Tuesday July 15, 2025

What That Survivorship Visit Really Left Me With

Yesterday I thought I was going in for a quick, ordinary monthly follow-up at my oncologist’s office. Just some blood work, a few questions about how I’ve been feeling, maybe a reminder to keep taking my meds. I didn’t expect to sit down with the survivorship nurse and unpack every painful detail of my cancer story all over again.

We went through it all- my diagnosis, the months of chemo that left me so exhausted I sometimes wondered if I could keep going, the surgeries that changed how I see myself in the mirror, the radiation burns that still make certain spots on my skin feel fragile. I thought maybe we’d be talking about how to move forward, how to live.

But most of the conversation was about how it could all come back.

Then there was the conflicting advice. The survivorship nurse was very clear: vaginal estrogen isn’t safe for me. Meanwhile, my oncologist had hinted before that maybe, if it gets bad enough, we could consider it down the line. Or, how I was supposed to do the Zometa infusions once a month for two years, per my medical oncologist, and now it's every 6 months for 3 years, per the survivorship nurse. Aren't they supposed to work TOGETHER? It’s hard to know who to trust, and it leaves me feeling like I have to make impossible choices between living more comfortably now or possibly risking more down the road. Meanwhile, I’m still dealing with the possibility of frequent UTI's and irritation that make each day a little harder than it needs to be.

She handed me a sheet of "survivorship tips" and a list of cancer websites that felt more generic than helpful. Nothing on that paper captured what it actually feels like to live with this fear that lurks in the background of every day, or the endless weighing of risks versus simply wanting to feel okay.

There was another part of that survivorship visit that cut deeper than I expected. Near the end, the nurse asked, almost offhandedly, if I needed a prescription for a special bra or a prosthesis. I know she meant well—it’s probably standard, something she asks dozens of patients a week. But for me, it felt like being cracked open.

It forced me to think about my chest again. About how it doesn’t look like mine anymore. How it’s scarred and uneven and feels like a permanent badge of what cancer took. I hate the word "disfigurement," but some days, that’s exactly how it feels. And sitting there, being offered a prescription to somehow disguise it, made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

I felt gutted, blinking back tears, feeling all at once exposed and ashamed, like I should be further along by now—more accepting, more grateful, less fragile. But the truth is I’m still grieving. I miss the body I had. I miss feeling comfortable in my own skin. I miss looking in the mirror without flinching.

Even now, a year after the worst of treatment is over, moments like that prove how some wounds keep finding new ways to ache. They remind me that surviving doesn’t mean "healed". And that sometimes, just getting through another day with all these bruised parts of myself is still the bravest thing I do.

I left that appointment with more worry than I had walking in. But on the way home, I started thinking about the small things that still keep me steady. Like the way my husband looks at me—not with pity or hesitation, but with a quiet, steady love that somehow tells me we’re still in this together, no matter what. Or the way he reaches over just to squeeze my hand, like he can anchor me with that simple touch.

And our two Labbie girls, Alexis and Skylar, who seem to know exactly when I need them to curl up against me, warm and trusting, reminding me that right now, in this moment, I am safe and loved. Their soft sighs as they drift off to sleep pressed against my side while I stroke their soft ears and caress their necks bring a kind of peace that nothing else can.

Those moments don’t erase the fear or the uncertainty, but they give me something solid to hold onto when it all feels too heavy.

If you’re somewhere in this same space—trying to figure out how to keep living after cancer while still carrying the fear it might return—know you’re not alone. I’m here too, leaning hard on the small, quiet comforts that make it all a little more bearable, hoping that with time, the load will start to lighten.

Have a comment? Words of encouragement? Just wanna say hi? Leave it below!

Thanks for reading,

Deb