Hello, Friend.

Sometimes life throws us curve balls requiring us to make tough, unexpected decisions.

Has this happened to you?

If so, this one’s for you. I can’t wait to hear about a tough decision you’ve had to make.

Let’s have a conversation about tough, unexpected decisions.

But first…

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Tough Decisions

Choosing between what’s behind Door #1, Door #2, or Door #3

Making the decision about what to do following my bilateral mastectomy felt like being forced to choose between what was behind Door #1, Door #2, or Door #3 — and all the options sucked.

I felt backed into a corner, and no matter which door I chose, it was highly possible I’d regret my decision. By the way, saying this does not mean I’m not grateful for having had options or that I’m being negative. (Yes, I’ve been called that.)

Basically, women have three choices post mastectomy. Get implants — which means having cold, foreign objects in your body. Go the autologous route and use your own tissue; which entails extensive surgery, lengthier recovery, and pretty humungous scars from being carved out not unlike a Jack-o-lantern. Or go flat, which presents its own set of challenges including societal gawking and judgment.

See what I mean when I say all the options suck?

Again, I’m glad there are options. Let’s talk briefly about them.

Note: To clarify, not all women have access to all options because nothing about any of this is a one-size-fits all. No woman, no situation are the same.

Door #1 — Implants

I’m pretty sure everyone is well aware what breast implants are; but for clarity in breast reconstruction world, it means a surgeon uses a saline or silicone filled balloon to recreate a breast.

(And I just have to add here that this is nothing like having breast augmentation.)

If you choose implants, you’re sort of looked upon as one who wants the quick and easy fix even though in reality, implants are neither.

Besides not being quick and easy, implants do not last, as I learned first hand when one of mine ruptured. (Story for another day.) Of course, I knew they weren’t a forever solution, but somehow looking too far into my future felt like hexing the whole darn thing. Back then, who knew if I even had a future, so why would I worry about the future of my implants?

Besides, I’m a procrastinator. I tend to worry about things at hand. There will always be plenty of stuff to worry about tomorrow.

Door #2— The autologous route

An autologous breast reconstruction surgery involves using your own skin, fat, or muscle to form a breast shape following a mastectomy or lumpectomy.

For obvious reasons, these surgeries are more complex, way longer, and not even always available as an option depending on where you live and what kind of medical access you have. (Also a topic for another day.)

I opted for this door in 2020 following my implant rupture. I chose DIEP flap breast reconstruction. During the pandemic no less. More on that later, too. Long story.

Door #3 — Aesthetic flat closure

Aesthetic flat closure is a surgical procedure used post mastectomy to remove excess fat, tissue, and skin in order to create a smoother, more even, and more comfortable flat chest contour.

The thing about flat closure is that it’s not even always presented as an option. It was never presented to me. In hindsight, that makes me more than a wee bit angry. Not because I necessarily would have chosen it but because it wasn’t even presented as an option.

Says a lot about our breast obsessed world in itself, does it not?

In the past, I’ve heard stories about some (male) surgeons hesitating to do this surgery because they feared a woman would change her mind and want “real reconstruction” later. The arrogance of assuming a woman doesn’t know what she wants reeks with patronization.

This often left women with what’s known as dog ears (extra skin) and uncomfortable feeling chests.

Patriarchy in medicine is alive and well. Thankfully, more women doctors are in this field today, but we need more.

There is judgment in Breast Reconstruction World, too. From other women. I kid you not. As I mentioned, implants are sometimes viewed as the quick and easy option.

Messages seep out from the autologous group suggesting the “best” option is using your own tissue. Because who would want a cold-to-the-touch, rigid implant when you can have a warm, more natural feeling breast?

Women choosing to remain flat sometimes make those of us choosing the other doors feel like we’re letting womankind down. Or maybe I’ve projected that feeling on myself. That’s likely it.

To be honest though, sometimes I have felt like I’ve let the women’s movement down because I chose implants and later DIEP flap. I must be weak. And vain. And of poor character. All ridiculous notions, of course.

Still…

Why try to create fake breasts anyway? Who am I trying to please? Myself? My husband? Society? How can I call myself a feminist if I chose to create fake breasts?

Well, I can and I do.

It gets complicated, and it’s easy to feel judged and start second guessing your decisions.

Does this bring to mind for you, too, the issue of a woman’s right to have control over her own body, her right to choose, period?

It sure does for me. There are so many layers to this conversation.

The bottom line is, no one gets to choose what is right for someone else. Judging other women’s choices about breast reconstruction is not acceptable either. It’s just not.

The choice about which breast reconstruction to have is deeply personal and no one else’s business. Every woman’s tough decisions about her own body should be respected. Case closed.

Now it’s YOUR turn. Let’s talk about tough decisions about anything you’ve had to make. What strategies helped you make them? Do you have regrets?

This is a conversation very much worth having, so let’s have it. Below are some prompts, but feel free to share whatever’s on your mind.

What tough, unexpected decision(s) have you had to make, and have you ever felt like your decision was being judged?

If you were faced with this situation, which door would you choose?

Have you, or has anyone you know, had any kind of reconstructive surgery?

Thank you for reading!

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Parts of this essay are from my third book, EMERGING: Stories from the Other Side of a Cancer Diagnosis, Loss and a Pandemic, available on Amazon, Bookshop.org, and Books-A-Million.

Visit my author website to learn more.

Shout out and thank you to my Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber, Mary Robinson Prody, RN CEO of PROMEDICS PRODUCTS LLC. Click on the link to visit Mary’s website and learn about her amazing products to help manage those dreaded post-surgical drains. Read my review of one of those products HERE.

Find out how you can become a Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber HERE.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Dear Reader.

Thank you for being here!

Do you have trigger dates? By that I mean are there certain dates that remind of you of unpleasant, hurtful, hard things (of any sort) that you’ve experienced.

Do people ever suggest to you that perhaps it’s time you move on and put “all that” behind you?

If this sounds relatable, this article is for you. I look forward to learning about your trigger dates, so be sure to share in the comments. We’re here to witness and support one another. Let’s have a conversation.

First, that important reminder:

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Bilateral mastectomy day — one of the worst days of my life

Trigger dates — do you have any?

I wonder if a day will come when I do not think about cancer.

Somehow I doubt it.

It’s not like I’m stuck in the past, nor do I dwell on cancer. But remember? You bet I do. Certain dates still feel heavy and always will.

One such date is June 2, 2010, the day of my bilateral mastectomy—one of the worst days of my life. Sure, some details have faded (not disappeared) over time, but the sense of fear and dread will forever remain vivid memories. And the look of utter helplessness, but mostly love, on Husband’s face after the chaplain’s visit before I was wheeled away—I won’t be forgetting that either.

People want you to move on, to forget, to put it behind you. I think this is more about them than you. Even if I tried to forget, I’d be unsuccessful, so I stopped trying long ago. Instead, I pause to reflect and remember. How could I not?

Some life experiences aren’t meant to be forgotten, minimized, or left behind.

One of the worst days of my life

There will never be any other way to “reframe” that particular day, nor should their be. It’s important, in a strange way, to have these markers. To keep them. To remember them. To never minimize them or allow others to try to do that for you. These markers remind me of the depth of my cancer experience that continues even all these years later, as well as the beauty of this moment.

The message I want to leave you with, Dear Reader, in this brief (for me) essay is this:

If you have trigger dates, it’s okay to not have moved on. Instead, choose moving forward. That sounds way more doable, right?

It’s okay to feel all the emotions. Yes, all of them. It’s okay to feel the loss, to grieve.

It’s okay to remember. And it’s okay to choose not to as well if that suits you better.

No one else gets to decide what’s the right or appropriate way for you to remember/mark a hard thing or date you’ve been through whether it be cancer or something else entirely.

It’s up to you and only you. You get to decide.

You are welcome and encouraged to mark any such trigger date(s) you’ve experienced right here.

I want to hear about one of your worst days ever. Because your hard matters, too.

Do you have a trigger date?

Tell me about one of your worst days ever.

Has anyone suggested or implied you should move on or put “all that” behind you, and if so, how did that make you feel?

Thank you for reading.

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready. Free or paid, I appreciate you.

Paid subscription not your thing? Leave me a one-time tip (you set the amount) and know you are doing something meaningful to support independent writing.

Leave me a one-time tip. (Thank you)

Next time, I’m planning to share my views about choosing breast reconstruction or not. It’s like choosing from what’s behind door #1, door #2, or door #3. I hope you’ll stop by again.

If my words strike a chord, you might want to read my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person. In it I share candidly about my cancer diagnosis, bilateral mastectomy, chemotherapy, and more. No sugarcoating. Guaranteed.

Thank you for being here today.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Dear Reader.

I’ve been writing on Substack for two years. This means I’ve been reflecting and thinking (okay, overthinking) about how things have been going thus far and what changes I may or may not implement going forward.

Regardless if you’re a reader, a writer, or both here on Substack, I can’t wait to hear from YOU. After all, we are in this together.

So, let’s talk about what it means to be a Substack Rebel, and be sure to let me know in the comments if you are one, too. Or would like to be. Readers can be Substack Rebels, too, by the way, so everyone is invited to this conversation.

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Substack Rebel

Do you want to be one, too?

If you’ve been reading Nancy’s Point for awhile, you already know I am not a fan of the typical rah-rah cancer made me a better person narrative, nor am I a fan of pink ribbon shenanigans. I continue to stubbornly resist the notion that cancer ‘gifts’ anything other than upheaval and heartache. Cancer can keep its f***ing lessons, too.

Cancer sucks. Period. That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.

In other words, I’m a Cancer Rebel.

I’ve decided I am also a Substack Rebel. You might be asking, “Okay, woman, what are you talking about?” Let me explain what this means—to me anyway.

Below are a few ways I’m rebelling. If you feel inclined, join me!

LESS CHECKING AND STRESSING

I am done worrying about how many Subscribers I have and how many likes and comments my essays and Notes get. I mean it. I am DONE.

This does not mean I don’t care about these things; it just means I’m not stressing about them anymore. Big difference. I would LOVE more readers, more free and paid subscribers, more engagement, more comments, more everything. But I’m done opening my phone umpteen times a day to check on metrics. And I will try harder to not let it bother me when folks unsubscribe.

In short, I am done comparing myself to other Substack writers. (This time I mean it.) Comparison kills creativity. Comparison kills joy.

HOW I WILL SPREAD THE LOVE

I am changing up how I spread the love, and it’s what I am going to do from here on out. Or until I change my mind.

I will be as generous as f***k with likes and hearts because why not?

I scroll and skim just like you do. If I like a piece or Note, or sense great effort was put into it, or just want to encourage, I am going to click away on those heart buttons. It’s the easiest way to offer support and encouragement, and it takes hardly any time at all to do it. It’s like smiling at a stranger (or a friend) in real life.

A writer I love and respect who will remain nameless once mentioned on a Note I wrote that she only restacks articles she thinks the world should read. I respect that. However, that’s a pretty high bar, don’t you think? (I realize she didn’t literally mean the whole world, but still…)

Observation has shown me that some writers rarely restack, which is entirely their prerogative, of course. But I don’t get that strategy. Sharing/restacking is easy, too. So, yeah, I will restack to my heart’s content. It’s another easy way to spread the love.

PRIORITIZING

We are ALL short on time, so I’ve decided the first articles I read and comment on will be those written by writers/readers who’ve read and commented on mine. Petty? Maybe. Maybe not. I prefer thinking of it as following the Golder Rule. After I’ve followed said Golden Rule each day, I will move on to reading and commenting on other Substacks as much as time permits.

Those that ignore—I can do that as well.

Does this make sense? (I hope so.)

TO PAY OR NOT TO PAY

Okay, this change is big for me. I have dropped all my paid subscriptions and even some free ones to Substacks that offer advice on how to grow and monetize my Substack. I am not going to fall into that rabbit hole anymore. Don’t get me wrong, some advice Substacks are great (who doesn’t want those five KEYS to Substack success?); but none seem to fit me or warrant a paid subscription.

I am not a brand, I am a person. I don’t think of myself as a content creator or an influencer either. I’m a woman who writes about cancer, loss, grief, pets, family, writing, politics, our democracy, and whatever else I choose. To hell with niching down. Uh-uh. Me, I niche out. (This is why a memoir category on Substack would be nice. None of the available categories fit.)

Instead of paying for advice I never take anyway, I started upgrading to paid subscriber status on some of my favorite fellow writers because THAT is where I choose to put my $$$. Writing is work and writers deserve to be paid for it.

I am loving this change already. I only wish I could afford to upgrade on more Stacks I love.

Does my writing have enough value that readers like you want to pay for it?

Maybe. Maybe not. Each reader gets to decide, and I’m okay with what each one decides. Even if you choose not to pay with $$$, every time you read and comment you are ‘paying’ me by giving me some of your precious time. I never take that for granted.

I don’t have a product (other than my books) or course to offer. When you upgrade to paid, you are saying yes to supporting my writing. My writing IS my product. Along with being part of an amazing community.

Oh, and since we’re talking about advice Substacks, here’s one more irritant about them for me. Whenever an advice person starts off saying something like: Unless you’re writing here on Substack as a hobby…

Sounds more than a bit condescending, don’t you think?

I mean, even if you are writing here as a hobby, (I am not) your time is valuable, too. You have bills to pay like everyone else. Whenever I hear that, I’m gone.

RECOMMENDATION LIST

One of the best ways to spread more love (and to receive it) is to add Substacks to your Recommendation List. I only add Substacks I truly love, but I don’t always keep the same ones in view. I shuffle my list from time to time. This keeps it fresh.

I am soooo grateful to those who’ve added me to their Recommendation Lists. Thank you. (You know who you are. Obviously.)

WRAPPING UP

I will end this article by saying thank you to all my readers new and old, free and paid. Some readers have been reading for over a dozen years. (I’m not kidding!) Precious gems, that's what long-time readers are to me. Others just started reading. Whether you are a newbie or an oldie, I’m grateful you are here.

My best Substack advice (for what it’s worth) for fellow Substackers is to tend to the community you have—whether it be big or small in number.

That’s what I intend to do. Build and nurture this community. Deepen the trust and the connections with dear readers like you.

My other piece of advice—shocker—do Substack your own way, too. As I've said a gazillion times about cancer, grief, and other stuff:

Be real. Be you. It's enough.

You don’t need hundreds of subscribers to validate your worth, your writing. Your story matters, and you need no one's permission to share it.

A tip for readers: Comment, like, share whenever you can. It means a lot, provides valuable feedback, and gets more eyes on writers you love. Also, feel free to email or message anytime. Your thoughts and opinions matter.

One more thing—a confession: I still suck at NOTES, and I still cannot make sense out of the ‘following’ option vs subscribing. Hint, hint. If you’re a follower, consider subscribing. Follows are nice, but subscriptions are what matter.

You can turn off receiving emails/notifications. This eliminates flooding your inbox while still allowing you to support Stacks you like with a subscription. It’s a win-win!

YOUR TURN!

Are you a Substack Rebel, too, and if you are, in what way(s)?

Writer or reader—how do you prioritize which Substacks to read first, and do you have notifications for emails turned on or off?

What’s your best Substack tip? (as a writer or as a reader)

What moves you to upgrade to paid subscriptions?

If you think my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready.

Paid subscription not your thing?

Leave me a one-time tip (you set the amount) and know you are doing something meaningful to support independent writing. No commitment needed. You choose the amount.

Nancy's Point Tip Jar

Earlier essay about writing on Substack you might want to read:

“If you write it, they will read.” (maybe. maybe not.)

SHOUT OUT to Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber, Mary Robinson Prody, RN CEO of PROMEDICS PRODUCTS LLC. Click on the link to visit Mary’s website and learn more about her amazing products to help manage those dreaded post-surgical drains. Read my review of one of those products HERE.

Find out how YOU can become a Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber HERE.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.

I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

I’ve been writing about serious topics of late. Let’s take a break from that, shall we?

That old saying a picture’s worth a thousand words rings so true, don’t you think?

I’ve been wanting to share about one such picture photo I treasure. Yep. The one above. Mother’s Day seems like the perfect time. I cannot wait to hear about a photo you have that’s filled with memories and stories—one worth a thousand words.

Let’s talk about pictures/photos worth a thousand words.

And Mother’s Day. Let’s talk about that too. For some, it’s a wonderful day to celebrate, and for others, it’s deeply painful. No matter how it lands for you, I want to hear about it because we hold space for all feelings here, including yours.

Thank you for being here.

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Happy Referee’s Day — Oops, I mean Happy Mother’s Day!

Plus, a story about long goodbyes and a purse

Everything about the above photo taken decades ago (mid-60s) before my family and I left my grandparents' house in Park River, North Dakota, and headed out West on a road trip makes me smile. 😊

A few of those smile-inducing memories include: remembering my grandparents' long goodbyes, my purse (story coming), my dad's expression, my brother's wink/squint, my pre-teen awkwardness, AND most of all, my mother's outfit. (That’s me standing next to her.)

A picture’s worth a thousand words indeed. So many stories are hidden in this photo—perhaps in every photo—if we take the time to look for them.

The long goodbyes

Years ago I wrote an essay about my mother titled, “The Queen of Goodbyes”. It was published in Grief Magazine—my first published essay. Grandma passed her goodbyes expertise on to my mother who honed her own long-goodbye skills to perfection. My mother was the Queen of Goodbyes alright.

Their secret to proper goodbyes was simple—make them last as long as possible. They both succeeded in making that happen pretty much every time. Goodbyes included exiting the house slowly with hugs on the way out the door often with leftovers in hand, more conversation and hugs while getting into the car, followed by pulling out of the driveway slowly with windows down (even in winter), and of course, lots of waving and smiling. “Drive away slow” took on a whole new meaning. My family still jokes about it to this day.

Part of the long-goodbye routine when we left my grandparents’ house included Grandpa slipping my siblings and me each a $20 bill to spend on souvenirs and candy on our road trips, even if it was just a road trip back home. To Grandma’s delight, this added quite a few extra minutes to our goodbyes.

Grandpa tried to be sneaky doing the same for my mother by slipping her some spending money without the rest of us noticing, though, of course, we all did. The amount on her bills was considerably higher. The stash she carried around in her purse during those summer road trips was shocking, to my young eyes anyway. And probably more than a bit risky. Heading out, all our wallets felt plump with possibility.

Grandpa’s generosity seemed extravagant; I felt a little guilty, or rather, undeserving. Now days, I imagine receiving twenty bucks from Grandpa or Grandma before going on a trip wouldn’t feel extravagant at all. In the 60s, $20 went a lot further, that’s for sure.

The purse

If you zero in on the photo, you’ll notice the purse I’m holding. I loved that black and white purse. Carrying it around made me feel grown up, more like my older sisters and mother. It even made me feel a little better about my assigned seat in our Ford Galaxie sedan. As the youngest sister, the pecking order was well established and there was no changing the seating assignments no matter how much negotiating (okay, fighting) about it took place. I always sat in the middle of the backseat. No window of my own. Ever. My little brother sat in the middle, too, but at least he got to sit in the front. Life was unfair. At least I had my purse.

Until I didn’t.

After getting back on the road following supper at a restaurant one night, to my horror, I realized I didn’t have my purse. I had left it in the booth at the restaurant. I was mortified and afraid to say anything because clearly, I had proven myself not grown up enough to be responsible for a purse, much less one with money in it.

I still recall the angst of those minutes while sitting in that middle backseat trying to gather up enough courage to tell my parents the bad news. I was mortified by my carelessness. I waited an hour. Might’ve been more. Or less. As the miles added up between us and the restaurant and dusk started settling in, the more worried I became.

Finally, my panicky words spilled out, “I forgot my purse”.

Much to my surprise (and relief), my parents didn’t even get upset. Dad turned the car around and headed back to the restaurant. He didn’t need to express his disappointment in me. I was already disappointed in myself enough for all of us.

When we arrived back at the restaurant, lo and behold, there was my purse behind the register where someone had placed it for safe keeping—cash still in my wallet.

My mother the referee

My favorite thing of all about the photo might be my mother’s outfit. Black shorts. Black and white striped top. Pink scarf. Sunglasses. Purse in hand. She looks ready for anything. A mother of four, on the road or off, has to be.

She looks like a referee with almost a quirky Audrey Hepburn look, don’t you think?

Actually, traveling in our Ford sedan with limited seating (no seatbelts at the time either), and no air conditioning with four kids and a dog—in the summer, no less—she was very much a referee!

All mothers are.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the ladies out there who are mothering, loving, encouraging, nurturing, and yes, at times refereeing children (and/or fur babies), whether they be their own or not.

If this day is hard for you due to any reason, please know I see you, and you are not alone.

Share a mother-related memory of your own (any kind) in the comments if you want to. And I hope you do.

I have so many prompt questions I’d love to ask. I’ll stick with the ones below. Feel free to answer any, all, or share something entirely different.

Do you have a picture/photo worth a thousand words?

Did your family take road trips when you were a kid; and if so, did you ever leave something behind?

How does Mother’s Day land for you this year?

Sharing photos below to show you our 1959 (or thereabouts) Ford Galaxie sedan. Can you imagine six people and a dog in there, on a long road trip, no less?

The other two were taken following a massive St. Patty’s Day blizzard that was followed by historic flooding that spring.

Talk about pics being worth more than a thousand words…All three of these are definitely that.

If you enjoyed my essay, thank you for liking, commenting, and restacking. Doing any or all helps get more eyes on my work.

When you feel ready, consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Free or paid, I’m delighted you’re here.

Paid subscription not your thing?

New option: Leave a one-time tip and know you are doing something meaningful to support independent writing. (You can choose the amount.)

TIP JAR

If my writing resonates, stop by my author website when you get a minute to learn about my books.

Thank you for being here.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

P.S. For my sister: This sucks. Cancer sucks. Fuck Cancer.

Hello, Friend.

Let’s jump right in.

Has anyone ever accused you of being too angry?

And what does too angry even mean anyway?

Also, do you consider yourself to be a feminist?

I know, I know. This is a lot of ground to cover, but let’s give it a go, nonetheless.

Whether you’re a woman or a man, I cannot wait to get your thoughts on all this.

Some conversations are just waiting to be had. This feels like one of them.

Thank you for being here for it.

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you value this conversation, restacking indicates you want to encourage others to read my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three.

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Has anyone ever accused YOU of being too angry?

A few thoughts on women, anger, and feminism

There’s so much anger in the country world, on the internet, and yes, right here on Substack these days. Without a doubt, there’s a lot to be angry about. Some days I don’t even know where to direct my anger first.

It’s not always easy expressing anger, especially if you’re a woman. Women aren’t supposed to be angry, at least not too angry and definitely not for too long. Girls/women have forever been told to be good, play nice, keep quiet, and for God’s sake keep angry feelings under wrap because no one wants to be around that person.

Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever felt angrier than I have of late. By of late I mean since November 5, 2024, probably longer. Even before that, my anger had ratcheted up to unprecedented levels after Roe was overturned. The embers have been smoldering hotter every day since, and like so many others, I am done trying to smother them out.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not an angry person, not generally anyway. I love my quiet life. I try to Find Beauty every day and usually I do. It’s a good life, and I’m lucky to still be living it. I experience joy and love every single day. Peace and contentment too. But rage and anger simmer. Always there.

There’s so much shit going on in the world, much of it caused by you know who. Women in particular are angry these days. If you don’t understand why, you might have some thinking to do. You might say women have reached a breaking point.

Why?

Because misogyny is still rampant. If it wasn’t, there would be no Epstein file release slow walking—no coverup. Clamoring for justice for the survivors wouldn’t be needed; justice would’ve already happened.

That’s just one example.

I look up the word misogyny from time to time. To digest and redigest its meaning. This is what I pulled from AI the other day.

Misogyny is the hatred of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women and girls, often functioning to maintain patriarchal social norms and male dominance. It manifests through sexist behavior, discrimination, violence, and objectification. It is a systemic force aimed at punishing women who challenge traditional roles.

Let that definition sit with you a bit. It's a lot to take in, isn’t it?

Sometimes those manifested behaviors are subtle, sometimes downright overt. This is why women can never let their guard down. Not completely anyway.

Women are coming together like never before, including here on Substack, which gives me a lot of hope. Linking arms. Speaking out. Standing up for one another. Our voices won’t be silenced. Women are no longer ashamed of anger; we’re embracing it. We are realizing our anger means we care deeply and not just about the people in our immediate circles, but people across the globe. Anger is closely tied to grief. When we see or hear about injustice we feel anger, AND we grieve for what others lose or must endure because we care.

One of the best pieces about anger and how it’s tied to grief that I’ve read recently is from in which Helen (who has stage 4 breast cancer) writes this:

So this anger is an expression of my values, what matters to me, what gives my life meaning, what I care about, what I love. It’s fuel, it’s energy, it’s a motivating power. It’s completely aligned to my desire to take my heart in my two hands and be congruent, courageous and loving.

I encourage you to read Helen’s essay in its entirety. So worth it.

The “opposite” of misogyny is misandry. I had never even heard of the latter until I dug around looking for some sort of equivalent to misogyny. That alone tells you quite a lot. There isn’t a female equivalent that created generations of legal, systematic oppression against men by women because that has never happened.

And feminism is definitely not that equivalent. Feminism is not man hating either. Rather feminism is about establishing and achieving political, economic, personal, and social equality of sexes. In other words, it’s about leveling the playing field. Fairness. Justice. Equality.

I proudly call myself a feminist. Always have. (What about you?)

Some of the best fearless, feminist writers are right here on Substack. Yes, they talk about anger a lot. That comes with the territory. A few of my favorites include:

(There are many more, so let’s grow this list in the comments.)

Now let’s get to the cancer-anger parts of this essay.

When I first received the call from the doctor delivering the news of my cancer diagnosis matter-of-factly as if letting me know I had an ear infection or strep throat, I admit it. First I was shocked, and then I was angry. That same doctor later wrote in his clinical notes that I seemed angry when he delivered his “news”. I read his comments via my patient portal and thought, WTF?

Yeah, even upon getting a devastating cancer diagnosis, better not let yourself get too riled up and definitely don’t get angry. Angry patients are not “good” patients, especially when female.

A few years back, a book club chose my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person, as its read-of-the-month. Half of the readers (all women, mind you) commented I was too angry and bitter. One went so far as to say I wasn’t taking the “opportunity” to be a better role model for others, especially my daughter.

Those women did not even know me or anything about my relationship with my daughter, yet somehow they felt entitled to pass judgment implying my anger was misplaced, perhaps even wrong.

Where’s the arbitrary line between angry and too angry anyway?

Also, cancer or no cancer, is it always a woman’s job to be a role model? (I’m just asking.)

I'd be lying if I said those book club comments didn't bother me at the time. Now, I truly don't give a shit.

These days, I am experiencing cancer anger again. Not about my cancer diagnosis so much anymore—but rather regarding my sister’s. As I mentioned in a previous essay, one of my sisters has cancer. Not breast cancer. Her cancer is squamous cell carcinoma, stage 4, and it’s fucking brutal.

Ironically, squamous cell carcinoma and breast cancer are both often referred to as “good” cancers. If you have to get cancer, one of those is best—that’s something I’ve actually heard said—even once by a medical person as I was checking in for my appointment.

My mother died from one of those good cancers. My sister’s diagnosis is also terminal. There, I said it—terminal. Typing that makes me sad and yes, angry.

Maybe what really makes me angry is the downplaying of any cancer’s seriousness. There is no good cancer. Period.

Oh, and the present administration’s slashing of cancer research dollars, that makes me really angry, too. It’s unforgivable the damage that’s been done. Unforgivable. As is cutting Medicaid benefits to pay for tax cuts for the wealthiest among us. Slashing healthcare for those in need in order to line pockets of rich folks. Again, unforgivable.

When I said goodbye to my sister recently after visiting her in ICU, we decided every day at noon we'd say out loud to no one in particular: “This sucks. Cancer sucks. Fuck Cancer!”

It is something to do with our anger, albeit a small thing. Even doing small things helps.

Feel free to join us any day, noon or any time at all. Pick cancer. Pick something else (or someone) and say the words, too.

It’ll feel good. I promise.

Thank you for reading.

Source for info on misandry: Feminism vs Misandry by Vijetha Sreerama

Your turn. Woman or man, I would love to hear from YOU.

Has anyone ever accused YOU of being too angry?

Do you consider yourself to be a feminist or a man who supports feminism?

Why or why not?

Do you have a favorite feminist writer on Substack (yes, you can include yourself)

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready. Free or paid, I appreciate you.

Paid subscription not your thing? Leave me a one-time tip (you set the amount) and know you are doing something meaningful to support independent writing.

Leave me a one-time tip. (Thank you)

If my writing resonates, stop by my author website when you get a minute to learn about my books.

One more thing before you go…

Today I’m welcoming and saying a big thank you to my first Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber, Mary Robinson Prody, RN CEO of PROMEDICS PRODUCTS LLC. Click on the link to visit Mary’s website and learn more about her amazing products to help manage those dreaded post-surgical drains. Read my review of one of those products HERE.

Find out how you can become a Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber HERE.

Thank you for being here.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

Thank you for being here.

If you’ve had a mastectomy, or if one (unfortunately) is in your future, you’ve probably heard or read about the dreaded drains. They are no fun. At all. Necessary evils, that’s what Jackson-Pratt drains are.

But we do and deal with what we must, right?

So, what’s the best way to manage those dreaded drains?

Full disclosure: Promedics Products, LLC is a Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber. I am not being compensated for this review. I’m sharing about the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II because I want anyone facing surgery that requires JP drains to know about this option for post-surgery drain management. I used this product myself following my DIEP flap breast reconstruction surgery in 2020.

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The Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II – the best solution for those dreaded post-surgical JP drains!

As someone who’s had to deal with drain management following surgery, not once but twice, the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II is the best solution for drain management I’ve come across.

Honestly, back in 2010 following my bilateral mastectomy, I cannot remember for sure what the hospital sent me home with. There was so much on my mind back then I didn’t even think to research drain management options. I did get a prescription for a stretchy camisole that had drain pockets.

As I recall, the pockets in that camisole worked alright as a place to put the drains but just alright. The camisole itself I liked a lot, and I kid you not, I wore it for years because it felt so good offering both comfort and support.

Following my explant/DIEP flap surgery in 2020, once again, there were drains to contend with.

Ugh!!

Lucky for me, (okay, nothing about this is lucky, but you know what I mean) I now knew about a better alternative for managing the four drains hanging out of me post surgery.

That better alternative is the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II. The belt was developed by Mary Robinson Prody, a nurse (and now a friend of mine) who has spent much of her career in Home Health often working with patients who were struggling with their post-surgical drains.

Mary discovered many patients were sent home with little, sometimes nothing, to help them manage their post-surgical drains.

Mary shared this:

I would often turn into MacGyver, scouring their kitchen for a measuring device and then hand writing a drainage output record sheet. Most often patients were safety pinning the bulbs to their underwear, which sometimes led to painful pokes and/or accidental dislodging of the drain tubing.

I can report that the main method to secure drain bulbs is still a safety pin, which can lead to drain or tube puncturing AND increased infection risk. Other solutions include ineffective plastic clips that fall off when the drain becomes weighted and a multitude of make-shift methods such as: lanyards, pocketed clothing, a Home Depot cloth tool belt, shoe laces, fanny packs and the list goes on.

The struggle many patients were having with drain care inspired Mary to come up with the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II and later, The Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II Kit.

Below are some reasons why I whole-heartedly recommend the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II:

1. The Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II was developed by a nurse with the knowledge, experience, and expertise to develop a product to meet the clinical needs as well as patient needs.

Both are equally important. We shouldn’t be sent home less prepared than we could be.

2. The patented fasteners are permanently attached at one end to the belt.

After you properly fasten the bulbs (super easy to do), those bulbs are securely attached. No more bulbs falling off those inadequate, plastic ring holder thingies. No more safety pin pokes. No more clunky metal clips.

3. The belt securely holds up to four drains.

The belt allows for secure attachment of up to four (that’s how many I had both times) drain bulbs and is discreetly worn under your clothing. At the same time, it allows for quick access and easy visibility to determine when you need to empty the bulbs.

4. Your movement is not as restricted.

You don’t worry so much when you feel confident that the drains are held securely in place. No one wants those tubes accidentally yanked out. Ouch!

5. The belt is perfect for bedtime. A necessity even.

Even if you choose a different option to wear for daytime, at night this thoughtfully designed belt is a godsend, at least it was for me.

The garments with pockets work alright (I had such a garment), but at night when you’re sleeping (or trying to sleep), let’s face it, those bulbs can move around and even fall out of those garment pockets.

It was far less stressful for me when I’d wake up at night (which I did and often) and could immediately check on my drainage bulbs. I always knew they were held securely in place right there front and center. No fumbling. No panicky feeling. Whew! Hence, I might add, I was able to get a better night’s rest. So important!

6. The belt is reasonably priced.

I recommend having two belts. This way you can use one in the shower (If showering is allowed, of course) and then hang it up to dry. I tried a couple other recommended options for using in the shower, but the Drainage Bulb Holder II was by far my favorite.

7. You have the option of getting one belt, two belts, or the Drainage Bulb Holder II Kit, which includes two belts, measuring cups, and a drainage output record sheet.

Post mastectomy, breast reconstruction, and certain other surgeries, you must keep track and record the amount of fluid output from your JP drains. This is done by stripping the tubes feeding into them (something some of you are familiar with) and then recording the results. (Just part of the fun in Cancer Land. Not!)

My hospital sent me home both times with the cups and output record sheets; yours may or may not. The Kit comes with two belts as well as everything else you need, so it’s an economical, efficient way to go. Again, having that spare belt comes in handy.

8. All the Promedics Products are universal in gender—medical white and the fasteners are NOT pink—yay!

Mary shared that early on it was suggested she change the blue fasteners on the Prody Drainage Bulb Holder II to pink. She rejected that idea.

In addition to being the best solution out there for post-mastectomy drain care, the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II is also intended for use following other surgical procedures that may (or may not) require drains.

These include abdominal surgeries such as colon, liver, renal and some hernias. Others include: thoracic surgeries, certain wound surgeries, orthopedic and organ transplants.

Plastic surgeries such as abdominoplasty, Tram Flap, DIEP Flap, and implant/explant also generally require drains. And some GYN-type surgeries such as those for vaginal tumors and some C-sections require drains as well.

So as you can see, there’s a lot of need. Mary’s mission is to get the products into as many hospitals, surgery centers, and MD offices as possible so that patients are given them immediately post surgery and don’t have to spend time scouring the internet looking for solutions.

Currently, Promedics Products are in over 250 national hospitals including MD Anderson and Stanford.

Impressive, right?

The product I personally used and that I’m focusing most on in this review is the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II; however, another option is available that I wish I had also tried and that’s the Prody® Abdominal Binder II with Drain Fasteners. (Of course, I would have only used it after my doctor’s approval.)

DIEP flap surgeries (and others) require that you wear a binder. (Yeah, because the fun never ends.) So this particular abdominal binder is another option for some.

The Prody® Abdominal Binder II with Drain Fasteners (shown below) has the same patent-pending fasteners with all the same benefits of the Drainage Bulb Holder II. It’s a two-in-one deal. A binder that also doubles as a drainage bulb holder.

The above combo binder seems like a logical, convenient way to go again, pending your doctor’s approval, of course.

Mary knows what a dog and cat lover I am, so she also wanted me (and I want you) to know that unsolicited veterinary sales are now taking off because sometimes our furry dear ones need post-surgery drain management too. Yes, the drainage holder belts work for them too!

I loved hearing our pets’ post-surgical drain needs are being thought of too, don’t you?

So, now you know some of the reasons why I recommend the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II, and why I’m proud of my partnership with Promedics Products, LLC.

The Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II is a thoughtfully designed product that will definitely help mastectomy (and other) patients better manage those dreaded drains.

If you or someone you care about faces surgery that will require JP drain care management, be sure to direct them to Mary’s site or this post.

I used the Prody® Drainage Bulb Holder II for my post-DIEP flap breast reconstruction surgery drain management and can honestly say, I loved it.

As much as you can love a drain bulb holder belt anyway.

If your surgery will require drains, you need this belt!

Thank you for reading my review. Please share it with anyone who might benefit from reading it as well.

Your turn. Let’s talk about those dreaded drains.

Have you (or has someone you know) needed JP post-surgical drains and if so, how did you (they) manage them?

What advice would you give about post-surgery drain care/management?

Have you ever used a post-surgery abdominal binder?

Do you have a question about drain management for me or Mary?

Related articles I’ve written: What’s it like waking up from a bilateral mastectomy? and/or How to love your post-mastectomy body (when you really don’t)

Thank you, Promedics Products, LLC, for being a Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber!

If you’d like to become a Nancy’s Point Loyalty+ Subscriber, too, all you need to do is upgrade your subscription by clicking on the red upgrade button at the end of any article I’ve written. Learn about perks you’ll receive as a Loyalty+ Subscriber HERE.

Every subscription, free or paid, helps me reach more readers and tells others you value and support independent writing. I appreciate YOU!

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Hello, Dear Reader.

I’ve been absent. Is it vanity that makes me wonder if anyone noticed? I’ll go with it’s just being human. That sounds kinder, gentler, does it not?

My break was due to family matters—some good (family time in sunny AZ), some not.

Cancer has reared it’s ugly head again in my family—not me this time, but for one of my sisters. I won’t be sharing her story as it’s not mine to tell. I’ll share bits and pieces from time to time—the parts that are my story to tell. But I carry her story with me; I carry her with me. Always in my heart. (I’ve just returned home after an emotion-filled visit with her.)

Let’s have a conversation about finding beauty. Even when it’s hard.

But first, that reminder…

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you value this conversation, restacking indicates you want to encourage others to read my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three.

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Find Beauty

Even when it’s hard & a poem for National Poetry Month

One of the benefits of being part of an online breast cancer community is meeting gifted fellow writers. One such writer I was privileged to get to know through her writings and various online interactions was Lisa Bonchek Adams. Lisa died on March 6, 2015 of metastatic breast cancer. (March 6th—the same date, different year, that my mother died—also from MBC.) At the time of her death, Lisa was 46 years old.

Lisa’s words live on. A reminder of the power words we write have—a legacy like none other.

One thing Lisa is often remembered for are her words below about finding beauty—words that have always stayed with me. Lately, I’ve been thinking about them a lot.

I don’t need to remind you how difficult it is at times to keep going, to persevere. (Are you nodding your head about now?)

Many of us, probably most of us, are struggling these days to keep the faith that our democracy will endure, to believe good/right will prevail, to find beauty, to trust that things will be okay.

Like you, I struggle with the news of the day. I struggle with challenges of life. I struggle to keep finding beauty, or even to keep trying to look for it. I struggle to find words worth writing, much less worth sharing. How can little old me have anything of substance to say that will make a difference in this mess of a world?

Yes, I struggle to persevere. Maybe you do, too.

Persevering is hard.

Worrying is easy. As is fretting and throwing up one’s hands in despair.

Doom scrolling is easy, too. We all do it. I certainly do. It’s probably even necessary—part of the processing/absorbing/analyzing we need to do.

However, I’m pretty sure we all realize too much doom scrolling isn’t good for us. Too much negatively impacts our physical and emotional well being, limits our imaginations, stunts our creativity, and perhaps most importantly, holds us back from imagining the things—the world—we want to see and have.

After all, if we want a different, kinder, more just world, we must first imagine it.

Whether it’s the state of the world, how much it’s costing you to fill up your gas tank and feed your family, your unsteady relationship(s), uncertainty about your health or that of a loved one, grief for those dear ones you miss (including beloved pets), or anything you’re experiencing that challenges you to keep the faith, know this: beauty is there—even when you and I cannot see it.

Believing in what we cannot see.

That is the epitome of faith, is it not?

Since April is National Poetry Month, I’ll end by sharing a poem I wrote the other day that was inspired by Lisa’s words. I hope something in it is meaningful and lingers with you for just a bit.

I would love to know how it lands for you.

Find Beauty

Find beauty, they say

But where?

Where do I look for it?

These days, ugly is easier to find

Beauty is too quiet

Ugly is too loud

Finding beauty feels impossible

And yet…

Just because I cannot see it

That doesn’t mean it’s still not there

It’s in the purple blooms of spring

And in the melodies the songbirds sing

It’s in the clouds, each drop of rain

In the whisperings amongst the pines

Beauty’s there, waiting patiently

For me to see it, hear it, share it

Or even just imagine it

And when I do

I’m again reminded

It’s there, right where it’s always been

It’s everywhere

Turns out

Beauty’s not the quiet one at all

And not that hard to find

If only I persevere

I’m grateful for this Substack community of writers and readers that inspires and lifts others up. I’m grateful for YOU.

Remember, friend…

Keep going. Find beauty. And always persevere.

You’re invited to be part of this conversation by sharing a comment, a poem, or whatever you’re moved to share today.

What’s something you’re struggling with these days?

What helps you persevere?

Where do you find beauty (or try to)?

Share something of beauty you’ve seen, heard, read, been inspired by, or even just imagined.

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready. Free or paid, I appreciate you.

Thank you for reading.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

Thank you for being here to help me mark time again. I keep marking time publicly, not to garner sympathy, but as a way to raise real awareness, not the superficial kind, about a life-changing and still too often deadly disease.

I invite you to share in the comments who you mark time for. Let’s talk about poetry a bit, too.

But first, that important reminder…

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you value this conversation, restacking indicates you want to encourage others to read my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three.

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18 Years

Marking time again and a poem, too

This month marks 18 years since my mother died from metastatic breast cancer. It’s been 18 years since I saw her face and heard her voice.

My mother was not a "loser" of a battle. Cancer is not a military campaign. She didn't die because she didn't stay positive or try hard enough. She didn't fail treatments. Treatments failed her.

Despite headlines suggesting outcomes are better, the bottom line is this: the number of deaths from MBC has remained constant at 40,000+ each year in the U.S. alone.

Roughly 42,000+ more deaths are expected in 2026.

20-30% of early-stage breast cancers will metastasize, sometimes decades later.

Around 6% of breast cancer cases are stage 4 at diagnosis, also known as de nova. For those diagnosed with stage 4, there will be no cure, and treatment (often with horrendous side effects) will be ongoing.

Doesn’t sound much like the “good cancer”, does it?

My advocacy in Cancer Land always circles back to my mother. It is, and always has been, more about her than me—more about advocating for those dealing with MBC.

Along with early detection, MBC is where the focus of breast cancer advocacy should be. It’s not about pink, pink ribbons, or t-shirts with sassy sayings.

Answers will only come through research. (The Trump administration’s massive cuts to cancer research have, and will continue to have, harmful consequences for decade to come. This needs to be said.)

We can and must do better.

Thank you to for encouraging me to write poetry. I’m not good at it. (Which is okay. One needn’t be good at something to do it.) In fact, writing poetry scares me a little, but I’ll keep trying. Also, thank you to and who, along with Beth, are genuine poets. These Lovelies inspire me not only because of their commitment to writing poetry, but also because they are compassionate and generous souls who lift up others with their creative words and art.

I’m grateful to be part of a Substack community filled with so many wonderful writers, poets, and artists. And, of course, I’m grateful to each and every reader who stops by this space as well.

Thank you for receiving my marking-time poem with an open heart. Let me know how it lands for you, should you decide to in the comments.

18 years

18 years

Since I saw your face

18 years

Since I heard your voice

18 years

Am I starting to forget?

18 years

Since your suffering ended

18 years

A lifetime ago

18 years

Feels like yesterday

18 years

Of missing you

18 years

I’ve forgotten nothing

18 years

Forever in my heart

Who do YOU mark time for?

Does writing poetry scare you, too, and if so, why do you think this is?

Do you have a poem you’ve written that you’d like to share? (or a link to one)

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready. Free or paid, I appreciate you.

NOTE: A portion of profits from all my books and this Substack is donated annually to METAvivor.org—an organization dedicated to research specific to metastatic breast cancer.

Learn about my books HERE.

Thank you for supporting this advocacy.

Thank you for helping me mark time. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

Thank you for being here. Whether this is your first time stopping by or whether you’re a free or paid subscriber, I appreciate you.

Has anyone ever expressed disappointment in you—as a writer, as a person, or in any way at all?

It stings, doesn’t it?

Let’s talk about when others are disapppointed in us and how it makes us feel. I also want to know when you last ‘stepped out of your lane’ and what happened when/if you did.

But first…

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you value this conversation, restacking indicates you think others should read my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three.

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“Stay in your lane.”

In other words, keep quiet. (I won’t be doing either. You?)

“Miss Schuldheisz, I’m very disappointed in you.”

Those were the words I heard Mr. Rommel, my high school French teacher, say to me after calling me to his desk to express his disappointment in how poorly I’d done on my freshman French final. Okay, I’d done worse than poorly; I’d failed it.

To this day, I feel badly about how French class went down. But that’s a story for another day. (I wrote about it in my book EMERGING.)

Pretty sure as kids we all heard a teacher, parent, or other adult start off a reprimand directed at us using similar words. It never feels good to hear you’ve been a disappointment, right?

When you’re a writer and someone expresses disappointment in what you write, it can really sting, too. After all, we writers, many of us anyway, are a sensitive lot.

Below are a few comments I received a few years back after I wrote about Black Lives Matter on my old blog (titled Nancy’s Point, too). This was shortly after the murder of George Floyd, another time of great unrest in Minneapolis. Rightfully so.

“Jumping into a political stew like this is way outside any lane I would expect for Nancy’s Point, even if the intent is to raise awareness of and express support for breast cancer treatment in Black communities.” (That last part sounds a wee bit like it’s coming from a white privilege point of view, does it not?)

“I didn’t sign up to read your political views.” (Okay… that’s why there’s an unsubscribe button.)

“I’m disappointed in this.” (Meaning me.)

“This is not the venue for a such a political hot potato.” (Wow. Outright audacity.)

You get the drift. I should stay in my lane. Just write about breast cancer. Keep my opinions on other stuff to myself. Stop speaking up. In others words, unless it’s breast cancer related, KEEP QUIET.

Those unhappy earlier readers preferred I ‘stay’ the person they’d defined me in their own minds to be. In other words, stay familiar.

Of course, most readers were fine with me not staying in my lane, and if they weren’t, chose to stay quiet when I ‘stepped out of it’ or they stopped reading without making a fuss.

All reactions are totally within any reader’s prerogative. It’s just fascinating when some are bold enough to express outright disappointment. Which, when I think about it, is both good and bad. I mean, I want honesty. I welcome it. But honest reaction feels a bit different than judgment or the suggestion I should keep quiet.

After my recent essays—Anger, ICE, and Minnesota Nice and Don’t Mess with Grandma(s), I lost a fair number of subscribers, I also received a message or two similar to the ones of disapproval above, though not any as ‘pointed’ as those. Thus far, they’ve been way kinder.

Advocacy is often an uncomfortable role. (e.g. I’m uncomfortable calling my elected representatives, but I still do it, script in hand.) You put yourself out there. You write stuff. You say stuff. You take risks. You do stuff you perhaps wouldn’t normally do. You support others who are doing the same work or way more uncomfortable stuff than you are.

You know sometimes you’ll say and do the wrong things, but you keep at it. You keep trying because the reason you’re advocating is so much bigger than you.

Being an advocate in Pink Ribbon Fantasy Land was hard at first. It took me a while to find my footing, to find my voice. Pushing back on the rah-rah cancer makes you a better person sort of narrative made me uncomfortable at first. It no longer does. Well, not as much anyway.

I am comfortable in my own breast cancer advocacy skin now. I take pride in calling myself a Cancer Rebel.

I am not a political writer. I’m not yet quite comfortable in the let’s-save-our-democracy advocacy role, but this does not mean I should or will stay quiet.

I was born in and grew up in the Midwest. I still live there. I was raised in Madelia, Minnestoa, which is part of the reason my last two essays almost wrote themselves. There were no Black people living in Madelia, that I knew of anyway. There were Hispanics, and yes, I remember hearing disparaging comments made about them from time to time. I like to think I spoke up in their defense when hearing such comments; but honestly, I’m not proud to admit it, I don’t remember if I did.

I remember the Civil Rights Movement and vaguely recall George Wallace being on TV saying Lord knows what. I remember listening to Walter Cronkite talk about desegregation, busing, and various other stuff that was hard to make sense of as a kid. I never understood why some white kids’ parents didn’t want black kids in their kids’ schools. Or Hispanic kids. There was a lot I didn’t understand. There still is.

I never had to worry about a lot of stuff because I was born white. White privilege is real, and there’s no need to get defensive about this fact. (Stephen Miller and the likes of him can just fuck off.)

There is much I do not understand about the non-white person’s experience in America because my experience is not the same as anyone’s, much less that of a black or brown person. Or any non-white person.

An eye-opening (for some anyway) piece on this topic is one I read recently titled, 5 Things White People Should Stop Saying Right Now, by .

But this old woman is here, and she is listening. There is a lot I cannot do. But there are some things I can do and one of those things is to write, and when I write about stuff, I will pick whatever darn lane I choose. I will not be boxed in. Even if this goes against often heard advice for growing your Substack. (More on this soon.)

I can be uncomfortable. I can make mistakes. I can do better and encourage others to do better too. I don’t have to have all the answers, or even any answers at all. I defintely do not have to be quiet. Neither do you.

Because unless you’re in a library or a movie theater, when did staying quiet help anyone?

Quiet women didn’t get us the right to vote. Angry, loud ones who definitely did not stay in their lane, accomplished that. And a whole lot more.

I intend to follow the lead of women (and men) who sometimes, maybe even more often than not, choose NOT to stay in their lane.

What about you?

YOUR turn. The following questions are merely meant to be prompts. Share whatever’s on your mind.

Tell me about a time someone said to you, “I’m so disappointed in you”.

Has anyone ever told you to stay in your lane or suggested you should, and if so, what was your reaction?

As a writer and/or a reader, do you have a defined lane you generally stick to?

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready. Free or paid, I appreciate you.

Subscribing not for you? No worries. Leave me a one-time tip and know you are doing something meaningful to support independent writing!

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Read more about that failed French class exam, finding a gentler path forward following trauma, and ditching the expectation that surviving trauma makes you a better person in my latest book: EMERGING: Stories from the Other Side of a Cancer Diagnosis, Loss, and a Pandemic.

Thank you for reading.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

Thank you for being here and welcome new subscribers!

It dawned on me (duh) that new readers are unfamiliar with my backstory. You know, the cancery parts. Long-time readers have heard some of it as I blogged about my cancer experience for a dozen years. Going forward, I’ll be sharing bits and pieces of that backstory. This essay is one piece.

February is a loaded month holding many cancer reminders and memories. Today, I’m telling you about one of them—the day the Birthday Intruder barged into my life and changed it forever.

I’m looking forward to hearing about a birthday memory—good or bad—you will never forget. As always, you’re invited to share in the comments.

But first, a favor…

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Birthday Intruder

Have you ever hosted a party and someone you had not invited (and never would) showed up?

Maybe this is a bad analogy, but let’s go with it…

Every year, even way into my adulthood, my mother would start asking me in early January, “Nancy, when would you like to celebrate your birthday this year?”

Next to Christmas, family birthdays came next in the important occasions to celebrate category for my mother. Most years, I traveled home to my parents’ house to celebrate mine. I’m sure there were a few years when traveling in February was quite hazardous, but usually I managed to make it sometime around my birthday.

February 1, 2004, was no different except for some reason we'd switched things up and my parents were traveling to my house that year to celebrate my forty-somethingish birthday. They didn’t come. Instead, my mother called me early that morning to tell me she had discovered a lump in her breast.

That was the beginning of her cancer experience, therefore, the beginning of mine as well.

The uninvited Intruder to my birthday party had arrived. I didn’t know it at the time, but that Intruder was here to stay.

It seems ironic that cancer slithered into my mother’s life, and therefore into mine, on my birthday. I have often thought about this, irrationally concluding cancer was trying to make some kind of statement back then, and I just didn’t hear it. Maybe it was a warning, an omen, and I missed it.

Of course, such thoughts are ridiculous, but cancer messes with your mind, too, making it ripe for nonsensical thoughts to formulate and grow. Just ask anyone you know who’s been diagnosed with cancer. They will likely agree.

Cancer cannot plot against us. I did not have a crystal ball allowing me to look into my future. And even if I had, would I have wanted to look?

Would I have wanted to know what was in store for me a couple years down the road?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Would you want to know if a cancer diagnosis (or something else) lurked in your future?

Another memory that sticks in my mind about that particular birthday, is hearing my mother say, “Nancy, I’m so sorry you will have to remember this every year on your birthday from now on.”

Mothers like to fix things, not be the source of unsolvable problems. She felt guilty my birthday was forever tarnished, and in her eyes, she had been the one to tarnish it.

Well, I do think about that birthday every year now. I think about the uninvited guest Intruder that showed up and never went away. I think about a lot of things.

How could I not?

You might think remembering all this stuff only makes me sad, but you’d be wrong. Remembering that birthday in some ways makes me feel even more connected to my mother. It also makes me miss her more. We could’ve done a helluva lot of cancer commiserating. At the same time, I also feel relief she never had to learn about my diagnosis.

Remembering all the birthdays we celebrated through the years, mine and those of other family members as well, makes me feel lucky. We got to do a lot of celebrating together. Not everybody’s family gets to do that. Or even wants to.

For the most part, I am delighted to be getting old. I look forward to more birthdays. It won’t be that many more years until I am the age my mother was when she died from metastatic breast cancer.

Each birthday now reminds me of that Februray Intruder birthday, yes, but each one also presents an opportunity to embrace another new year, hopefully rich with more celebrations and memories in the making. I don’t intend to take any of it for granted.

But I won’t be giving cancer credit for teaching me not to take that for granted, or anything else, for that matter. Cancer is a horrible disease not an enlightenment program. Except for meeting some wonderful people, I will never give cancer credit for “gifting” me anything other than heartache and upheaval.

That uninvited Intruder is still lurking around all these years later, but I push it away from my ‘party’ every chance I get.

Here’s to lots more birthdays—for me and for you, too.

Your turn to share! Let’s talk about birthdays, cyrstal balls, or whatever’s on your mind.

What was the best birthday you ever had—or the worst?

If you had a crystal ball and could see into your future (good and bad parts), would you look?

Portions of this essay were previously published on my former website.

Another birthday essay you might want to read is this one: When does one become old anyway? Am I old now? (Probably). I hesitated to publish it, but it turned out to be one of my most-read pieces thus far.

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready.

I wrote candidly about my experience as a co-caregiver for my mother during her illness as well as about my own breast cancer experience in my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person. Learn more here.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

Update: Liam Ramos and his father were released from a detention center in Dilley, TX and returned to Minneapolis a few days after this article was published. (Yay for we the people making noise!) Shortly thereafter, the Trump administration went foward with plans to deport again, but after a hearing on Friday, February 6, Liam and his family were granted a continuance to stay in the US while they continue seeking assylum—a legal process.

Typically, I don’t publish back-to-back weeks, but after reading Ally Hamilton’s essay last week about the children, specifically Liam Ramos, the five-year-old boy snatched by ICE and sent to TX titled, Not Good Enough, I couldn’t get Liam out of my mind.

I struggled with the title (to my essay) and what images to use as I didn’t want to come across as non-serious. (We still need to smile while we grieve and rage.) I struggled pushing the publish button for the same reason.

Are you struggling too?

What’s going on in the US is no longer about politics; it’s about morals. Addressing every wrong in one essay is impossible. Deciding who or what to stand up for at any given moment is hard. Overwhelm is real.

Today, I choose the children. I choose Liam.

Accept this piece for whatever it brings to your heart today.

Thank you for being here.

Let’s have a conversation about how we will not stand for the snatching of our children—whether you’re a grandma or not.

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Don’t Mess with Grandma(s)

Or anyone who cares about the children

When I was a kid, the story about me as a newborn baby was told and retold. I was daughter #3, born in the dead of winter to parents who were already raising a four-year-old and an eighteen-month-old. The latter still very much a baby.

My dad had landed a new teaching job in Madelia, Minnesota, and my parents wisely decided my mother and sisters would wait for my arrival with Grandma and Grandpa in Park River, ND, about 400 miles away.

I arrived on February 1, and the story went that I didn’t stop crying for six weeks. Fussy. Colicy. Yep, that was me—difficult. Everyone in the household, including Grandpa and my mom’s little sister (my Aunt Betty), had to take their turns holding, swaddling, rocking, just trying to console me. This went on around the clock. Maybe that was an exaggeration. Or maybe not. It does make for a better story, so who knows.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about this story every time I heard it. Should I feel bad about having been such a challenging infant or take pride in the fact I was ‘a lot’ from day one?

At some point after those six weeks, Grandma and Grandpa drove my mother, sisters, and I back to Madelia. This, of course, was before things like CB radios in cars, much less cell phones, seatbelts, or even carseats. What a roadtrip that must’ve been. But we made it. Yes, of course, we did. Grandma and Grandpa were in charge.

After staying for a few days, or weeks (I forgot to ask), Grandma and Grandpa hopped in their car to head back to ND. As my mother retold in the story countless times, they made it as far as the railroad tracks at the edge of town before deciding to turn around.

The point of me telling you this story is Grandma and Grandpa went back to help because Grandma was worried about my mother handling three little ones all by herself while my dad was at school all day. Grandma knew what to do. Grandma always knew what to do, or so I believed, and actually, I still do.

Women know what to do, and when we don’t, we figure it out. Women have been trying to figure shit out forever, but we’ve always intuitively known we’d didn’t have to do this figuring out part alone.

We’re good at getting together, supporting one another, talking things over, making plans, rolling up our sleeves, and getting to work. Women have always had to lean on one another, you might say, because our very survival has depended on it.

Women are survivors and always have been.

Which brings me to the reason I wrote this essay.

Something shifted after the shooting of Renee Good took place in broad daylight in a Minneapolis neighborhood that early January morning. A mom who’d just dropped off her son at school. A stuffed toy spilling out and a dog in the back seat. Good’s last words. The screams. The fucking bitch profanity. It was all documented. We watched the videos. No matter what the story spinners tried to tell us, we knew what happened because we saw it with our own eyes.

We saw and thought, enough. This is so wrong.

Then we heard about the taking of a little boy named Liam Ramos. The images of him standing there wearing a bunny-eared stocking cap and Spider Man backpack cut right to our hearts. He didn’t look anything at all like a dangerous criminal in need of immediate round up and detention, in TX no less.

We saw, and again thought, enough. This is so wrong.

Some of us took to our keyboards. Some of us took to the streets, some of us did both, and some of us found other ways to express and to act.

Women linked arms, as women often do. Substack writers got to work churning out essays that are literally helping to keep me, and maybe you as well, sane. Of course, I’m not really talking about just women. Men stepped up, too, to link arms with us, and we love them for it. But with women—moms, grandmas, teachers and administrators, aunts, cousins, friends—something transpired. It was a feeling, more of a gutteral response, that welled up. A battle cry was reawakened. One that says we are done.

We are done being quiet.

Or maybe it’s not so much that we’re done being quiet, as we’ve never truly been that. It’s more that we intend to get ‘louder’. Feistier. More emboldened and more non-compliant.

More of who and what we were always meant to be.

One reason Liam’s story impacted me so deeply was because I have two grandsons who are about the same age as Liam. One just turned four and one soon will. Every time I see that photo of Liam, I think of my grandsons.

If it had been one of them snatched, I would be making so damn much noise. I would be anything but quiet. I would’ve probably headed straight to TX. Sure, I wouldn’t have known exactly what to do and how to do it when I got there, but I would’ve figured it out. I would’ve looked for, and hopefully found, other women also making noise to help me figure it out.

Because that’s what grandmas do. That’s what women do.

This essay is me making noise for Liam. And the other children detained or afraid they will be. Sure, it’s a small thing, a small noise. But small actions and noises count, too.

I could go on and on as there are so many layers to the Renee Good story and to Liam’s and to the stories of every person in Minnesota who’s been wrongfully impacted by the chaos caused by Trump’s personal gestapo.

The news is complicated and messy with so much shit happening every day it’s impossible to keep up. On Saturday, ICU nurse Alex Pretti was murdered by ICE or CBP agents while being a good Samaritan. It looked like an execution because it was. There’s really no other way to see it.

American citizens are being gunned down in the streets by their own governement.

Enough. This is so wrong.

The smearing of Pretti's character began within hours of his death with unforgivable lies spewed from DHS officials. But the smear campaign didn't work because Americans aren’t stupid. The backlash was swift, remains strong, and is driving disconnect even within the GOP ranks. Will there be meaningful ‘recalibration’? Who knows.

Time will tell, and Americans are watching. Actually, the whole world is watching.

Back to Liam.

We cannot look away when they TAKE CHILDREN. If we do, we’ve not become great again, far from it. We’ve become lost.

As Ally Hamiltom wrote:

They’re taking children. They’re shooting mothers in cold blood. They’ve decided The Fourth Amendment doesn’t apply to anyone whose door ICE decides to break down. Our friends in Minnesota are afraid to leave their houses, or they’re dropping off groceries to their neighbors who are afraid to leave the house, or they’re opting for zoom school because they’re taking children now. I don’t know how to stop thinking about Liam Ramos. That sweet little face. Five years old. He must want his mom so much. He must be so scared. He should be cuddled up with her, reading a book. He should be warm and cozy. His poor mom must be wild with worry.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Liam either. Or the others who’ve been taken. When they take children—mine, yours, anyone’s—we shouldn’t stop thinking about them. We cannot look away.

Never look away.

Stand up for truth. Make noise. Figure out one or two things you can do and then do them. If you’re unsure or need ideas about what to do, find a woman to ask.

When thugs take children, a line has been crossed. So many lines have already been crossed.

Grandmas, women, (and men) are watching. We will not look away, and we will be anything but quiet.

At a loss as to what to do?

Click the link for a list of where to donate if you’d like to Stand with Minnesota (via )

Lastly, if you’re feeling stressed out by the news and who isn’t, I’ll leave you with the two quotes below that help me feel better. Maybe they’ll help you, too.

Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you. - Anne Lamott

(Reminder to take care of YOU. Needing to step away or uplug, doesn’t mean you don’t care, it means you care too much.)

You never know when you are about to win. - Dr. Timothy Snyder.

(He was speaking about non-violent resistance efforts of the past as a reminder for us to keep going.)

Now, let’s have a conversation about the children. Also, I’d love to hear about your grandma, or any woman, who impacted your life in a big way. The following questions are just prompts. Share whatever’s on your mind.

Are you struggling?

How do you keep going?

What was your reaction when you heard about Liam?

Do you feel something is shifting in the country?

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, be a light, and keep going.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

I hadn’t planned on writing an essay about anger, especially not in January, but sometimes you don’t pick the topic, the topic picks you.

I was raised in rural Minnesota and later lived in a Twin Cities suburb for three decades. The state is near and dear to me. It still feels like home. So yeah, the stuff that’s been going on there feels personal. And I am angry. Damn angry.

I know, I know. Feeling angry can be exhausting. Embracing anger might sound crazy, but that’s what I’m doing. Maybe you’ll decide to lean into your yours, too. Or not. You decide.

Either way, let’s talk about anger.

You’re vital to every conversation here, so be sure to share your thoughts in the comments. If you live outside the US, I would love to hear from you, too.

First, that important reminder:

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you value this conversation, restacking indicates you think others should read my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three.

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Anger, ICE, and Minnesota Nice

Maybe our collective anger is what will save us

Are you tired of feeling angry?

Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been angry (politically speaking) since November 2016. There has been PLENTY to be angry about. Sure, there were some days, even weeks, of respite when Biden was in the White House after winning in 2020. But who can forget the horrors of January 6th following that election and all the stolen election bullshit talk that continues to this day?

We couldn’t get a break from feeling angry during the Biden administration either.

I don’t need to list out every anger-inducing action (or non-action), event, or Supreme Court decision that has taken place over the last decade. (Some attributed to Biden, too. No free pass for him.) You and I lived through it. Besides, we don’t have all day.

My friend Liz Flaherty wrote an excellent piece about this litany, some of it anyway; so give her a visit when you get a minute. Her essay is titled, It’s Not a Secret—Ourbursts from the Cornfields. (I love that title, don’t you?) She wrote this piece before January 7, mind you.

Like Liz, I don’t consider myself to be a political writer either. Also like Liz, I guess I am ‘radical left scum’ and do not mind the label one bit.

I have plenty of opinions, so maybe these days any writer with a platform, big or small, can be (should be?) a political writer—including me.

This is one reason why I was annoyed the other day when I read a piece from a big-name Substack writer who basically said all the anger-laden essays being churned out are pointless and a waste of time. Instead, we need to throw sand in the gears of The Machine in order to slow it down and ultimately stop it.

If you think venting is a waste of time, too, maybe stop reading right now. If, like me, you believe in the power of a good rant, you’re one of my people.

I agree anger is not enough, but it’s a start. Anger is the pilot light of advocacy. Once that pilot light goes out, we’re doomed. That’s how I see it anyway. We need to hang onto our collective anger and then do something with it, too, of course. For some of us, that’s writing—including writing about anger and what exactly we’re angry about.

2026 started right where 2025 left off—with more stuff to be or get angry about.

Political divisions widening and deepening. An administration taking risky, controversial actions in Venezuela by capturing its president and his wife. Idiotic, non-sensical threats to take over Greenland. Stephen Miller sounding completing unhinged while not just repeating such threats, but ramping up even further the bully tactics of this administration regarding takeovers of sovereign countries. On top of that, RFK created confusion by taking a hatchet to the number of vaccine recommendations previously in place making children less safe.

And then, on January 7, still only ONE WEEK into the new year, an ICE agent murdered Renee Nicole Good, a mother of three, right there on the streets of Minneapolis while she was in her car about to drive away. This happened literally moments after I published my essay about embracing slow, quiet, and ease in the new year.

Oh, the irony. (Nonetheless, I intend to keep trying to embrace these things.)

As the day went on, and it didn’t take long, we’re talking minutes, the talking points (lies) from the leadership on the right were seemingly baked in, or more like cemented in.

As you well know, we were told the ICE agent who shot a woman in cold blood was just doing the job he was trained for (raising serious questions about said training) and couldn’t possibly be in the wrong because he was defending himself from being run over. Secretary Kristi Noem (the puppy killer) made a ridiculous speech, even for her, reiterating the fault was with the ‘rioters’ and the decision Renee Good made to drive off after trying to ram her car into him. (Videos prove no ramming happened.) She went even further calling Good a domestic terrorist.

By the next day, VP Vance was on TV also lying about what had happened and putting the blame squarely on the dead woman’s shoulders. How convenient. Blame the dead woman. Again, the VP blatantly lied about what the facts were. That’s our VP. A liar.

We all saw what happened. We watched the videos. We heard the screams. We heard the physician who was there ask to check on the woman. (He was not allowed to.)

And yet, no legitimate investigation is happening.

It immediately reminded me, and probably you as well, of Janurary 6th. On that day five years ago, I had just walked in the door after my mid-day walk and had sat down to enjoy my lunch. I turned on the TV and watched in disbelief and horror as I saw actual rioters invade and desecrate the Captiol. I was sick to my stomach. Scared. And yes, angry.

I saw with my own eyes what happened. We all did and no amount of retelling, reshaping, or spinning of the story to fit a different narrative will change the truth about what really happened that day.

Truth lives on, and it always will, but only if those of us who witnessed the events of that day keep speaking truth about what we saw.

Anger—it’s okay to feel it AND hang onto it.

In Cancer Land, especially in Breast Cancer Land, anger is one of those frowned upon emotions. It’s much preferred that you keep smiling and keep angry feelings underwrap. Anger doesn’t pair well with pink ribbons and such. Good patients, especially female ones, shouldn’t be angry, or at least not too angry for too long.

We’ll talk more about cancer anger another day, but I had to share the following quote about anger from Margaret Young, a brilliant woman I came to know through her writings and our shared advocacy work. Margaret died from metastatic breast cancer in 2022.

I will never forget the following words Margaret wrote about anger:

I will still defend everyone’s right to remain angry and bitter right to the end. You don’t have to ever let go of those. They can burn in a little corner and flare up whenever you want. It’s ok to keep them. And not just keep them—I mean really keep them. I’m tending mine carefully, feeding them little tidbits regularly and letting them out to scream and whine occasionally.

I love that because though Margaret was writing about cancer-related anger, her words also speak to the anger many of us feel today regarding politics and our fraying democracy.

(I also love that quote because as a cancer survivor, I've been called angry and bitter. So be it. More about that another day.)

Anger is not a bad emotion. It can be a great motivator. Sure, no one should stay angry all the time and violence is never an option, but like Margaret said, go ahead and keep some anger burning. Tend to it, feed it regularly, and let it out to scream now and then. I guess that's what this rant is—a scream I'm letting out.

I mean, if this isn't a good time for ‘screaming’, I don't know when is.

I have no intention of letting the ‘anger embers’ listed below burn out. No, I will feed them and tend to them lest I forget or become numb. (I encourage you to write down a few of your ‘anger embers’ too.)

• I’m angry people in power try to tell us what we really saw—that we should not believe our own eyes.

• I'm angry, but not surprised, an innocent woman was murdered and then blamed for her own death. Blame the woman is not an unfamiliar narrative.

• I'm angry the press didn’t/doesn’t push back harder when Vance (and others) lie again and again claiming to know exactly what happened before the investigation is completed, heck before it had even started. (Again, now there isn’t even going to be one.)

• I’m angry and repulsed to hear Renee Good's shooter called her a fucking bitch. That right there tells us a whole lot about a different sort of anger and mindset—a particularly ugly kind—the she deserved it ugly kind. Women everywhere are angry about this.

• I'm angry ICE was in my hometown (Madelia, MN) last week, and I am proud that the small community of my roots witnessed, stood up, and made noise in opposition.

• I’m angry active-duty soldiers have been put on standby for possible deployment in Minnesota. Active-duty soldiers to be used against civilians. Like me. Like you. Let that sink in.

• I'm angry Trump has been given a free pass for years and completely disregards rules, norms, and laws with zero consequences.

• I'm angry Trump was voted into office not once but twice.

• I'm angry the country couldn't bring itself to vote for a qualified, good woman. Not once but twice.

• I’m angry the Epstein files are still not released and that powerful, rich men continue to be protected. (It feels like there is a common thread here between this and how Renee Good is being treated, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I do know it has to with femaleness.)

• I'm angry there's so much to be angry about and that I often feel like there's nothing I can do to help fix this mess.

But…

Never forget that you and I are NOT powerless.

When anger and frustration get to be too much, I remember and reflect upon the words of Timothy Snyder that go something like this:

No one is coming to save us. It has to be us.

I'm disappointed we have to do this saving work, but we will do it. Together.

We the people.

Yes, we the people will do it.

How?

Sure, we will write letters and make calls. We will vote, recruit others to vote, protest, donate, and support one another as well as independent journalism and independent writing. We should and will do all these things.

But perhaps the most important thing each of us can do is be a witness to truth. Every day.

We the people must stand up for truth. And we must do it again and again.

Again, how?

Journal. Take notes. Create and keep a record. Record on your phone stuff that looks shady, and then report it if need be. Call out lies. Share truth. Defend truth. Demand that your elected leaders do the same even though it’s a pain in the ass to keep calling them to remind them to do their job. Start conversations. Watch out for your neighbors. Remain peaceful but not silent, and as Timothy Snyder reminds us, do not obey in advance.

When you’re tired, step away. Rest. Watch Netflix. Bake. Cook. Create art. Create anything. Dig in the dirt (or snow). Read. Get outside. Walk the dog. Offer to walk your neighbor’s dog. Ready yourself for the next day and the day after that.

And…

Believe. Believe the future will be better. Envision it. Not in a Pollyanaish sort of way. No, definitely not like that. Know it's going to get better because you and I are going to help make it better by doing tiny things that end up being not that tiny at all.

There’s a phrase describing Minnesotans that gets tossed around now and then, maybe you’ve heard it—Minnesota nice. Sometimes, rather than as a compliment, it’s used in a belittling sort of way. As if being nice is quaint, but not very worldly.

To me it means Minnesotans look out for one another whether it be shoveling a neighbor’s sidewalk after a snowstorm, offering a ride or a meal to someone in need, donating time or money, or choosing to not look the other way when we see injustices happening in our communities and in yours, too.

It’s why I stand with Minnesota; I hope you will too.

Keep doing what you can when you can, and keep your anger burning.

The latter just might be the thing that saves us.

I'll wrap up with a quote from Margaret Mead because it seems so fitting:

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.

If you feel my essay has value, thank you for restacking and considering becoming a paid subscriber when you feel ready.

YOUR turn. The following questions are merely meant to be prompts. Share whatever’s on your mind.

How do you feel about the ICE-related stuff going on in MN and across the country?

On a scale of 1-10, how angry are you feeling today?

What is one small (or big) thing you will do to be a witness and/or to take action? Let’s brainstorm ideas.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

NOTE: If you prefer to listen, click play on article voiceover at the top of this essay. Let me know if you like this option.

Happy New Year! 🎉 A warm welcome to new subscribers and a big thank you to those who opted to upgrade to paid last month. Free or paid, I appreciate you.

Just a few days into 2026, are you feeling a bit (or a lot) overwhelmed already?

Whether you answered yes, no, or not yet, I’m happy you’re here. My intention is not to make this yet another one of those resolution-making, self-improvement, or how-to-fix-everything posts. Plenty of those are floating in and out of our inboxes and feeds this time of year.

Rather, my intention is to talk about how you and I carry ourselves, flaws and all, into the new year while perhaps embracing a different approach—one focused on slow, quiet, and ease. One that reduces overwhelm. (Hopefully)

So let’s do it. Let’s talk about new years and new beginnings with no pressure to fix anything, especially ourselves.

First…

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you value conversations we have, restacking indicates you think others might enjoy reading my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three!

You doing any or all of these things feels like a gift from you to me, so thank you in advance.

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Avoiding overwhelm in the new year

Is it even possible?

Have you ever wondered why so many people think fast and loud are better than slow and quiet?

Remember the kid in your class who without fail finished every assignment first, then walked up to the teacher’s desk, and proudly deposited it in the hand-in basket first? Sometimes, even the teacher was annoyed. (I know. I was one.)

The rest of the class (or maybe it was just me) rolled our eyes at the predictability of it, knowing full well ‘first’ would never be in the cards for the rest of us.

Unless it’s an actual race, why is faster/first so often perceived as being better?

And loud… think about presidential debates for a second. Who was loud? Who was most often talked over?

Was loud an indictor of who would be a better president?

I think not.

‘Slow’ and ‘quiet’ are often viewed as not as good as ‘fast’ and ‘loud’ but rather as less than.

What does this have to do with starting a new year and overwhelm?

Let’s figure it out.

I haven’t made resolutions in years. I don’t pick guide words either. Why would I want to box myself in? Just because a resolution or a few words motivate me today doesn’t mean they will tomorrow.

Don’t get me wrong, I realize it is meaningful for many people to make resolutions and pick guide words. I respect that. I’ve just never found doing either to be particularly helpful.

Even picking guide words feels like too big a task—for me and for those chosen words, too. How do I decide which word(s) would best anchor me for an entire year?

Isn’t that a lot to expect from a word or two? (And from me?)

Deciding which diet food plan to follow, what exercise routine might work this time, determining which closets and drawers are in most need of organizing, where to even start decluttering, figuring out and sticking to a writing schedule, or whatever the heck it might be you think you should start doing starts to feel overwhelming pretty quickly because it is.

Bottom line, overwhelm can set in well before the end of January, and we all know what that often leads to—giving up—or worse—self-loathing, to one degree or another.

I like goal setting better. Somewhat anyway. Goals are things to shoot for, and they’re far more forgiving, which is a nice bonus. With goal setting little steps count, and perfection isn’t required; just progress, restating, adjusting, or even starting over.

Goal setting feels less demanding, and goals can be set with less fanfare—slowly and quietly.

I was pretty happy to see 2025 end. It became overwhelming almost immediately when our Titus died unexpectedly on January 6. In early February, Husband ended up in the ER and then the hospital with a serious health issue. (He's doing okay now.) One of my siblings was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer that same month. We made a bid on our retirement dream house but didn’t get it. (Long, disappointing story.) Best Mother-in-Law-Ever died in October, as did my cousin in a horrific accident that I am still processing. And who can overlook (sadly, a lot of people can) the moral decline of many of our country’s leaders and nearly an entire political party. Ugh.

2025 was a lot for many, including me; perhaps it was for you, as well.

Good things happened, too, of course. After all, every year is a conglomeration of good and bad with good hopefully outweighing bad, most years anyway.

I'm not about to tell you how YOU should ease into the new year, but below are a few ways I plan to embrace slow, quiet, and ease in 2026. Let me know if any speak to you and if you have interest in implementing any too.

1. Every day will begin with morning coffee. No rushing. No interruptions. Nothing else gets done before I savor those quiet moments anyway. It isn’t even so much about the coffee, it’s the ritual itself that matters. Choosing which mug to use and when it’s filled, feeling the warmth of that mug in my hands. Anticipating the first sip. Enjoying conversation with Husband before we get the boisterous pup up. Waiting for daylight to silently unfold like a tiny miracle every morning. Literally, beginning each day with slow, quiet, and ease matters quite a lot in determining how the entire day will go. It sets the tone.

2. I will try to squeeze in movement EVERY day. Doing so helps everything else fall into place. We all know how important movement (okay, exercise) is regardless of your age, weight, health, cancer treatment status, or whatever. We need to move; we want to move. But doing it, or getting back into the routine of doing it post holidays, isn’t always easy. If all I feel up to is sitting in a chair and taking deep breaths in and exhaling them out, I'll start with that. Most days, I will choose a walk. And yes, a slow walk will be fine.

3. I pledge to find time every day to do things I enjoy—including doing nothing at all. A day without doing a thing or two (or more) that you enjoy isn’t going to feel satisfying anyway, no matter how much other stuff you get done, right?

4. I’ll tackle the stuff I don’t like or want to do in small chunks and not be discouraged (too much) when I procrastinate or end up not getting to that stuff at all. Besides, most things can wait. Productivity isn’t the priority; presence is.

5. I will practice kindness every day starting with being kinder to myself. Less body judgment and shaming, and instead, more self-acceptance and gratitude for an old woman’s body that’s still functioning reasonably well after going through a helluva a lot. I’ll try being more mindful of what I’m eating, too; but again, no judgment and definitely no deprivation.

6. I intend to embrace slowness. For example, since chemo, I read slowly as concentration often remains challenging. No goal for me to read 50 books, or even 25 in 2026. I will read as many as I get to. I will savor slow, thoughtful reading with no concern for how many books I read. Also, if I don’t like a book, or if the timing just isn't right for me to read it, I will stop reading. Because I can.

7. Making and maintaining deeper connections with people I care about, including you, Dear Reader, is definitely something I want to foster. Relationships require quiet tending to—often best done with slowness and ease.

8. I will write because I’m a writer. It’s as simple as that, really. No judgment on how often, how much, or even what I write about. I am a Cancer Rebel and have decided to be a Substack Rebel, too. (More on that soon.)

Each of us brings with us into the new year our flaws and challenges—in other words —our baggage. The struggles of last year don’t disappear with the changing of a calendar. (Does anyone have actual wall calendars anymore?)

We’re all different in how we approach a new year. So make resolutions. Or don’t. Choose guide words. Or don’t. Make goals. Or don’t. Embrace slow, quiet, and ease. Or don’t.

Whatever you do or don’t do, remember you are worthy just as you are. No makeover, no fixing required.

Yes, believe it!

Believing the above truth reduces overwhelm immediately, does it not?

Finally, thank you, Dear Reader, for reading my ramblings in 2025. Your support of my writing, whether it be as a free or paid subscriber, is a gift of encouragement to me as a writer and as a person.

This community is richer because of your presence. You inspire me every time you share pieces of your story with a comment. Again, thank you.

No matter where the new year takes us, let’s tackle it together.

My hope for the new year is simple:

May 2026 be kinder to you. May it be kinder to us all.

If you enjoyed this essay, thank you for restacking and considering being a paid subscriber when you feel ready.

YOUR turn. Share your thoughts with a comment below.

Do you make resolutions, choose guide words, or set goals as you start the new year? (why or why not?)

What is one way you will try to avoid overwhelm in 2026?

As we begin 2026, what does choosing slow, quiet, and ease mean to you (if anything)?

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.

P.S. In case you’re interested, here’s an earlier essay I wrote about Overwhelm.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say. I can’t wait for us to have more conversations in 2026.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With gratitude,

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Dear Reader.

Thank you for being here. This is a busy time of year, so I appreciate your presence today more than ever.

The holiday season doesn’t feel festive for everyone. For some, it’s not the most wonderful time of year, no matter how many times we hear Andy Williams singing the words telling us it is. If you’re feeling sad, or even dreading the holidays (it happens), this post is for you.

This will be the first holiday for me with no living parents or in-law parents. Uundoubtedly, there will be tears at my house this Christmas, and tears at Christmas are okay, too.

You are seen and heard here, so please share about anyone you are missing this holiday season. Beloved pets included. Saying their name(s) and/or sharing about them can help keep them close. You’re gently invited to do either or both.

Sometimes, grief isn’t about a person but about interruptions, events, or circumstances that change how you thought your life would go. Tears — grief for those unplanned happenings and detours matter too.

Let’s support one another and talk about any or all of it.

There will be tears at Christmas

And tears at Christmas are okay, too.

(Portions of this essay were previously published on my former blog.)

Some might say, there she goes again writing about loss, grief, and tears during the holidays.

Why be such a Debbie Downer, or is it Negative Nancy?

Maybe even you, Dear Reader, wonder why I choose to write about this topic this month. Nobody wants to talk or even think about loss, grief, and tears during the holidays.

Or, do they?

I find the opposite to be true; many people do want need to talk about these things this time of year. Maybe even more so.

I get emails and comments from readers and others wanting very much to talk about these things during the holidays. The reason is simple. Loss, grief, and tears don’t take a break during the holidays.

There will be tears at Christmas.

***

Of course, it’s not just grief and loss that continue. All one has to do is turn on the news to know there is no reprieve from bad things happening this time of year. And lately, the news often feels worse than usual. A lot worse. This week it’s been especially brutal.

We’re all struggling with bad news overload, right?

There will be tears at Christmas.

***

Perhaps you’ve recently been diagnosed with cancer. Perhaps you’re undergoing harsh, scary treatment right now or a loved one is. Perhaps your future feels uncertain for financial reasons. Perhaps you’re missing the old you and your old life. Perhaps you’re missing a dear one or a beloved pet.

We said goodbye to our sweet Sophie five years ago this month, and she is still dearly missed, as is Elsie, my other eyewitness and secret keeper. Last December, Titus was nearing the end of his life, though we had no clue. There have been tears this month when seeing photos of him opening his Christmas presents last year pop up on our Frameo screen.

You might want to read, Why can’t I stop crying?

There will be tears at Christmas.

***

The holidays can be an extra emotional time for those who grieve. This will be the first holiday season without my ‘other’ mother. In case you missed it, I wrote about her in my last essay, Saying goodbye to my other mother.

When I decorate my tree with ornaments that each hold a story or place long-cherished decorations that were gifts from my mother or mother-in-law throughout my house, I remember the stories. As I remember, nostaligia, gratitude, joy, and grief co-mingle in my hearr.

There will be tears at Christmas.

***

On Christmas Eve, I will remember that Christmas Eve. The Christmas Eve when we received the devastating news about my mother’s rapidly advancing metastatic disease. It’s been 18 years since that Christmas. It still feels like yesterday.

I will never forgive you, Cancer, for being so cruel at Christmas.

You can read about all that in my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person.

There will be tears at Christmas.

***

I think about how Christmas feels different now — now that I have no living parents or in-law parents. Christmas is not the same and never will be again.

Christmas feels smaller now. Maybe this is why I’ve been simplifying. Smaller tree. Fewer decorations. Not as many cookies. Less shopping. It's how I meet this new season of my life — welcoming ‘less’ at Christmas, too.

When you get to be my age, this no-parent status is to be expected. I won’t say society doesn’t care about this particular grief. Okay, I will say it. As an observation by an adult orphan (me), this particular grief is not acknowledged as being one of the ‘hard griefs’. It’s thought to be easier — less than.

There will be tears at Christmas.

***

I think about the families I know, as well as those I don’t, who are experiencing fresh, raw grief this Christmas. Families like my Aunt Betty’s. Her daughter, my cousin, died in a tragic accident in October — the exact same day my ‘other’ mother died. Two deaths on the same day in my family. Death can be cruel that way.

When you belong to a cancer community like I do, there are losses each and every year, and this year has been no different. How many times can our hearts break?

So many families are grieving. Like mine, perhaps yours is one of them, too.

***

There will be tears at Christmas.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds or make grief disappear. What a ridiculous notion. Time might (or might not) soften the edges a bit, but grief remains. As it should.

The holidays are about joy and celebrating, but this doesn’t mean they cannot also be about moments of sadness, grief, and tears. It doesn’t have to be all one without the other. There can be joy. There can be tears.

***

There will be tears at Christmas.

There is nothing wrong with honoring your grief by feeling it and allowing others to see you feeling it. You don’t need to hide it. Or hide from it. Never feel guilty about grieving during the holidays, or during any time of year, for that matter.

There will be tears at Christmas.

If you’re grieving, welcome the moments of joy, too. Let them in. It’s okay to feel sorrow mixed with joy, and likewise, joy mixed with sorrow.

If you’re struggling with a new diagnosis, harsh treatment, fear and uncertainty due to any reason, missing a dear one or beloved pet, grieving for things as they once were, or if you’re just not feeling the joy for whatever reason, don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay to feel the way you do.

There will be tears at Christmas.

***

Honor your true feelings. No need to apologize. Sit with them. Tell someone about them. Allow them to flow through you.

Perhaps then you can feel at least a bit of joy as well.

Yes, there will be tears at Christmas.

And tears at Christmas are okay, too.

***

Note: If you’re grieving or know someone who is, this post, Twelve Tips for Getting Through the Holidays After Loss, might be helpful.

Please remember, if you’re grieving, you’re not alone.

Others care about you. I care about you, and you are seen and heard here.

If you appreciate this essay, thank you for restacking it.

Now, you’re invited to tell me about your tears and who or what you are missing this holiday season.

***

Who or what are your tears for this Christmas?

Are you struggling due to any reason this holiday season? If yes, feel free to share about it, if you want to.

Do you sometimes feel guilty about feeling sad during the holidays?

Visit my author website to learn about my three books and where to purchase. 10% of profits from all my books AND my Substack is donated at year’s end to METAvivor.org, an organization dedicated to research specific to metastatic breast cancer. Every purchase helps support this advocacy.

Reminder: Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you want to be part of the conversation, restacking indicates you think others might enjoy reading my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three!

Doing any or all of these things is a gift from you to me and I thank you.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…(It’ll be 2026 as this is my last essay in 2025.)

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With a grateful heart and warm wishes for you this holiday season and beyond.

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

Thank you for being here. Substack is very crowded, so please know, I never take your readership for granted.

The holidays are here, and it can be a difficult time of year for a lot of people, especially Grievers. If you’re one of them, you are seen and heard here. I promise.

I’ve been struggling about what to write after the recent death of Best Mother-in-Law Ever. How do I sum up our relationship in one article? I can’t, of course, but today’s essay is my attempt to tell you a bit about her, so I’m extra grateful you’re here.

When you’re done reading, I want to know if you’ve said goodbye to a special “other mother” or “other father”. I’d also love your thoughts on how mothers-in-law have often been portrayed through the years. Oh, and platitudes, I want to know your thoughts on that unspoken second half, too.

Let’s have a conversation about all of it.

Saying goodbye to my other mother

“You’re the only mother I have left now,” I whispered in Best Mother-in-Law Ever’s ear the day we buried my own mother.

As we said goodbye while shivering on my parents’ front porch that chilly March day, Margaret gave me an extra long hug but said nothing. She didn’t need to. There were no words to fit the emotions of that moment anyway. They didn’t exist. They still don’t.

That was 17 years ago.

Moving up in line

I never called my mother-in-law mom or mother. I always called her Margaret. That worked fine for us. Though I never called her mom, nonetheless, she was always like a second mother to me — even more so after my mother’s death from metastatic breast cancer in 2008.

And now Margaret’s gone, too.

Being completely motherless feels strange and unreal. It’s a unique sense of aloneness I feel now. I’m a woman with no living parents or in-law parents ahead of me. I’ve moved up in death’s line of succession — I’m at the top. In my family, I’m now the oldest generation. It’s an unfamiliar, somewhat uncomfortable position that will take some getting used to.

How does one begin “getting used to” such a thing anyway?

I wish I knew. I guess this essay is one way. So, again, an extra thank you for being here today.

A long life, yes, but…

Margaret Stordahl died on October 20th. It’s hard to accept that she’s gone. Sure, she was 98 years old, but that doesn’t make the loss easier. In some ways, the longer a person is in your life, the harder it is when they no longer are. And Margaret had been part of my life since I was 16 years old. That’s a long time, a really long time.

I’ve always hated the phrase you often hear when an elderly person dies that goes something like: at least she/he lived a long life.

It’s supposed to be comforting, but for me it was/is not. I will never say it to a griever.

It implies that since the death of an old person is expected after a long life, the loss and grief should be easier — less than.

It diminishes the loss, the grief, the pain.

The unspoken second half of those platitudes

In her wonderful book, It’s OK that You’re Not OK: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture that Doesn’t Understand, Megan Devine talks about how the unspoken second half of platitudes does indeed diminish a griever’s pain.

Specifically, in chapter two, Devine says this:

The problem is, there’s an implied second half of the sentence in all those familiar lines. That second half of the sentence unintentionally dismisses or diminishes your pain; it erases what is true now in favor of some alternative experience. That ghost-sentence tells you it’s not OK to feel how you feel.

I could not agree more, and I love that ghost-sentence idea. Don’t you?

Devine offers the examples below (p. 21), but you could find many others as well. I added the last one, and comment in parentheses is also mine. The last part of each example is the ghost sentence — the part that stings even though it’s not said out loud.

At least you had her/him for as long as you did — so stop feeling so bad.

He died doing something he loved — so stop feeling so bad.

You can always have another child (this one’s just damn cruel) — so stop feeling so bad.

She’s in a better place now — so stop feeling so bad.

Platitudes and that ghost-sentence idea are alive and well in Cancer Land, too, but that’s a different essay.

Another box we put women in

We’ve all heard those mother-in-law jokes and seen mothers-in-law portrayed in unflattering ways on TV and in movies.

There’s the stereotypical, annoying, over-protective mother-in-law who thinks no woman is good enough for her son. We’ve all seen TV shows and movies in which the mother-in-law criticizes her daughter-in-law’s cooking, cleaning, child rearing abilities, career, or whatever. And who doesn’t remember seeing the white-glove test being done by a visiting mother-in-law?

Seems to be some sexist element at play, don’t you think?

It’s yet another box women are often put into — the mean-spirited, interfering mother-in-law who’s more or less a bitch. Ridiculous and offensive, even.

A people person

Margaret was the best mother-in-law I could’ve hoped for. She had so many fine qualities I can’t begin to list them all. We never exchanged harsh words. Not once that I can recall. She was caring, supportive, and completely non-judgmental. She never even criticized my cooking!

Above all, I’ll remember Margaret’s kindness and love of people. She loved everyone and everyone loved her back. This was never more evident than in her final years as a resident in a nursing home. The workers enjoyed taking care of her because they were genuinely fond of her. Sure, caring for her was their job, but the caring part wasn’t fake. They liked her and she liked them. It was an amazing thing to witness the kind, gentle care she received from the majority of workers during her final few years.

The gift

My mother-in-law was a gifted conversationalist. Makes sense since she loved people so much. She could, and often did, strike up a conversation with anyone about anything. (Including my dad — who was not a conversationalist.)

This is a gift I do not possess, and it’s the reason she always had a busier social life than me. I’ve always been a bit envious of her people skills. At the time of her death, she’d been retired for over 30 years, but past co-workers and others who knew her were still coming to visit her — not out of obligation but because they truly wanted to see her. To be with her.

“You’re so good with people. Me, I don’t even like people,” I’d sometimes tell her, and then we’d laugh. It was meant to be a joke, of course, but it was also true. A people person I am not. (Okay, I don’t dislike all people!)

Maybe that’s the real gift of any people person — to make the non-people person you’re with feel cared about, seen, and heard, too.

I will miss that laugh, that smile, all those tender moments we shared.

Challenges

Breast cancer didn’t leave Margaret’s family alone either. Jenny, her youngest sister, died from metastatic breast cancer almost forty years ago.

Jenny was only fifty-something when she died. Her breast cancer experience was horrendous and Margaret rarely spoke of it. (I should’ve asked her more about it.) It was Margaret who helped out following Jenny’s radical mastectomy. Her recovery was brutal. Margaret also witnessed first-hand Jenny’s awful side effects from chemo. That was before anti-nausea drugs commonly used today to help alleviate at least some of the suffering were available.

Margaret’s husband, my father-in-law, died in 1993 leaving her a widow for 32 years. Such a long time to be without one’s partner — on your own. And yet, she handled all that with grace and a spirited independence, too.

A grateful heart

I’m so grateful to have had such an amazing woman be part of my life for so many years. What a blessing.

It’s comforting knowing I’m not really saying goodbye. There’s no need because Margaret will always be part of my life and forever hold a special place in my heart.

Thank you for being the best mother-in-law ever, Margaret. Thank you, for everything. Rest in peace now. Your work here is done.

The memories you’ve given me will last a lifetime and forever remain treasures for my heart.

What could be a better legacy than that?

Now, let’s have that converstion.

First…

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you want to be part of the conversation, restacking indicates you think others might enjoy reading my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three!

Doing any or all of these things makes me happy, so thank you in advance.

Have you said goodbye to a special “other mother” or “other father”?

What platitude (if any) irks you most, and do you agree about that ghost-sentence and what it means?

Do you think mothers-in-law have too often been portrayed in a stereotypical, sexist manner on TV and in movies?

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With much gratitude.

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

If you’re new here, welcome.

This week, I decided to revisit the topic of hope. The timing feels right. A year has gone by since the 2024 presidential election that changed so much. No need to rehash any of it. You and I are living it, right?

Following this November’s election, hope is making a resurgence — in me and in my newsfeeds. Where this renewed hope takes us remains unknown.

Writers are hopeful. Not always, of course, but often. When you think about it, writing represents hope; no, writing is hope.

And in Cancer Land, hope is always a relevant topic.

A conversation about hope is worth having, especially now, so let’s do it. Let’s talk about hope.

First… a gentle reminder:

Clicking the ❤️ button shows others you were here. Commenting shows you want to be part of the conversation, restacking indicates you think others might enjoy reading my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three!

Doing any or all of these things makes me happy, so thank you in advance.

Subscribe now

What’s your relationship with hope these days?

Is hope ever enough?

(This is an updated version of an essay previously published on my former blog.)

Hope is a fine word, a fine thing to be sure; but hope is rarely enough — maybe never — especially when talking about cancer, the unraveling of our democracy, getting that book published, or anything, really.

Hope is a tricky thing. It’s elusive, it’s vague, it means different things to different people; which, of course, is part of its appeal. But this is also part of its problem.

Hope is easy. You just do it. Not much effort required. Then again, maybe a whole lot of effort is needed to wrap yourself in hope.

Hope is hard. Think about it. Who do you share your deepest hopes and dreams with? Not that many people, right?

Can something be both easy and hard?

Yes. Hope is like that. A lot of things are.

Perhaps we pin too much on hope. We expect a lot from it.

Is hope alone ever the answer to anything?

Probably not. It’s too much like wishing. Both are fine, of course, but neither is an actual solution or a means of getting whatever it is you’re hoping and wishing for.

To hope for something isn’t enough.

Kids hope Santa will bring them what they ask for.

We hope for good weather.

Parents hope their kids will be good when they’re left with a sitter or while at school.

I hope I won’t have a recurrence.

My friends with MBC hope for new, less-harsh treatments that will extend their lives, and of course, they hope such treatments come in time to benefit them.

We all hope there’ll be a cure for cancer one day while simultaneouly wondering if that’s even possible.

We hope for peace.

We hope the never-ending partisan fighting stops.

We hope our democracy survives.

Writers hope to write words that inspire, encourage, entertain, or enlighten.

Again, all that hoping doesn’t actually do a whole lot as far as achieving whatever your goal might be.

Hope works far better when it’s coupled with action.

We can’t just keep hoping for something better. We can’t just hope our democracy will survive. We can’t just hope to publish a book someday or even an article on Substack. There’s doing that must be done along with hoping.

And then there’s hope specific to metastatic disease.

Some people get all riled up when you start talking “negatively” about hope. How dare you or I strip anyone of her/his hope?

Doesn’t every metastatic patient have the right to want to be one of those outliers who beat the odds?

Absolutely, but…

Hope can be hard to come by if you or your loved one has metastatic disease and you keep getting bad news. It was hard to keep feeling hopeful that Christmas Eve my family and I got devastating news about my mother’s MBC progression and prognosis.

Our hope had to switch gears entirely and pretty darn quickly too.

Still, hope and realism can coexist because hope can and often does, shift.

For example, a metastatic patient might decide to end harsh treatment while at the same time, hold onto hope for an EOL more about quality and comfort than longevity.

That is realism coupled with hope. That is hope nestled in with reality.

How does a community of breast cancer folks like the one I’ve come to know remain hopeful when there is so much dying?

How do Americans stay hopeful our democracy will survive?

If you’re a writer, how do you remain hopeful about finding your ideal readers or getting that book published?

I don’t have the answers. We need hope, yes. But, we also need to do our part to elevate hope into something more — to keep trying, to keep working for more.

Hope alone isn’t and won’t be the answer, but we can’t give up on hope either.

Humans are wired to keep looking for hope, are we not?

Hope has been the topic of writers, poets, and artists for centuries, and I suspect that’ll continue.

Below is one such poem about hope by Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.

I love this poem, don’t you?

Many of us find comfort and hope in nature during trying times like this. It’s why we take walks in the woods, take up gardening, look up at the clouds, travel short and great distances to ocean gaze and mountain gaze.

Mother Nature herself represents hope.

As my friend Kristi so eloquently wrote a few years ago while dealing with metastatic breast cancer:

Nature provides hope every time. I look to the sky, clouds, sunshine, snow, and even rain. It’s in the trees, flowers, and wildlife. I feel it in the breeze. It is there in the stillness. Look, listen, and feel for it. Hope is within each of us. It’s our nature.

Sadly, Kristi died from MBC in 2021.

Hope is within each of us. It is our nature.

But let’s also each do our part to elevate hope into something more.

Because hope alone is not enough. It was never meant to be.

Now, let’s have that conversation. I invite you to share your thoughts about hope. The questions below are only meant to be prompts. Please share whatever’s on you mind.

What is your relationship with hope these days?

Have you coupled hope with action lately?

What’s one thing you’re hoping for right now?

Shout out time: A piece about hope that resonated for me was this one: On feeling unworthy as a writer by . What writer hasn’t felt unworthy? I love Linda’s Substack, Her topics and writing tips are always encouraging and helpful, and that’s why she’s on my Recommendation List to stay.

Another excellent piece about hope I read recently is titled, The Last String of Hope by Wajeeha Nadeem. I just added Wajeeha’s Substack, Enchanted Letters to my Recommendation List. So good.

P.S. Did you know November is Nonfiction Month?

My memoir, Cancer Wast Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person remains my bestseller. I’m proud of the impact it’s had on readers. My newest book is EMERGING: Stories from the Other Side of a Cancer Diagnosis, Loss and a Pandemic, and Getting Past the Fear: A Guide to Help You Mentally Prepare for Chemotherapy was my first bookbaby, so it forever holds a special place on my bookshelf and in my heart. It’s now available as an audiobook.

Visit my author website to learn more about all three books and where to order.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With much gratitude and yes, hope, too.

Nancy

xoxo

Hello, Friend.

Thank you for being part of this kind, caring community.

Another Pinktober, another Halloween — in the books. Whew. Are you feeling relieved, sad, grumpy, and/or maybe overwhelmed by the mere thought of the upcoming holidays? Or does some other emotion occupy your mind at the moment?

No matter how you feel, you are welcome here, a place where we talk about hard things like cancer and grief, love and loss; but we also talk about joy, perserverence, resilience, community and yes, Halloween candy.

When you’re done reading my essay, let’s talk about giving yourself permission to finish that Halloween candy, though of course, my essay isn’t really about giving yourself permission to eat candy at all. (Okay, maybe it is a little bit about that.)

Let’s get to it, Friend.

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Give yourself permission to finish the Halloween candy!

As well as for anything else you think you need permission to do but don’t.

A few days out from Halloween and, yes, I’m guilty of dipping into that candy bowl filled with chocolate minis too many times to count. Honestly, I’ve been dipping into it since Halloween night around 6 pm, which coincides with the exact moment said candy landed in that plastic, orange bowl trimmed with black bats.

And guess what? We had zero trick or treaters. Yeah, zero. (We live on a very quiet street.) Which means there were three bags of Halloween candy waiting to be eaten by Husband and me. Somebody had to eat it, right?

Actually, while watching TV we heard a tiny sound, but didn’t get up to answer the door because we didn’t think there was anyone there — no doorbell rang. We thought it was the wind. (Turned out, it was indeed a tiny knock.)

After hearing another faint knock, I slowly got out of my recliner (long story about the slowly part). By the time I made it to the door, the little goblin(s) was/were gone.

You can’t count bodies as tricker or treaters if you didn’t hand out candy to them, right? (This is my theory. Husband’s is not the same. Feel free to cast your vote in the comments.)

So, what’s a person to do with all that left-over Halloween candy?

We all know the answer. You eat it, of course.

But finish it? Hmm. With no guilt?

Guilt — that’s what this essay is really about. And giving yourself permission.

So, Dear Reader, this is a reminder to give yourself permission to do the thing(s) you hesitate to allow yourself to do.

Give yourself permission to:

• Take the nap(s).

• Say no when you don’t want to go out or do something.

• Not comment on every essay you read. (This struggle is real.)

• Forgo the self-imposed deadline to publish your Substack article on a certain date so the world doesn’t stop. (Trust me, no one will notice.)

• Buy yourself the flowers — or whatever else you’d like to gift yourself. (Might be better to just do this once in awhile, though.)

• Ask for help. And be specific about what you want/need. (Again, no guilt.)

• Do nothing at all.

• Just be.

• Cry, laugh, scream if necessary, cuss, or fill in the blank.

• To watch/binge your favorite shows that everyone else thinks are trash.

• Slash your gift-giving list in half this holiday season, or even opt out of gift giving entirely.

• Slash your to-bake/make list as well.

• Make no lists at all? (Too risky? Maybe. Maybe not.)

• Not make your bed.

• Lower your standards to “good enough”. (A personal favorite of mine.)

• Order takeout on Wednesday night.

• Slow down, step away, unplug.

• Stop trying to smile your way through cancer, grief, or any hardship. (Unless, of course, you feel like smiling.)

• Ditch guilt. For good.

• Finish the Halloween candy!

Those should do for starters. I highly encourage you to make a list of your own. It’ll feel good. I promise.

I had a lot fun writing this piece. If you enjoyed reading it, thank you for sharing it!

NOTE: I read a piece this week from that helped motivate me to write this one. Hers is titled, On giving yourself permission (and other October challenges). I love Emma’s Substack because, like me, she's “attempting optimism” and loathes the toxic positivity which is too often prevalent in Cancer Land.

Now, tell me a thing or two you’d put on YOUR list of “things to give myself permission to do” — or choose a couple of mine you’d like to borrow.

Leave a comment

What would you like to give yourself permission to do today?

Did you polish off the Halloween candy yourself, throw it out, or “baggie it” to eat later?

Do you have trouble ditching guilt?

P.S. Clicking the ❤️ button shows other readers you were here. Commenting shows you want to be part of the conversation, restacking indicates you think others might enjoy reading my essay, too, and recommending my Substack says all three!

Doing any or all of these things makes me happy, so thank you.

Buy my memoir

Visit my author website to learn about all my books.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With much gratitude,

Nancy

Hello, Dear Reader.

Another Breast Cancer Awareness Month is winding down (whew), and I’m wondering if there’s finally been a shift. Less pink. Fewer ribbons. Less pinkwashing. More inclusion. (Meaning more folks with metastatic disease, men, people of color, and those with disabilities are included in awareness campaigns.)

Is it possible the shift is real and here to stay?

Dare I say it, I haven’t noiced much pink shenanigans this year. (Have you?)

I can’t wait to find out if you feel that shift, too, so let’s talk about it.

Also, let’s discuss why breast cancer became the shopping disease in the first place.

First, a reminder: I’m offering an annual paid subscription sale for just $25 through the month of October. The clock is ticking! Upgrading to paid supports my writing AND advocacy work, and I thank you for your generosity.

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Breast Cancer Awareness Month — Has there been a shift?

Regardless, why is breast cancer the shopping disease anyway?

(Portions of this essay were previously published on my former website.)

I’m not much of a shopper. What about you? Generally, I hit the mall only when I want or need something specific for myself or someone else. In other words, only when I have to. I can’t remember the last time I went window shopping. Is that even still a thing? (I’m thinking, not so much.)

These days I shop online. Doesn't everybody?

Maybe not being a shopping enthusiast is one more reason all the shopping nonsense that is associated with breast cancer awareness month has always annoyed me.

Many women, and men too, do enjoy shopping, and that’s great. Shopping is a way to reward yourself when you’ve reached a goal. Some people shop to cheer themselves up when they feel down. Others love looking for that perfect item for themselves or someone else. Quite a few it seems love sales, and I imagine there are a whole host of other reasons why people love to shop..

But one thing is for sure, we are never going to shop our way out of breast cancer.

Since my breast cancer diagnosis in 2010, every October I’ve been baffled by the sheer amount of stuff being marketed and sold in the name of breast cancer awareness.

If you can eat it, drink it, play with it, wear it, hammer with it, bake with it, travel in it, or even put your trash in it; there is likely a pink version of whatever it is waiting for your purchase at one of your local retailers as well as online.

Just when you think you’ve seen everything, you see some new gizmo or product decked out in pink, and you realize no, there’s more where that came from. The pink stuff just keeps coming.

Even if that shift is finally happening, why is breast cancer the shopping disease anyway?

Breast cancer sells. Pink ribbons sell.

Yes, breast cancer is (can’t say “was” quite yet) the shopping disease, and I’m not okay with this.

Why not?

I’m not okay with corporations profiting from a deadly disease. I’m not okay that people who buy pink stuff are often misled as to how much is donated to breast cancer research, or for that matter, anything to do with breast cancer. I’m not okay with how this annual feel-good shopping campaign seems to get extended well before/past October. I’m not okay that a deadly disease keeps being prettied up and over-simplified.

And I don’t know about you, but I find all this shopping being done in the name of breast cancer awareness to be sexist in the first place. Women, breast cancer, shopping… why must they go together?

Why has no other disease been exploited like this?

Why aren’t we shopping “to support prostate (insert any other kind) cancer awareness”?

Maybe the short answer is because it’s been easy to zero in on breasts breast cancer.

It’s been easy for businesses to slap on ribbons and sell stuff under the guise of breast cancer awareness. It’s been easy for the seriousness of this disease to be glossed over and wrapped up in pink. It’s been easy because people want to jump onto the emotional band wagon. After all, most of us know someone affected by breast cancer. Many of us have a grandmother, mother, partner, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, co-worker or friend affected by this disease.

We all want to feel as if we’re doing something — anything.

And so, we sometimes do what’s easiest. We buy pink stuff or stuff adorned with pink ribbons thinking it’s a win-win for all.

Perhaps we have all been vulnerable and fearful as well. Perhaps we have all been taken advantage of.

Partly because of this vulnerability and fear, breast cancer became a marketing gold mine for corporations big and small.

We allowed this to happen.

If we allowed this to happen, we can also undo it, can we not?

Sure, breast cancer sells. Pink ribbons sell.

But what if they didn’t?

What if we didn’t buy all that stuff without first reading the fine print about where the donated dollars go (if anywhere)?

What if we demanded transparency from corporations and companies big and small, so we could actually tell what products are worthy to purchase (donation dollar-wise) and which ones are not?

What if we put a little more thought into our pink purchases?

What if we donated directly to causes we care about instead (like research)?

I’m not saying stop buying stuff with pink ribbons on it. I am saying, don’t buy something just because it has a pink ribbon on it.

Digging deeper and being a more informed shopper takes more time. It’s harder. But in the long run, doing these things might make a difference and actually end up accomplishing more to prevent, treat, and some day cure this disease.

After all, easy isn’t always better.

***

So, has there been a shift?

Well, yes and no.

• One example on the “yes side” is the World Health Organization’s (yeah, the one Trump dropped us out of) theme this year: Every Story is Unique, Every Journey Matters. Finally, a clear acknowledgement that not all breast cancer is the same, and that every person’s experience is different. (However, I couldn’t help but notice there is no mention of men on the home page, so maybe every story doesn’t matter, after all?)

• Another notable example of this shift is the NFL’s “Crucial Catch” campaign which focuses on raising awareness for all types of cancer and uses a multicolored logo instead of just a pink ribbon. This is a major change from just a few years ago.

• Pinkwashing is becoming better understood and people are on the lookout, asking questions, and demanding transparency.

• Metastatic breast cancer is being talked about more, though still receives far too little attention and research funding.

• Men are sometimes included/mentioned in campaigns now, but for the most part, are still left standing on the sidelines even though men can and sometimes do get breast cancer too.

On the “no side” regarding the idea that a shift is taking place, there’s the example below that I came across the other day.

Okay, you might be thinking, not a huge deal. But here’s what I want you to notice:

• There is no mention of where the money will go or how much will be donated. “We will donate a portion of our sales” is vague at best. It could be any amount, even one dollar.

• What does “to support breast cancer awareness” even mean? Again, no clarity. No specifics as to where the money will go.

• Lastly, how exactly does displaying a pink license plate bracket show REAL support? How is this helping?

The above is just one example showing how that shift is no where near complete.

***

No matter how you feel about October shopping of the non-Halloween variety, it’s safe to say, shopping is not, was not, and never will be the answer to ending breast cancer.

As the late Barbara Brenner succinctly put it:

If breast cancer could be cured by shopping, it would be cured by now.

Amen to that.

Now, I want to know what YOU think. Let’s talk about that shift.

Leave a comment

Do you think there’s been a shift in breast cancer awareness campaigns?

Have you seen anything offensive, or merely annoying, in any awareness campaigns or sales pitches this year?(If you’re comfortable doing so, sharing where you live might give added perspective.)

Why do you think breast cancer became the shopping disease?

Thank you for reading.

And now — clicking the heart button shows other readers you were here. Commenting shows you feel this conversation matters, and restacking indicates you think others might find value in reading my essay too.

Doing any or all of these things matters and I thank you.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With much gratitude,

Nancy

Hello, friend.

This week, I’m continuing my focus on breast cancer awareness — real awareness, not the pink ribbon Fantasty Land kind. I’m doing so by sharing part two of “You have ‘a’ cancer,” an excerpt from my memoir. Thank you for reading part one.

Reminder: If you’ve been thinking about upgrading to a paid subscription, the half-price sale continues through October. $25 helps support my writing and advocacy. 10% of profits from my books and Substack is donated annually to METAvivor, an organization focused solely on funding research specificic to metastatic breast cancer.

Free or paid, I appreciate you. Liking, restacking, commenting, and recommending my Substack are other vital ways to support my work, and they cost nothing at all.

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You have “a” cancer, part two

I can’t believe I need an oncologist!

This post is a slightly edited excerpt from my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person: A memoir about cancer as I know it.

April 29, 2010 (After the call)

Finally, the voice deep within me that decides enough tears have flowed for now, summons me to stop, and I pull myself together. I collapse on the sofa, worn out and ashamed of myself for crying more today than on the day Mother died.

On top of everything else, I must be shallow and self-centered. I am a bad daughter.

Half an hour passes, and I hear the back door open. David (my husband) enters the house, reluctantly I’m sure, unaware yet of what he must deal with tonight.

Elsie and Sophie race off to greet him, and he knows his answer because I do not follow. I wonder if he wishes he could turn around and leave. I would like to.

He wisely takes his time changing clothes, allowing me a few more minutes to be alone. I mindlessly turn on the ABC Evening News with Diane Sawyer, and I am envious of her cancer-free life. I am envious of all who are leading cancer-free lives.

Ironically, one of the news stories is about some sort of possible cancer vaccine, one for prostate cancer, not breast cancer. It’s a potentially major breakthrough, perhaps to be available in five years.

“Wouldn’t you know it, naturally the breakthrough will come for a man’s cancer first,” I say out loud to no one.

David comes into the family room, sits beside me, and gently puts his arms around me. He says nothing, there is no need. He is now a man with a wife who has “a” cancer. His old life is over too.

We don’t get to sit around for very long, though. Cancer doesn’t allow for that. In the morning, we have our first appointment with Dr. N, my oncologist.

WTF?

I can’t believe I need an oncologist. It seems impossible I need such a person in my life.

***

April 30, 2010

After a night of little sleep, I’m not sure I will be able to keep myself together, but miraculously I do. I must. I have to pay attention.

The nurse who checks us in is named Jo. She is almost annoyingly nice, and then I realize she is an oncology nurse. She deals with cancer patients, even dying patients. She has to be nice; it’s part of her job description. She realizes I’m a “fresh one,” newly diagnosed. “CANCER” might as well be stamped across my forehead.

Waiting in the exam room feels like deja vu. Just like Mother. It’s happening again, just like Mother. Only this time it’s me. Like usual, the room is tiny and poorly ventilated. Unfriendly fluorescent lighting glares and buzzes.

Sitting on my chair, I fidget nervously because it seems if I sit too still I will more easily crumble.

When Dr. N finally appears, we’re relieved. He has dark hair and wears dark clothes and dark glasses. After studying him briefly, as well as his certificates hanging on the wall, it is obvious he is from a different corner of the world, and I wonder how he ended up in Wisconsin. All I want is for him to be competent and knowledgeable. Compassionate would be a nice bonus.

Almost immediately, we realize he is all of these things and more. He is calm and serious as he listens to my now familiar story about how I ended up here today. He listens attentively, asks questions about family history, and carefully writes down my answers as if I am giving him important pieces to a puzzle, which I guess I am. I am the puzzle. Next, he listens to me breathe and examines my lymph glands.

“I don’t feel anything evident in your lymph glands so your cancer probably hasn’t spread,” he says.

Hearing him call it “your cancer” sounds out of place. It forces me to realize this cancer indeed “belongs” to me. Such ownership feels unimaginable.

I don’t want to own my cancer.

“I don’t think your chest pain is related. I think you did injure yourself raking, and it’s unrelated to your cancer,” he adds sounding like he knows what he’s talking about, so we believe him.

“Don’t I need a chest x-ray or scan of some kind,” I ask. (How much proof do I need anyway?)

“You had the CT in the ER, a mammogram, an ultra-sound, and your biopsy,” he reassures me. “Nothing else was picked up.”

These are the best words we hear today.

At the conclusion of our appointment, we all concur it is essential for me to have the blood test to determine if I carry the BRCA2 gene mutation like Mother. If I have the mutated gene, a bilateral mastectomy will most certainly be recommended. If I do not have the gene, there may be other options.

I don’t like any of the options. It’s a joke to call them that. These are not options. They feel more like traps, and no matter which one I choose, I will be unable to “escape” from it.

Surprisingly, I’m still calm. I guess I’m in “cancer shock” or something. I no longer fear the words bilateral mastectomy so much. What I fear are words like stage IV, untreatable, unclear lymph nodes, and chemotherapy.

And, oh yes, dying. I fear those words most.

Thank you for reading, liking, commenting, and restacking.

Read more in my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person. No sugarcoating. Guaranteed.

Buy my memoir

Visit my author website to learn more.

Now, let’s have a conversation. Thank you for sharing YOUR thoughts today.

Have you, or has a loved one, heard the words, you have cancer, and if so, how long has it been?

Have you heard other words that reshaped your life?

Are you noticing less pink shenanigans this year during Breast Cancer Awareness Month? (I’ll share a few of your responses in next week’s BCAM wrap-up post.)

A few articles about REAL breast cancer experiences that caught my eye this week include:

Identity Theft by

Who I became when the old me was gone by

I Will Bloom Once More by

My scan results are in by

Life in a Cancer Scare by

Visit the above fine writers to better understand what real breast cancer awareness means.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With much gratitude,

Nancy

Hello, Friend.

First of all, thank you for reading ’s guest post last week with such a warm and caring heart. Of course, I knew you would.

This week I’m continuing my focus on breast cancer awareness. Since there is a lot of stuff going on in my family right now, (I’ll tell you about some of it later), I decided to give myself grace regarding writing something new and share an edited excerpt from my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person: A memoir about cancer as I know it. Part one is this week. Part two will be next week.

Besides, what better way to spread awareness than by sharing a real-life experience about what it feels like to hear those three, or in my case, four little words?

Those of you who’ve read my memoir, thank you for bearing with me. Perhaps you can share this one with someone who might benefit from reading it.

When you’re done reading, I’d love to know if you’ve heard words, via a phone call or otherwise, that changed everything and if you have/had special eyewitnesses and secret keepers too.

Reminder: The sale price for upgrading to a paid subscription continues through October. $25 helps support the work I do here. Free or paid, I appreciate you.

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You have “a” cancer, part one

The phone call & words that changed everything

(An edited excerpt from Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person. The date I wrote about was April 29, 2010.)

Today is the day I wait for the biopsy result which will determine my future. So much is riding on one little phone call. I keep busy all morning, confident no news will be delivered early in the day.

Doctors make such phone calls at the end of their work day, I tell myself. Bad news will be delivered late in the day.

It will be put off because who wants to deliver bad news?

I busy myself with cleaning, laundry and more journaling, but mostly more waiting. As the day goes by, I start feeling more and more on edge. It must be bad news.

For much of the afternoon, I lie on my blue leather sofa and attempt to settle in with my latest Grisham novel, but I only pretend to concentrate. The only story line I can concentrate on is my own. My dogs, Elsie and Sophie, wait with me.

I decide to give the clinic until 4 o’clock to call, and then I will call them. Minutes tick away on the large, round clock behind the TV, but no call comes. Four o’clock passes. I wait another ten minutes. Those minutes pass as well; I determine I’ll wait five more.

Finally, I realize I cannot wait any longer or everyone at the clinic will be leaving for the day, and I will be forgotten. I muster up enough courage, make the call, and leave a message with the receptionist who promises to deliver it to my doctor right away.

Minutes later, my doctor’s nurse calls and announces, “Nancy, your doctor isn’t in this afternoon, and I don’t have your results. I’m so sorry.”

“What? Well, I’m sorry, too, but this is totally unacceptable. I was told I’d be called today with the results.”

My heart starts pounding far faster than it is supposed to, and anger starts to rise up inside me, but I know I cannot let it burst out. You cannot allow yourself to become too angry with people who are supposed to be on your side. Plus, it’s not the nurse’s fault.

I take a deep breath and say, “I have an oncology appointment scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9:10. You can’t expect me to walk into that appointment without knowing my results.”

“Oh, I know. You’re absolutely right,” the nurse says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Immediately, I feel calmer and confident she will come through with some information. Nurses like her understand and know how to get things done.

I return to the sofa, but I’m unable to sit. I begin to pace around the room.

Half an hour later, my cell phone rings. I am afraid to answer it, and for an instant I think about pretending I am not available. If I don’t answer it, I cannot receive bad news today.

I take a deep breath, grab my pen and paper, and decide to push the accept call button. I might as well get it over with. After identifying himself and making sure he is speaking with the right person, this unknown-to-me doctor delivers the words I somehow knew were coming but am still unprepared to hear.

“Well, there is a cancer there; your biopsy tested positive,” he tells me.

His voice is too calm, too detached, and too familiar with giving such news. I wonder why he calls it “a” cancer, not just cancer, like it really matters.

“What else can you tell me?” I ask while thinking my question sounds completely ludicrous. At this moment, what else matters?

“Well, that’s all this report tells us, really.”

“I don’t believe that,” I snap. “There has to be more.”

He annoys me. I know he is doing me a favor, delivering this news to a patient who isn’t even his.

“There must be something more you can tell me,” I plead.

For some reason I don’t trust him and feel as if he’s not telling me everything. I have no idea what those things might be.

“The only other thing,” he concedes, “is that it says here you are grade one.”

“Well, that’s at least a bit of good news,” I say.

Unbelievably, he says, “Not really, it’s the least important piece of information when we stage cancer. Tumor size and number of lymph nodes involved are far more important pieces to the puzzle than grade.”

My displeasure with this guy grows, even though I know he’s right. Perhaps I am being unfair and judgmental, but I want to scream at him, what is your problem?

Instead, I keep pressing him for something further, I’m not sure what.

After I have squeezed all the information I will get out of him, I apologize for putting him on the spot and for being so short. However, I don’t really believe he deserves an apology, and I wonder if he knows I am insincere.

I begin to tremble slightly. Our conversation is concluding and my voice, which thus far I have been able to keep steady, begins to waver.

“Are you okay?” he asks, hearing me start to cry.

No you asshole; you just told me I have cancer!

Those are the words I want to lash out with, but of course that is impossible.

He seems to suddenly realize his last remark sounded insensitive because his voice immediately softens.

“I know you’ve just been told you have cancer, and it’s understandable for you to be upset,” he says.

His voice is suddenly filled with concern. His compassion comes too late. I’m done with him.

We say our goodbyes and hang up. He probably goes home to have a nice quiet dinner with his wife and kids thinking no more about cancer today.

I, on the other hand, start sobbing as I absorb the reality of my new life, for it feels my old life is over. I have cancer and am forever changed. I feel alone, angry, terrified, cheated, guilty, jinxed, unfairly treated, and just plain miserable. I hear myself weeping and feel my body rocking back and forth, but it seems as if I am observing someone else’s life, a person I do not recognize.

I am alone, but not totally. Elsie and Sophie sit next to me and wonder what is wrong with me. Sophie puts her front paws up on the sofa and tries to lick my face. Elsie sits as close to me as she can get, wiggling her body as she tries to nudge Sophie out of the way. They both somehow sense the seriousness of the situation.

My dogs are the only ones with me to witness first hand my ugliest, rawest moments.

They are familiar with this role. They are seasoned witnesses, my secret keepers, consoling me only months earlier when I grieved for Mother who died from, of all things, breast cancer.

Will I die from it too?

Perhaps being alone with my dogs is for the best. They will never reveal the secrets they witness on a late afternoon in spring.

Read part two next week.

Now, let’s have that hard discussion. You never know who might be reading and how your comment might be helpful.

Have you heard words that changed the trajectory of your life forever?

How did you hear them — in-person, a phone call, or some other way, and who was with you?

What was your first reaction to hearing them?

Thank you for reading, liking, commenting, and restacking.

Read more in my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person. No sugarcoating. Guaranteed.

Buy my memoir

10% of profits from my books AND my Substack is donated to METAvivor annually because this organization is dedicated to RESEARCH specific to metastatic breast cancer.

P.S. Big thank you to for recently recommending my Substack. I’m honored and grateful whenever someone adds me to their list. Others who’ve kindly recommended Nancy’s Point include:

Thank you for being here. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what YOU have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

With much gratitude,

Nancy