When It All Seems Like It’s Coming Together… Spoiler: It Feels Like It's Actually Falling Apart

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Let’s skip the sunshine and moonbeams, shall we?

Don’t you dare start with, “It’s just the universe setting you on a better path.” Spare me the affirmations, the crystals, the “everything happens for a reason” fridge magnets. I’m not in the mood. Not today. Not after everything.

Because the last time the universe supposedly handed me a “course correction,” I ended up living in my mom’s guest room for three years, got diagnosed with another form of cancer, and spent more time in chemo chairs than on my own damn couch. So, no. This isn’t a cosmic realignment. This is falling apart.

Let me back you up and paint the whole cursed mosaic.

2020: The World Was on Fire. So Was My Lung.

I was in Colorado Springs, gasping like a fish. It was peak COVID, and I dragged myself to urgent care thinking I had it. The doctor—wrapped in a hazmat suit like I was Patient Zero—didn’t test me. Just waved me off to a primary care I didn’t have yet. So I picked a name off a list, hoping I didn’t accidentally choose the guy who got his license out of a cereal box.

Thankfully, this doctor was thorough. Ran the tests. Took the scans. Came back with the kind of tone you never want to hear from a medical professional.

“There’s a mass on your lung.”

And just like that, the real descent began.

They poked around, snipped some tissue, and bam—lung cancer. The plan was surgery, but surprise, the cancer had spread to the pleura (that’s the lining of your lungs, if you’re curious). So surgery was out. But hey, let’s install a port in your chest just in case! It’s the worst kind of adult hardware upgrade.

Then came the twist: I had an EGFR gene mutation, which meant I got to skip traditional chemo and instead go on Tagrisso, a targeted therapy. Sounds nice, right? Well, the adjustment period was hell. But after 60 days? The tumor shrank. After six months? Clear scans.

I was cautiously optimistic. Foolishly, maybe.

We moved to Arkansas to be closer to family. I was getting back on my feet. I started to feel like maybe, just maybe, the nightmare was behind me.

2023: When Your Dream Job Calls and Cancer Picks Up Instead

I reapplied to my old company. Got the job. Was about to move to my dream location: Washington State. Cue confetti, right?

Wrong.

I went in for a mammogram as a routine check before the move. That led to a needle biopsy, which led to the three-word horror show: Stage 2B Breast Cancer.

You ever feel like your own body is trolling you? Because same.

I had to turn down the job. Again. Surgery to remove my left breast followed. I asked the surgeon to remove both, but he—get this—told me he didn’t want to “hurt me too bad.”

Excuse me, sir? I’m not some dainty porcelain doll. I’m a battle-worn woman with two cancer diagnoses under her belt. Take the damn breast. But no. I ended up lopsided and furious. (Yes, we’ll circle back to that one in another blog post. With fire.)

Then came chemo. Four rounds. Hair? Gone. Humor? Gone. Dignity? Hanging by a thread. The chemo took my sparkle and my sparkle’s backup generator. The drains post-mastectomy? Like Satan himself designed them.

And oh yeah—I caught COVID. Again. With every vaccine known to man. I was admitted to the hospital with complete neutropenia—basically, my immune system turned to soup.

My familiar of 14 years passed in March 2024. It gutted me. If you know, you know.

But Wait—We Rally!

I took a girl’s trip to Alaska with my mom. Got a post-chemo haircut on the cruise ship. Cried in the mirror. Felt almost human again.

Then? The universe tossed me a bone.

The dream job called again. This time in Seattle. I took it. We packed up, cats in tow, and road-tripped it all the way to the Pacific Northwest. A fresh start. A breath of coastal air. A little hope.

I got a new doctor, an ENT for my lingering phantosmia (it’s where you smell phantom scents, thanks again COVID), and even met my new oncologist. Who, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. He’s the kind of doctor who makes you miss the plague masks.

And then…

The Symptoms Came Marching In

Heart palpitations.

Wheezing.

Brain fog.

Crushing fatigue.

Headaches.

Pins and needles.

Anxiety.

Fainting spells.

Blood pressure so high I could feel it in my skull.

Doctors shrugged. ER visits were useless. “Here’s an inhaler, good luck.” Appointments months out. More ERs. Alaska again. ER again.

I’ve had every test that ends in “-gram” or “-scan” and they all come back clean. Which would be great, if I didn’t feel like I was actively dying some days.

Tomorrow, I see a new doctor. Same office, different white coat. I’m going in armed with notes, logs, and the righteous fury of a woman who is done being dismissed.  *update* I saw him today. He listened and we love a doctor who listens and doesn't judge. We have a plan. 

Because Here's the Thing...

I have a granddaughter on the way.

I have a life. A hard-won, battle-scarred, beautifully messy life.

I have a husband who road-tripped me through four states and held me while I cried in truck stop parking lots.

I have a career I love.

And yeah—I still have cancer in my rearview mirror and medical trauma riding shotgun, but I’m not giving up.

So no, when it seems like it’s all coming together, it’s not always some divine alignment or karmic upgrade. Sometimes, it’s just life. Falling apart. Again.

And when you tell me, “It’ll all work out,” or “It’s just the universe doing its thing,” you are unintentionally brushing aside the hell I’m walking through in this moment.

Let me sit in my fear. Let me tell the truth about the pain.

Because this is where I am. Not in denial. Not in despair. Just honest.

And that, my friends, is more powerful than any damn Pinterest quote.

“When it all seems like it’s coming together… it’s probably just another plot twist.”

Stay loud. Stay weird. Stay fighting.
—A battle-worn, slightly-lopsided witch with a story to tell.

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