Oh, Hello There!

Wow, it's been almost two years since I last wrote anything here. So. . .perhaps I owe everyone a bit of an update?

For those new to my blog now that I've migrated it over to the website, welcome aboard! I encourage you to go back to the beginning and read the posts chronologically if you want to understand my cancer experience as I was going through it. If you're short on time -- Tl;dr version: in 2019 I was diagnosed with stage 3 oral squamous cell carcinoma of the tongue (HPV-unrelated). At the time, I was thriving in my career as a critical care nurse and my son was about to start first grade. I underwent a hemi-glossectomy, radial forearm free flap, neck dissection, temporary tracheostomy, thigh skin graft, and then topped it all off with 6 weeks of radiation therapy since the cancer had spread to a node in my neck. I had my first NED PET scan in February 2020, the world shut down from COVID shortly thereafter, things sucked for a long time, then they got a bit better, and the world continued to turn.

And now here we are, dear reader, in 2026. The world feels like its currently on fire, my son is now a teenager (?!), and I still don't exactly know what I want to be when I grow up. But, I have figured out much more definitively who I am.

That brings us to the events of this week.

For those unaware, when a person goes through head & neck radiation, they are usually literally snapped into a table with a mask that fits tightly over their face down over their shoulders so they can't move at all during the treatment -- with good reason. No one wants a photon beam to go anywhere it doesn't need to be. However, that doesn't negate the fact that it's a harrowing experience for many, especially if one is claustrophobic or has any trauma around being pinned down. Anyway, at the end of treatment they usually offer the mask to the patient as a somewhat morbid parting gift, and those of us who take it sometimes try to think of some creative way to make it meaningful, at least that was my plan.

Image of me strapped to the table about to receive a daily fraction of photon radiation to the face.

This past December I realized this thing had been sitting in my closet basically the entire time since treatment six years ago. My son had just gotten a good bit of foam clay for crafting Halloween props and I thought "Hmm. . .its time to do something with this." So I sculpted and painted having absolutely zero idea what I was doing and I surprised my usually perfectionist self by just having FUN with it. And then my ADHD brain got bored and it sat on the kitchen table (which, in this house, is a crafting table more than anything) for a few weeks.

Its terrifying, I know. And it makes me laugh every time I see it.

I can't believe I'm sharing that monstrosity publicly, but honestly I'm really proud of the fact that I created something solely for the sake of creation. It felt cathartic just to change this piece of equipment that both saved my life and reminds me of so much trauma. But once I finished the project, the question became "Now what?" Now that I've sculpted over and painted this mask, and I very clearly have no intention of hanging it on the wall or anything, what do I do with it?

Let me pause the story here to say I have historically been someone who holds onto the past with both hands gripping so tight that I miss out on the good around me in the moment. I used to keep actual calendars to go back and look at dates that were meaningful. Calendars! I still routinely go through old photos and videos and bathe in the nostalgia. But lately I've recognized that this isn't the healthiest practice when trying to move forward. It's absolutely fine and completely normal to reminisce from time to time and look back fondly, but this mask in particular did not a fond memory make.

So, I made a decision.

I threw it away.

Yes, I obtained photographic evidence because this was a monumental occasion.

There's an age-old practice in Tibetan Buddhism where monks and/or nuns create incredibly beautiful, intricate sand mandalas that take days of intense focus to finish. Then, once the masterpiece is finished, it is destroyed. Obviously I'm leaving out a lot of the rich history of the spiritual elements of this sacred practice, but the main point I want to get across is that it teaches the brevity of life and impermanence of all things. It is a lesson in learning to let go and accept what is.

I surprised myself after I left the mask in the trash. I didn't feel a desire to run out and grab it. I didn't feel like I made a mistake. I didn't feel any loss at all! Instead, I felt a feeling of release, like a sandbag had been dropped from my shoulders and I could step lightly into what the future has in store for me.