An Honest Check-In with Myself

It’s been 10 days since chemo infusion #15 out of 16. Physically, I’m... okay? More frequent nausea, insomnia every night, and fatigue that demands I run on a block schedule—two hours of doing, two hours of nothing. And by “doing,” I mean anything that requires energy: meetings, knowledge work, activities with the kids. “Nothing” is me flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, negotiating with my body for just a little more gas in the tank.

Mentally and emotionally? That’s a different story. The decline over the past 10 days has been brutal. Maybe it’s the cumulative toll of five months of toxic sludge in my veins. Maybe it’s the fact that I placed fourth in the 38th annual Schnee Days chili competition at Elkhart Lake. (Yes, I entered a chili cook-off mid-chemo. No, I do not accept my ranking. There will be a rematch.) But honestly, it’s more than that.

People love to say, “battle breast cancer” and “thrive, don’t just survive.” And yeah, there’s the medical fight, but the real battle? It’s the one happening in my head.

At the beginning of this, I thought if I just showed up, that would be enough—for my family, my job, myself. Turns out, showing up at 50% is not the same as being here. And I’m starting to feel that in ways I never saw coming.

Mental Health: The Dimming of the Lights

Let’s talk about my brain. Or what’s left of it.

Earlier in treatment, chemo brain was almost funny—like a party trick where I’d forget what I was saying mid-sentence or misspell words on Slack messages. But now? It’s terrifying. My cognitive abilities are flickering like a dying lightbulb. I get lost in the flow of conversations. A 30-minute task takes two hours. I stare at my screen, paralyzed, unsure where to start. I second-guess every instinct, question every decision, and in the worst moments, I fear chemo has rewired me into someone I don’t recognize.

I knew chemo could do this. But knowing and experiencing are two very different things. I built a career on being creative, engaged, innovative, strategic, sharp, always two steps ahead. Now? I zone out mid-meeting. I don’t trust myself to react appropriately in conversations. I’ve had some awkward moments that make me want to crawl under my desk. Confidence? Shot.

And I can’t help but wonder: Will my mind ever come back? Or is this just... me now?

I’ve been desperately searching for someone like me—another woman in a corporate role, balancing senior leadership with chemo fog, trying to keep her career and sanity intact. Do they even exist? I’ve found maybe one or two, but they’re not exactly handing out survival guides. I might actually send a cold LinkedIn InMail like: Hey, saw you battled breast cancer while leading a company. Did you also feel like your brain was melting? Please advise.

Emotional Health: The Floodgates Open

And then there’s the emotional side. I’ve spent five months powering through, repeating “just get to the end” like a mantra. But now that the end of chemo is right there—just one more infusion—I feel like I’ve hit a wall.

Everyday of this experience, I have “What the f*ck?” moments—twenty a day, at least. They're mostly laced with dark humor and disbelief at this situation. But lately, those moments have turned into something else entirely. “Why me?” moments. The kind that hit like a freight train, fast and hot, leaving me ugly-crying at my first grader’s Valentine’s Day concert.

I never let myself get swallowed by self-pity because I was laser-focused on the goal: cure. Just get to the end, survive, move on. But now, with the finish line in sight, I’m starting to realize something I hadn’t let myself consider before—even if I win this fight, I won't get my old life back.

Because after chemo comes surgery—a double mastectomy, my best shot at making sure this cancer never comes back. And no matter how well the reconstruction goes, no matter how good the results look, the reality is this: My body will never feel the same again.

I will be an amputee.

That reality is hitting hard. The grief has started, and it’s not just about the body I’m about to lose—it’s about everything this disease has stolen. My energy, my sharpness, my confidence. My ability to trust my own body. The simple act of moving through life without constantly thinking about cancer. It’s chipped away at things I never thought I’d lose, things I didn’t even realize were mine to lose. And while I know I’ll rebuild, that doesn’t make the grieving any easier.

The Mastectomy: A Decision That's Made

The best shot at keeping this cancer from coming back is a double mastectomy and I’m close to a final plan. That part, I don’t question. What I do question is what comes after, you know, for the rest of my life.

The plan is (almost) set: a double mastectomy, nipple-sparing and skin-sparing, followed by immediate reconstruction with textured round silicone implants and nerve grafting (because science is wild). The only decision left is whether to place the implants over or under the muscle—basically, do I want to be able to do push-ups for the next 45 years, or do I want boobs that stay put?

I’ve spent weeks preparing—consulting plastic surgeons, grilling my breast surgeon about scarring, working with physical therapists, researching post-op hacks and recovery timelines from other cancer patient stories. And here’s the thing not talked about enough: breast reconstruction isn’t really about restoring what was lost. It’s mostly about aesthetics, with sensation as a gamble—about as reliable as Punxsutawney Phil. The focus is on what looks good in clothes, not what feels good in your body. Restoring my body image and self-esteem through reconstruction feels essential; it’s one way to ease the psychological distress of losing a part of myself. But, it's only part of the equation.

Because here’s the truth: No matter how skilled the surgeon, I will be left to manage the disability. I will have some level of numbness forever. Full, partial, unpredictable. Chronic pain is a real probability. And if I’m being completely honest, this part is affecting me the most—what this means for my sex life.

I expected scars. I didn’t expect to lose sensation. And that realization has been a gut punch.

Letting Go of “Normal”

I was naive to think I could time-box cancer treatment—fight like hell, ring the bell, and step back into my old life like nothing happened. But normal isn’t waiting for me on the other side.

Instead, I’m grieving the person I was before cancer and bracing for whoever I become after.

And right now? I’m just in it—this messy, frustrating, heartbreaking transition. I’m learning to let the feelings come and go without letting them own me. Some days, I handle it with grace. Other days, I just sit in the wreckage, waiting for acceptance to catch up.

Which has led me to the next phase of this journey: the wellness era.

When everything else feels out of my control—my body, my mind, my future—I need something I can actively do to feel better, even if it’s just tricking my nervous system into thinking I’m calm.

I am now a person who does yoga, dabbles in Reiki, and listens to sound baths while sniffing essential oils like they hold the meaning of life. I press acupressure points to outsmart insomnia and meditate to quiet the chaos in my mind. And let’s be clear—this is not a full personality shift. I’m not about to start drinking celery juice and chanting affirmations.

But I will say this: I vastly underestimated the brutality of “gentle” yoga. I thought I was signing up for deep breathing and light stretching—maybe a little mindfulness, some good vibes. Instead, I found myself trembling in a bridge pose, sweating like I was in beast mode, while the instructor whispered, “Find stillness within.” Lady, my body has the muscle tone of a cooked noodle and is begging for mercy.

In a situation that has stripped away so much control, mind-body therapy is giving me something to hold onto.

And for now, that’s enough.

As much as I hate the wreckage, I'm not pushing through this hell just to exist—I'm doing it to buy more time. More birthdays, more kitchen dance parties, my first wedding anniversary. More years of being their mom, his wife, their daughter, his sister, her granddaughter, their niece, their cousin, and their friend.

And for that, I’ll keep taking the hits.