Pt 19: Halfway Through Taxol: A Milestone Marked by Unexpected News

Last Wednesday marked my sixth infusion of Taxol—officially the halfway point of this leg of my chemotherapy journey. Ten infusions down (4 AC and 6 Taxol), with just six more to go. I walked into my oncologist appointment feeling proud, hopeful, and honestly, a little celebratory. My doctor even told me that out of all his patients in 2025, I’m handling chemo the best—and that I deserve a gold belt! 💥

But I left that appointment feeling shaken and a little bit defeated.

While I’m still incredibly grateful for how my body has tolerated treatment—with minimal side effects and the ability to keep living life—I received news that caught me completely off guard.

Back in July, when I started chemo, I knew hormone therapy would follow. Five to ten years of medication to block estrogen and progesterone made sense to me. My cancer is ER/PR+, which means it feeds off those hormones. So, reducing or eliminating them is essential to prevent recurrence. I had accepted that part of the plan.

This week, I asked my oncologist when we should start discussing hormone therapy in more detail. I wanted Nick to be present for that conversation, and with only six weeks left of chemo, it felt like the right time to plan ahead.

What I didn’t expect was the gravity of what came next.

My doctor explained that because my cancer is aggressive, the conversation would go far beyond our usual 20-minute check-ins. He then recommended something I hadn’t considered: surgical removal of my ovaries and fallopian tubes—with the option to also remove my uterus.

That hit me like a freight train. Oofta.

He clarified that this wouldn’t be recommended for someone with a less aggressive form of ER+ breast cancer. But in my case, it’s either surgery or monthly hormone-suppressing injections for an indefinite period. And those shots? They’re no walk in the park. They can make people really sick—even those who breezed through chemo. They’re painful, time-consuming, and can wreak havoc on your body’s hormonal balance. Plus, they don’t always work well enough, meaning many women end up needing surgery anyway.

I’ve spent the past six months often forgetting, daily or weekly that I even have cancer. Usually, a quick look of myself in the mirror reminds me, but I feel strong. I’m not bedridden. I’m not in pain. I go to work, show up for my kids and husband, and live my life. But Wednesday was a reminder—a LOUD, semi-emotional one—that my cancer is serious. And that the next chapter might require even more sacrifice than I anticipated.

Lately, I find myself sitting with a question that’s hard to shake: What does it mean to feel like a woman when so many of the parts that made me one—my breasts, ovaries, tubes, uterus—are being taken away? These are the pieces of me that I was born with, that shaped my identity, my motherhood, my femininity. And now, they’re part of the collateral damage in this fight for my life.

It’s a strange place to be—grateful for the science that’s saving me, yet grieving the loss of what once felt sacred and untouchable.

So now, we wait.

We wait for the next appointment with my oncologist to learn more about what’s ahead. We wait for mid-November to meet with my incredible OB (yes, the same one who found the lump and changed the course of my life). And we wait for late January, when my breast reconstruction surgery is now scheduled.

While things have been smooth sailing for a few months, we are now in a new season full of pauses. Full of questions. Full of quiet moments where I try to imagine the version of me that will emerge on the other side of all this. And while I don’t have all the answers, I do know this: she will be strong, she will be whole, and she will still be me.