There’s Always a Rainbow After the Rain

This weekend, the mom guilt hit me hard. My next surgery date falls on my son’s birthday, and the thought of missing it crushed me. So, I decided to make it up to him the best way I could — by inviting all his friends for an early mountain celebration.

We packed up and headed to our place in Granby, CO, a house where we used to spend weeks every summer. But not this summer. Between doctor’s appointments and restrictions, the kids hadn’t been up once. I knew bringing friends along would make it feel special again. Seven kids, a weekend of freedom, and a chance to laugh in a way we all hadn’t in months.

As the boys slept in, I snuck in a morning hike with friends. I may have led everyone down the wrong path but we found the way in the end. The leaves were already changing on many of the trees, reminding us that summer is almost over.

We’re lucky to have friends with a boat on Lake Granby who happily welcomed our motley crew. The boys spent hours tubing and later hit the golf course, while my daughter and her friend got their turn on the water. Dark clouds hovered all day, but we made it off the lake just before the hailstorm hit. When we went back out, the sky still looked threatening, yet somehow, we managed to cross to the far side of the lake and back before the rain returned.

Those clouds felt like more than weather. They mirrored the heavy cloud that’s been hanging over me all summer: the one called cancer. The cloud that kept me out of the water because of the risk of infection. The cloud that stopped me from hiking in the mountains because I couldn’t get my heart rate up. The cloud that kept me home, restless, worried about how many more summers I’ll get with these kids.

And then, just as we docked and rushed to cover the boat, the sky opened. A double rainbow.

My husband said one rainbow was for our dear friend Brett, who spent countless hours with us on that lake. It was our first trip without him. And I couldn’t help but believe the other was a sign for me. It felt like a promise that this next surgery will bring clearer skies.

I’m ready to leave this chapter behind and get back to what matters most: time with my kids. I know that this week I will start all over again walking around with “T-Rex arms,” asking for help with the simplest tasks, not able to lift more than ten pounds or elevate my heart rate. But I am starting to see the rainbow at the end of this rainstorm.

Change of Plans

If you know me, you know I’m a planner. I map out dinners a week in advance, vacations months ahead, and I’ve been organizing my son’s Bar Mitzvah for nearly a year. But all of that came to a screeching halt the day I heard the word: cancer.

Suddenly, I couldn’t even think about what we’d eat tomorrow, let alone next week. Vacations were canceled. The Bar Mitzvah plans were handed over to someone else. My focus shifted entirely to treatment and survival.

By the end of summer, I cautiously dipped my toes back into planning. I booked my second surgery for the first available date in January. We planned a fall break that wouldn’t require swimsuits or going in the water. It felt good to think ahead again.

Then came the best surprise—my surgeon had a cancellation. Instead of waiting months, I’ll be heading back into the OR next week… on my son’s 14th birthday, August 21st. It’s not the way I imagined celebrating, but I couldn’t be happier to move forward.

This step means two big things: finally saying goodbye to the hard plastic expanders in my body, and getting an MRI to confirm the cancer is gone. Yes, it throws off other plans. Yes, it means another week away from work and 4–6 more weeks of recovery. But I’m learning that you can’t plan for everything—and sometimes, the unexpected is a gift.

Today was one of those gifts. On a whim, I convinced some friends to hike to a place I’d never been before—Lake Isabelle. It was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that makes you stop, take a deep breath, and feel grateful. The best kind of surprise.

I’ve stopped saying “then I’ll be done,” because with cancer, you’re never truly done. There will be more reconstruction. There will always be monitoring for recurrence. But this is a major step toward getting my life back.

As the saying goes, the best-laid plans often go awry. This time, though, they’ve gone awry in the very best way.

Lake Isabelle via Pawnee Pass Trail – 6.6 Miles

Getting Back to (the new) Normal

This Friday marks six weeks since my double mastectomy, and I’ll be heading back to work to celebrate. It’s been a long, strange stretch of recovery— and far from how I originally imagined summer would go.

We didn’t host our annual 4th of July party. We skipped the fun trips. I had to cancel the hut trip I had planned months ago. But slowly, life is creeping back in. I can drive again—though now I’m mostly chauffeuring kids who constantly need rides. I can cook again—though the kids continue to reject anything that resembles “real food.” I can join friends for happy hour and take long walks. But even with these small wins, life doesn’t quite look like it used to.

Before the dreaded “C-word” we had plans. The kids had ski camp and a visit to their grandparents in Crested Butte. We had tickets to Cirque du Soleil and a Fiddler’s Green concert featuring CAAMP. Those nights out became the unexpected highlights of our summer. Family. Friends. Music. A reminder that joy still finds its way in.

I even turned our pickup trip to Crested Butte into a mini getaway—and found time to attend a cancer fundraiser while I was there. And I had friends over for a small birthday happy hour.

This summer, I walked instead of ran. That shift gave me space to notice things I might have otherwise missed: a beauty salon night with Alexa as my stylist. Blind karaoke sessions filled with off-key laughter and sneaky bites of cake between verses. Watching Callum win his tennis match in a tiebreaker. Fireworks in the front yard and watching the sky light up from the comfort of the trampoline.

There’s something to be said for slowing down. But I’m ready to move forward now, even if it’s into a new version of life.

Because here’s the truth: the old normal is gone. In this new normal, there are still cancer cells in my body. In this new normal, I’ll have hard plastic tissue expanders until next year. I’ll never sit in a sauna again because of the risk of lymphedema. And I should really avoid sitting in the sun when it feels like a sauna. Also, in this new normal there is no Brett to stop by for a drink or to come to the mountains with us. Things that I once took for granted I will appreciate more.

As CAAMP sings, “This past year I got so much older.”

And I did. But I’m still here. Still healing. Ready to return to the new normal.