medical, Tina-style terms:

• One beam aimed at the lymph nodes near my left armpit
• One aimed at the lymph nodes up between my shoulder, neck, and top of my left boob
• Two beams aimed at my chest wall

And here’s where things get extra interesting…

Those last two beams?

They come in from different directions.

One from the left side.
One from the right side.

Both targeting the bottom of my left boob. (Where the original problem child lived.)

And that, my friends, is why we had to go full Deflate Gate on the right side.

Because if that beam had to pass through my expander—with its plastic and saline—it could distort or misdirect the radiation, and when you’re dealing with something this precise, that is a big no-no.

We are not out here playing laser tag with cancer. This is serious business.

Now… let’s talk about the part where my heart and lung decided to be inconveniently located exactly where two of those beams need to go.

So today included a CT scan, where they mapped out the exact location of all my important organs.

Because, you know… I’d like to keep those.

For the actual radiation treatments, I’ll be lying on the same table I used for the scan… and the beams?

Oh, they come from these big ol’ mechanical arms that drop down from the ceiling, do their thing, and then retract back up like nothing happened.

I swear it felt like I was on the set of a sci-fi movie.

(And yes, I tried to take a picture… and no, they did not allow it. Rude.)

But one of the most important parts of today was learning my breathing technique.

They had me watching a little tablet while I took deep breaths, trying to keep a white line inside a green box for about 10–20 seconds.

The goal?

Take a deep breath and hold it so my chest rises away from my heart and lung, creating as much space as possible between them and the radiation field.

Basically, I am now training to become a professional breath holder.

Who knew that would be part of my cancer journey resume?

And I will be using this same technique during every single radiation treatment to help protect the organs I’m quite fond of keeping.

Now… let’s talk about the part where I got my free tattoos.

Yes.

You read that right.

I walked in for radiation mapping and left with FOUR tiny tattoos.

They look like little freckles, but they are actually permanent alignment markers to make sure everything lines up exactly the same way every single time.

Here’s where they landed:

• One on each side of my rib cage
• One on the left side near my boob (not quite the armpit zone)
• One dead center between my boob and my… well… pancake situation

These little dots are what help guide the team, so those beams hit exactly where they’re supposed to.

Because this whole process?

It is incredibly precise.

Radiation is scheduled to start at the beginning of April (giving me about 8 weeks to recover from chemo), and it will continue through the beginning of May.

And I have to say…

When this whole journey started back in September, I had no idea how many moving pieces there would be.

So many steps.
So many details.
So many things that no one really talks about.

And that’s exactly why I share all of this.

Because if you—or someone you love—ever has to walk this road, I hope these posts help even a little.

Help you understand.
Help you feel less alone.
Help you know what to expect.

Because this journey?

It’s a lot.

And to think… I still have at least a year to go before I can say I’m completely done.

Crazy times, my friends.

But we’re doing it.

One step. One breath. One beam at a time.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Accepted! (But No Sweatshirt… Just a Puppy)

🌼 Date: Monday, March 16, 2026

⚡ Energy: Excited with a side of impatient

💕 Status: Officially approved dog mom (again)

🥰 Outlook: One step closer… just a little more waiting

Today we got THE email.

You know the one.

The one you’ve been refreshing your inbox for like you’re waiting to find out if you got into your dream college.

And let me tell you…

This whole process really has felt like applying to college.

Applications.
Essays.
Photos.
Deep self-reflection about my qualifications as a dog parent (still laughing about that one).

And then…

The waiting.

Well today, the wait paid off.

WE WERE APPROVED!!! 🎉🐶💗

I mean honestly… after everything we put into that application, I feel like we should have received some sort of official acceptance package.

You know…

“Congratulations! Welcome! Here’s your sweatshirt!”

Maybe a little welcome kit? A sticker? A bumper decal that says:

“Proud Yorkie Parent – Class of 2026”

But no.

No swag.

No merch.

Nothing.

HOWEVER…

When I checked her profile online, I saw something even better.

Right across her sweet little face it now says:

“PENDING ADOPTION.”

And let me tell you…

That is worth way more than any sweatshirt. 💗

Because that means she’s ours… almost.

Now… for the part where life reminds us that patience is still a requirement.

Our little girl was rescued from a puppy mill in Missouri, where she was used as a breeder. Because of that, she hasn’t been spayed yet.

So tomorrow, she has an appointment for:

• A dental appointment
• Her spay procedure

And the shelter wants to keep her close in her foster home in Seattle for at least a week afterward to make sure she heals well and there are no complications.

Which, of course, we completely understand.

But also…

WE WANT OUR DOG. 😆

So now we wait a little bit longer.

If everything goes smoothly (and we are praying hard that it does), we’re looking at Tuesday, March 24th as the earliest day we can bring her home.

One more week.

One more stretch of waiting.

One more test of patience.

So I’m asking all of you, my amazing badass beauties, to send prayers, good vibes, positive energy, all the things her way tomorrow.

For a smooth procedure.
For easy healing.
For zero complications.

Because that sweet little face already has a place in our hearts… now we just need her safely home in our arms.

Stay tuned… we’re getting closer. 🐾💗

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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When Love Shows Up in Balloons

🌼 Date: Saturday & Sunday,

March 14–15, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slowly recharging

💗 Status: Less sick, more human

😊 Outlook: Grateful, loved, and smiling again

This weekend was one of those gentle reminders that even when your body is struggling… your people show up.

I am finally starting to feel a bit better after this lovely little head and chest cold decided to move in uninvited. Thankfully, the antibiotics did their job and kept things from turning into something more serious.

Because let me tell you… my oncologist made it very clear:

If this had turned into bronchitis or—heaven forbid—pneumonia again, we’d be having a very different conversation right now. And by “conversation,” I mean me being admitted to the hospital.

Apparently when your immune system is basically on vacation and your white blood cell count is hanging out somewhere near zero, your body doesn’t exactly rise up like a warrior and fight things off.

It’s more like:

“Yeah… I’m gonna need some help with this.”

So thankfully, we avoided that whole situation.

But even with things improving, I’ve still been feeling kind of… meh.

Not terrible. Not great. Just that in-between space where your body is healing, but your energy hasn’t quite gotten the memo yet.

And then…

Something really special happened.

My friend Marnie, my aunt Dee, and her friend Dennis decided that “meh” was not an acceptable weekend vibe.

So what did they do?

They showed up and turned my front porch and walkway into a full-blown celebration zone.

Balloons.
Streamers.
Color everywhere.

I walked out and just stood there like:

“What… is happening right now??”

And then it hit me.

This wasn’t just decorations.

This was love… in balloon form. 🎈💗

They didn’t need a holiday.
They didn’t need a reason.

They just wanted to make me smile.

And let me tell you… mission accomplished.

Because it’s really hard to feel “meh” when your house suddenly looks like it’s hosting a birthday party for joy itself.

I mean, if the neighbors didn’t already think we were a little quirky, they definitely do now.

“Why does that house have random balloons lining the driveway?”

Oh, you know… just fighting cancer over here and celebrating being alive on a random weekend. No big deal.

But honestly?

This is the kind of stuff that matters.

Not the big, grand gestures.

But the unexpected moments where people say:

“I see you. I love you. And I’m going to bring a little light into your day.”

And this weekend… they brought a whole lot of it.

So here’s your reminder today, my beauties:

If you have people in your life who show up like this—
Hold onto them.
Appreciate them.
Let them love you.

And if you ever get the chance…

Be the person who shows up with balloons. 🎈

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Flat, Floppy & Keeping It Real

🌼 Date: Friday, March 13, 2026

⚡ Energy: Improving… slightly less cranky

❣️ Status: Pancake boob era

😉 Outlook: Healing, patience, and radical honesty

Today I’m happy to report that my pectoral muscle has started calming down a bit after Wednesday’s Deflate Gate Olympics. I can move a little easier today, which is a huge win.

But…

I am not a fan of the aftermath.

Let’s just say my right side has officially entered what I am now calling the Pancake Phase.

And when I say pancake, I mean flat, floppy, and slightly confusing to look at.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that if the plastic expander bag wasn’t still sitting in there, I could probably roll the whole thing up like a sock and tuck it into my bra.

Ladies who have breastfed will probably understand exactly what I’m talking about here.

You know that sucked-dry, completely emptied out boob that suddenly looks like it has given up on life and relocated closer to your belly button than your neckline?

Yeah.

That.

Now imagine that… but with a plastic expander shell still sitting underneath it.

Cancer reconstruction is truly the gift that keeps on giving.

Now before anyone wonders why they would intentionally deflate the opposite side before radiation, there actually is a very good reason for it.

Radiation therapy is extremely precise. The doctors are aiming powerful radiation beams at a very specific target area in order to destroy any microscopic cancer cells that might still be hanging around.

If the expander stays fully inflated, it can:

• Push tissue into the radiation field
• Block or scatter part of the radiation beam
• Make it harder for the radiation team to target the exact area they need

By deflating the expander, it allows the skin and tissue to lay flatter against the chest wall so the radiation oncologists can accurately aim the treatment where it needs to go.

So, while my boob currently resembles something that could be folded like laundry, it’s actually helping the radiation team do their job better.

And if it helps kill cancer cells?

Then pancake boob it is.

Now in the spirit of keeping it real, I’m including a couple photos today.

Not because I enjoy sharing my weird science experiment chest with the world… but because this is what this journey actually looks like.

Cancer isn’t always pink ribbons and inspirational quotes.

Sometimes it’s:

• concave boobs
• alien-edge expanders
• dry-brushing skin blizzards
• and learning to laugh at things you never imagined you’d be discussing publicly.

But if sharing the real parts of this helps even one other woman feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

Besides…

Someday when this whole adventure is behind me, these photos will just be proof that this badass body survived one hell of a fight.

And that’s something I’m pretty proud of.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Retrogression: When Your Boob Goes Back in Time

🌼 Date: Thursday, March 12, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low and slightly cranky

💔 Status: One angry pectoral muscle

😐 Outlook: Temporary setback… but still moving forward

Well… remember yesterday’s little adventure known as Deflate Gate?

Yeah.

Apparently, my body would like to file a formal complaint.

Today it hurts to do just about anything that involves my right pectoral muscle.

And when I say anything, I mean anything.

Lifting my fork to eat?
Pain.

Reaching for something on the counter?
Pain.

Pushing myself up out of bed?
Oh, that one is extra spicy.

So today I have officially switched to eating with my left hand, which feels a little like I’m a toddler learning how to use utensils again.

And we are also back to the classic household request:

“Casey… can you grab that for me from the top shelf?”

If this sounds familiar, it’s because it is.

It feels exactly like October, right after my surgery.

Back when every little movement felt like I was waking up muscles that had been personally offended by my life choices.

Getting out of bed requires careful planning.
Bending over to tie my shoes? A full production.
Pushing off with my right arm? Absolutely not.

But the real throwback is something I had almost forgotten about.

Those hard, pokey edges on the expander.

You know… the ones that make it look and feel like the alien from the movie is trying to claw its way out of your chest.

Yeah.

Those are back.

Just when I thought we were making progress…

BAM.

Major regression.

Actually, scratch that.

Regression would mean going backward a little bit.

What I am experiencing right now is something much more dramatic.

When I came out of surgery in October, I had 50cc in each expander.

Today?

I have 0cc in the right side.

That’s not regression.

That is retrogression.

Yes, that’s a real word.

(And if it isn’t, I encourage you to Google it and support my argument anyway.)

Retrogression:
The act of going so far backward that you somehow pass where you started.

Which means my right boob has essentially decided to time travel.

Fantastic.

But here’s the thing about this whole process.

Healing isn’t a straight line.

It’s more like one of those stock market graphs where things go up, then down, then sideways, then someone panics and sells everything.

Yesterday we made progress toward radiation.

Today my body is loudly reminding me that there’s still work to do.

So, for now I’m slowing down, taking it easy, and letting my pectoral muscle finish its dramatic tantrum.

Because even when it feels like we’re moving backward…

We’re still moving through this.

And that still counts.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Deflate Gate, CPR Boobs & Operation: Tiny Dog – The Interview

🌼 Date: Wednesday, March 11, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slightly lopsided but still hopeful

❤️ Status: Officially a member of the Uni-Boob Club

😘 Outlook: Healing, patience… and possibly a road trip to Seattle

Today was the long-awaited plastics appointment for Deflate Gate. 😢

For those of you who have been following along and doing the math, I currently had 515cc in each expander. The plan for today was simple:

Remove all 515cc from the right side before radiation.

Easy, right?

Well… if you know me at all, you already know I don’t do anything the easy way.

The first 150cc came out beautifully. Smooth. Efficient. Textbook.

Then… nothing.

The syringe stopped pulling fluid like my boob had suddenly decided to clamp down and go on strike.

The nurse tried a few tricks.
Reposition the needle.
Adjust the syringe.
Try again.

Still nothing.

Apparently even my boobs have a stubborn streak.

So naturally, this meant it was time to bring in Nurse #2.

Her assignment: push all the remaining fluid toward the port so Nurse #1 could suction it out.

Now when I say push, I don’t mean a gentle little nudge.

I mean two hands, leaning in, pushing on my chest like she was performing CPR on someone who had no pulse and had been gone for ten minutes.

I’m honestly a little surprised I didn’t leave there with a cracked rib and a toe tag.

But eventually… success.

All 515cc are officially gone from the right side.

And remember the picture I painted earlier about the empty milk jug you accidentally stepped on that formed around your foot?

Well now imagine you screw the lid on that jug so there is zero air left inside.

Then push it flat.

Then push it even flatter.

Then somehow manage to make it concave.

Ladies and gentlemen…

That is now my right side.

It is flatter than flat.

In fact, it’s actually sucked inward toward my chest.

And the fun part?

It has to stay like this for about four weeks after radiation is finished. Possibly longer. It all depends on how quickly my skin heals and when my plastics team feels comfortable starting the refill process again.

The good news is that when refills start again, they can do larger increments than 50cc at a time, so it shouldn’t take quite as long to get back to 515cc.

But until roughly mid-June…

I will now proudly answer to the name:

The Uni-Boober.

Now let’s move on to the part you’ve all been waiting for…

Operation: Tiny Dog – The Phone Interview.

First things first, I received an email asking for photos of our house.

Very vague instructions.

So naturally, I went into full overachiever mode.

I took pictures of:

• The outside of the house
• The yard so they could see where she’ll run and potty
• The inside of the house from multiple angles
• The doggy ramp up onto the couch
• The couch with its official dog blankets
• The dog bed in front of the fireplace
• The basket of dog toys next to it
• Our bedroom with the other dog bed next to ours

Even though I clearly explained in the application that Gidget sleeps on our bed, and the new little lady can sleep wherever she feels comfortable.

And of course… I may have snuck in a few pictures of Gidget, because honestly, how could I not?

The phone interview itself went really well.

The woman we spoke with actually has rescued Yorkies herself, and she agrees with what we’ve been thinking all along—that this little girl likely needs a companion, just like we think Gidget needs one.

She was rescued from a puppy mill, and she has an appointment on the 17th to be spayed.

Which means the earliest we could bring her home would be the 22nd.

So…

If everything continues to go well…

Next weekend might involve a road trip to Seattle.

And honestly?

After becoming the Uni-Boober of Oregon today, a five-pound snuggle buddy sounds like exactly the kind of medicine I could use.

Stay tuned, my beauties… this story might have a very happy ending.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Great Skin Shed & Operation: Tiny Dog Application

🌼 Date: Tuesday, March 10, 2026

⚡ Energy: Determined with a side of slightly horrified curiosity

💖 Status: Exfoliated within an inch of my life

🥰 Outlook: Hopeful for smoother skin and maybe a tiny new family member

Well… yesterday we talked about my brilliant chemo-brain idea to try dry brushing to combat this full-body snow globe situation.

Today was experiment day.

Now, because I am nothing if not a practical scientist in my own personal bathroom laboratory, I decided the smartest place to attempt this little adventure would be standing in the shower. That way, if things got… messy… cleanup would be minimal.

Friends.

I was not prepared.

You would not believe how much skin came off my body. I’m talking flakes, particles, tiny bits floating around like I was creating my own personal dermatology blizzard.

At one point I actually stopped and wondered:

Should I be wearing a mask for this?

Because seriously… is it bad to inhale your own skin?

I mean, logically it feels like something one should probably avoid… but at that point the damage was already done. So I guess time will tell. 😆

Once the brushing portion of the experiment concluded (and the shower floor looked like it had just survived a mild sandstorm), I moved on to phase two: the exfoliating sponge.

If we’re doing this, we’re doing it all the way.

So, I scrubbed, rinsed, scrubbed again, and then proceeded to apply lotion to every single body part I could physically reach. Arms, legs, chest, stomach, shoulders… if it had skin on it, it got moisturized.

It was basically a full-body lotion party.

But even after all that attention, I still had that weird “pilling” feeling—you know, when little bits of skin decide they’re not quite ready to leave the building yet.

So, what did I do?

I grabbed a clean, dry washcloth and wiped down my entire body again like I was doing the world’s strangest post-shower detailing job.

More flakes.
More bits.
More evidence that my body apparently believes it’s a never-ending source of exfoliation material.

Good grief.

I don’t think my skin has ever received this much focused attention in its entire life.

On a much happier note, though, after my spa treatment / science experiment / dermatology excavation project, I sat down and finished the adoption application for that tiny little girl from the shelter.

And let me tell you… this was not a quick “name, address, and favorite dog treat” kind of application.

Oh no.

This thing was more like applying for admission to an Ivy League college.

I swear there were at least 50 questions, and several of them required full-on essay answers.

Questions about my home.
Questions about my schedule.
Questions about my yard.
Questions about my philosophy on dog training.

At one point I actually stopped and thought:

Wait a minute… am I even qualified to own a dog?

Which is ridiculous, because I’m 54 years old and I’ve had dogs in my life since I was a kid.

But somewhere around question number thirty-something, I started feeling like I should probably be including references, transcripts, and a personal statement about my long-term goals in dog parenting.

But I powered through.

Because the whole time I was filling it out, I kept thinking about those little eyes that spoke straight to my heart.

Application: submitted.

Now here’s the funny part.

Apparently, chemo brain decided that 3:00 in the morning was the perfect time to wrap things up. So sometime around that hour, I hit submit and went to bed feeling pretty good about getting it done.

And by the time I woke up later that morning?

I already had a text from the shelter asking if we could schedule the phone interview on Wednesday.

Cue the excitement… and maybe a tiny bit of nervous energy.

So, stay tuned, my beauties, because tomorrow we find out what happens next in Operation: Tiny Dog.

Send those good vibes and hopeful thoughts our way. If everything lines up the way my heart is hoping, there might be a five-pound little lady joining our family very soon.

And honestly, after today’s Great Skin Shed of 2026, a little puppy snuggle would be the perfect reward.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Brush, Baby, Brush & A Tiny Heart Thief

🌼 Date: Monday, March 9, 2026

⚡ Energy: Curious, slightly sparkly

💖 Status: Flaky but optimistic

🥰 Outlook: Big changes coming—on my skin and in my heart

So, chemo brain strikes again… but this time, it’s a bright, sparkly kind of idea.

You know how I’ve been waging war against this full-body snow globe situation—arms, legs, face, earlobes, the works? Well, my brain came up with a potentially genius solution: dry brushing. Yes, the very thing people rave about for circulation and glowing skin, apparently. Could it also help me shed this chemo-induced flakiness without turning the living room into a winter wonderland? Only one way to find out.

So I went straight to Amazon, because that’s where all brilliant, slightly desperate ideas go at 2 PM on a Sunday. I ordered myself two brushes: one for my face, and one for my body—because obviously, my face deserves its own special treatment. And guess what, my lovelies? They arrived today.

Cue my inner Tina: wide-eyed, ready to exfoliate like a rock star sanding a guitar. Will these brushes rise to the occasion, or will they just add another layer to the snow globe effect? Stay tuned, because tomorrow, I’ll give you the definitive update on whether these little beauties can save me from looking like a peeling croissant.

But that’s not the only excitement today. Oh no. Today, the universe threw me a tiny little miracle. I was scrolling through a local shelter (because yes, my heart always has room for a four-legged companion), and there she was… the perfect little girl.

She’s six years old, weighs five pounds, and her coloring? Almost identical to our sweet baby girl, Gidget. But it wasn’t just her look—it was her eyes. Those tiny, soulful eyes that seemed to speak directly to my heart. 💗

So tonight, while my brushes wait patiently to show me their magic, I’ll be filling out her adoption application. Please send all the good vibes, positive thoughts, and tiny happy dances you’ve got—because this little heart thief might just be coming home with us.

Between the quest for soft, non-flaky skin and the search for another tiny life to love, today has been a mix of anticipation, hope, and a little bit of sparkle. ✨

Stay tuned, my beauties. Tomorrow, we’ll see whether I’m gliding into smooth skin or just creating another snowstorm, and we’ll also be keeping our fingers crossed for the little girl who already has my heart.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Snow Globe Skin & the Great Moisture Hunt

🌼 Date: Saturday, March 7 & Sunday, March 8, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slightly crusty, slightly brilliant

💓 Status: Flaky but functioning

🧐 Outlook: Moisture is out there somewhere… and I will find it

This weekend we’re talking about something no one warns you about with chemo… and that is what it does to your skin.

I was ready for the big stuff.
Hair loss? Knew it was coming.
Nausea? Yep.
Fatigue? Obviously.
Being either freezing or sweating like I’m in menopause during a desert heat wave? Check.
Neuropathy? Mouth sores? Metallic taste? Chemo brain?

All on the list.

But the one thing nobody talks about is what happens to your skin.

Here’s the science part, because apparently, I’m becoming a part-time dermatologist during this journey. Chemo attacks rapidly dividing cells — which is great when those cells are cancer, but unfortunately it also hits healthy skin cells living in the deeper layers. That means:

• Your skin can’t retain moisture like it normally does
• Sweat glands slow down (which help hydrate skin naturally)
• The outer skin barrier gets compromised
• And if you’re dehydrated from nausea? That makes it even worse

So basically, my skin is out here fighting for its life.

And let me tell you… the farther I get into chemo, the drier and flakier everything has become.

Arms.
Legs.
Chest.
Abdomen.
Face.
Even my earlobes.

Friends… when I take off my compression tank top at night it looks like someone shook a snow globe over my head. ❄️

It’s a full-body exfoliation event whether I want it or not.

Naturally, I went into full Tina problem-solving mode.

First stop: exfoliation.

My ride-or-die face scrub since the 1990s — St. Ives Apricot Scrub (yes, I’m still loyal). I even tried using it on my body.

Still snowing.

Then I upgraded to an exfoliating body sponge and scrubbed like I was sanding down a deck.

Still snowing.

Then after drying off with my nice fluffy towel, I grabbed a coarser hand towel and exfoliated again outside the shower.

Still shedding skin like a snake going through a personal growth phase.

Which leads me to a very important question…

At what point does the human body actually run out of skin to shed?

Is there a limit?

Is there a “Congratulations, you’ve exfoliated enough” notification I should be waiting for?

Because if this keeps up much longer, I’m going to start looking like that anatomy poster hanging in every doctor’s office… you know the one… the man with no skin where you can see all the muscles and ligaments.

And while yes — pink is my favorite color…

I’m not entirely convinced I could pull off that look. 😆

Now let’s talk lotions.

My longtime favorite: Australian Gold Moisture Lock Tan Extender Lotion. Been using it for years. Love it.

Not cutting it anymore.

Next up: Alba Botanica Coconut Rescue.

Nope.

Then I ordered Native Body Lotion. That one worked for a while… until it didn’t.

So, then I did what every chemo patient eventually does…

I went down the internet research rabbit hole.

Turns out most lotions sit on the surface of your skin. They make things feel temporarily better but don’t penetrate deep enough to actually repair what chemo is doing.

And if the lotion has alcohol in it? It can actually dry your skin out more.

Awesome.

So now I have entered the world of skin oils.

I tried a Honeysuckle Multi-Use Face, Body & Hair Oil — but the scent was so strong it felt like I was marinating in a Victorian perfume shop. So that one has officially been reassigned as cuticle oil.

Still searching for the perfect body oil.

Now let’s talk about my face, because that’s been its own adventure.

I used Burt’s Bees for years to remove makeup and wash my face. But lately my skin felt tight and dry, like it was two minutes away from filing a complaint with HR.

So, I started experimenting.

Right now, my routine includes:

• A silky face wash that feels amazing
• A Hyaluronic Acid moisturizer with Vitamin E
• And my new favorite discovery…

Manuka Honey face wash and face oil.

I was skeptical about putting oil on my face because I pictured myself walking around looking like a buttered ham.

But surprisingly? It soaks right in.

And after I use it, my skin feels so soft that I keep petting my own face without realizing it.

Like a cat.
Just casually stroking my own cheeks.

Totally normal behavior.

I’ve always loved Manuka honey because of its healing properties. I actually used it years ago when I was first diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis, and I still keep some in the cupboard for tea when I’m sick and little boo-boos.

But then today… my chemo brain had an epiphany.

And tomorrow we’re going to see if that little lightbulb moment turns into a brilliant idea… or just another chapter in the ongoing saga of “Things Tina Tried in the Bathroom Lab.”

Stay tuned.

And in the meantime, if you see me shedding flakes around

like a walking human croissant, just know I’m doing my best.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Rare & Valuable… For a Few More Days

🌼 Date: Friday, March 6, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slightly Improved but Still Coughy

💗 Status: Expanded and Educated

😒 Outlook: Apparently “Deflate Gate” Is Coming

I had my plastics appointment today and got another 50cc added to each side.

Which means I am now sitting at 515cc in each expander.

For those of you keeping track in beverage math, that equals 17.4 ounces.

Naturally, I had to Google what drinks come in that size. Because this is the kind of research project cancer recovery has turned me into.

And guess what I discovered?

During the 2018–2020 NFL seasons, Pepsi made special cans with a textured surface that mimicked the grip of a football.

They were called Pepsi Laces cans.

Apparently, they were marketed as collector items and were considered rare and valuable.

See? Even in the middle of this nightmare journey, we’re still learning new and completely random things.

Which means, technically speaking, I am currently sporting a pair of rare and valuable 17-ounce collectors’ editions.

Not bad.

Unfortunately… the good news portion of today’s program ended there.

Next week at my appointment they will be draining the saline out of the right expander in preparation for my radiation appointment on the 17th.

Yes.

Draining.

I asked if they could just drain both sides so I could stay symmetrical until radiation is finished.

My plastic surgeon said that is a hard no.

The reason is that after radiation, the skin on the left side will become much less pliable. It won’t stretch the same way, which is why I have to wait at least six months after radiation before I can have my final reconstructive surgery.

Radiation basically toughens the skin to the point where it wouldn’t stretch enough to properly cover an implant.

Which would completely defeat the purpose of spending the past several months slowly stretching the skin with these weekly fills to make room for my future “gummies.”

So next week, whether I like it or not…

Deflate Gate begins.

At my radiation appointment on the 17th, they’ll do all the imaging and measurements needed to get the radiation machine properly set up.

I’m sure that appointment will come with a whole new set of information and adventures.

More on that once I know more.

But in the meantime, I have less than five days left to enjoy being both rare and valuable.

Well… my boobs are anyway.

After that, I’ll be rocking the one-boob look until radiation is finished, which will likely be sometime around mid-May.

Cancer really does keep things interesting.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Art of Doing Absolutely Nothing

🌼 Date: Wednesday, March 4 – Thursday, March 5, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low Battery Mode

💗 Status: Resting, Recovering, Recharging

😑 Outlook: Sometimes Healing Looks Like Doing Nothing

The last couple of days have been… uneventful.

And honestly, that’s probably exactly what my body needed.

After the cold, the cough, the antibiotics, the oncology appointment, and the emotional whiplash of learning about five more years of medication… my body pretty much staged a quiet little protest.

So for the past two days I’ve been doing something that does not come naturally to me.

Nothing.

Well… not literally nothing.

But pretty close.

I stayed home.
I rested.
I hydrated.
I rotated between the bed and the recliner like it was some kind of extremely low-energy Olympic sport.

The cough is still hanging around, but it’s slowly improving. The antibiotics seem to be doing their job, and I’m trying to give my body the time it clearly needs to catch up with everything it has been through.

Because when you really stop and think about it… the last several months have been a lot.

Chemo.
Surgeries.
Appointments.
Medications.
Radiation planning.
And apparently now bonus respiratory nonsense just for fun.

So, the past two days have been dedicated to the very glamorous work of healing.

Which mostly looks like:

• Sleeping
• Drinking fluids
• Watching TV
• Staring out the window
• Wondering if the cough is finally getting better
• And reminding myself that resting is not the same thing as quitting

For someone like me — a person who is usually in constant motion — doing nothing can feel strangely uncomfortable.

But I’m learning that sometimes doing nothing is actually doing something important.

It’s letting your body rebuild.

It’s giving your immune system the time it needs to fight back.

It’s allowing all the behind-the-scenes repair work to happen.

So for these two days, the goal wasn’t productivity.

The goal was healing.

And even if it doesn’t look like much from the outside…

It’s still progress.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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The Goalpost Moves Again

🌼 Date: Tuesday, March 3, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running Low, Brain Running Wild

💗 Status: Processing New Information

🤔 Outlook: Apparently This Game Has Extra Innings

Today I had an appointment with oncology.

I went in thinking it would be a pretty routine check-in. Just another step along the path of finishing chemo, getting through radiation, and continuing the long road back to normal.

Or whatever my new normal will look like.

Instead, I learned about the next chapter.

After I complete radiation, I’ll need to start taking an estrogen-blocking medication.

And not just for a little while.

For a minimum of five years.

Five.

Years.

Holy cow.

There are several different medications in this category, and my doctor will choose which one I take based on my history, the specific type of cancer I have, and all the very detailed numbers that go along with it.

Because apparently no two cancer cases are exactly the same.

Which makes sense medically… but it also means there’s no neat little “this is what happens next” roadmap.

Then we looked at the list of possible side effects.

Let’s just say it’s not exactly a spa menu.

Possible side effects include things like:

• Morning sickness
• Diarrhea
• Loss of appetite… or weight gain
• Severe joint pain
• Hot flashes
• Muscle stiffness
• Bone thinning

So basically a delightful little grab bag of possibilities depending on which medication I end up taking.

At this point my only question is:

Can I get the one that doesn’t have any of those side effects, please?

Thanks.

But the bigger thing this stirred up for me is something I wasn’t really expecting.

I think somewhere in my mind I believed that once I made it through chemo, radiation, and all the surgeries… I’d eventually be able to return to life as normal.

Or at least something resembling normal.

Especially when it comes to work.

Not a desk job.

A physically demanding job.

Now I’m sitting here wondering how people actually do that while dealing with medications that can cause joint pain, muscle stiffness, and bone thinning.

And let’s talk about the more immediate possibilities on that side effect list.

Things like nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea.

Because that sounds like a blast when your job involves driving a bus for 3–4 hours at a time.

Seriously… how does that work exactly?

Do I need to start purchasing stock in adult diapers now?

And in a fragrance-free zone, what exactly would I do about the smell of a used diaper?

It’s not like I can just pin an air freshener to my back and call it good.

These are the kinds of very glamorous, very practical questions that apparently come with the next phase of cancer treatment.

It’s a lot to process.

Because right now it feels a little like the end zone keeps moving farther away.

Every time I think I’m getting close, the rules change and there’s another stretch of field ahead.

And if you know me, you know one thing:

I do not like playing games where the rules change in the middle.

But here we are.

So tonight I’m sitting with the information.

Trying to wrap my head around what the next five years might look like.

Still healing.
Still fighting.
Still figuring out the rules of this new game.

Even if I don’t particularly like them.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Whispering Client

🌼 Date: Monday, March 2, 2026

⚡ Energy: Barely Audible

💗 Status: Whispering, Wheezing, Still Sick

💅 Outlook: At Least My Nails Look Good

I’m still feeling pretty crappy today.

The cough is still hanging around, and now I’ve reached the stage where every time I talk, it makes me cough.

So naturally, my solution is to whisper everything.

I’m guessing Casey is enjoying this development.

A very quiet wife? What a dream.

Unfortunately for him, whispering is not a permanent lifestyle choice.

Now here’s the thing — I had a nail appointment scheduled this afternoon, and it had already been three weeks.

Three weeks.

For some people that might not sound like a big deal, but if you know me… that is pushing it.

So, despite feeling like a whispering Victorian ghost, I went to my appointment.

But we had a little strategy.

On the drive there I whispered all of my wants and needs to Casey, so he could translate for me once we got to the salon.

And let me tell you, this dynamic duo nailed it.

Every time my nail tech asked a question like:

“Do you want them shorter?”

Casey would jump right in and say something like:

“Only a tiny bit… like less than you normally do.”

Meanwhile I’m sitting there nodding quietly like the mysterious client who apparently travels with her own spokesperson.

She thought it was hilarious.

Honestly, so did I.

And because Casey was already fully involved in the process… I let him pick the color too.

Believe it or not, we still haven’t tried all the pinks yet.

The ladies at the salon always get a kick out of him, and I have to admit — he makes a pretty good nail consultant.

At this point I kind of hope he keeps coming with me even after I don’t need a chauffeur anymore.

Because apparently, he has opinions about nail length now.

And honestly?

The whispering client and her interpreter make a pretty great team.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Seal Has Entered the Chat

🌼 Date: Sunday, March 1, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on Antibiotics & Determination

💗 Status: Sinuses in Revolt, Lungs Filing Complaints

🤧 Outlook: Hoping We Stop at “Gross Cough” and Skip Pneumonia

Well… things escalated overnight.

I woke up this morning feeling even worse than yesterday.

The sore throat and sinus situation are still hanging around, but now we’ve added a brand-new symptom to the party:

The deep seal cough.

You know the one.

That barky, chesty, “did someone sneak a sea lion into the house?” kind of cough.

And let me tell you… it’s a productive one.

We’re not going to get too graphic here, but let’s just say my lungs have apparently decided it’s time for a full spring cleaning.

Good times.

After a few rounds of coughing that made me question my life choices, I called my doctor.

Within a short amount of time, I was officially prescribed antibiotics, and he also added Sudafed to my ever-growing list of medications and remedies.

At this point my daily routine includes:

• Cold medicine
• Sinus rinses
• Homemade cough syrup
• Antibiotics
• Sudafed
• And a whole lot of tissues

Honestly, I’m starting to feel like a small traveling pharmacy.

But here’s the upside I didn’t expect…

Apparently having cancer has one strange benefit: when you call the doctor, they take you seriously very quickly.

Priority service when it actually matters.

Not exactly a perk I would have chosen… but I’ll take the fast response time.

Now the goal is simple:

Stop this nonsense before it decides to move further down into my lungs and turn into pneumonia.

That’s a hard pass from me.

So, for now I’m resting, hydrating, medicating, and doing everything I can to convince my body that this is not the direction we want to go.

Fingers crossed the antibiotics kick in quickly and the coughing circus calms down.

Because between chemo recovery and this respiratory rebellion…

My body has already had more than enough excitement lately.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Over-the-Counter Olympics

🌼 Date: Saturday, February 28, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on Fumes and Cold Medicine

❤️‍🩹 Status: Officially Sick of Being Sick

😷 Outlook: At This Point I’m Open to Witchcraft

Today was another sick day.

No adventures.
No outings.
No brave treks to Mexican restaurants.

Just me… at home… working my way through what I’m fairly certain is every over-the-counter cold and cough medicine known to mankind.

So far, the lineup includes:

• Alka-Seltzer Cold
• Theraflu
• NyQuil
• All of the Vicks tricks known to every grandma
• And a thorough sinus excavation courtesy of my trusty neti pot

If there’s a pharmacy shelf somewhere, I’m pretty sure I’ve sampled from it.

At this point my body probably has a light citrus-menthol aftertaste.

The neti pot situation deserves its own special mention.

There is something incredibly humbling about voluntarily pouring warm salt water through your sinuses while standing over a sink wondering how your life choices led you here.

But when you’re sick enough, dignity becomes negotiable.

Honestly, I’m not sure what’s left to try.

Maybe:
• more hot tea
• chicken soup – the vegetarian version
• standing outside under the full moon
• waving sage around the house
• or just surrendering and becoming one with the couch

The good news is I’m still staying tucked safely inside my little recovery bubble.

The bad news is the germs apparently RSVP’d anyway.

So, today’s accomplishments include:
• Hydrating
• Meditating (mostly accidental while staring at the wall)
• Perfecting my couch-nesting technique
• And continuing my quest to find the magical potion that makes this nonsense go away

Recovery from cancer is already a marathon.

Adding a cold on top of it feels like someone decided the marathon should also include a surprise obstacle course.

But I’m still here.

Still resting.
Still healing.
Still experimenting with cold medicine like a slightly desperate amateur pharmacist.

Eventually something has to work.

And if it doesn’t… I still have my homemade whiskey cough syrup.

Desperate times.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Heel Situation

🌼 Date: Friday, February 27, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on Cough Syrup & Determination

❤️‍🩹 Status: Sniffly, Sore, but Properly Shod

🙄 Outlook: Hoping the Heels Heal So the Heels Can Return

Well… the cough has officially joined the party.

So now we’ve got:
• Sore throat
• Headache
• Cough

Good times. Truly living the dream over here.

Before we even talk about dinner, let’s discuss my homemade cough syrup — because if I’m going down, I’m going down flavorfully.

My go-to recipe is equal parts:
• Honey
• Whiskey
• Lemon juice

I usually mix about 4 tablespoons of each in a small glass jar and then add a couple teaspoons to a cup of hot lemon tea.

Feel free to customize to your liking.

Today all we had in the cupboard was peach whiskey (because apparently, we are fancy now), so I omitted the lemon juice and added some ground ginger instead.

In the past I’ve thrown in cinnamon. Sometimes cayenne pepper if I’m feeling bold. It really depends on my mood and what’s on hand.

Is it medically approved? Questionable.
Does it make me feel like I’m doing something productive? Absolutely.

Now — despite feeling like I swallowed a handful of gravel — Casey really wanted to go to our normal Friday night Mexican dinner. So once again, I got dressed and made the trek.

But here’s the headline:

For the first time in quite a while… I wore real shoes.

Not the Ugg slip-on platform clogs.
Not the memory foam cloud walkers.
Not the “these are the only things that don’t make me wince” footwear.

Actual shoes.

Lately I’ve been living in my Ugg clogs because my heels have been incredibly tender. And when I say tender, I mean the bottoms and backs of my heels feel bruised just from existing.

I’ve heard of bed sores. I don’t know if that’s technically what this is, but between lying in bed and sitting in my recliner for months, my heels have apparently decided they’ve had enough.

It doesn’t seem to matter:
• What lotion I use
• How much lotion I use
• What socks I wear

Nothing was helping.

So now I sleep with a pillow under my knees that I’ve strategically moved down so my feet don’t touch the bed.

There’s also a pillow under my legs in the recliner, so my heels don’t press into the cushion.

Because being fun sized means my legs are too short to let my feet hang over the edge of the chair.

Even my height is working against me.

The pillow situation is starting to help a bit, though. The tenderness isn’t quite as sharp as it was.

Which gives me hope.

Because if you know me, you know this isn’t just about comfort.

It’s about my shoes.

I never wear the same pair within the same couple of weeks. Certainly not in the same week. And absolutely never two days in a row.

The shoe police would be appalled at what has been happening over here for the past few months.

Same pair.
Every day.

Honestly, it’s a miracle I haven’t been cited.

So yes, tonight I wore real shoes.

And it felt like a tiny rebellion against cancer.

A tiny step (carefully placed) back toward myself.

The cough may be here.
The heels may be tender.
The energy may still be questionable.

But the shoes?

The shoes are slowly making a comeback.

And that feels like progress.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Double Fisted & On the Rocks

🌼 Date: Thursday, February 26, 2026

⚡ Energy: Under the Weather but Still Showing Up

💝 Status: Sniffly, Sore, and Slightly More Filled

🤕 Outlook: If I’m Going to Feel Crappy, I Might as Well Be Symmetrical

I woke up this morning with a sore throat and a headache.

Awesome.

As much as I’ve kept myself tucked safely inside my little chemo-recovery bubble, apparently “the ick” did not get the memo. It found me anyway.

Because of course it did.

All I wanted to do was stay in bed, burrow under the covers, and pretend the world didn’t exist. But I had a plastics appointment, so I pulled it together, got dressed, and went like the brave little trooper I am.

Sniffles and all.

Silver lining? I got another fill.

They added 50cc on each side, which now puts me at 465cc.

For those of you following along with the conversion chart at home, that’s 15.724 ounces.

But we’re calling it 16 ounces.

I like my drinks cold — everything is on the rocks — so that extra quarter ounce is in there somewhere. I’m sure of it.

Which means I am now proudly sporting a couple of pounders.

Or as my dad would say… lagers.

These, however, are significantly more expensive than anything you’d find at the Rumplestiltskin store. (Sorry folks, that’s an inside joke that goes way back.)

And yes — at this point I can officially say I am double fisted at all times.

A true two-fisted drinker.

Did I expect cancer recovery to turn me into walking bar humor?

No.

But here we are.

All jokes aside, it felt good to move forward again. Even if I had to do it with a scratchy throat and a pounding head. Even if my body is fighting on multiple fronts this week.

Healing isn’t linear.

Sometimes it’s chemo recovery.
Sometimes it’s mystery sore throats.
Sometimes it’s just showing up anyway.

Today I showed up.

Sniffly. Achy. Slightly heavier.

But still moving forward.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Humble Pie & Physical Therapy

🌼 Date: Wednesday, February 25, 2026

⚡ Energy: Fragile but Showing Up

❤️‍🩹 Status: Humbled, Healing, and Rebuilding

😔 Outlook: Strength Is Coming Back — Even If It Doesn’t Feel Like It Yet

Today was physical therapy.

Confession: I have not been doing my exercises.

Not because I’m rebellious. Not because I don’t care. But because there have been days where all I could manage with my limited energy was moving my eyeballs and rotating my ankles in the recliner like that counted as cardio.

Survival has been the workout.

So imagine my surprise when she measured my range of motion in my arms and shoulders and… I’ve improved. Again.

Every visit, somehow, there’s progress.

Even when I feel like I’ve been doing nothing.

Apparently, my body has been quietly working behind the scenes without my permission.

This round of homework is to start building strength back up in my legs.

Goodbye, lipsky legs. We are coming for you.

But I had a mini breakdown while I was there.

Because numbers on a chart are one thing.

Saying out loud how weak I’ve become? That’s another.

It’s hard to look at your own body — the same body that used to stay out until 2AM and get up at 6AM without blinking — and admit that walking across a parking lot now requires strategy and support.

I’m not used to being this version of myself.

I’m used to being the one who gets shit done.

The one who carries the bags.
The one who moves fast.
The one who doesn’t need help.

This journey has been humbling in ways I never anticipated.

There’s a grief that comes with losing your strength — even temporarily. A quiet mourning for the body you had before cancer rearranged everything.

But here’s the complicated truth:

Even in the breakdown… there was progress.

Even in the weakness… there is rebuilding.

Even in the tears… there is forward motion.

I may not feel strong right now.

But strength is happening.

And maybe strength doesn’t always look like powering through.

Maybe sometimes it looks like showing up to PT, admitting you’re struggling, and trying anyway.

This is not the strongest version of me.

But she’s still here.

And she’s still fighting.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Slow Climb Back

🌼Date: Saturday, February 21, 2026 – Tuesday, February 24, 2026

⚡ Energy: Slowly Recharging (Very Slowly)

❤️ Status: Low Output, Minor Improvements

🙄 Outlook: Small Gains Still Count

Nothing big happened over these four days.

No appointments.
No celebrations.
No dramatic plot twists.

Just the slow, unglamorous work of healing.

My energy is still super low. The kind of low where you measure your day by how long you stayed upright. The kind where a shower feels like a commitment and folding laundry might as well be an Olympic sport.

But.

There is a small shift happening.

My appetite is finally starting to come back a little.

Not “let’s go out for steak and dessert” levels of appetite. Let’s not get crazy. But I am now eating two small meals a day. And I’m drinking more fluids than I have been.

That may not sound like much.

But when your body has been through months of chemo, surgery, medications, and side effects, two small meals feel like forward motion.

For weeks, food was just something I forced down because I knew I had to. Now I’m actually feeling hunger again. That feels… normal. And normal feels like progress.

I’m hoping this means my body is starting to use more calories to rebuild. Repairing cells. Restoring strength. Quietly working behind the scenes to put me back together.

Cancer recovery isn’t dramatic most days.

It’s incremental.

It’s invisible.

It’s celebrating things like:
• Finishing a full glass of water
• Eating without nausea
• Feeling a hint of hunger
• Staying awake past mid-afternoon

It’s not inspirational quotes and pink ribbons. It’s small wins that no one else would notice unless they’ve been here.

These days may not look like much from the outside.

But from where I’m sitting? They matter.

Because healing doesn’t always roar.

Sometimes it just whispers,
“Okay… we’re getting there.”

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Borrowed Balance & Mexican Food

🌼 Date: Friday, February 20, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low Battery, Minimal Output

❤️‍🩹 Status: Still Wobbly, Still Healing

😔 Outlook: Borrowing Strength Until Mine Comes Back

Nothing big happened today.

No appointments.
No milestones.
No dramatic wins.

Just healing.

Casey convinced me to go out for Mexican food tonight. And by “convinced,” I mean he gently encouraged me to leave the house and exist somewhere other than the recliner.

Sometimes that’s what love looks like.

Getting ready felt like preparing for a small expedition. Shoes on. Slow steps. Mental pep talk. And of course, securing my balance assistant — also known as my husband.

My legs are still not steady under me. The lipsky legs remain committed to the bit. So everywhere we go, I hold onto Casey’s arm.

Through the parking lot.
Into the restaurant.
Past the hostess stand.

I know he doesn’t mind.

He never hesitates. Never sighs. Never rushes me.

But every time I reach for his arm, it’s a reminder.

One more thing I can’t quite do on my own right now.

Independence has always been my thing. I’m used to being the one who carries things. Fixes things. Moves quickly. Gets it done.

Now I move carefully.

Measured.

Attached.

It’s humbling.

But here’s the other side of that coin — I’m not doing this alone.

There is something quiet and powerful about letting someone steady you. About allowing support instead of fighting for independence out of pride.

Dinner was simple. Chips. Salsa. Conversation. Me trying not to look like I just ran a marathon walking from the car.

And honestly? It was good to be out. Even if I needed an arm to do it.

Healing isn’t flashy right now. It’s small. It’s slow. It’s borrowing strength while my body rebuilds its own.

The legs will steady.

The stamina will return.

Until then, I’ll take the arm offered to me.

And the tacos.

Always the tacos.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Are We Getting Gidget a Sister?!

🌼 Date: Thursday, February 19, 2026

⚡ Energy: Operating on 12% Battery

💗 Status: Healing from the Inside, Dreaming of Puppy Kisses

😎 Outlook: Cautiously Hopeful (Pending Ivy League Admission Results)

Energy level today: still somewhere between recliner and horizontal.

My body is clearly still in full rebuild mode. No fireworks. No dramatic progress. Just quiet, behind-the-scenes healing happening at a cellular level.

However…

We may have found Gidget a sister.

Because apparently when I can’t physically run anywhere, my brain decides to run straight into adopting another dog.

We found the CUTEST little 3½-pound, 6-year-old baby girl at a shelter up in Seattle. Three and a half pounds. That’s not a dog — that’s a warm accessory.

Naturally, we’re now contemplating a road trip.

Seattle is about 3½ hours one way. So the big question becomes:

• Do we make it a mini vacay and stay the night?
• Or do we raw-dog it in one day with road snacks and optimism?

Before we even get to that part though… we must survive The Application.

When I say application, I mean we are essentially applying to an Ivy League university.

Three pages.

Essays.

References.

Photos required.

I’m fairly certain they want:

• Our life goals
• Our parenting philosophy
• A detailed outline of our backyard
• Possibly our childhood report cards

If we make it past the written exam, there is a phone or Zoom interview.

Yes. An interview.

If we survive THAT round, then — and only then — we are invited to drive to Seattle for a meet and greet.

At that point, if:

1. We like her
2. She likes us
3. Gidget doesn’t file an official protest

Then we can pay the adoption fee and begin what I assume will be a document signing process comparable to purchasing a home.

“Initial here.”
“Sign here.”
“Date here.”
“And just a small drop of blood here for verification.”

Only THEN can we bring her home.

And yes — before anyone asks — I did my research this time. This is a legitimate, registered, legal organization. No shady Venmo deposits. No mystery parking lot exchanges. We are doing this the grown-up way.

Which honestly might be the most exhausting part of all of it.

So while my body is healing quietly and I’m still measuring my daily success by how many steps I can take without needing to sit down, we’re also dreaming about tiny paws and puppy breath.

Life looks different right now.

But maybe — just maybe — there’s room for a little 3½-pound spark of joy in the middle of all this healing.

Stay tuned.

We may be adding another diva to this household… which would officially make three.

Poor Casey.

Pray for him.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

415cc & A Very Expensive Milkshake

🌼 Date: Wednesday, February 18, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on Fumes & Determination

💗 Status: 415cc & Still Standing – Barely

🤕 Outlook: Healing from the Inside Out

Today Casey had to drag me to my plastics appointment.

And when I say drag, I mean emotionally encourage, physically steady, and act as human guardrail.

The walk from the check-in kiosk upstairs to the doctor’s door felt like I was hiking a moderate incline in the Rockies. Normally it’s an easy stroll. Today? It took twice as long, and I had to hold onto Casey’s arm because my lipsky legs were not interested in participating in society.

By the time we reached the door, I was out of breath.

And there stood the nurse.
Door open.
Waiting.

Which tells me two things:

1. walk very slowly right now.
2. They have seen this before.

Chemo recovery is glamorous like that.

But! Victory moment — I was able to get a fill.

I am now up to 415cc.

For those of you doing the math at home, that’s just over 14 ounces.

Which means I am currently holding a Nesquick chocolate milk in each boob.

That’s right.

My milkshake officially brings all the boys to the yard.

Shout out to my 1.1% — IYKYK.

In all seriousness though, every fill feels like progress. It’s strange celebrating numbers tied to something that only exists because cancer barged into my life uninvited. But here we are. We take the wins where we can get them.

By the time we got home, I collapsed into my recliner like I had just completed an Olympic event titled Extreme Oncology Endurance Walking.

Dinner happened.

And then I was ready for bed.

Not “a little tired.”
Not “let’s watch one show.”
I mean body-shutting-down, system powering off, please-do-not-disturb ready for bed.

My body is using every ounce of available energy to heal itself from the inside out. White cells rebuilding. Tissues repairing. Systems recalibrating.

Which means I have nothing left for frivolous activities.

Like:

• Walking from the parking garage to the doctor’s office.
• Remaining upright without assistance.
• Staying awake past dinner.
• Existing with enthusiasm.

Life sure looks different now.

There was a time — not even that long ago — when I could stay out until 2AM and still get up at 6AM for work like it was nothing. Now I need a nap after brushing my teeth.

Cancer has a way of humbling you.

Reprioritizing you.

Rebuilding you.

And exhausting you.

Cancer sucks.

But healing? Healing is happening. Even when it looks like a recliner and an early bedtime.

And if my body needs every last drop of energy to fight from within, then that’s where it’s going.

The boys in the yard can wait.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Only Route I Ran This Week

🌼 Date: Wednesday, February 11, 2026 – Tuesday, February 17, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on fumes, sarcasm, and stubborn survival.

😞 Status: Post-chemo crash. Body in revolt. Mouth staging a full protest. Legs currently identified as “Lipsky.”

🔮 Outlook: This is the ugly middle of healing — but it’s still healing. One wobbly step at a time.

I used to run bus routes.

This week?
The only route I ran was Bed → Couch → Bathroom → Couch → Bed.

No traffic. No passengers. No detours.
Just survival mode.

Nearly two weeks out from my last chemo infusion, and this final round absolutely kicked my ass. I had nothing left in the tank. If you saw me during this stretch, consider yourself special — it means you entered my extremely exclusive living room bubble.

I overheard someone say, “It must be nice to have five months off work.”

Oh.
Oh, honey.

Yes. Because cracked lips, mouth sores, dizziness, bone pain, and something called “chemo brain” are exactly how I prefer to spend my vacation time.

I won’t throw anyone under the bus.
But I will say this: nobody signs up for poison to get PTO.

There is nothing glamorous about this part. No inspirational music playing in the background. No slow-motion warrior walk. Just me, shuffling like a Victorian ghost through my house.

Speaking of shuffling…

In my quest to watch approximately everything on Netflix (a girl still needs goals), we stumbled across Poldark. There’s a character in there with knee problems they refer to as “Lipsky legs.”

Well friends, I now have Lipsky legs.

Between the dizziness and the complete lack of energy, my legs are not exactly dependable. They are more “suggestion” than structure. I stand up and we all just kind of hope for the best.

And then there’s my mouth.

The first week after chemo always brings mouth sores. This time? We did a greatest hits remix.

• Severely chapped lips
• Corners of my mouth cracked so I can’t open wide
• The inside of my cheeks and roof of my mouth feel like sandpaper with bonus texture
• Large bumps on the side of my tongue that I try not to bite
• New surprise feature: sores under my tongue so lifting it to form words feels like an Olympic event

Now pair that with chemo brain — where the word you’re looking for simply evaporates mid-sentence — and what you get is me sounding like I’m buffering in real life.

It’s humbling.

It’s frustrating.

It’s isolating.

And it is absolutely not a vacation.

This week wasn’t about bravery or bell ringing or milestone moments.
It was about endurance. It was about letting my body fall apart quietly so it can (hopefully) rebuild.

Sometimes healing looks like productivity.
Sometimes healing looks like pajamas all day.

This was a pajama week.

But here’s the thing — even when it feels like nothing is happening, something is. My body is recalibrating. Repairing. Trying to remember what “normal” feels like.

The world got very small this week.

And surviving that small world?
That was enough.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Taco Tuesday & The Final Chemo Fiesta

🌼 Date: Tuesday, February 10, 2026

⚡ Energy: Artificially Enhanced (Thank You, Steroids)
💗 Status: Pink Princess on Parade

🥳 Outlook: Celebrating the Win Before the Crash

The day after chemo is a strange place to exist.

Technically, poison is coursing through your veins… but thanks to steroids, you feel like you could reorganize your entire house, start a small business, and train for a 5K — all before lunch.

So, when Taco Tuesday rolled around, I felt good enough to leave the house. That alone felt like a victory.

What I did not know… was that I was walking into a setup.

When I walked in — there they were.

And one balloon with my name on it.

Because if you’re going to survive your final round of chemo, you might as well have your name floating above your head like royalty.

The table and chairs were decked out in pink (obviously), and I was handed a pink crown to wear — because apparently, I am now chemo royalty.

Honestly? I’ll take it.

One of my friends brought me a stuffed puppy (which is clearly emotional support material), and my aunt made me a crocheted pink crown and the most beautiful crystal globe with a glittery rose inside and my name on it. It sparkles. It’s dramatic. It’s completely extra.

Just like me.

Most of these faces I haven’t seen since I went out for surgery in October. Seeing them all sitting there… smiling… celebrating me… it hit in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I miss my work family.

I miss normal.

For one evening, between tacos and cupcakes and pink balloons, I got to feel something other than patient. I got to feel like Tina again.

Steroids may have been doing half the heavy lifting, but the love in that room? That was real.

And even though I had no idea what the next week would bring (spoiler alert: couch + lipsky legs + chemo chaos), I am so grateful I had that night.

We celebrated the end of something brutal.

And that matters.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Ringing the Bell, Cocked Shoulders, and One Final Cocktail of Doom

🌼 Date: Monday, February 09, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tender, overwhelmed, and stronger than I feel.

🧠 Status: Final chemo in the books. Running on fumes, gratitude, and a whole lot of love.

🔮 Outlook: This road isn’t finished, but the hardest climb is behind me — and I know how to keep going.

Chemo Day.
The last one.
Let that sink in for a second.

My day started off exactly how any good bus driver’s brain starts a day — on time or bust. We arrived at plastics right on schedule because that’s how I’m wired. You’re either early or you’re late and late throws off the entire route. Unfortunately, plastics had other plans and decided today was the day to test my patience… and my heart rate.

Thirty-five minutes behind schedule.

Between being on my third dose of steroids and watching the clock tick closer to my 11:00 chemo appointment across town, my body went into full “flight mode.” When they took my vitals, my heart rate was 121 beats per minute.
Apparently, I was prepared to sprint directly out of my own skin.

Once they realized I had chemo to get to, it was all business. No fluff. No chatting. Just wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

Another 50cc fill on each side, bringing me to 365cc total — which translates to 12.34 ounces. That’s a full can of Coke plus a swig.
Look at me, moving up my drink sizes like a seasoned pro. 🥤

I’m still not thrilled that my left side sits farther back than the right. Same amount of fluid, different realities. The larger tumor on the left pushed everything deeper into the chest wall, which explains the extra scraping, the not-so-clear margins, and why radiation is next on that side only. The right side? Smaller tumor, clean margins, no radiation.
I’ll take the wins where I can get them.

My plastic surgeon reassured me — again — that when reconstruction time comes, she’ll make them match. Adjust the pocket, tweak the size, work her magic. That surgery won’t be until at least six months after radiation, when my skin is cooperative again. So… maybe November-ish. Which feels like forever when you’re walking around with two obviously different-sized boobs.

Casey, ever the problem solver, suggested I simply enter rooms with my shoulders cocked so the smaller boob goes in first.
Problem solved. Chiropractor on speed dial.

Despite everything, traffic was kind, and we even had time to stop for a Jamba Juice with added protein — one of my favorite little splurges. Small joys matter.

Then came the big one.

We made it across town on time for my final chemo infusion. My veins behaved (thank you, veins), I remembered to ask for an extra bag of hydration, and the appointment itself went smoothly. The hydration might help with the dizziness and ringing in my ears, and if not, at least it won’t hurt.

But emotionally?
This one hit differently.

Chemo scared me from the very beginning — not because I didn’t think I was strong enough, but because I watched my son go through it three times. His treatments were far more intense than mine, and he handled every single one like an absolute warrior. Still, watching someone you love endure that kind of fight changes you.

Chemo felt like another mountain I wasn’t sure I could climb. And the truth is, I couldn’t have climbed it alone. Not even close. Without the support system I’ve been blessed with — my family, my friends, my people — there is zero chance I would be sitting here writing this today.

And then…
I rang the bell.

The sound of it wasn’t just metal. It was relief. It was fear leaving my body. It was gratitude. It was exhaustion. It was pride. It was grief for what this journey has taken, and hope for what’s still ahead.

I did it.

Chemo is done.
Not the end of the journey — but the end of this chapter.

And damn… what a chapter it’s been.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Super Bowl Sunday: Meh, Meh, and a Cleaning Fairy

🌼 Date: Sunday, February 8, 2026

⚡ Energy: Reserved. Protected. Intentionally spent on nothing.

💗 Status: Resting with snacks and opinions.

🏈 Outlook: Some wins had nothing to do with football.

Today was Super Bowl Sunday.

Now, we don’t actually watch football during the season, but the Super Bowl is different. We tune in for the commercials and the halftime show, like many people do. It’s supposed to be fun. Entertaining. A little over-the-top.

Well… let’s just say my expectations were not met.

The halftime show left me wondering why I committed to watching the entire thing. I kept waiting for something exciting to happen, or at least for more than about 20 seconds in English. But nope. Mostly confusion. At the time, I had zero clue what was going on.

Afterward, I read about what the performer was trying to portray through the storyline, and sure—it made more sense then. But honestly, that would have been helpful information before I sat there squinting at the TV wondering if I missed something important.

And then there were the commercials.

I kept waiting for the good ones. The kind we used to talk about the next day. Pepsi. Budweiser. And yes—the frogs sitting on the log (Bud… Weis… Er…). Those were classics.

This year?
Meh.

We Googled how much an ad costs now, and apparently, they started at $8 million. In my humble opinion, some of those companies absolutely wasted their money.

Of course, we still cheered for the Seahawks, because Pacific Northwest loyalty runs deep—even when they’re not playing.

But the very best part of my day had nothing to do with football.

Marnie the cleaning fairy paid another visit before the game and worked her magic. The house felt lighter, calmer, and more put together—things I simply don’t have the energy to manage right now.

And as a bonus? She brought dinner with her when she came back to watch the game.

I officially did nothing today. No chores. No productivity. No pushing through. I let my body rest—on purpose—because I know what’s coming tomorrow.

Today was about conserving energy, accepting help, and letting the world spin without me for a few hours.

And that?
Was exactly what I needed.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Breaking Up with the Vampires

🌼 Date: Saturday, February 7, 2026

⚡ Energy: Thin… but still holding.

💗 Status: Drained, tested, and somehow still standing.

🧪 Outlook: Cleared for the final stretch.

Today I paid my final visit to the vampires at the lab.

In order for the pharmacists to prepare the correct cocktail of radioactivity for my next infusion, I have to get blood work done 24–48 hours beforehand. Rules are rules, even when you’re already running on fumes.

This kind of blood draw isn’t just a quick poke and go. They usually take three to four vials, which to a normal person probably doesn’t sound like much. But when your body is already working with next to nothing, every little bit feels precious.

Each time they clicked another vial onto the end of the hose, I swear I could feel the life draining out of me. Dramatic? Maybe. Accurate? Absolutely.

Still—this was the last time for this particular type of draw, and I am deeply grateful for that.

As the results started trickling in, I braced myself. And honestly? It could have been worse. I was only severely low in a couple of spots. One of them, of course, being my white blood cell count.

Which explains why, on days 3–7 after chemo, I get the pleasure of giving myself Granix shots.

Ah yes. The super fun growth hormone injections that tell my bone marrow, “Hey buddy, wake up—time to make some white blood cells.” Which it does… loudly… and painfully… by triggering some pretty intense bone pain.

Good times ahead.

But here’s the thing—I’m still cleared. Still moving forward. Still on track for the final round. My body may be tired, depleted, and slightly annoyed at me, but it’s showing up.

And so am I.

One more lab visit crossed off. One more step closer to the end of this chapter. And one less appointment where someone literally siphons off what little I have left.

Worth celebrating.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Friday Night, Full Circle

🌼 Date: Friday, February 6, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low physically. Full emotionally.

💗 Status: Healing… and happily interrupted.

🌮 Outlook: Connection makes everything better.

Today was another one of those healing days. The kind where my body made it very clear that rest—not productivity—was the assignment. No energy, no momentum, no getting things done.

And then the door opened.

Tonight, we were surprised by a couple of guests who showed up for Friday night Mexican food—one of my top three all-time favorite trainees and his wife. And just like that, the day shifted.

I absolutely love getting to catch up with my drivers outside of work. Training doesn’t stop mattering once the test is passed—it evolves. And I’ve always believed that the best training isn’t just about rules, routes, or procedures.

It’s about belonging.

I’m one of the few trainers who genuinely forms relationships with new drivers during training. I do it intentionally. In a team of around 200 people, it’s incredibly easy to feel overwhelmed, invisible, or like you’re standing outside the circle wondering how to get in.

I never want that for my people.

I want every new driver to feel like they’ve made it inside the circle—right from the beginning. Sometimes that means training takes a little longer. Sometimes it means more conversation, more storytelling, more connection than what’s technically required.

And I’m okay with that.

Because those early bonds matter more than meeting a deadline.

They build trust. They give people a safe place to ask questions, to admit struggles, to seek advice before problems get bottled up and turn into something bigger. And as a bonus? It helps retain great drivers—because they know they’re seen, supported, and not alone.

Every time we lose a good driver, I feel it deeply. Like in some way, I let them down.

Regardless of age, my trainees all become a little bit like my kids. And when each one of them passes their test—on the first try, I might add—I get that proud mom feeling every single time.

So tonight, sitting around the table with John and Michelle, catching up and laughing, felt like a full-circle moment. I realized how much I’ve missed those conversations—the ones that used to feel off-topic, but somehow always tied back to training, life, and learning in the end.

Maybe it wasn’t wasted time after all.

Tonight was a reminder of why I do what I do. Why relationships matter. And why even on days when my body is exhausted, my heart still shows up.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Healthy Enough to Be Slightly Killed

🌼 Date: Thursday, February 5, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cautiously functional.

💗 Status: Cleared for controlled chaos.

☢️ Outlook: One last round—let’s do this.

Today was my oncology check-in—the appointment where they decide if I’m healthy enough for my final round of chemotherapy next week.

You know.
The appointment where they check to see if my body is strong enough for them to try to kill me again.

It will never stop being funny to me that I have to be “healthy enough” to be slightly killed. Strange sense of humor these doctors have.

We started with the rundown of side effects since my last visit and let me tell you—my mouth has been on a real adventure tour.

After round one, I had small white sores on the insides of my cheeks and the bottom of my lip.

Round two said, “Hold my beer,” and gave me severely chapped lips that split—corners included—to the point where I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to eat anything thicker than a single piece of bread.

Round three? Oh, that one brought bumps sticking out of the right side of my tongue, which of course meant I bit them every time I ate anything. As a bonus, my bottom lip felt like I’d eaten something outrageously spicy… and then just stayed on fire for nearly two weeks.

All different. All unpleasant. All very creative.

Naturally, I’m now wondering what round four has planned for me.
Surprise me, I guess.

Then we moved on to bowel movements. Yes, TMI—but I promised to share the good, the bad, and the ugly, and this is firmly in the ugly category.

I am either constipated or I have the runs. There is no in-between. No happy medium. Just extremes. My counter currently hosts three or four different medications to manage either scenario.

After much trial and error, I have discovered my MVPs:
– Miralax mixed with Gatorade for constipation
– Kaopectate Soft Chews for the runs

Not sponsored. Just experienced.

We also talked about the dizziness I’ve been having and the ringing in my ears. She confirmed that both are completely normal and expected—and also explained (again) why I’m still not cleared to drive.

Driving feels like a distant memory at this point. Like a skill I used to have in another lifetime.

But here’s the good news: she answered all my questions, reassured me that everything I’m experiencing is normal, and officially gave me the all clear to keep my appointment on Monday at 11:00 for my final dose of radioactivity.

That sentence still feels wild to type.

One last round. One last push. One more step toward the other side of this.

Healthy enough.
Honest enough.
And somehow still standing.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Healing Days and Pink-Bow Joy

🌼 Date: Wednesday, February 4, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low… but learning to respect it.

💗 Status: Healing, resting, and unexpectedly spoiled.

🌸 Outlook: Sometimes the smallest surprises mean the most.

Today was another low-energy day. At this point, I think we should stop calling them low-energy and start calling them what they really are: healing days.

These are the days where my body is clearly busy behind the scenes—repairing, restoring, recalibrating—while I’m just along for the ride. Not accomplishing much. Not fixing anything. Just being.

And yes, that still feels weird.

But then today surprised me.

My Aunt Dee showed up with the sweetest little gift: another hat. And not just any hat—a pink, crocheted beauty topped with the most adorable bow you’ve ever seen. Cozy, soft, and somehow perfectly me.

It was one of those moments where the gift itself is lovely, but the feeling behind it is what really gets you. Being thought of. Being cared for. Being reminded that even on the quiet, uneventful days, love still finds its way to you.

I put it on and immediately felt a little brighter. A little more myself. Proof that joy doesn’t always arrive loudly—sometimes it shows up stitched together with love and a perfectly placed bow.

So today may not have been productive by old standards. I didn’t organize, fix, or accomplish anything noteworthy. But I healed. I rested. And I felt cared for.

And honestly? That’s more than enough.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

From Mini Cans to Grape Juice Bottles

🌼 Date: Tuesday, February 3, 2026

⚡ Energy: Surprisingly upbeat. Mildly impressed. Still skeptical.

💗 Status: Filling, healing, and moving on up.

🌤️ Outlook: Progress is happening—even when I argue with it.

Today was another plastics appointment, and I’m officially moving on up in the world.

I got a 50cc fill on each side, which puts me at 315cc total. For those of you who, like me, need a visual to really appreciate progress, that’s 10.66 ounces—roughly a gulp more than one of those Welch’s grape juice bottles with the screw top.

You know the one.

So yes. From Capri Sun… to mini cans… and now grape juice bottles.
Look at me go. 🍇😄

What really surprised me though was the news about the hole (yes, still calling it that). Apparently, it’s continuing to fill itself in nicely—noticeably so—every single week. And this is happening even though I’m on chemo, which is notorious for slowing down healing.

The doctor was genuinely impressed.

Me?
I was like… ummm, I’m almost four months post-op—shouldn’t this already be filled in by now?

Because of course I was.

I am not good at being the one who needs fixing. I’m the fixer. The problem-solver. The one who gets things done and helps everyone else along. Sitting in the patient chair while my body works on its own timeline feels… uncomfortable.

Even when that timeline is actually doing pretty damn well.

So today was a lesson in perspective. Yes, healing is slower than I want. Yes, I wish my body would hurry up and cooperate already. But the truth is—it is healing. Consistently. Steadily. Against the odds.

And apparently, impressively.

So I’ll take the win. I’ll take the grape juice bottle milestone. And I’ll keep reminding myself that progress doesn’t stop being progress just because it isn’t finished yet.

Still fixing things—just starting with me.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

You Showed Up — And That Means Everything

🌼 Date: Monday, February 2, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low physically. Overflowing emotionally.

💗 Status: Humbled. Grateful. A little in awe.

🌍 Outlook: Connection travels farther than I ever imagined.

Today I sat staring at numbers on a screen, and somehow, they didn’t feel like numbers at all.

They felt like people.

We checked the blog today and realized that this little corner of the internet—this place where I’ve been showing up raw, tired, bald, honest, and unfiltered—has reached 1,673 views, 569 individual visitors, from 17 different countries.

Seventeen.

(All of the countries highlighted in pink are where my visitors have come from!)

Here is a breakdown based on which country has the highest visitor count, not alphabetical (for those of you who know me, you know what a struggle this list will be!)

United States

Brazil

Canada

India

United Kingdom

Sweden

Netherlands

South Korea

Pakistan

Ireland

Germany

Turkey

Thailand

Saudi Arabia

Norway

Lithuania

China

Let that sink in for a second.

Somewhere out there, people I will likely never meet are reading my words. Sitting with them. Feeling something in them. Maybe recognizing themselves in a moment I thought was mine alone.

And that floors me.

To every single person who has stopped by—whether you read one post, or all of them, whether you stayed quietly or reached out—you matter. You showed up. And in a season where my world sometimes feels very small, that kind of presence means more than I can explain.

We did promise you a video.
And yes… we absolutely still owe you one.

Right now, my energy is pretty much nonexistent. Chemo has taken most of what I’ve got, and what’s left I’m spending carefully. But please know this: a Day does not back out of a promise. It might take a little time. It might take a few false starts. But it will happen.

Because this community—you—deserve that.

Thank you for reading.
Thank you for witnessing.
Thank you for reminding me that even on the hardest days, connection is still possible.

From the bottom of my very full heart—thank you for being here.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Full Circles and Tiny Heartbeats

🌼 Date: Sunday, February 1, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tender. Joyful. Quietly full.

💗 Status: Reconnected and unexpectedly emotional.

🌞 Outlook: Proof that good things keep happening.

Tonight reminded me that life has a funny way of bringing people back when you need them most.

We met up for dinner with a couple of friends we love dearly—friends we sadly lost touch with after our oldest daughter moved out a few years ago. Not because anything bad happened… just life. Busy schedules. Shifting seasons. The slow drift that no one plans for.

One unexpected gift cancer has given me is this: it has a way of pulling people back into your orbit. And when that happens, you grab it. You don’t wait. You say yes.

So tonight, we did.

It was so good to actually sit down together, unhurried, and really catch up. We had seen them briefly at the head-shaving party in December, but with so many people there, the moments were short and scattered. Tonight felt different. Intentional. Warm. Like no time had passed at all.

And then there was the news.

They’re expecting.

Let me just say—they are the cutest dang pregnant couple I have ever seen. I could not stop smiling. I was absolutely gushing over them, the kind of gushing that surprised even me. Somewhere between the appetizers and the conversation, I realized I felt like a proud momma—beaming, excited, and completely in awe of this beautiful thing unfolding in front of us.

New life. New beginnings. Tiny heartbeats still to come.

In the middle of my own season of healing, it was incredibly grounding to witness something so hopeful, so full of promise. A reminder that life doesn’t pause for hardship—it keeps growing, keeps expanding, keeps making room for joy.

Tonight was more than dinner.
It was connection.
It was celebration.
It was a full circle moment I didn’t know I needed.

And my heart is better for it.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Love Looks Like Clean Floors

🌼 Date: Saturday, January 31, 2026

⚡ Energy: Borrowed. Conserved. Protected.

💗 Status: Held up by the kindness of others.

🌞 Outlook: Grateful beyond words.

Today was one of those days where my body made the rules—and the rules were absolutely no energy allowed.

I had zero strength. Zero motivation. Zero chance of getting anything meaningful done around the house. Even the smallest tasks felt impossibly heavy, and just moving from room to room felt like too much.

And then… help showed up.

My friend Marnie came over and did house cleaning for me, and I cannot even begin to explain what that meant. She didn’t just clean—she lifted a weight I didn’t have the strength to carry. Floors were cleaned. Things were put in order. The house felt lighter, calmer, more breathable.

And so did I.

It’s humbling to need help like this. I’ve always been capable, independent, the one who gets things done. Asking for—or accepting—help doesn’t come naturally to me. But chemo has a way of stripping things down to what really matters.

And what matters is this:
Love sometimes shows up with a mop, a vacuum, and no expectation of anything in return.

Today reminded me that even when I can’t do the things I want to do, I’m still surrounded by people who show up for me anyway. People who see what I need before I even say it out loud.

So today wasn’t productive in the traditional sense.
But it was full.
Full of kindness.
Full of support.
Full of reminders that I’m not doing this alone.

Thank you, Marnie. More than you know.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Lost Hours Are Still Healing

🌼 Date: Friday, January 30, 2026

⚡ Energy: Foggy. Drained. Intermittently functional.

❤️‍🩹 Status: Present… just not firing on all cylinders.

😞 Outlook: Learning to trust the pause.

Today I learned that time can disappear without asking permission.

I woke up with the intention of getting today’s post done early. I even told myself that was the plan. But instead, I found myself sitting in my chair—staring, thinking, not thinking, drifting—and suddenly three or four hours were just… gone.

Not slept through.
Not productive.
Just gone.

And here’s the thing—this is not who I’ve ever been.

At work, I was known as the multitasker. The one who could juggle five things at once while others were still trying to get one task finished. I could answer questions, solve problems, keep projects moving, and somehow still be three steps ahead. Chaos never scared me—it fueled me.

Even at home, I don’t just sit.

When I’m “relaxing,” my hands are busy—knitting, crocheting, coloring, writing, doing puzzles or word searches on my phone. Some people would say that doesn’t sound relaxing at all, but for me, it’s how I shut my brain off. Because if my hands are still, my brain starts making lists.

I should get the dishwasher ready to run before bed.
I should throw in another load of laundry.
The counters need to be wiped down with antibacterial spray.
I should lay out my clothes for tomorrow.

The mental to-do list never shuts up.

Multitasking is how I quiet it.

Except right now… I can’t even single task.

My brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton. Thoughts come in slowly, line up awkwardly, then wander off before they finish their sentence. I keep setting out to do something simple, only to forget what that thing was halfway there.

And that’s terrifying.

This version of me—the one who can’t focus, can’t track time, can’t keep her hands or mind busy—doesn’t feel like me. Tina is a doer. A fixer. A finisher. She doesn’t sit in a chair watching hours evaporate.

Except… today she does.

Because today, my body and brain are still working overtime behind the scenes. Healing. Processing. Recovering from chemo. Recovering from grief. Recovering from the loss of the woman who could do all the things without thinking twice.

So maybe those “lost” hours weren’t wasted after all.

Maybe they were spent repairing things I can’t see yet.

Today wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t productive by old standards. But I showed up. I stayed upright. I listened to my body instead of fighting it.

And right now, that has to count.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Umbrellas, Princess Paws, and the Gift of Boring

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 29, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low, conserved, intentionally spent.

💗 Status: Rainy day. Full heart. Very small victories.

🌤️ Outlook: Turns out “boring” is a luxury.

Today was one of those days where not much happened—and honestly? That felt like a gift.

I spent most of the day planted firmly in my recliner with Miss Gidget glued to my side like she was on permanent emotional-support duty. The rain came and went all day, and as it turns out, Miss Gidge does not care for rain. At all. The hazards of being both a low rider and a princess.

So what does her mommy do?

She grabs the golf umbrella, of course.

There I was—standing outside in the drizzle, holding an umbrella over both myself and the princess so that only the very bottoms of her tiny royal feet had to touch the wet ground while she did her business. Because obviously. We have standards in this house.

Other than that, today was all about energy conservation mode. Rest when needed. Move when necessary. Listen to my body instead of arguing with it (still learning that part). I saved what little energy I had for the important stuff.

Like dinner.

Casey helped me cook, and our bestie Marnie came over to eat with us. No big plans. No special occasion. Just dinner, conversation, and TV afterward. The kind of night that would have once felt boring, forgettable, or “not productive enough.”

Now?

I treasure it.

An uncomplicated evening.
No appointments.
No cancer talk.
No countdowns or calendars.
Just food, laughter, comfort, and normal.

This—this—is my new normal. And while it looks different than the life I had before cancer, tonight reminded me that normal doesn’t have to be flashy or exciting to be meaningful.

Sometimes normal is a dog who won’t pee in the rain, a friend at your table, and a quiet night that asks nothing of you.

And that’s more than enough.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Home Where He Belongs

🌼 Date: Wednesday, January 28, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tender. Heavy. Love-soaked.

💔 Status: Grief came back in waves – and so did peace.

🌞 Outlook: Some endings are also homecomings.

Today we got the phone call telling us that Mr. Momo was ready to be picked up.

And just like that, the grief came rushing back—thick, sudden, and familiar. The sadness. The ache. The tears that live just under the surface waiting for permission. But woven into it all was something unexpected too… a quiet sense of relief, even a touch of excitement, knowing we finally got to bring him home.

Home to be with his brothers.

When we arrived at the vet, they handed us a bag—and inside were a few surprises that completely undid us.

Momo’s ashes were placed in the most beautiful wooden box, engraved with his name. Solid. Warm. Dignified. Like him.
There was also a ceramic cast of his tiny puppy paw, his name etched beneath it, frozen forever in time. And a handwritten card—thoughtful, gentle, and full of care.

Casey and I lost it.

Full-on tears. No holding back. The kind of crying that comes from loving something so deeply it rearranges you.

Anyone who still believes dogs are “just dogs” has either never loved one this way—or has never let themselves. Our fur babies are not accessories or companions; they are family. They are children of a different kind. They show up for us on the hardest days, love us without conditions, and leave paw prints that never fade.

Momo is home now.

His ashes sit with his brothers on the entertainment center, where he belongs. Where he’s loved. Where he’s remembered. Where he’s still part of us.

Run free, sweet boy.
You were—and always will be—so very loved💖

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Taco Tuesday, Minus the Tacos

🌼 Date: Tuesday, January 27, 2026

⚡ Energy: Socially present. Physically irritated.

💔 Status: Chemo mouth is choosing violence.

🌞 Outlook: Doing what I can, eating what I can, and calling that a win.

Last night was Taco Tuesday — our usual one — with Uncle Dan, Aunt Patti, Matt from work, and our bestie Marnie, who is basically part of the standing reservation at this point.

And for a couple of hours?
It felt normal.

Just sitting there, talking, laughing, being out in the world without cancer running the conversation. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I was in it.

Unfortunately, my mouth had other plans.

This round of chemo has brought mouth sores back with a new twist. Instead of just sore spots, I’ve got raised sores protruding out the side of my tongue — which means not only does it hurt to eat, not only does everything taste weird or barely taste at all, but I now have the added bonus of biting my swollen tongue on the right side with nearly every bite.

Super fun.
Highly recommend. 🙄

So while everyone else was enjoying actual Mexican food, I ordered a strawberry banana smoothie and French fries from the kids’ menu.

Not exactly Taco Tuesday vibes — but you gotta do what you gotta do.

Everything I eat this round feels like it tears my mouth up a little more. And my lips? Chapped like the first two rounds, but now with the exciting enhancement of feeling like I just ate something wildly spicy. All the time. Constant burn. No relief.

It doesn’t matter how much lip chap — yes, lip chap, because that’s what my kids called everything — I slather on. Nothing touches it. All I can do is ride it out.

The cruel joke is that by week three after chemo, the symptoms magically disappear. I start to feel human again. And then — surprise — it’s chemo week all over again, and the relief evaporates.

Good times.

Still, sitting there last night with people I love, drinking my smoothie, picking at fries, and pretending this was just another Tuesday? That mattered.

Sometimes normal doesn’t look like it used to.
Sometimes normal comes with a straw and a kids’ menu.

And honestly?
I’ll take it.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

From Capri Sun to Mini Cans

🌼 Date: Monday, January 26, 2026

⚡ Energy: Noticeably better. Slightly amused.

💗 Status: Healing, filling, and less pokey than last week.

🧐 Outlook: Cautiously optimistic — and curious about what next week brings.

Today was a much better day.

I had a plastics appointment, and for the first time since my double mastectomy back in October, I actually saw my plastic surgeon and remembered it. Truth be told, I don’t recall seeing her much before surgery — everything moved fast and then I was being wheeled away.

Casey swears I saw her at my one-week post-op appointment too, but I was still deep in pain-med fog, because I have zero memory of that.

This time though? Fully awake. Fully present.

And the news was really good.

She was super excited with how my hole is filling in and how my scars are healing — even on chemo, even with all the nonsense my body has been through. That felt like a big deal.

Then came the fill.

Not only did I get filled — I got 75cc.
My biggest fill yet. 🥳🎉

That brings me to 265cc, which is about 8.96 fluid ounces — basically a mini can of soda. You know, those cute little 8-oz cans. Not a full 12-oz regular can yet, but definitely a step up from Capri Sun territory.

Progress.

And because she’s the plastic surgeon (aka wizard with a medical license), she also worked on the still-pokey corners that have been trying to break through my skin like some kind of low-budget alien movie. Between the fill and her massaging and manipulating things, she was able to smooth the edges out so they’re less sharp and less determined to escape my body.

Huge improvement.

Hopefully this means we’re officially on a positive track — maybe even weekly fills if my body cooperates. It’ll be interesting to see how many cc’s it takes to really smooth everything out.

For now, though, I’m walking around with two mini cans on my chest, and honestly? I’ll take it.

I can’t wait to see what next week brings.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Woman in the Mirror: Assigned This Mountain

🌼 Date: Sunday, January 25, 2026

⚡ Energy: Empty. Drained to the studs.

🖤 Status: Day 4 of Granix. Zero strength. Zero fuel.

🤬 Outlook: Angry. Honest. Still standing.

Today required strength I simply did not have.
Even putting my recliner down took leg power that wasn’t there. That alone felt like a gut punch—another reminder of how far my body is from the woman I used to be.

But the real blow came when I walked past the bathroom mirror.

I didn’t recognize her.

She was bald.
Her face was gaunt.
She no longer stood with confidence.
Her skin didn’t look fresh or supple anymore.

And her chest…
What used to be beautiful, round, life-giving breasts are now two nipple-less mounds that barely resemble what they once were. Different sizes. Sharp edges. Sunken places where tumors once lived. Scars that scream don’t look at me—and definitely don’t touch me.

What once nourished my children now feels like part of some sick, twisted science experiment.

I stopped looking.
What was the point?
It’s not going to get better right now.

And I am angry.
So damn angry at cancer.

I hate what it has taken from my body.
From my brain.
From my sense of self.

People tell me this will pass.
That I’m strong.
That by this time next year it will all be behind me.

I know they mean well.
But most of them have never had cancer.
They haven’t stood in front of a mirror and met this version of themselves.
They haven’t had to grieve their body while still living inside it.

So today, I let myself be mad.

And then—somewhere between the anger and the exhaustion—it hit me:

Maybe this is my mountain.
And maybe I was assigned it not because it’s easy…
but to show others that it can be moved.

Even when the climb looks impossible.
Even when the mirror hurts.
Even when strength feels gone.

I’m still here.
And that counts for something.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

A Quiet Visit from Bryan

🌼 Date: Saturday, January 24, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low, steady, tender

❤️‍🩹 Status: Chemo week + Granix reality, wrapped in meaning

😌 Outlook: Finding signs, even on the quiet days

This morning started with an unexpected gift.

While sitting inside, moving slowly and letting my body wake up at its own pace, I noticed movement in the backyard. A momma deer and her baby had decided that our yard was a perfectly acceptable breakfast spot. They stood there calmly, eating, existing, completely unbothered by the world.

And it stopped me in my tracks.

For those who don’t know, the deer is our late son Bryan’s spirit animal. I carry him with me always – quite literally – tattooed on my leg in his memory. Seeing a mom and her baby deer together, so peaceful and present, felt like one of those moments that doesn’t need explanation. It just is. A quiet hello. A reminder. A soft hand on my shoulder saying, “I’m here.”

The rest of the day followed the now-familiar rhythm of chemo week one. Granix shot – check. Bone pain, especially in my knees – check. Fatigue that settles deep into your bones and refuses to be ignored – also check. The recliner continues to be my primary residence, my safe place, my command center for resting, snoozing, and surviving.

It wasn’t an exciting day. It wasn’t productive by old Tina standards. But it was meaningful. Gentle. Grounded. And today, that counts.

Sometimes the biggest moments don’t come with noise or fanfare. Sometimes they show up quietly in your backyard, eat your grass, and remind you that love never really leaves.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Cold to the Bone, Warmed by Love

🌼 Date: Friday, January 23, 2026

⚡ Energy: Critically low. Recliner-based.

💔 Status: Day two of Granix and my bones are officially filing complaints.

😑 Outlook: Surviving on warmth, love, and very small victories.

Today was low energy on a cellular level.

Day two of the Granix shots, and my body made sure I felt it. The bone pain showed up loud and proud, mostly camping out in my knees like they had personally offended the medication and were now being punished for it.

So, I surrendered.

Recliner.
Ice on my knees.
Heated blanket cranked up. (Shout-out to Chelsea and Tiler for the hug of warmth.)

And somehow… I was still cold.

Not cute chilly. Not “grab a sweater” cold. This was bone-deep, marrow-level, nothing touches it cold. I layered up like a human nesting doll — fuzzy socks on my feet (huge shout-out to Darlene and Chelsea for finding these gems), a hat on my bald head, a sweater over my silky pajamas (which really do trap heat), all under my heated blanket… plus another blanket on top of that one.

Hot tea all day long. Inside and outside warming attempts fully engaged.

Nothing helped.

Is it chemo? Is it the nearly 30 pounds I’ve lost since October? No idea. All I know is that even typing this, I keep thinking I should’ve grabbed my fingerless gloves. Typing with my hands tucked under the heated blanket isn’t exactly efficient, so I took mini warm-up breaks and carried on.

Most of the day was spent snoozing in my chair with Gidget glued to my lap, only getting up to pee or find a snack — which brings me to the not-so-fun part.

I have no appetite.

Between mouth sores, chemo messing with taste (or removing it entirely), and the sheer exhaustion of chewing, eating feels like a task my body has zero interest in. And yet, I know the cruel irony: protein would help. Food would help. Strength comes from eating — but eating takes strength.

Vicious cycle, unlocked.

Tonight was our usual Friday night Mexican food dinner out, and a couple of longtime friends joined us. Even though I didn’t want much, I tried. And Casey — sweet man that he is — kept gently saying, “Just one more bite, baby… you haven’t eaten much today.” He watches out for me in ways I don’t always have the energy to do myself.

Today wasn’t productive.
It wasn’t brave.
It wasn’t strong in the way I usually define strong.

But I showed up.
I stayed warm the best I could.
I accepted care, love, and help — even when my body felt like it was betraying me.

For today, that has to be enough.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

This Is Not Normal Tina

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 22, 2026

⚡ Energy: Empty. Frustrated. Offended by my own body.

💔 Status: Mad. Not sad — mad.

😡 Outlook: Apparently this is part of the deal. I don’t like it.

Today started with a restless night — tossing and turning even with a Trazodone — and then my first Granix shot of this round.

And from there, it just went downhill.

As the day went on, my energy drained more and more, and for some reason that really pissed me off today. I know by now that the week after chemo is usually a hard one for me, but today I was not in an accepting mood.

I am angry at how much cancer has taken from me.

It took my breasts.
It took my ability to work right now.
And today, it took even the small things — the things I actually enjoy doing around the house.

I emptied the dishwasher.
Did my shot.
Made myself breakfast.

And that was it. Done. Tanks empty.

I felt like an invalid — and that word makes my skin crawl. This is not normal Tina. She does not give up. She does not let things beat her. She does not need a recovery period after unloading a dishwasher.

But today? I did.

I spent most of the day snoozing in my chair with Gidget on my lap, only getting up to pee or find a snack. That’s it. That was the whole highlight reel.

At some point it hit me that I haven’t done laundry in at least a week. I’ve got three or four loads piled up… and absolutely no will to do them.

Anyone who knows me knows I don’t ask for help. I’m usually the helper. The fixer. The one who shows up.

This whole experience has been a steep and uncomfortable learning curve.

And apparently my oncologist was right when she told me that each round would make me more tired than the one before. I can’t wait for round four — I probably won’t even be able to roll myself out of bed by then.

Something to look forward to.

Today wasn’t brave.
It wasn’t productive.
It wasn’t inspiring.

It was real. And I’m pissed about it.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Steroid Math, Medical Denial, and Hot Pink #12

🌼 Date: Wednesday, January 21, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low. Confused. Surprisingly amused.

💔 Status: Chemo brain is running the show today.

😑 Outlook: When in doubt, choose hot pink.

I finally figured out why I didn’t have a full-blown wakey, wakey cycle this round.

Turns out…
I can’t read.

I was supposed to take two steroid tablets in the morning and two in the evening, but I misread the label and only took one each time.

Well. Shit.

Is it too late to go back and take the ones I missed?
Probably.
Should I call someone and ask?
Also probably.

But here’s the thing — I’m supposed to start the Granix shots tomorrow, and I’m fairly certain I’m not supposed to be stacking steroids and Granix like some kind of experimental cocktail.

So instead of dealing with that today, I decided to absolutely not deal with it today.

Tomorrow Tina can handle it.
Today Tina is tired.

Thankfully, Casey stepped in with a much better plan: a manicure. Because my nails are now so brittle and dry that one of them split straight down the middle, and that was going to be my final straw.

Let me just say how much I love my nail lady, Sue. She worked her magic and saved the nail. Crisis averted.

And because my brain is currently bad at decisions, I let Casey choose the color.

Sue and I both laughed when he immediately picked hot pink — #12.
The same color I use every summer.
The same color that apparently lives rent-free in his brain.

Honestly? Perfect choice.

Today wasn’t about productivity.
Or problem-solving.
Or correct medication math.

It was about letting one problem wait, fixing one small thing, and ending the day with nails that make me smile every time I look down.

I’ll take that win.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

A Fill, a Fight, and Fashion by Aunt Dee

🌼 Date: Tuesday, January 20, 2026

⚡ Energy: Borrowed. Reallocated. Definitely overdrawn.

💔 Status: Tired in the bones but stacking small wins.

😐 Outlook: One more round done. Still moving forward.

Yesterday was… a lot.

We started with my plastics appointment, and I walked in cautiously optimistic. Turns out, they were really impressed with how well my hole is filling in. Even on chemo. Even after all the drama.

And because of that?

I got a fill. 🎉
Only 40cc instead of the usual 50cc — but listen, a win is a win, and I will absolutely take it.

From there it was straight into chemo in the afternoon. Round done. Juice delivered. Chair claimed. The whole familiar routine. Chemo itself went fine, but by the end of the day, I was absolutely wrung out. The kind of tired that lives behind your eyes and settles into your bones.

Still, we rallied.

Because it was Taco Tuesday, and we met up with a few friends for dinner. And just when I thought the day couldn’t hold one more thing, Aunt Dee showed up with two new crocheted hats she made for me.

One looks like a turban.
The other is made of granny squares.

Both are amazing.

I was already wearing my chemo head wrap, so instead of doing a wardrobe change at the table like a lunatic, Casey stepped in and modeled the hats for us. Because of course he did. No hesitation. Full commitment. Taco in one hand, crochet hat on his head.

Honestly? Iconic.

Between the fill, the chemo, the tacos, the laughter, and the hats, it was a full day — emotionally and physically. Today I feel it. I’m run down. Slower. Moving carefully.

But I also stacked a win.
And showed up.
And got through another round.

That counts.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Wig Day at the Salon (Featuring My Dad)

🌼 Date: Monday, January 19, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low effort, high amusement.

💕 Status: Cancer-adjacent, but mostly just laughing.

🙃Outlook: Turns out wigs are a family affair now.

Today my mom brought over a couple of wigs she purchased after we had the head-shaving party. Her request was simple:
“Can you trim these up and make them presentable?”

Sure. Why not. Add wig stylist to the résumé.

First up was the brown wig.

She put it on… and I laughed out loud. Immediately. No filter. Just a full, honest, “Yeah, no.”

That color might’ve worked when she was in high school, but right now? Hard pass. Sorry, Mom. Time moves on. Faces change. Lighting is less forgiving.

So instead, my dad put it on.

And shockingly… it worked.
At least color-wise.

And yet… here we are.

Cancer brings a lot of heavy moments.

But every once in a while, it hands you something ridiculous instead.

Today was ridiculous in the best way.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Dinner, a Dance, and the Magic of Not Being in Charge

🌼 Date: Sunday, January 18, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low-key. Couch-based. Observational.

💗 Status: Tired body, very full heart.

🥰 Outlook: Turns out rest pairs nicely with being taken care of.

Sunday was a quiet day. Low energy, low expectations, no big plans — exactly what my body needed.

So, my youngest, Nicholas, and his girlfriend Lily decided they would cook dinner for us.

And let me tell you… I thoroughly enjoyed the show.

Lily took the reins like a pro, and Nicholas? He did everything she asked. Chopping, stirring, fetching, adjusting — yes ma’am, no hesitation.

Which begs the obvious question:
How come he doesn’t listen to mom and dad like that?

But here’s the part they didn’t realize.

Because of the way our family room and kitchen are set up — one big great room situation — I can see the reflection of the kitchen in the TV. Which meant I had a front-row seat to the whole thing without being obvious about it.

From my recliner.

In my silky pajamas.

Like a professional creep.

I watched them move around each other, doing this little unspoken dance — passing utensils, stepping aside, laughing, working together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was really sweet. The kind of sweet you don’t interrupt or comment on in the moment. You just sit there quietly and let it be what it is.

Dinner, by the way, was delicious.
But the best part wasn’t the food.

It was watching my kid grow into someone who shows up, helps, listens, and shares a kitchen with someone he clearly cares about.

Low energy day.
High return.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Refilled by Familiar Faces

🌼 Date: Friday, January 16, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on fumes… until I wasn’t.

💖 Status: Heart a little bruised but no longer empty.

🌞 Outlook: Turns out love is an excellent fuel source.

Today I stopped by work.

Just for a visit.
Just to see some faces.
Just to remind myself that part of my life still exists exactly where I left it.

And wow.

The hugs.
The smiles.
The you’re-here! energy.

It was like walking into a warm room after being out in the cold too long. Every hug, every laugh, every “it’s so good to see you” poured a little something back into a tank that’s been running dangerously low.

Then I stood outside — in the sunshine and a full-on blustery windstorm — and waved my drivers out as they headed off for their afternoon routes.

And that part?
That got me.

Seeing their faces. Watching them pull away. Feeling their appreciation and love so clearly, even without words. That simple, familiar ritual reminded me how much I’ve missed my work family — and how much they’ve missed me.

It’s one thing to know you matter.
It’s another thing to feel it.

Today I felt wanted.
I felt missed.
I felt like myself again, if only for a little while.

I didn’t do anything extraordinary. I didn’t fix anything or solve anything or push through anything hard. I just showed up — and that was enough.

Some days don’t refill you with rest.
Some days refill you with people.

Today overflowed.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Cancer, Grief, and a Hard No

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 15, 2026

⚡ Energy: Empty tank. Sharp edges.

💔 Status: Heartbroken, irritated, and deeply unimpressed with humanity.

😠 Outlook: Still standing. Still not getting played.

Today took what little energy I had and asked for more.

I spent part of the day messaging the man about meeting this weekend so Gidget could meet Lola. I was excited. Hopeful. Letting myself imagine something good after a hard stretch.

And then the red flags started waving.

He told me he needed $150 before we met — for “ownership paperwork.”

Funny, because the Facebook ad said the puppy was free.
Also funny, because we’ve never had “ownership paperwork” for any of our other pets. Ever.

I explained that we had just paid $550 to have Momo privately cremated so we could bring his ashes home. I reminded him I’m not working right now and I’m actively going through chemo. Things are tight.

He didn’t care.

When I told him I wasn’t comfortable sending money ahead of time, he asked what I could afford. I said honestly: $20–$25.

He then demanded I send that.

I told him no — we do cash on delivery only. We’ve been burned before. I said he could email the paperwork if it mattered so much.

That was “not an option.”

So, I told him the truth: the whole thing wasn’t sitting right with me. That he didn’t get to bully me. That my terms were cash on delivery, no paperwork required, and the deal was still contingent on whether Gidget even liked Lola.

If he didn’t like those terms, then I was sorry — it wasn’t meant to be.

He called me selfish.
Said he “really wanted me to have the dog.”

That’s when I was done.

After that? Radio silence.

Casey said it perfectly: if the ad had been upfront about the $150, we probably would’ve paid it without issue. But advertising a puppy as free and springing a fee at the last minute — that’s the problem. That, and refusing cash.

Sketchy.

I Googled him and found out he’s a dog breeder, which raised even more questions. Was there ever an aunt? Does she even have cancer? If not, I hope karma finds him quickly, because cancer is not a word you get to toss around for sympathy or money.

It’s not a storyline.
It’s not leverage.
It’s real life.

I’m busy kicking cancer’s ass right now. If he thought I couldn’t also take on a dog-breeding scam artist on a low-energy Thursday, he was wrong.

Watch me.

It’s sad there are people willing to take advantage of others — especially when they’re vulnerable. And the worst part is knowing some people probably did send him money and lost it.

So today I fought cancer.
And grief.
And a scam.

Not bad for a Thursday with zero gas in the tank.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

When the Universe Whispers “Maybe”

🌼 Date: Wednesday, January 14, 2026

⚡ Energy: Quietly hopeful.

💔 Status: Grief still present — but something new might be forming.

🤗 Outlook: Two good things on the horizon goes a long way.

Today brought something unexpected — the kind of moment that makes you stop and wonder if the universe is nudging you instead of shouting.

We came across a post on Facebook from a man whose aunt has cancer. She’s no longer able to care for her Yorkie puppy and asked him to help find her a new home.

The puppy’s name is Lola.
She’s 12 weeks old.

I sent him a private message and shared that I’m also battling cancer right now. And I told him something else — that my red, spicy wig is named Lolita, Lola for short, courtesy of my husband.

Coincidence?
Maybe.

But it sure made me pause.

I asked where he was located, and when he replied Eugene, my eyebrows went up. That’s only about two and a half hours from us. Not across the state. Not impossible. Just… doable.

We talked more and decided to meet halfway. We found a park in Keizer, where Gidget and Lola can meet and see how they do together. If Gidge gives her approval? Then it’s a go.

No pressure.
No rushing.
Just seeing what feels right.

Suddenly, I have something to look forward to this weekend — something light, something hopeful, something that isn’t about appointments or wounds or waiting.

And then there’s Friday.

I’m planning to stop by work during the drivers’ midday and wave them out as they head off on their afternoon routes. I miss that more than I realized. The people. The routine. The simple act of showing up and being seen.

So now I have two good things ahead of me.

Sometimes excitement doesn’t show up loud and flashy. Sometimes it tiptoes in and says, hey… maybe this is something.

And for today, maybe is enough.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Measured, Modified, and Missing a Little Dog

🌼 Date: Tuesday, January 13, 2026

⚡ Energy: Steady, thoughtful, and a little emotionally bruised.

💗 Status: Progress happening — even when it doesn’t feel like it.

😑 Outlook: Long road. Still walking.

Today was physical therapy day.

They measured my range of motion, and honestly? I was surprised. Even with ripped stitches, a gaping hole, and me babying my right side more than I’d like to admit, my mobility has still improved.

That felt like a small win.

Then she measured my left arm — the one where they took the lymph nodes — and the swelling has gone down an entire inch in some places. Which is wild, because I didn’t even realize it was swollen, let alone noticeably bigger than the right arm.

Apparently, my body has been doing things without consulting me again.

Now I have homework. New stretches. Modified versions for the right side until the infamous hole decides to finish filling itself in. I don’t think my physical therapist loved hearing that her stretches were directly involved in my stitches ripping out… but here we are. We adapt. We keep moving.

Her goal is to get me nice and limber on both sides before radiation starts the second week of April.

Ah yes. Radiation. The next chapter.

Between now and then, I’m also hoping the hole fully closes so I can resume saline fills in my expander bags. Ironically, right before radiation starts, one expander will actually need to be deflated so it doesn’t interfere with the radiation beam.

I talked to the plastics nurse yesterday and requested that when that time comes, they deflate both sides — because I am absolutely not walking around for weeks with only one boob. Hard pass.

How long they stay deflated depends on healing, burns, and skin recovery. And once radiation is done, the radiated side has to heal for at least six months before reconstruction surgery is even on the table.

It’s a long road.
Like… really long.

Lord, give me patience and strength for the long haul. 🙏

And then, because life doesn’t like to stay on one topic for too long, Casey dropped a gentle bomb this afternoon.

And honestly? I think he’s right.

No rush. No impulse decisions. Just the right fit.

Today was about progress you don’t always feel, grief that still lingers, and making space for what comes next — slowly, thoughtfully, and with love.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Good Healing, Hard Goodbye

🌼 Date: Monday, January 12, 2026

⚡ Energy: Emotionally wrung out. Physically tired. Still here.

💔 Status: Good news from my body. Devastating news from my heart.

😭 Outlook: Grateful for progress. Grieving a very loved little soul.

Today came with both good news and bad news — the kind of day where you hold two truths at the same time and neither cancels the other out.

The good news first.

I had my plastics appointment today, and we compared my pictures from a couple weeks ago — before they put the stitches in — to the picture taken today after the remaining stitches I ripped out last week were removed.

What a difference.

Even being on chemo, knowing it slows healing, my wound has come a long way in a short amount of time. The bottom of the hole is almost even with the surface skin now. The top is maybe a millimeter deep, if that. And the hole itself is smaller around than it was when I started chemo a month ago.

That matters.

It tells me my body is still working. Still responding. Still trying. And it confirms that negotiating with my oncologist and moving forward with chemo as scheduled was the right call for me.

I needed that reassurance today.

When Casey got home, Momo wasn’t acting like himself. He couldn’t stand on his back legs. He couldn’t hold up his head. We knew things had been changing — the last few days he wasn’t finishing his meals and wasn’t drinking much water — but seeing him unable to support his tiny six pounds told us what we didn’t want to admit yet.

It was time.

Casey picked him up and held him against his chest, and we just loved on him — whispered to him, kissed him, told him how good he was — as he passed peacefully in Casey’s arms.

We cried like babies.

One of the hardest parts of loving pets is that they become family. Children, really. And letting them go never gets easier, no matter how many times you’ve had to do it.

Casey took Momo to our vet, and they confirmed what we already knew — he had crossed the rainbow bridge.

Momo is now in heaven, reunited with his brothers Buster and JJ, and with our son Bryan. I find comfort knowing he didn’t go alone, that he had a welcoming party waiting for him.

Today reminded me that healing and loss can exist side by side.
That progress doesn’t protect you from grief.
And that love — real love — always leaves a mark.

Rest easy, little fertigator. You are so very loved.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

$30, Ten Hours of Sleep, and a Damn Good Day

🌼 Date: Sunday, January 11, 2026

⚡ Energy: Rested. Giddy. Mildly feral in the best way.

💔 Status: Post-Trazodone bliss and back in my body.

🌞 Outlook: Turns out “normal” can feel like a miracle.

Last night I took a Trazodone and slept for ten full hours.

TEN.
Not chemo sleep.
Not half-awake, weird-dream, tossing-and-turning sleep.
Actual, deep, delicious, don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-healing sleep.

Pure. Heaven.

When I woke up, I did what any responsible adult does: checked my socials. And there it was — an ad on Facebook Marketplace for the Dr. Marten loafers that Santa apparently forgot to load into the sleigh.

They’re still sitting in my Amazon cart, mocking me, having dropped from $150 to $110.

But this listing?

Worn once.
Look brand new.
Thirty dollars.

Acca-excuse me?

I may have squealed. Loudly.
Then I asked Casey if he was up for a road trip since we had absolutely nothing else planned.

He was in.

I messaged the seller, we set a time, and suddenly we had a plan — the best kind. The accidental kind.

We grabbed my friend, hit the bank for cash, stopped at McDonald’s for fries and a Sprite (for hydration and change), then made the 35-minute trek to the other side of the river to collect my very late, very perfect Christmas present.

Shoes acquired.
Joy secured.

After that?
Grocery store.
Click List pickup.
Home.

That was it.
No drama.
No appointments.
No chaos.

Just a normal day — and damn, it felt good.

I don’t need every day to be big.
I just need days like this sprinkled in to remind me that life still knows how to behave.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Pajamas, Brunch, and the Good Kind of Tired

🌼 Date: Saturday, January 10, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low battery, full heart.

💔 Status: End of week two post-chemo tired — the real, heavy kind.

🌞 Outlook: Worth it.

Today was a family day — the kind that doesn’t look flashy but settles into your bones in a good way.

On my mom’s side of the family, we stopped trying to force everything into December. Everyone’s families have grown, everyone’s got multiple places to be, and the pressure was getting ridiculous. So, Aunt Cathy — my mom’s oldest sister — made the executive decision to move our get-together to January.

Honestly? Genius.

But it was good tired.

The kind that comes from being surrounded by family all day. From sitting, eating, talking, and just being without needing to explain anything. The kind of tired that feels earned, not stolen.

Today deserves to be remembered — even if tomorrow I’m paying for it with an early bedtime and zero ambition.

Some days don’t need a lesson or a punchline.
Some days are just… good.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Unsupervised, Unstitched, and Wigless in Public

🌼 Date: Friday, January 9, 2026

⚡ Energy: Determined. Unsupervised. Mildly unhinged.

💔 Status: Stitches ripped out. Dignity questionable. Adaptability undefeated.

🌞 Outlook: Calling plastics, wearing a pink wig, and laughing anyway.

Yesterday ended with a plot twist no one asked for.

After a day that included Christmas tree takedown, vacuuming, sweeping, and a full-scale dog shit hazmat operation, I went to change my bandage and—surprise—my stitches had torn out.

Again.

Back to the gaping hole club. Membership renewed.
I’ll be calling the plastics hotline this morning to see if they want me in today or if Monday is soon enough. (Spoiler: I already know the answer is “send a picture.”)

And friends… that’s where things got stupid.

Casey wasn’t home.
Which meant I had to take the picture.

Picture me alone, unsupervised, trying to:

• remove my own bandage (usually Casey’s department),
• hold up my compression tank top that I cannot take off by myself,
• balance my phone,
• and somehow photograph my own boob.

This was never going to end well.

Plan A failed immediately.
Plan B involved me going back to the kitchen and grabbing:

• the stick-on grip-it thing Santa put in my stocking,
• and the remote for the handheld selfie grip doo-hickey Santa also brought me
  (because obviously if you’re blogging through chemo, you need equipment).

Back in the bathroom, I stuck my phone to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, pulled my tank top up with one hand (which was also holding the remote), lifted the bandage with the other, and tried to angle my boob into the frame like this was a totally normal activity.

Just as I went to take the picture, the phone started sliding down the mirror.

So, what did I do?

I crouched down to follow it.

I managed to:

• descend at the same speed as the falling phone,
• keep the tank top and bandage lifted,
• and snap multiple usable photos on the way down.

I was honestly impressed with myself.
The coordination.
The problem-solving.
The commitment.

So yes. You can now officially add Medical Boob Photographer to my ever-evolving résumé.

And because this day clearly wasn’t done with me yet, let’s talk about Candy.

Candy is my pink wig.
Named after the song Sex & Candy.
She was supposed to make her public debut at dinner.

What Candy did instead was attempt an escape.

Her hair is apparently so slippery that the hat I wore over her slid clean off my head the second I sat down at the table. And with the hat went the decorative bobby pins that had been bravely holding her untrimmed, wildly overgrown bangs out of my face.

So there I was.
In the middle of a restaurant.
Wig sliding.
Hat falling.
Pins abandoning ship.

And I did what any reasonable person would do.

I took her off. Right there.

Candy did not get dinner pictures.
Candy spent the rest of the evening in time out on the chair next to me while I finished my meal as myself, bald, unbothered, and slightly amused by the attention.

Once her bangs are trimmed and she learns how to behave in public, I’ll take her out for another spin. And yes — there will be pictures.

Tonight just wasn’t her night.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Fertigation, But Make It Personal

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 8, 2026

⚡ Energy: Grateful, slightly stunned, and then immediately assaulted by dog poop.

💔 Status: Apparently people are reading this… and my blind puppy chose violence.

🌞 Outlook: Thankful for humans. Concerned about puppies. Still standing.

Before I tell you about how my morning turned into a full-blown biohazard situation, I need to stop and say this:

In one month — since December 8 — this little corner of the internet has had 400 viewers and 1,271 views.

That’s… a lot.
Especially considering my entire “marketing strategy” has been:
post the link on Facebook and Instagram and hope for the best.

So, if you’re here?
Reading.
Coming back.
Lurking quietly.
Sharing with a friend.
Or hate-reading with concern?

That’s on you. And I see you.

This space exists because people keep showing up — not for polished inspiration, but for honesty, dark humor, and whatever the hell this is. Thank you for making it worth sitting down and typing on the hard days.

Okay. Gratitude moment complete.
Now let me tell you about Momo.

My normal morning routine is simple: let the dogs out, take my temperature, take my meds, make breakfast.

Not today.

Today was a learning day.
Not a cancer learning day.
Not a chemo learning day.
A life hands you a blind puppy and says “figure it out” kind of day.

Enter Momo.
He’s 12.
He’s blind.
He’s a puppy. (All dogs are puppies. Age is fake.)

As I walked over to Momo’s kennel — newly placed under the windows — I was greeted by what can only be described as a Category 5 Shit Event.

Let me set the scene properly…

You know those big ol’ fields on road trips with the sprinkler systems on giant wheels that crawl across the land like agricultural centipedes? That’s called Lateral Move Irrigation. Sometimes the water spraying out is brown instead of clear.

That’s not water.
That’s fertilizer.
Specifically: liquid manure.

That process is called Fertigation.

Friends… Momo has mastered fertigation.

There was shit in his dog bed.
On his water dish.
On the dog gate.
All over the pee pads.
And, naturally, on his feet, because he had stomped through it like he was crushing grapes for wine.

A wine I do not recommend.
Pretty sure it would be… shitty.

Before I could do anything for myself, I scooped him up and put him on his outside tether. (Because blind puppy + freedom = lost puppy.) Then began the hazmat protocol.

Chemo rule #47: do not touch pet feces.
So, I gloved up like I was about to perform surgery in a war zone.

Smell is a big trigger right now, so I masked up too — and still managed to throw up in my mouth and sprint to the kitchen sink. Which meant… yes… now the sink needed scrubbing.

After that:
• dog bath
• bed into the washer
• pee pads washed
• water bowl through the dishwasher

And when I finally looked up?

Momo was stretched out on the couch.
Clean.
Relaxed.
Thriving.

Watching me do all the heavy lifting like a king who just survived a hostile takeover.

It’s a good thing I love the little shit.
(See what I did there?)

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Paperwork, Puppies, and Pulling Down Christmas

🌼 Date: Wednesday, January 07, 2026

⚡ Energy: Depleted, overachieving, stubborn.

💞 Status: Still alive. Slightly dizzy. Very accomplished.

😪 Outlook: The hard work is done — tomorrow is a problem for tomorrow.

Today was one of those days where nothing dramatic happened, but somehow everything was exhausting.

Phone calls.
Emails.
Clarifying paperwork that should not need clarifying.
Union stepping in (thank God).
Another call to my doctor because the date on my updated FMLA paperwork was wrong — because of course it was.

The biggest irony of the day?
I can’t use the sick bank right now because I currently have long-term disability (even though I did NOT sign up for it this year) — even though the sick bank exists for moments exactly like this. Make it make sense. (It doesn’t.)

This is the part of cancer people don’t talk about much. Not the chemo. Not the baldness. Not even the fatigue — but the administrative Olympics that happen behind the scenes while you’re just trying to survive the day without crying or throwing your phone.

And then… there was Momo.

Last night, Momo once again escaped his playpen area. This time, he jumped over the armrest of the couch like a tiny, determined ninja and made his way straight to our bedroom door, scratching and barking as if he had been personally abandoned.

Important context:
Momo is blind.
He is diabetic.
And he is on a very strict schedule.

He eats twice a day, as close to 12 hours apart as possible, and must finish eating within a 30-minute window so we can give him his insulin shot. No treats outside that window. No free roaming — because blind dogs + carpets = chaos.

So we had carefully engineered a setup around the couch: a play yard gate, his puppy ramp, water bowl, and an entire floor lined with washable pee pads. It was comfortable. It was safe. It was apparently not enough.

Which means… the couch had to go.

Sorry, Momo. You’re back to a dog bed like a regular dog.

Whoever said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks has clearly never met a 12-year-old blind boy with diabetes and an agenda.

Once the couch was out of the equation, everything snowballed — because of course it did.

The Christmas tree had to come down to make room for the kennel under the windows.
Once the tree was down, I had to sweep under it.
Once I swept under it, I couldn’t in good conscience sweep only part of the house.
So, the entire house got swept.

Then the pee pads had to be picked up and washed.
Which meant the rug under them had to be vacuumed and washed.
And once one rug was done… well, you already know — the whole house got vacuumed.

Then all the blankets Momo had been sleeping on had to be washed so they were people-safe again.

By the time I finished everything, I was wiped out.

I checked my oxygen — a solid 97%.
But my heart rate? 125 beats per minute.

I’ve always run a little fast (usually in the 90s), and my blood pressure has been low at recent appointments, which probably explains why I felt lightheaded after doing way too much today.

But the work is done.
The house is reset.
Momo is secure.

Tomorrow?
We’ll see if I can get out of bed.

Today I fought bureaucracy, cancer fatigue, and a blind diabetic escape artist — and somehow still swept and vacuumed the house. One badass, slightly unhinged day at a time.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Pink Hats & Stacey in the Wild

🌼 Date: Tuesday, January 06, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tender, playful, cautiously confident

💖 Status: Still standing (and accessorized)

🥰 Outlook: Finding joy where I can—and wearing it proudly

Today was about softness.
Not the kind that gives up—but the kind that comforts.

They’re warm.
They’re bold.
They’re love—stitched loop by loop.

And then… there was Stacey.

And before anyone makes it weird — Nicholas named her, not me.
Yes, that Stacey. As in “Stacey’s mom has got it going on.”

To be clear:

• He was referring to the wig
• The song popped into his head
• He immediately laughed
• I immediately claimed the name

No Oedipal undertones. No therapy needed. Just a teenage boy with a dumb song stuck in his head and a mom who now owns a blonde wig with a personality.

Stacey, the wig, took it as a compliment.

Last night marked a milestone: my first time wearing a wig out in the wild. Casey got to choose (because apparently, I trust his judgment more than my own), and despite his lifelong declaration that he “doesn’t like blondes,” he confidently picked Stacey.

Reader, I married the right man.

Stacey did great.
It was windy. Very windy.

Turns out long hair + lip gloss = an unexpected bonding experience. I spent a solid portion of the evening peeling blonde strands off my face like decorative tinsel, but honestly? Worth it.

What surprised me most wasn’t how I looked—it was how normal it felt. Not “before cancer” normal, but new-normal, still-me normal. The kind where I can laugh, adapt, and keep moving forward with a little help from yarn, humor, and a blonde alter ego.

Between pink hats made with love and a wig with personality, today reminded me of something important:

I may be losing hair, strength, and predictability—but I am not losing myself.

And if the choice is between crying or accessorizing…

I’ll take accessorizing every time.

Some days call for grit.
Some days call for hot pink and a wig named Stacey.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Pre-Baby Bladder Sleep and Other Miracles

🌼 Date: Monday, January 05, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cautiously optimistic (with good sleep swagger)

❤️‍🩹 Status: Rested, stitched, still healing

😴 Outlook: One miracle at a time — todays was sleep

I woke up at 1:15 a.m. to pee.
Which, historically, is how my body likes to trick me into thinking the day has officially begun.

My brain immediately jumped into “since you’re already up…” mode:
Unload the dishwasher.
Start another load of laundry.
Scroll the internet into oblivion.
Solve world problems.

Hard pass.

This time, I refused to settle for four crappy hours of sleep, so I tried one of the new meds my oncologist gave me — Trazodone, which she specifically told me to save until after round two of chemo.

Friends…
✨ EIGHT. GLORIOUS. UNINTERRUPTED. HOURS. ✨
I slept until 9:30 a.m.
No bathroom trips.
No tossing.
No turning.
No existential dread.

I haven’t slept like that since before kids — and my oldest is 33. That was pre-baby bladder, pre-mom brain, pre-everything. A full-blown medical miracle. And no, before you ask, I did not wet the bed. 😉

The hope is that this new setup won’t rip off the fragile new skin that’s been forming every 24 hours — which looks like pus to me but apparently is actually healing tissue. Medical science is wild.

Today was also a reminder that cancer doesn’t just live in your body.
It lives in paperwork, phone calls, systems, and logistics that don’t slow down just because you’re sick. I’m painfully aware that I am not doing this alone — I have Casey, I have support, I have people who can step in when I don’t have the strength to fight another fight.

And I think often about the people who don’t have that — and how impossibly heavy this journey must feel without someone in your corner.

Today wasn’t flashy, but it was restorative. Sleep helped. Stitches held. Support showed up. And for now, that’s more than enough.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Victory Pajamas and Window Decals

🌼 Date: Sunday, January 4, 2026

⚡ Energy: Triumphant but tender

❤️‍🩹 Status: Sore, tired, victorious

🥶 Outlook: Cold outside, warm inside, finally caught up

Ha! WordPress: conquered.

This mission technically started Friday night and didn’t officially end until this morning. Two days of wrestling with menus, ghost pages, slugs from hell, and enough “why won’t you just WORK?” moments to qualify as an endurance sport. But friends… the site now does exactly what I envisioned.

Who knew that at the wise-ass age of 54, I’d be learning how to build a whole damn website? I genuinely thought this was supposed to be click-and-fill. Like the digital version of Mad Libs.
(Yes, I know. I just dated myself. Again.)

As part of my victory tour, I posted my celebration pajamas on social media. Okay fine — they were technically my New Year’s Eve pajamas — but victory pajamas don’t expire. Rules are flexible when you win a war against technology.

Then, because apparently, I like to stack accomplishments, Casey and I installed five of my very first pieces of blog merch:
“Badass Breast Cancer” window decals.
On actual vehicles. In the wild. Rolling down the road.

Shoutout to My Mary 💖 — and yes, this is a proud mom moment for me, because I still can’t believe this thing in my head is now stuck to glass in the real world.

After freezing my freshly bald head and my not-just-boob-weight-lost body (almost 25 pounds down, and trust me, that changes your internal thermostat), I came back inside, thawed out, and did something that felt just as victorious:

I got caught up on three days of blog posts.
Which brings us here. Fully caught up. No backlog. No guilt.

Bonus win: today was day five and FINAL day of the Granix shots. 🎉
The bone pain isn’t quite as brutal as yesterday, but I’ve definitely noticed a pattern — evenings and bedtime are when my knees and legs start screaming, and that’s when the ice packs come out like clockwork. Still, knowing this was the last shot makes it all feel more manageable.

Also, my abdomen is officially starting to resemble a Dalmatian — bruises instead of spots — but honestly? I’ll take it.

I didn’t just survive this week — I finished it. Website fixed. Merch launched. Shots completed. Blog caught up. Still standing. One badass day at a time.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

When Strength Looks Like Asking for Help

🌼 Date: Saturday, January 03, 2026

⚡ Energy: Heavy, humbled, honest

💕 Status: Upright with help. Grateful for it.

😒 Outlook: Learning the difference between resting and surrendering.

Today’s Lesson: Fatigue

Today’s lesson was all about fatigue — not the cute, “I’m tired, I need a nap” kind, but the bone-deep, strength-stealing kind that rewrites what your body can do without asking permission first.

After my second round of chemo, I messaged my oncologist to let her know that this round is hitting me much harder than round one ever did.

I know from watching my son go through this that each round can hit harder than the last. And if round two is already kicking my ass this badly, rounds three and four may very well have me parked in bed.

Right now, I have zero strength.

Casey has to help me put my chair down.
Sometimes he has to help me stand up just to get out of the chair.
I can’t open jars.
Or Gatorade bottles.
Or boxes of crackers.

I feel like such a weakling — even though I know I’m not.

Thank God for my Hercules, who steps in without hesitation and does all the things I physically can’t right now. And to the warriors who walk this road alone? You have my deepest respect. Truly. I cannot imagine doing this without someone beside me.

My oncologist’s response was honest and measured:

“Fatigue usually gets worse, but other side effects can vary, and sometimes other cycles can be better.”

Which, of course, also means… sometimes not.
If fatigue truly does get worse, I worry about what that looks like. I’ve already lived the version where a bedside commode becomes necessary because getting to the bathroom is too much. I hope I don’t end up bedbound — but if I do, I guess at least I can still type. Hopefully.

As if my body wasn’t already teaching enough lessons, I also spent the entire day wrestling with WordPress, trying to find a hidden glitch that was breaking my brand-new Daily Posts page.

It was a full-on mud wrestling match — except there was no one to tag in.

I walked away.
Ate a snack.
Got a drink.
Came back.
Repeat.

I went to bed without solving it — which is deeply un-Tina-like — but also… necessary.

Because today wasn’t about winning.
It was about knowing when to stop pushing and start listening.

Today taught me that strength doesn’t always look like doing more.
Sometimes it looks like admitting what you can’t do — and letting love step in where muscle fails.

💗 Tina —

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Ice Packs and Hour-by-Hour Living ⭐

🌼 Date: Friday, January 02, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low, sore, inward

❤️‍🩹 Status: Managing. Not gracefully, but effectively.

😔 Outlook: One hour at a time, ice packs prioritized.

Today Was Not a Great Day

Today was day three of the Granix shots, and it hit hard.

Severe bone pain — the kind that makes your body feel too heavy to carry itself. My knees and ankles took the worst of it. Standing made everything louder. Moving felt optional. Existing required planning.

I spent most of the day rotating between ice packs and the heating pad, camped out like it was my full-time job. For the record: I think ice is winning. Numbing the pain might be the trick here. Heat feels comforting, but ice feels effective — and today I needed effective.

I’ve already taken the maximum dose of Tylenol for a 24-hour period, so now the plan is simple:
survive until I can sleep… and then sleep until I can take more.

After my legendary 59-hour wakey-wakey spree, I’m now averaging about 5–7 hours of sleep a night. Each night seems to be about an hour shorter than the last, like my body is counting down to the next shot and getting impatient.

I’m supposed to give myself the Granix shot every 24 hours.
Confession time: I’ve been cheating and doing closer to 22 hours.

When the shakes and bone pain ramp up, waiting feels impossible.

Which is the cruel irony of all this — the shot is what causes the bone pain in the first place, but it’s also the thing that makes the shaking and pain calm down afterward. The growth factor tells my bone marrow to wake up and work harder, which is great for my white blood cells… and absolutely miserable for my skeleton.

At this point, I’ll take temporary relief without complaint.

I’ve also been taking extra Pepcid along with my nausea meds. Pepcid is a histamine blocker, and while it’s not a pain medication, it can help in situations like this because histamine plays a role in inflammation. Less histamine = less inflammatory signaling = slightly quieter pain. It’s not a miracle, but when your knees are screaming, even a small volume reduction matters.

Today wasn’t productive.
It wasn’t inspiring.
It wasn’t brave in a way that looks good on social media.

It was ice packs.
It was heat.
It was sitting still because standing hurt more.

And honestly? That was enough.

Today wasn’t about pushing through.
It was about staying put — and letting my body do the work it’s already doing.

💗 Tina —

One Badass Day at a Time

---

The Year I Needed

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 01, 2026

⚡ Energy: Reflective, grateful, quietly powerful

💓 Status: Still standing. Still here. Still learning.

💪 Outlook: Entering 2026 clearer, braver, and done playing small

🥢 New Year’s Day, the Way We Do It

For as long as I can remember — and I mean single digits old — our family has had one non-negotiable New Year’s Day tradition: we go out to eat Chinese food.

It started as family, back when the only places open on January 1st were Chinese restaurants. Over the years, it evolved into family plus whoever was lucky enough to snag an invite. Some years it’s small. Some years it’s chaos. Last year we had close to 30 people show up. This year? Just 9.

This year’s table was smaller, quieter, and honestly… perfect.

Casey wore one of his favorite shirts —
“Her fight is my fight. I wear pink for my wife.”

We ate. We laughed. We sat together in the aftershocks of a year that changed everything.

✨ The Year I Needed

I didn’t get the year I wanted.
I got the year that cracked me open.

The kind of year you don’t post highlight

reels about.
The kind where the goal isn’t “thriving” — it’s making it to the end of the day without falling apart in front of the wrong people.

This year taught me how heavy life can get.
How plans can dissolve even when you do everything right.
How promises can stretch thin.
How people change.
How sometimes effort isn’t enough — and that truth hurts like hell.

There were long stretches where I felt behind.
Like everyone else was moving forward while I was just trying to stay upright.
Some days I was exhausted from being strong.
From explaining myself.
From pretending I was okay when I absolutely was not.

There were nights I questioned my worth.
Wondered if I was failing at life, at work, at healing — at everything.
Cancer will do that to you.
So will being told “just wait” long enough that waiting becomes a cage.

But somewhere in the middle of all that mess, something shifted.

Quietly.
Without permission.

I learned how to show up for myself — even when no one else did.
How to stop chasing things that weren’t choosing me back.
How to rest without guilt.
How to set boundaries without writing a dissertation to justify my pain.

I learned that growth doesn’t always look like progress.
Sometimes it looks like loss.
Losing people.
Losing comfort.
Losing the version of yourself who kept shrinking to fit where you no longer belonged.

But I didn’t lose myself.

I found her.

Stronger.
Clearer.
Less willing to settle.
More aware of my own power.

So no — 2025 wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t fair.

But it changed me in ways that matter.

And if you’re ending this year tired, disoriented, or quietly proud just for still being here — hear this:
You didn’t fall behind.

You survived the year that shaped you.

And the woman walking into 2026?
She’s wiser.
She’s braver.
And she’s finally aware of just how big she really is.

Bring it on, 2026.

I didn’t ring out 2025 with champagne.
I rang it out with clarity.

And if 2026 wants to test me —
it should probably stretch first.

💗 Tina —

One Badass Day at a Time

---

59 Hours Awake, 8 Hours of Bliss (and a Hard Stop at 10:30)

🌼 Date: Wednesday, December 31, 2025

⚡ Energy: Quiet, tender, deeply tired

💓 Status: Shot one complete, record sleep achieved

🥱 Outlook: Rest counts as progress

Day one of the Granix shots.

For reasons known only to my body and whatever gremlin runs the side-effect department, the first of the five shots always makes me bleed like a stuck pig — while the other four behave themselves. Weird, but consistent. At this point, I just nod and roll with it.

And now… brace yourselves.

Because I have AMAZING NEWS.

Since I didn’t have to take steroids last night, I slept.
Like, really slept.

Eight. Whole. Hours.
Blissfully peaceful.
Uninterrupted — except for my bladder, which remains deeply committed to chaos.

That officially ends the wakey-wakey marathon at 59 hours.
A new personal record.

Casey said I should’ve tried to make it an even 60.
Hard pass. I am not interested in defending this title next round.

Today is New Year’s Eve, and in keeping with the theme of low expectations and soft living, I donned my silver satin pajamas to ring it in.

This second round of chemo has hit differently.
I’m more tired.
More worn down.
Zero energy.
Very little strength.

We tried to make it to midnight.
We really did.

But I think we officially said goodbye to 2025 around 10:30 PM, tucked into bed, lights out, surrender accepted.

And honestly?
That feels right.

Not every day needs fireworks.
Some days just need rest.
And tonight, rest is exactly how I’m closing the year.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Chemo Brain, Clean Laundry, and Registered Bags

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 30, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired but weirdly productive

💞 Status: Steroids ending, insomnia ongoing

🧐 Outlook: Organized chaos with a side of science

This morning was my last dose of steroids. No steroids tonight, which means tomorrow morning I officially start the shots. (Insert dramatic music here.)

Amazingly, I managed two one-hour cat naps overnight while working on the computer. No real sleep — but in the land of steroid-induced insomnia, that counts as a win. And apparently, sleepless Tina is also highly productive Tina.

I have washed everything.
If it fit in the washing machine — or could be coerced into fitting — it has been washed.
I love the smell of clean. LOVE it.

Which brings us to… smells.

Ever since starting chemo, my nose has turned into a bloodhound with opinions.

Casey came home with Taco Bell. He had approximately half an ounce of lettuce on his taco, and the smell of that lettuce nearly made me lose my lunch. LETTUCE. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t turning. It was just… lettuce.

Then came the real betrayal.

Peanut butter.

One of my favorites. A staple. A friend.

Casey made toast — one piece with butter, one with peanut butter — sat next to me, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with the urge to heave. I politely asked him if he could please eat the peanut butter toast first, as quickly as possible, so I didn’t have to smell it anymore.

This is my at-home chemo command center, and it exists for one simple reason: I am done trying to read microscopic print while mid-nausea cycle. Everything is labeled in a way that works for me, because my brain and my stomach are no longer taking shifts at the same time.

In this picture you’ll see:

• My labeled medication bottles, because chemo brain + tiny font is a hard no
• My thermometer and sterile sleeves, since I have to take my temperature daily — and before calling the doctor for anything
• Alcohol wipes for shot prep
• My puppy Band-Aids (gift exchange win 🐶 Thanks Mel and kids!)
• ALL the meds that help me go… and then help me not go too much
• Gas pills, because apparently even drinking water causes bloating now
• Nausea meds (pick one, I now have four to choose from), paired with Pepcid, which I learned is a histamine blocker

And then… still living on my counter since surgery in October, because I genuinely do not know what I’m supposed to do with them, are the registration cards for my bags.

Let me say that again.

Registration. Cards. For. My. Bags.

Am I required to carry these on me?
Who exactly is going to ask to see them?
If someone does, do I:

• show them the cards?
• flash them my bags?
• both?

Is this like a service animal situation, where legally you’re not supposed to ask someone if their animal is registered?

And if that’s the case…
does that mean my bags are registered service or emotional support bags?

Because if so, I feel like they should be helping me carry groceries or at least fetch snacks.

Still no real sleep.
Still learning new things every day.
Still moving forward.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Some Days Are Just Heavy

🌼 Date: Monday, December 29, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired, stitched, stubbornly upright

❤️‍🩹 Status: Stitched, infused, sleepless

💖 Outlook: Progress… just louder than expected

So, this morning was a plastics appointment and let me be clear: I walked in with zero expectations of getting a fill. At this point, I’m making peace with my baby Capri Sun-sized boobies.

Granted… they’re uneven. Very uneven.

You know how Capri Suns work, right? One pouch takes the straw like a champ, first try. The other one? You have to ja that straw in with the force of a prize fighter trying to win a title belt, and then suddenly juice explodes everywhere like you nicked a main artery. So you take a quick swig just to keep it from spraying the headliner of your minivan.

No two pouches were ever the same.

Yet somehow… my kids never noticed. Or complained.

Huh.

Never thought about that until just now.

Squirrel moment.

Anyway – I’m really enjoying not wearing a bra. Like, a lot.

Which made me wonder… after the implants go in, will I have to wear one again? And if so, will it be:

• for fun

• for looks

• for function

Please Jesus, not the confinement straight-jacket binder from hell again.

After taking two anxiety pills (because personal growth ✨), off to the plastics doctor we went.

And y’all… this appointment was like no other.

Today, the doctor decided the skin around that stubborn little hole was pink, healthy, and supple – and announced she was going to put a couple of stitches in it.

I’m sorry… what now?

We are ten weeks post-op, and today we’re deciding, “Hey, maybe we should surgically close this hole”?

Anyone remember my earlier comment about why I don’t get paid the big bucks, but they do?

Too late for a retraction?

I mean… okay. Sure. Let’s do it.

Per the oncologist’s terrorist-negotiated terms, the doctor made sure to seal that puppy up on all sides before sending me off to chemotherapy.

Which, of course, is at a completely different location, a solid 45 minutes away, depending on traffic. Because why wouldn’t it be.

We checked in, my butt barely touched the waiting room chair, and the nurse was already calling my name. Today’s IV? First try. No urning. No irritation. It flushed beautifully – a true Christmas miracle.

Since we had to slow one of the meds last time, my nurse came prepared: warming pack, fresh warm blanket, and a slowed start on that particular drip.

And miracle of miracles…

It worked.

No slowdown required. We are absolutely keeping that little trick in our pocket for rounds three and four.

The whole appointment was quicker this time – only three and a half hours.

And no one walked in on me in the bathroom. Look at me mastering the double lock like a seasoned professional. I also mastered the IV pole. No spills. No broken ankles. Olympic-level maneuvering.

Naturally, I came fully suited up for battle:

• my FU@K CANCER shirt

• a breast cancer head wrap I modified (because I can’t leave anything alone)
• and the sweetest breast cancer necklace fro my friend Debbie, given to me Saturday at the head-shaving party 💗

The ride home was better than round one – no nausea, just that deep, bone-level exhaustion. Still… no sleep.

I am currently in the middle of my wakey wakey, steroid-induced marathon, which in the past has kept me awake for 40 hours at a time. I’ve been up since 11:00 AM Sunday, for those of you keeping score.

I still have steroids to take tonight and again tomorrow morning, so I’m not holding out much hope for sleep. But hey – we’ll see.

At this point, sleep is optional, stitches are new, chemo is done, and I’m still standing. I may be tired – but cancer should be more tired that I am.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Powered by Jet Fuel and Spite

🌼 Date: Sunday, December 28, 2025

⚡ Energy: Steroid-powered, mildly feral, unstoppable

❤️‍🩹 Status: Productive, bald, wig-curious, still breathing

💖 Outlook: Getting shit done now, fully expecting to crash later

Today was Day 1 of steroids, which means my internal operating system rebooted without asking me and said, “We’re doing EVERYTHING. Right now.”

Also worth noting: I hadn’t even been out of bed for an hour this morning (yes, I had already roided up) when Casey looked at me and said, “You haven’t stopped talking since you got up… like, have you been lying in bed all night just thinking of all this stuff?”

Yup.
Exactly that.

Apparently, my brain spent the night running a full TED Talk rehearsal without my consent. So, buckle up, baby — you’ve got three days of this carnival ride to look forward to. And this is only Round 2. We’ve still got Round 3… then Round 4 ahead of us.

Yay us!!! 🎢😅

Did I do anything on the computer?
Absolutely not.
Could I sit down?
Also no.

But if you’ve got any home improvement projects, send them my way for the next two days because apparently, I am now powered by jet fuel and spite.

Here’s what did get done:

All the laundry.
Sheets and blankets washed and back on the bed — which felt especially important because up until yesterday, every time I pulled up the covers, I got a mouth full of my own hair floating off the blankets like some kind of chemo snow globe. Since the head shaving, I am happy to report that I am no longer shedding long enough strands to become airborne. Clean bedding felt ceremonial.

Then I hung the four framed pictures I had printed for Casey for Christmas.
There was math.
There was a tape measure.
There was a level.
There was a ladder.

It was a whole thing.

While Casey was trying to take a cat nap in his recliner, I decided that was the perfect time to purge my phone contacts.
Because obviously.

Three hours later, I had gone down a full memory-lane rabbit hole, deleting people, places, and businesses I have clearly outgrown. (No offense to Chuck E. Cheese, but I probably won’t be booking birthday parties there anymore. My youngest is 20.)

Once I was already emotionally invested, I figured I’d add profile pictures too. Because if you’re going to spiral, you might as well be thorough.

Then… the Amazon delivery arrived.

The blonde wig showed up.

Full disclosure: she’s more of an ombré — light brown on top, platinum blonde on the bottom — with a little curl. And I kind of love her. Even Casey said, “I thought I would hate it more.”
Progress is progress!

She needs a bang trim before her official debut, because I don’t know who is out here wearing bangs down past their nose, but it won’t be me. I’ll try to fix that tomorrow in between my plastics appointment and Round 2 of chemo.

Oh — and now that Nicholas has seen how all-in everyone went with the head shaving, he wants his shaved shorter than we did the other day. So add “family barber” back onto the list. Pics will be coming tomorrow night.

Also… the wigs need names.
You can’t just have unnamed personalities living in your house.

The red one is spicy. Latina energy.
Casey suggested Lola (or Lolita), which feels perfect because in high school dance team we competed to a song with the line: “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl…” you all know the one, and you sang that line, didn’t you?

Nicholas thinks the blonde should be Stacey, which immediately triggered “Stacey’s mom has got it going on” in my head, so now I’m undecided.

We’ll settle this soon. Suggestions welcome.

Before I wrap this up, I want to say this clearly and lovingly:

👉 If you’ve been reading along and haven’t subscribed to the blog yet — please do.
I currently have seven subscribers (hi family, hi inner circle 💕), but with nearly 300 visitors, I know there are more of you out there. Subscribing just means you’ll get the posts delivered to you — no spam, no nonsense, just real life, one day at a time.

Okay.
Steroids are wearing off.
The crash is coming.
Tomorrow is chemo.

Still here.
Still standing.
Still doing the damn thing.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Not Walking This Alone

🌼 Date: Saturday, December 27, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋 (officially depleted—in the best way)

💝 Status: Surrounded, supported, and freshly clipped

🥰 Outlook: Full heart, steady hope, ready for Monday

Today was a very successful day—the kind that leaves you completely spent and deeply grateful.

✔ Labs done
✔ Head shaving + potluck accomplished
✔ Three haircuts and a beard shave given (apparently, I’ve added “pop-up barber” to my résumé)😉

Seventeen people showed up. Seventeen.
Each one offering support in their own way—food, hugs, laughter, presence. It was a beautiful outpouring of love, and it filled the room (and my heart) right up.

One moment in particular landed hard and soft at the same time. The wife of one of my last trainees came by—her husband just had back surgery four days ago, so he gets a full pass—and she brought me the most beautiful breast cancer ribbon necklace. The card read:

“Once you choose hope, anything is possible.
Let your faith be bigger than your fear.”

I will be wearing that necklace to chemo on Monday like a shield.
I’m already planning which pink breast cancer t-shirt will best match the vibe—because if I’m going in, I’m going in armored.

She also brought the best-smelling hand lotion, which made me laugh because apparently the universe knows that constant handwashing has turned my hands into something resembling the Sahara Desert… which is also currently residing in my mouth. The timing? Impeccable.

I know some of the most amazing people. Truly.

There isn’t a lot to say today that could compete with the 14 photos I have from this afternoon. They tell the story better than words ever could—love, laughter, courage, community.

Photos from today — love showed up in every form. 💗

Today reminded me that I am not walking this alone.
Not even close.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Wig First

🌼 Date: Friday, December 26, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋🔋 (used wisely, with laughter breaks)

💞Status: Wigged, prepared, medically efficient

😏Outlook: Spicy, realistic, and seeing the damn light

Today we made it to the wig shop—and let me tell you, it was an adventure.

Aunt Dee and Marnie came with us, which immediately guaranteed that dignity would not be present and laughter absolutely would. There were multiple belly-laugh moments. The kind where you have to stop, breathe, and wipe tears from your eyes because someone just said or did something that tipped the whole room over.

But fate—and apparently my personality—had other plans.

I tried on several different styles and colors, and I’m still blown away by the fact that all of these wigs are free, donated by private parties so women like me can have choices. Real choices. Not “this is what’s left,” but actual options.

And it gets better:

• Free wig
• Free shampoo to wash it
• Free detangling spray
• Free comb

All of it. And if I get tired of the red? I can exchange it anytime. No guilt. No hassle.

I have chemo on Monday, so I may not make it to Taco Tuesday or even next Friday’s dinner, depending on how hard round two hits. Round one kicked my butt, and based on watching my son Bryan go through this, each round tends to be a little worse than the last.

That’s okay.
I know what to expect now.

And after Monday?
I’ll be halfway through chemo. Only two treatments left after that. I can see the light, and I’m walking toward it—wig first.

When we got home, we prepped everything for tomorrow. I even got the taco bake ready so all I have to do is dump it in the pan and throw it in the oven before people arrive. Efficiency matters when you’re spending your energy like it’s a limited currency.

Tomorrow morning I head in for lab work so the pharmacist can review everything and make any needed adjustments to my chemo cocktail before Monday. I appreciate not sitting around waiting. I like a plan. I like momentum.

I also put in refill requests today for:

• Steroids (starting Sunday)
• Granix shots (days 3–7 again, wheeee)

And when I pick those up, I’ll also grab two new prescriptions—one for nausea and one for sleep—but I won’t start those until after chemo Monday. Because we follow instructions around here. Mostly.

Today was full.
It was funny.
It was grounding.
And it reminded me that even in the middle of the hard stuff, there is room for laughter, good food, good people, and a red wig that refuses to be ignored.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Chemo Hooch and Other Christmas Wins

🌼 Date: Thursday, December 25, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋🔋🔋 (steady, managed, and fueled by apple spice)

💖 Status: Medicated, hydrated, hosting like a boss

😁 Outlook: Grateful, amused, and ready to recycle all the boxes

Today brought a small but mighty breakthrough in the nausea department—and honestly, I feel like this deserves its own Nobel Prize category.

I discovered a shortcut for my nausea drink. Chemo Hooch — the quick version of my chemo moonshine — saved the day. (recipe here)
You know the one. My chemo moonshine.

Turns out, when you don’t have two hours to brew the OG batch, you can whip up a perfectly acceptable “sister drink.” If one is moonshine, then naturally this one is… chemo hooch.

Here’s the recipe (no judgment, no measurements, just vibes):

• Hot water
• One packet of spiced apple cider mix
• A sprinkle of cinnamon
• A sprinkle of ground ginger
• Measure everything with your heart
• Stir well
• Sip slowly and feel smug about your ingenuity

This little potion, combined with:

• Pepcid morning and bedtime
• My nausea meds three times a day
• Plus the breakthrough med as needed

…made today a pretty damn good day.

Good enough that I was able to cook Christmas dinner and serve both dinner and dessert. I did not do this alone—let the record show I had a wonderful sous chef and an absolutely elite cleanup crew. Teamwork makes the chemo dream work.

Everyone had a nice Christmas.
And anyone who didn’t get exactly what they asked Santa for ended up with gift cards and has probably already made an Amazon purchase. Which makes me wonder… is Amazon’s busiest day actually after Christmas? I’m putting my money on yes.

Speaking of Amazon, my next task is breaking down approximately 47 boxes and getting them into recycling before garbage day. It’s the circle of life, but with cardboard.

The house is in good shape. Casey mopped the floors last night (he really is my Christmas miracle), and I vacuumed and cleaned the carpets. We are officially ready for Saturday’s head shaving party, which has now evolved into a potluck—because of course it has. Anyone who wants to hang out is welcome to bring a dish and stay awhile.

Santa was also very on-theme this year. He brought me:

• New cordless clippers
• A couple of new capes
• New combs
• A shiny new squirt bottle
• A new bottle of sanitizer for the tools

So yes… we are ready. Fully equipped. Slightly unhinged. Professionally prepared.

Today was full. It was warm. It was managed.
And it reminded me that sometimes the win isn’t doing everything perfectly—it’s finding the shortcuts, accepting the help, and still showing up.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Absolutely Counts

🌼 Date: Wednesday, December 24, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋🔋🔋 (surprisingly decent)

💔 Status: Balding with dignity, functioning, mildly festive

🌞 Outlook: Cautiously optimistic, armed with clippers and sass

Today? Today was a pretty damn good day.

First things first: nausea barely showed up. 🎉
Like… barely RSVP’d. I’ll take that win and put it straight in my pocket.

Because I was feeling decent, I broke out the clippers and tightened up with a buzz cut. Showered afterward, and every time I touched my head my hands were covered in hair. Not falling out in dramatic clumps—just quietly letting go like, “Okay, I’m done here.” I even cleaned the drain with a tissue because I refuse to let chemo take my plumbing too.

Enter my sweet kid moment of the day:
Nicholas felt bad watching me deal with it, so he asked me to shave his head too. 🥹
We both went with the #3. I kept the top of mine a little longer and did the sides and back tighter. He went full #3 all the way around. Matching heads, matching courage. Not gonna lie—my heart cracked open a little.

I also checked in with the wig shop today, and friends… this is a resource everyone on this road should ask about.
In my area, there are a couple of places I can go, and I can actually get a FREE wig. Free. Zero dollars. Insurance-backed magic. The woman I spoke with was an absolute gem and said, “Everyone deserves at least one wig and a few hats in their arsenal.”
They’ve got wigs, hats, scarves—some free, some for sale—and I’m heading there on Friday.

Originally, I thought I’d go full eau natural.
But then I thought… wait a minute…
This might be my only chance to be blonde.
Casey is not a fan of blonde hair, which obviously means this is exactly the right moment to try it. I’ve been every color in the book except blonde. So… why not now? Chemo-era rebellion feels appropriate.

I may also have a couple of pink wigs sitting in my Amazon cart, but I’m holding off until after Friday. One impulsive hair decision at a time, Tina.

On the productivity front (who even is she?):
✔ Baking is DONE
✔ All presents are wrapped
✔ House is clean
✔ Ready for company

I am deeply thankful that Christmas landed on week 3 of my chemo cycle. That’s my “sweet spot.”
Here’s the rhythm, for those curious:

• Week 1: Steroids → Tina on espresso
• Then: Five days of self-injections (thrilling, truly)
• Week 2: Things get rough
• Week 3: I start to feel human again

That’s the pattern until mid-to-late February. On Monday, I start Round 2, and we ride the merry-go-round again.

Because I was feeling good, we kept one of our longest-running family traditions: going out to dinner on Christmas Eve.
This tradition exists because I used to procrastinate all my baking until Christmas Eve and then be way too tired to cook dinner. Instead of fixing my habits, we made it a tradition. Growth is overrated.
We’ve been doing this for at least 20 years.

Tomorrow, everyone comes here for Christmas Day. I do the dinner. I do the dessert. I am cautiously optimistic and aggressively hydrated. Wish me luck.

Tonight, I’m grateful.
Grateful for a calm stomach.
Grateful for a fresh buzz cut.
Grateful for a kid who said, “Me too, Mom.”
Grateful for resources, traditions, and a body that—on some days—still shows up ready to play along.

And today?
Absolutely counts. 💪🎄

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Today Was a Good Day

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 23, 2025

⚡ Energy: Better than expected

💔 Status: Alive (medicated, baking)

🌞 Outlook: Cautiously optimistic, clippers nearby

Today was a good day.

And I don’t say that lightly.

I think — I hope — we finally found the right combination of meds to shut the nausea down. Pepcid paired with my nausea medication seems to be the magic ticket, and for the first time in a while, I wasn’t bargaining with my stomach all day.

Even better, my doctor confirmed what I already suspected: I should not be vomiting and feeling this nauseous. So we’re adjusting meds again — a different anti-nausea prescription and something to help me sleep. If this works, maybe the 40-hour awake cycles can officially retire. I would love to sleep like a normal person again. What a concept.

And the best part?
This isn’t my new normal.

Today felt… productive.
Normal-adjacent.

I baked.
Wrapped more gifts as they arrived.
Did a little sewing.
Worked on a creative Christmas project.

Not survival tasks.
Life tasks.

So yes — a genuinely good day.

And then there’s the other part.

The part where if I even look at my hair wrong, it comes out.

Scratch my head? Hair.
Run my fingers through it? Hair.
Exist near it? Hair.

It’s reached the point where touching it feels like a betrayal — like my hands are accomplices in something I didn’t agree to. At this rate, I’m not sure how much hair will even be left by Saturday.

So tonight, there’s a strong chance Casey and I fire up the clippers for a pre–head shaving trim. Not the full send. Just… easing into it. Shortening things up so every shower doesn’t feel like a crime scene.

This is the strange balance of right now:
Relief and loss.
Hope and grief.
Medication wins and hair everywhere.

Both things are true.
Both get space.

But today still counts as a win.

I felt better.
I lived a little.
And I’m meeting what’s coming on my own terms — clippers included.

We keep going.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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I Got Dressed

🌼 Date: Monday, December 22, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low, but showing up

💔 Status: Alive (bare nails, real clothes)

🌞 Outlook: Holding steady, with receipts

Today, I got dressed.

Not “clean pajamas” dressed.
Not “leggings and a hoodie, let’s survive” dressed.

I put on real clothes.
I did my makeup.
I looked in the mirror and recognized myself — even if just a little.

That hasn’t happened much since all of this started.

We went to the potluck and gift exchange for support staff.

I didn’t go for the food or the gifts. I went because sometimes showing up is its own form of defiance. Because I didn’t want cancer — or disappointment — to shrink my world any more than it already has.

Casey came with me, which immediately made everything better. Chauffeur. Buffer. Emotional support human. Knowing I wasn’t walking into that room alone mattered more than I expected.

Was it awkward?
A little.

Was it survivable?
Absolutely.

I smiled. I made small talk. I didn’t explain myself. I didn’t defend anything. I didn’t “have a face” (which honestly deserves an award). I stayed exactly as long as I wanted to — and then I left.

And here’s the part I don’t want to gloss over:

I showed up as myself.
Dressed. Present. Still standing.

That counts.

After that, I had to do something that felt surprisingly heavy: I went and had my acrylic nails taken off.

And no — this wasn’t vanity, and it wasn’t optional.

According to the nurses during chemo, the TC cocktail I’m on can cause fingernails to loosen and fall off. The added weight of acrylics can make that happen sooner. Over the last few days, the tips of my fingers have started to hurt — not sore, but deep, like the nail beds themselves are bruised or smashed with a hammer. Subtle. Constant. Impossible to ignore.

So today meant a visit to my favorite, long-time nail lady — the one I’ve been seeing for nearly 20 years, back when our youngest son was still in a car seat. Sitting there felt awful in a way I didn’t expect. Like I was sending her to the unemployment line. Like we were both pretending this was temporary when we knew it wasn’t.

Of all the silly things to be losing right now, this one feels like the final straw.

Not my boobs.
Not even my hair — hair grows back.

But my nails?
They’ve been me since high school. Every two weeks like clockwork. Nail art. Bling. Sparkle. Tiny armor. A small, consistent way of saying, “I’m still here.”

Maybe this is the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion.
Maybe it’s the lack of hormones.
Maybe it’s all of it at once.

When I got home, I changed into my black satin pajamas, and mourning felt appropriate — for more reasons than one.

Because my hair is really starting to come out now. In the shower today, it covered my hands. Every time I touched my head, more came away. Styling it meant rinsing handfuls of hair from my fingers, over and over again. I’m hoping I can make it to Saturday — to the head shaving party — but with how fast it’s going, I’m not sure I get to decide that.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. Today took a toll.

So tonight, I’m letting myself rest.
I’m hoping for sleep.
And I’m crossing my fingers this isn’t the start of another 40-hour awake cycle — because I’m due for one soon, and honestly, I could use a break.

No big lesson today.
Just the truth.

I got dressed.
I showed up.
I came home with my dignity intact.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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In Sickness and In Health (Turns Out It Wasn’t Theoretical)

🌼 Date: Sunday, December 21, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low but sentimental

💔 Status: Alive (and still married)

🌞 Outlook: Grateful with a side of awe

Today is a big one.

Casey and I have been married for 34 years.
Thirty. Four.

We met in high school — I graduated in 1989, he graduated in 1990 — and somehow, instead of growing apart, we just… kept choosing each other. That means we’ve spent well over half our lives side by side. Honestly, it’s closer to two-thirds, which feels both wild and grounding at the same time.

People love a good love story, but they don’t always love to talk about what it actually takes to keep one.

Ours has survived:

• growing up together
• becoming adults together
• the loss of a child (which breaks many marriages beyond repair)
• and now, cancer

And yet — here we are.

Just quiet, steady love in motion.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Fur Babies, and My Mary

🌼 Date: Saturday, December 20, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low → improving

💔 Status: Alive

🙂 Outlook: Holding steady (with a side of gratitude)

Today feels different — in a good way.

The nausea finally backed off enough that I could eat and keep food down. I actually managed about three times the calories I got yesterday, which feels like a victory worth celebrating quietly. My dehydration headache is gone too, so we’re calling that a solid win/win.

Of course, the universe likes balance.

At 2:30 this morning, after a whole five hours of sleep (luxury!), I discovered that our senior dog Momo — who is 12, blind, diabetic, and gets insulin shots twice a day — had peed on the Christmas tree skirt… and a few of the presents underneath it.

Not exactly what I had planned while still feeling pretty nauseous.

So, there I was, pulling gifts out from under the tree, washing the tree skirt, mopping the floor, and then putting everything back together. The gifts that got hit? I got the special bonus experience of unwrapping them early… only to rewrap them again. Definitely not on my bingo card for the morning.

Somewhere between the mop bucket and the wrapping paper, I realized something else — I’ve never formally introduced you to our fur babies, and they’re very much part of this whole journey.

So today held nausea relief, messy surprises, fur-covered blankets, wrapping paper round two, and a visual reminder that this whole thing — the blog, the words, the art — is becoming real.

Not perfect.
Not easy.
But real.

And for today, that’s enough.

We keep going.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Feelingless Boobs (and Other Things No One Prepares You For)

🌼 Date: Friday, December 19, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low

💔 Status: Alive – I think

😒 Outlook: Holding steady, but we keep going

Some days, the phrase “we keep going” sounds motivational.
Other days, it’s just a fact.

Today was a fact kind of day.

The numbness nobody really explains

I went down a Google rabbit hole trying to understand why everything from my collarbone to just under where my breasts should be is numb. Not “a little tingly.” Not “asleep.” Just… gone.

Turns out, during a double mastectomy, a whole lot of sensory nerves get cut. They run right through the tissue that gets removed, so there’s no way around it. The nerves that supply sensation to the breast skin, nipple, areola, chest wall, and even into the armpit area are often severed or damaged.

That includes nerves coming off the ribs (intercostal nerves), nerves in the armpit where lymph nodes live, and nerves that run along the pectoral muscle — the exact areas my physical therapist worked on this week.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized I was having one of those days in full-on leopard pajama mode. No armor. No pretending. Just soft clothes, a tired body, and the quiet decision to keep showing up anyway.

If you want the medical receipts, I’m putting all of that information over on The Science of the Shit Show because it helps me to understand why my body feels the way it does — even when I don’t like the answer.

Physical therapy:

progress I didn’t expect

Here’s the part that surprised me.

I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t done every stretch every day. And yet… my range of motion improved — in some movements, almost doubled. That felt like a small miracle.

My physical therapist worked deeply in my armpits (where lymph nodes were removed), and in that strange no-man’s-land where the armpit turns into the chest muscle. She also worked lower — right over the expanders themselves.

It wasn’t painful, but it was… weird. Pressure without sensation. Like my brain knew something was happening, but my body couldn’t fully feel it.

Feelingless boobs and other things no one prepares you for

Will I ever get feeling back?

The honest answer: maybe a little, maybe not much.

Nerves can regenerate, but slowly. Sometimes sensation returns partially. Sometimes it doesn’t. I already know that when nipple reconstruction happens, there will be no sensation there. Permanently. High beams on forever.

But realizing that large parts of my chest — and my boobs — may never feel anything again? That’s a lot to wrap my head around.

What does it mean to live in a body where parts of you are permanently offline?

I don’t have a poetic answer yet. I’m still processing that one.

When “different” suddenly feels like “wrong”

Fast forward to the shower.

I noticed my right side now feels flat and hard at the top of the expander — just like the left. The left side had the larger tumor, so I was told it would look more recessed until final implants go in. Fine. I had adjusted to that.

But now the right side looks and feels different too.

Cue the spiral:

• Did physical therapy push fluid out?
• Did a seroma finally absorb?
• Did something rupture?
• Or is this just… another normal-but-unsettling phase?

Right now, I don’t know. I just know something changed, and when your body has already betrayed you once, change doesn’t feel neutral.

And then there’s the nausea

If I had to rank chemo symptoms, nausea wins. Every time.

Hair loss? Hair grows back.
Fingernails falling off? (Yes, that’s a thing with my chemo.) They grow back too.

But nausea? Nausea is relentless.

Yesterday afternoon, it won. I can’t keep anything down — even ginger ale wants no part of this. I have multiple nausea meds, and sometimes even mixing and matching them doesn’t touch it.

This is one of those symptoms you don’t power through. You don’t fix it. You just… ride it out.

And that helpless feeling? That’s not my favorite place to live.

Before cancer (BC), I’d just sleep when I felt sick. Now my sleep is so broken I can’t even escape that way.

It’s a solid –15/10, would not recommend.

So… we keep going

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized I was having one of those days in full-on leopard pajama mode. No armor. No pretending. Just soft clothes, a tired body, and the quiet decision to keep showing up anyway.

No big lesson today.
No silver lining neatly wrapped with a bow.

Just this:

My body is healing and hurting at the same time.
Progress and loss are happening side by side.
Things are changing — sometimes for the better, sometimes just… different.

And even when I don’t love it, even when it’s uncomfortable, scary, or exhausting —

we keep going.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Uterine Uprising

🌼 Date: Thursday, December 18, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low

💔 Status: Alive, betrayed by my uterus

🌞Outlook: Sarcastically optimistic

I was told chemo would shove me straight into menopause.
Apparently, my body did not get that memo.

Instead, it chose “’Tis the season of giving” and went full Harry & David gift basket on me.

Not a polite period.
Not a familiar one.
A full-blown, go-big-or-go-home, Day-family-motto-approved uterine uprising.

Today’s symptoms include:

• Nausea (explained retroactively)
• A headache that could qualify as a side hustle
• Cramps so intense I am genuinely questioning whether my uterus is trying to evict something

I am not having cramps.
I am having contractions.

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Sleep: The Remix No One Asked For

Let’s talk about sleep, or whatever this current situation is pretending to be.

Between the steroids and the Granix shots, I’ve officially named this phase “The 40-Hour Uppers.”

My new pattern:

• Stay awake for 40 hours straight
• Crash for 10 hours
• Followed by 2–5 hours a night for a couple days
• Rinse. Repeat.
• I’ve completed three full all-nighter cycles so far

This might’ve been cute in my 20s.
In my 50s? Hard pass.

And yet… I’m productive.
Dangerously productive.

Which is how One Badass Day at a Time was born.
Apparently, insomnia + steroids + cancer = website launch energy.

Somewhere in all of this chaos, my soul is being held together by my Christmas playlist — a 29-hour, 8-minute labor of love that Casey lovingly roasts me for every year. Music has always been how I survive — from sitting in the car until a song finishes, to playlists for every mood and moment — because it feeds my soul the way hormones once fed my body… only this time, it’s actually saving me.

Gratitude

(Because We’re Still Doing That)

Even though I feel like my guts are wearing themselves on the outside today:

So yes, my body is currently unhinged —
but my living room is immaculate.

I’ll take the win.
Status: Still Alive. Still standing. Still not accepting unsolicited uterine opinions.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Chemo nausea? She’s rude. She’s unpredictable. She does not RSVP.

🌼 Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low but functional

🤢 Status: Nauseous, mouth angry, still standing

✨ Outlook: One pretzel at a time

Nausea update:
This is not morning sickness.

Morning sickness at least has the decency to show up on a schedule.
Chemo nausea?
She’s rude. She’s unpredictable. She does not RSVP.

It hits at random, with zero warning, and foods I’ve loved my entire life are suddenly dead to me.

Case in point:
Last night I tried a lime popsicle.
Hydration, right?
Wrong.

One taste and my body said, “Oh hell nah.”
Which is tragic, because lime + Tajín is normally my love language.

What is working:

Gluten-free Pretzel Crisps.
Plain. Dry. Salty. Boring.
And right now? Absolute heroes.

Why pretzels help (aka science backing my snack choices):

• Bland & dry = less smell, less trigger
• Easy to digest simple carbs
• Salt helps replace electrolytes
• Something in your stomach is better than nothing

They don’t fix nausea — but they keep it from turning into a full-blown rebellion.

(And yes, I googled it. Receipts matter.)

When the pretzels aren’t cutting it, I’ve also been leaning hard on something I call Chemo Moonshine — a warm, spiced apple cider drink I found during one of my late-night nausea spirals. It’s gentle, soothing, and somehow convinces my stomach to stand down.

If nausea is coming for you too, I shared the recipe here ↓

👉 Chemo Moonshine Recipe:
The nausea drink that’s saving my sanity lives here → [Tina-Tested Survival Guide]

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Hair update + Important Announcement

With my chemo cocktail (DT — details live on the Receipts page), hair loss typically starts days 17–19 after the first infusion.

My first infusion was 12/09, which puts me right in the 12/26–12/28 window.

I’m already seeing:

• Breakage
• Shedding
• Texture changes

It now feels like what we affectionately call “baby monkey hair.”
Innocent. Soft. Betraying me quietly.

So, I am taking control.

🪒 Head Shaving Party
🌟 Saturday, December 27
⏰ 1:00 PM
📍 My house

If you’re coming, you already have my number — text me for the address.
(Creeper-free zone, always.)

It’s just hair.
It will grow back.
Eventually.

Until then, I’ll be rocking the chrome dome through at least mid-May…
Just in time to get the convertible out of storage. 😎
(Yes, I will absolutely be driving it topless.)

Cancer may keep throwing monkey wrenches —
but I’m still steering.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Some Days Are Brave. Some Days Are Blankets.

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 16, 2025

⚡Energy: Low battery, charger located (recliner + snacks)

❤️‍🩹 Status: Alive

🌤️ Outlook: Tender, grateful, mildly unamused by my own body

Fit Check:
Pink polka dot pajamas — because today called for comfort, not couture.
Chemo says “be gentle,” so I listened.
Also, if I’m going to feel like hot garbage, I might as well look adorable doing it.

Body Update (a.k.a. Things No One Warns You Feel This Fast):
The mouth sores have officially arrived.
It feels like swishing with a handful of broken glass — 0/10, do not recommend.
My bottom lip is also numb. Not tingling. Just… missing.
A very strange sensation, like my mouth and I are no longer on speaking terms.

I already take folic acid (thanks to a previous medication that caused similar mouth nonsense), and even though that med is paused during chemo, the folic acid stays — small mercies.
I’m also rinsing after every meal with warm water, sea salt, and baking soda to restore the pH balance in my mouth… because apparently my mouth is now a toxic environment. Cool.

On top of that:
Constant dry mouth.
No amount of water helps.
Despite owning approximately 14 different types of lip chap (my kids named the collection), my lips remain Sahara Desert dry.

Eating? Not super appealing when your mouth feels like it’s under attack.
I’m down 4 pounds in 4 days.
DO NOT recommend the chemo diet.
Also, intermittent toxic glitter shooting out of my ass like a flamethrower probably isn’t helping the weight situation. Just saying.

Gratitude Check (because balance):
✨ I’m DONE giving myself Granix shots for this round — huge win.
✨ I had the energy to shower.
✨ I put on my cute armor (pink polka dot jammies).
✨ And I even wrapped a few Christmas gifts.

Some days are brave.
Some days are blankets.
Today was pajamas, mouth pain, and survival — and that’s more than enough.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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I Cried at the Rain

🌼 Date: Monday, December 15, 2025

⚡Energy: Low → depleted, but still breathing

❤️‍🩹 Status: Alive

😒 Outlook: Emotionally unpredictable. Physically annoyed. Still showing up.

Today I Cried Because It Was Raining

I was laying back in my recliner, mid-chemo spiral, trying to decide whether everything I’d managed to eat was going to stay put…
or if I was about to spew fire and toxic glitter from my ass for the umpteenth time today.

And then I looked outside.

It was raining.

That’s it.
That’s the whole reason.

I cried because it was raining.

Not because it was beautiful.
Not because it was sad.
Not because it reminded me of anything profound.

Just… rain.

No hormones.
No dramatic backstory.
No deeper meaning.

Apparently, this is where we’re at.

Chemo brain is wild. Emotions show up uninvited, kick their shoes off, and make themselves at home. One minute you’re fine, the next minute you’re sobbing over weather.

I laughed after. Because what else can you do?

If this is part of the journey, then fine.
I’ll cry at the rain.
I’ll cry at commercials.
I’ll cry at absolutely nothing.

Also completed Day 5 of my Granix shots — immune system under renovation, please excuse the mess.

Still here.
Still standing.
Still alive.

One badass day at a time. 🌧️💗

📝Side note: I wrote more about the Granix shots and other support meds over on The Receipts for anyone who wants the nitty-gritty.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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When Life Hands You a Shit Sandwich

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Reporting Live from Chemo Station 19

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 09, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired, overwhelmed, and weirdly alert

💔 Status: Alive and officially infused

🌞 Outlook: Buckled in — let’s do this

Chemo Day: The Great Storm

This morning, we left the house with plenty of time for the 45-minute drive.

But Mother Nature said:
“Let’s make this fun.”

Flooding.
Storms.
Traffic stopped dead.
Power outages.
Every road looked like a scene from a dystopian drama.

GPS ETA: 8:12 am
Appointment time: 8:00 am
Me: Hyperventilating
Because I do not do late.
Bus drivers are NOT late.
Okay… fine…
Not usually double digits late.

I called the chemo clinic the second their phones turned on at 8:00.
A miracle happened:
A human answered.

I explained everything — the wound, the storm, the anxiety, all of it.
She said:
“Don’t worry. Be safe. Get here when you can.”

I hung up and burst into tears.
No hormones, remember?
Plus, three weeks of fear, pain, stress, and “what if my whole timeline gets screwed” finally broke me.

When I sink, he doesn’t just throw me a rope — he jumps in.

And Then… the Nurses Made Me Cry AGAIN

When I finally got to the infusion room, something unexpected happened.

Three of the nurses recognized me.
From Bryan’s treatments.
They cared for him during his three battles.

They told me they rarely, if ever, get updates on patients after treatment ends.
It meant the world to them to finally know.

He mattered. He still matters.

The Pregnancy Test Fiasco

Then the doctor ordered a pregnancy test.
LOL.
Girl.
No.
This oven has been turned off for FIFTEEN YEARS.

My IV basically said,
“I accept incoming fluids only, thank you.”
It refused to give up any blood.
Not one drop.

One of the nurses literally said,
“Come on, Bryan, that’s not funny. Help your mama out.”
We laughed through tears.

The doctor finally said if I accepted responsibility, she’d waive the test.
I was like,
“Doc, the only way I’m pregnant is if the Virgin Mary herself blessed me personally — I had Essure put in 15 YEARS ago.”

And with that…
CHEMO ROUND 1 WAS ON.

Chemo-day glow and all.

💗 Introducing: Sir Drips-A-Lot

(My new, tall, shiny, clingy chemo boyfriend)

At some point during chemo, after my fifth close encounter with death-by-IV-pole, I had a realization:

If this thing is going to follow me around, bump into my ankles, and get tangled with every other patient like we’re doing the world’s slowest tango…
he deserves a name.

We will spend HOURS together.
He holds all my fluids like a champ.
He doesn’t judge when I ugly cry.
He doesn’t flinch when I swear like I’m trying to win a rap battle.
And he NEVER tells me to calm down.

Honestly?
He might be the most dependable male I’ve ever met who isn’t my husband.

And because Casey and I raised four kids who basically came out of the womb knowing how to rap, the name practically chose itself.

Behold… Sir Drips-A-Lot.

Chemo Day 1: Meet My New Dance Partner

Chemo comes with a lot of unexpected side quests…
but no one warned me about the pole dancing.

Walking that IV pole around the infusion room is like trying to waltz with a drunk octopus. There are cords, wheels, bags, pumps, and more random sticky-outy bits than a toddler’s science project. And the number of obstacles between my chair and the “patient restroom”? Criminal.

Every time someone else was out for a walk with their pole, we’d both do that awkward
“Sorry—no you go—wait—shit—okay!” shuffle.

Like… is there a “Right of Way” manual for this thing? They hook you up and send you off into the battlefield with NO training, NO instructions, NO laminated cheat sheet.
(Maybe I should teach a class. My schedule is pretty open…
you know, except for the TEN freaking appointments I average each month.)

You’re pumping people full of fluids for four hours straight.
You know we’re going to have to trot on over to the “patient only restroom.”

Would it kill someone to add:

• a cord hook (hello, even $40 vacuums have that),
• a phone shelf,
• a cup holder,
• and maybe a damn rhinestone option?

Because if I’m dragging this pole around like a reluctant toddler on wheels, the LEAST they could do is make it pink and sparkly.

The Bathroom Debacle (AKA: The Day a Stranger Saw My Whole Ass)

My very first trip to the “patient only restroom” gifted me a valuable life lesson:

👉 You have to double-click the lock.

Why? Because I learned the school of hard knocks way — mid-pee, pants around my ankles, — when a RANDOM DUDE opened the door.

At this point in my life, modesty has packed her bags and left the country.

I’ve given birth.
I’ve had a lifetime of “scoot down a little more… a little more… a little more” PAP smears.
I’ve been squished, smashed, scanned, and unfolded like origami.
I attend weekly appointments where my front-opening gown is basically optional.

And now?
I’m built like a 12-year-old boy with medical tattoos — so WHY the gown?
Do preteen boys have to wear those?
Asking for a friend.

The Dress Code for Chemo Day #1

If I must sit in a chair for hours, I will do it in STYLE.

So, naturally, I showed up in:

• My “I AM THE STORM” shirt
• My pink leopard Princess Blanket of Emotional Support™ – Thank you Teri!
• And the grand finale…
  DEAR CANCER, YOU PICKED THE WRONG BITCH socks. Thank you, Jenn and Sarah!

I feel they set the tone, don’t you?

Now for the other fun facts they don’t tell you…

For the first 3 days after chemo, I’m supposed to use my own restroom — and flush twice each time to avoid leaving behind any toxic radioactive glitter.

If Casey has to clean up anything that escapes from either end (sorry, but if you’re here you signed up for raw and real), he must:

• glove up
• double-bag anything used
• and wash his hands like he just handled uranium

The man didn’t sign up to become a Toxic Body Fluid First Responder, but here he is, earning medals daily.

If I get chemo funk on my clothes (Jesus take the wheel NOT the pink satin leopard PJs), they must be washed solo, then washed again with my regular laundry.

Our water bill is going to send the city council into retirement.

Meanwhile, the IV pole is still my clingy new boyfriend.

He goes everywhere with me.
He holds all my fluids.
He beeps when he wants attention.
And he will absolutely yank my arm out of socket if I walk too fast.

But you know what?

He can stare all he wants, because between my socks, my shirt, my fluffy blanket, and my attitude…

I still look like the better half of this relationship.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Bring It, Cancer. (Chemo Round 1, Pending Approval)

🌼 Date: Monday, December 8, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low and anxious

💔 Status: Alive, negotiating with my body

🌞 Outlook: Determined, but braced

Round 1: Bring It, Cancer

The Bad News: My Last 3 Weeks of Plastics

(And yes, we call it Plastics now — because Mean Girls walked so my boobs could run. And of course, on Wednesdays, we wear pink.)

So, here’s the deal:
My right-side incision has decided it does NOT want to behave.
The left side — the one with the bigger tumor — is healing like a damn honor student.
The right side — tiny tumor, barely a blip — is being a full-blown problem child.

Even my entire medical team is like, “Ummm… what?” So, here’s the deal:

Origami Boobs: The Saga

My plastic surgeon used the Bostwick technique, which basically takes my excess skin, deepithelializes it (Google it!), and folds it into a supportive sling — like a delicate little breast burrito — to hold the expander in place.

Why?
Because if you’ve ever laid on your back and felt your boobs migrate into your armpits, you’ll understand EXACTLY why we don’t want expanders or implants doing the same thing.

So now, thanks to all the intricate folding, we call them Origami Boobs.
It makes the whole thing feel a little more high art and a little less medical horror movie.

The Whole “Wound That Won’t Heal” Situation

Real, Raw, Unfiltered — Just Like I Promised

This is what a post-mastectomy anchor incision actually looks like.
No filters. No pretending it’s “not that bad.”
This is my right-side T-junction a few weeks ago, back when it was behaving. I’m sparing you the nasty, open wound, gaping hole picture of now because even I can’t really look at it. In this photo, the hole on the bottom was actually a little bigger than the 1 – 1/2 cm that it is now — the one holding up the show right now and keeping my skin from healing the way it should.
If you’re here because you’re facing this surgery too, I want you to know exactly what it looks like, so you never feel blindsided like I did.

Right now, at the T-junction of my scar, the top layer of skin has basically said,
“Nope. Not today. Not healing. Try again later.”

Which means:
No fills. For three straight weeks.
I’m still sitting at 150cc — the official size of a Capri Sun pouch — and it’s not moving anytime soon.

Why?
Because any added pressure on that wound risks splitting the delicate origami flap underneath… which would mean another surgery.
And since chemo wrecks your immune system faster than a toddler with a Sharpie, healing will already be slow.

So, no fills until this diva wound decides to get its act together.

The Photo Shoot Nobody Wants

At yesterday’s plastics appointment, the nurse had to take a photo of my boob with a ruler next to it — literally measuring the hole — and send it to my oncologist with a “Heyyyyy, sooo… is chemo still happening tomorrow?” note.

Crunch time.

Chemo was supposed to be this morning.
Plastics was last night at 4:30pm.
We had planned all the appointments for the next 3 months carefully around my expected blood count cycles.
My whole damn treatment timeline depended on that wound getting a green light.

And here I was with a gaping T-junction hole and zero fills allowed.

Cue the Anxiety Parade

Normally, I take an anxiety pill before Plastics, mostly because looking at my own disfigured body is still incredibly hard.
(At my first appointment I sobbed like a newborn the minute the nurse removed all the bandaging — big ugly cry.)

I refused to look at myself for almost three weeks.

And Then… the Oncologist Called

We were driving home in that heavy emotional fog when my phone rang through the car speakers.
It was my oncologist — the angel of decision-making, the queen of “are we still doing chemo or not?”

She’d reviewed the photo.
The wound looked like a bit over 1 cm.
Her worry? Infection.

My worry? EVERYTHING.

So, we negotiated.
Terrorist vs. hostage-level negotiations.

I agreed to:
✔ seal the magic bandage (silver, foamy, bougie, very fancy) on all four sides
✔ keep a photo log (sorry Casey, that’s now your new part-time job)
✔ call at the first sign of redness, swelling, or fever
✔ not cheat, push, or overdo it

And in return…
CHEMO WAS STILL ON.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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