Last weekend, Massachusetts was frozen over—snow and ice blanketed the cars, the roads, everything. Inside, I was frozen in my own way, put on heavy-dose steroids to counter severe damage to my eyes, thyroid, and pituitary gland. All side effects from immunotherapy. The pain before the meds had been unbearable, a constant throb behind my eyes that left me lying flat, stuck in my own head. The treatment brought relief—but it brought its own weight too.

By Sunday, my anxiety had set in hard. Sleep was impossible, my thoughts were on a loop, and I couldn’t find a way out. I reached out to the people I trust most, but even as I spoke, I could hear myself spiraling: “I can’t see the good part.” “What if I caused this?” “How am I so unprepared?” It didn’t help. The more I unraveled, the harder I was on myself. Even their reminders to be gentle felt like too much—like they were giving me permission I hadn’t earned.

And intellectually, I knew better. Shame and blame don’t solve anything. They just burn up what little energy I have left. But knowing that doesn’t make the ride any shorter. It doesn’t make it less exhausting. And no matter how many times I’ve been here before, it always feels like the first time when I’m in it.

Eventually, the threads started to hold. A new prescription finally brought sleep—deep, uninterrupted, dreamless. The kind of sleep that softens everything, even if just a little. By the next morning, I found myself wanting things again: juice, fresh fruit, vegetables. I got Zara’s leash and took her out before the sun came up. The craving to write hit soon after. None of it happened all at once, but each thing built on the other, like bricks stacked carefully over a shaky foundation.

Here’s what I know: I can’t undo what’s happened. I can’t get back to a “before” that doesn’t exist anymore. But I can start again—here, in this body, in this moment. And that has to be enough–because it’s all I have and I want it all.

#noquit

My mom has told me this story about when I was born, full-term, and still only 5lbs, and with a heart that had doctors concerned.

She says there were many tests and worries in my first days/weeks. I remember my mom telling me that after being given nothing conclusive time and time again, she said some version of: “Look, she fits perfectly right here in my arms; everything is fine.” And then, for the most part, things were.

This story popped into my head when I woke around 4 o’clock the other morning and found Zara (my rescue pittie) curled up perfectly against my legs.

“Look, she fits perfectly right here against me; everything is fine.”

And then, for the most part, things were…and I went back to sleep for a few hours until the day really needed to get going.

I am genuinely taken aback by how much I love this dog. How much she and I need and depend on one another. When I was in the hospital, I don’t know who had it worse, her or me (and I had brain surgery!). Everything happened so quickly, and she bounced from loving trusted home to loving trusted home, but still, she ended up with hot spots and massively shedding and over-the-top anxiety…even for her.

On my first days back from the hospital, it was hard to keep her at the house because she wanted our typical routine of early two-mile walks and lots of neighborhood adventures, and I just didn’t have the stamina. While she was away, my sleep and joy were definitely impacted.

I won’t pretend she isn’t a fair amount of work – because she has her own issues too, but maybe that’s part of what makes us such an excellent pair. She gets me outside, often during the day and brings me an abundance of peace and security – especially at night and I will forever credit her with helping me find my way through this now normal.

My doctors told me I could return to strength training, so I have. However, it looks a lot different now.

Before cancer and brain surgery, I was deadlifting 150 pounds and benching 125.

Now, I stick to bodyweight exercises, and the heaviest weight I use is an 8-pound kettlebell. Before, my sessions lasted a full hour; now, they’re thirty minutes.

But here’s the thing: I’m exhausted when each session ends and sore for days.

This week, I decided to do a 30-minute session the day after an immunotherapy treatment. In the moment, it felt good. I worked up a sweat and finished feeling strong and clear. Later that night, though, I woke up around 11 p.m. with sharp pain in my lower left ribs—or maybe it was my lung? (Honestly, I can’t always tell the difference.) The pain and the scare were enough to land me in the ER from midnight until four in the morning.

(Pulmonary embolism is a potential side effect of my treatments, so any chest pain or difficulty breathing gets a lot of caution. As it should.)

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t a pulmonary embolism. It might’ve just been a pulled muscle.

It’s hard growing into a new body. Learning new limits. I’m not always great at resisting the urge to compare myself to who I was before or judging where I am now. And I’m definitely not above feeling embarrassed for panicking over what turned out to be a minor setback.

Living with cancer amplifies everything—the small things, like how much I love the taste of ketchup, and the big things, like listening to my body, asking questions, getting help, and finding ways to calm myself down.

Moving forward, I’ll keep reminding myself, “8 is great” whenever I reach for a kettlebell—or even, “5 and I’m alive.”

It probably makes sense that when life gets tough, the first things I crave are the simple comforts that soothed me as a kiddo.

About five years ago—right around the start of COVID—I noticed a curious pattern. Whenever I felt a cold creeping in, I craved Spaghettios. I hadn’t cracked open a can in over a decade, but every time I gave in, the ritual was the same: venture out for a can, warm it up, devour it, fall asleep, and somehow wake up feeling better.

Of course, it always has to be the original. I know people who swear by the meatball or hotdog versions, but those never did it for me.

To balance the scales here, I should note that I also have a deep appreciation for the healthier side of life. Pasture-raised eggs, fresh juice, garden greens, and copious amounts of lemon, ginger, and turmeric are staples in my fridge. And while these foods undoubtedly offer their fair share of health benefits, there’s something to be said for simply feeling good when you eat what you want.

For the longest time, my Spaghettios ritual was a private indulgence. But when a serious cancer diagnosis brought friends, family, colleagues, and neighbors together to help, my comfort food secret didn’t stay secret for long.

Bless those incredible ICU nurses who served me bowls of Spaghettios at 1 a.m., 2 a.m., and 3 a.m. during my hospital stay. Their kindness—and the warm familiarity of my favorite childhood treat—brought a kind of comfort you can’t bottle or measure.

And while I remain loyal to the original, I recently remembered another nostalgic gem from the mid-90s: shark-shaped pasta from Chef Boyardee. It wasn’t Spaghettios, but let’s just say, if it ever made a comeback, I might be tempted to give it another try. 😉

First round of biopsy results came through yesterday. It’s not leukemia, and it’s not lymphoma.

For the last ten or so days, I’ve been suspended in this anxious calm—not knowing for sure what’s going on physically, while doing what I could to stay grounded emotionally, think intellectually, and create when I could.

I fought creativity the hardest.

When things are in flow, going my way, it’s inspiring to start the day outside on a long walk with my dog, then daydreaming with a cup of coffee on the porch. It’s fun to tell stories. I feel strong going to the gym, trying a new workout, and being around others who show up to prioritize movement. I’m happy doodling on stray napkins and paper scraps.

When I’m stuck in a waiting place, all of that feels heavy, and the energy expended on the inner dialogue to do that stuff anyway is exhausting.

Dogs and loved ones help immensely. Because even if I wasn’t totally present on all those walks, I was still walking. And even if I couldn’t lean into conversations and outreach as much as I’d like to believe I could—I still leaned.

And even though I still struggled to write—I wrote.

I even went back and reread posts I wrote for this blog about nine years ago, and to my wonderful surprise, I liked what I read. If I’m being completely honest, not only did I like them—they helped me. They helped me make more sense of what I’m feeling, building, and navigating now.

I’m starting to believe that’s the whole point of my creativity—to give me some safe space to reflect, and then, later, offer simple wisdom to remember.

Let alone, forgetting that I wrote this, I forgot it even happened: https://amandathanks.com/2015/11/11/all-dogs-go-to-heaven/

My son has a neighborhood friend whose family attends church regularly.

I was raised Catholic, attended Catholic school on and off from elementary through undergrad, but I stopped practicing by my late teens. Briggs’s dad and I decided to raise Briggs outside of organized religion.

That said, there are aspects of being raised with religion—primarily the traditions and rituals—that still bring fond memories and comforting associations.

So, when this neighborhood friend came to our home for the first time a few years back, it brought a deep sense of warmth when I overheard him say:

“Wow, your house smells like Christmas and church! How does your mom do that?”

I was just a room away and walked over for the big reveal:

“It’s incense. And you’re right—they do burn it in church, especially around Christmas and other high holidays.”

My son added, “That’s what church smells like? Mom, you always say it’s what hippies smell like.”

“Well,” I said, “both can be true.”

Sometimes, I forget that I was raised by hippies and in church. It’s actually not all that uncommon where I grew up in Southern rural New Hampshire. Maybe it’s not all that uncommon anywhere.

I suppose it makes sense, especially as I am still awaiting biopsy results and volleying between suspended anxiety and the gift of the unknown, that all things church, energy, and spirit would be coming up and playing out in my head and feelings.

Though, I will admit, even with plenty of incense and essential oils, neither my spirit nor my home feels very Christmas-y this Labor Day weekend.

A bit of homemade lychee essential oil was dropped off at my home today by the very mom of the kind boy who said my home smelled like church. Neighbors are a blessing.