Inside the Mind of an Educator

 Why I Didn't Ring the Bell Walking into the radiation oncologist's office today marked the end of my daily radiation treatments. I was met with big smiles and congratulations from every staff member I passed in the building. As I lay down on the table for the 30th time, I felt the emotions bubble up, as a few tears escaped down my cheek. These past six weeks, I have dealt with fear, deflation of tissue expanders, nerve pain, burns, and blisters on the inside and outside of my skin, and the loss of a good friend, which halted treatment for a few days so I could attend his funeral. My care team has been supportive every step of the way. I could not have asked for more compassion and attentiveness. I cannot thank them enough for the way they love people so well in such a challenging area of medicine. Last day of radiation...glowing and hair is growing The team asked if I was going to ring the bell to signify this monumental and emotional victory in cancer treatment. The ringing o...

How do you say goodbye  to a spirit bigger than most,  and loved by all? By remembering what he did and who he was.  He wrestled.  He was a man who pinned opponents to the mat with power, strength, and fire,  yet always ended with a handshake, eyes steady, dignity intact. He rode.  A man who rode bulls for a living, chasing dust and danger,  his raw talent and fierce determination recognized long before the buckles came. He lived. He was a man who lived with integrity,  stood up for others with the heart of a hero and felt  the power of the Holy Spirit when he gave his life to Jesus.  He loved.  He was a man who loved his son and his family with a passion second only to the love of our Savior.  He was a friend who simply showed up every time he said he would and even when you didn’t ask him to. A man who gave his whole heart, his time, and his hugs to those lucky enough to love him. So how do we say goodbye? We wrestle.  W...

I began radiation after four trips to the radiation oncologist's office and two visits with the reconstructive surgeon. I had to completely drain the left (healthy) tissue expander, so it will have to go through the expansion process again. After the expander was drained, the radiation oncologist tried mapping my chest with the machines. Then he came over and asked, "Do these have metal in them?” "Yes. That's how they use a magnet to find the port to fill them, or at least that's what I was told,” I replied. “I cannot do radiation with metal nearby because the beams can hit the metal, scatter, and we cannot control where it goes,” the doctor said softly. I took a deep breath, trying to process. “So I need to remove both expanders in order for you to do radiation?” “Yes. I’m so sorry. Did they (the original team from out of state) not tell you this could be a concern?” “No. That team works closely with the reconstructive surgeon, and this is their standard procedur...

"I WANT MY LIFE BACK!" I have cried out these words many times from the depths of my being throughout this disease. Each setback pushes the finish line farther away—the day when doctors' visits, poking needles, toxic drugs, and painful surgeries are finally behind me. Cancer doesn't just destroy cells and organs; it invades every part of your life and spills into the lives of those who love you most. This week, that truth tore out of me in sheer exhaustion. We went in for my first radiation appointment. It was supposed to include the creation of a mold to hold my body still, three tattoos (which we'll call "party dots"), and a scan to map out my radiation dosage and treatment plan. But instead of moving forward, we hit another snag—another delay in the care plan. The tissue expander (aka torture device) on the left side was blocking one of the beam angles needed to target the right-side cancer cells. Because of this, the radiation oncologist explained th...