🎶The only way up is always through 🎶

Justin and I at the top of the Pinnacle Trail

I know it’s been a while and I need to update you all, but I’ve had neither the time nor the inspiration. I love writing and sharing my stories with you, but for some reason right now it’s just giving me anxiety?

Let me start by saying I’m doing great! I’m feeling amazing for someone who is 12 rounds into chemo, and I continue to have amazing results! June 19 is my last infusion — so long as all continues to go well — and then I get a few weeks to recover before surgery.

I’m giddy with excitement over the fact that I have just four rounds left! The past two rounds have been harder on my body and my ANC (white blood cell) levels have tanked. I was technically too low to move forward with chemo, but my oncologist opted to proceed anyway to keep me on track and ordered an injection which boosted my levels (thanks, modern medicine!).

But yet, I’m feeling awesome? Perhaps I’ve gotten used to the fatigue? It feels much more manageable than I thought it would. Understanding the impacts of chemo are cumulative I had assumed I’d be living on the couch by now but in fact I’m maintaining activity levels and even becoming more active? Do I wish I were able to sleep later every single morning? Yes. But am I walking, working full days, and participating in family activities? Also yes!

The roller coaster of both energy levels and emotions has evened out. The light at the end of the chemo tunnel shines brighter every day, helping to keep things steady, keep my mind and perspective positive.

I missed Alex’s preschool graduation last week, a milestone that would have normally seen me a sobbing mess. But instead, I had my chin up in the infusion bay telling the nurses how proud I am of him and how lucky I am to have my parents in town to support him, take pictures, and make his day special. Thanks to them, Alex had a special day and I wasn’t alone for chemo because Justin was able to be there with me. Two separate but very important things.

These feelings may seem a bit strange for a strong, independent momma like myself. I’m normally perfectly content to have some alone time — something moms rarely, if ever, get — but cancer can get very overwhelming. Sitting by yourself in a hospital-chic lounger, loopy (and I mean LOOPY) on Benadryl, and staring up at a bag of toxic chemicals as it slowly drips into your blood stream can invite in those demons of doubt and loneliness. Demons easily overcome by proximity to love. The simple act of being together.

I am quite needy in general, emotionally any way. I’ve been dependent on Justin to what I’m sure is an exhausting extent. I give most of my energy and effort to the kids, work, and going out. When we’re home even thinking about what to eat — what I can stomach and what the kids won’t fight us on — is often too much. He leads on decisions on most things these days, to save me from mental fatigue, and shows up to every doctor’s appointment and infusion session, picks up all of my medications and remedies, and does all of the heavy lifting around the house when I need to sleep.

We’ve really tested out the “in sickness and in health,” and “in good times and bad” parts of the traditional vows. Never once has he backed down from this fight. Not to say that he's always been perfect or unafraid. He is, after all human, and has faltered from time to time, as any of us have — especially when faced with such adversity.

Because of who he is he dives in and takes action, time and again. Starting immediately at my diagnosis, he jumped in, researching everything he could about breast cancer. Information on the types I have, what they mean for me, for us, for our life, recurrence rates, food to eat and avoid, how to successfully get through treatment, and so much more. He curated lists of podcasts and articles for me, compiled and organized lists on Amazon so friends and family could help by buying things I would need, and planned a special outing for the two of us. An outing I think about often.

Days after my diagnosis — in that dark period where so much was unknown and all there was to do was wait and wonder — I was tired, depressed, and overwhelmed, wanting only to lie in bed and feel sorry for myself and mourn the life I might not get to have. Justin encouraged me to take a drive with him.

We parked the car at the foot of the Pinnacle Trail on Crowders Mountain and set out on what the sign promised would be a “strenuous” four-mile roundtrip trek.

“I can’t do this,” I grumbled, fighting back tears.

“Yes, you can.”

As we walked we made small talk, easing into a rhythm, crunching over dried leaves and twigs as we commented on the weather, the views. As the parking lot disappeared behind us and the grade increased, we talked about our lives, our children. All that we have. So many blessings, so much to be grateful for. All that we’ve overcome. Despite the times we’ve seen, we’ve persevered. Our spirits — both individual and interwoven as a couple — have stayed strong. When faced with hard times we’ve always understood we would get through them. Because what choice was there? Nothing is so hard that we can’t do it, together.

As the trail made a sharp left and the incline pitched, I became quiet and Justin’s voice, soft and deep at my shoulder, reminded me of who I am. A fighter. A momma bear. Someone who stands at the base of a tall, steep mountain and says, “bring it,” taking it on with everything I have, leaving nothing on the table.

Just like this trail — long, sharp, difficult to ascend and completely unknown to me — I’ll take it on with everything I have until I’ve reached the end, having given it my all. And, just like on this trail, Justin would — and always will — be by my side, offering guidance, support, and motivation in the moments I need it most.

At the top we sat together at an overlook and peered out at the land below. To be honest, the views were pretty lackluster. But those lackluster views served to further the metaphor.

This grueling ordeal may have a pinnacle, a point at which we can stop and look around and feel a sense of accomplishment. That point halfway through the journey, not yet back to a new normal, may not seem like much when you’re looking miles out. It’s not a breathtaking view from a Rocky Mountain or off a Hawaiian volcano, it might instead be a sea of brown trees patiently waiting for spring to awaken it from winter dullness.

Those trees aren’t what matter. What matters is right next to you. There with you through the entire journey, over uneven footing, around blind corners, and across broken paths.

Before we descended we shared some time together. Justin had more planned, but I’m going to keep those details for us. I want to brag on how amazing and thoughtful he is, but some things you’ll just have to take my word for. Those memories — core memories, if you will — from our time atop that mountain that January day replay in my mind over and over. So thoughtful. So needed. So pivotal.

A mix of yellow and blue (IYKYK).

And so I didn’t shed a single tear to have missed Alex’s preschool graduation. Because even though I missed this one big event, I will be there at every event — big and small — that is to come.