Januarys

Sunday, January 4, 2026. Januarys seem to be a significant month in my life. Although my breast cancer (BC) recurrence was diagnosed in October 2018, it was January 2019 that chemotherapy became a part of my weekly routine. It had been 19 years since my first infusion in January 2000 with the last in May of that year. This time however the Stage 1 ER/PR+ HER2- BC had mutated into triple negative breast cancer (TNBC) with a 66-67% chance of surviving 5 years. By October 2021 the diagnosis had escalated to metastatic triple negative breast cancer (MTNBC), and the mortality rate dropped to 12-15%. But here we are 7 years out. Still fighting the fight. Still standing. Still loving. Still breathing. Still alive and living. Still smiling out loud.

“I’m still here.” —Lana Eberhard

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Excerpts from January related posts over the years.

2019. January 8. Control
Chemo Day. I wake up fully and overwhelmingly aware of what the day will bring. Right now, crying seems like my only good option. So, I quietly cry so as not to wake Steve. Then I drink some water, grab my tablet and respond to some text messages and emails from well-wishers. It’s comforting. Before leaving for my Chemo Teach appointment, we shower, and then Steve leaves to enjoy some breakfast and coffee. While he is out, I sip water and read the chapter entitled, “The Beauty of Discipline” from the book Mindfulness for Beginners – reclaiming the present moment—and your life by Jon Kabat-Zinn. June gave me this book at Christmas. Today this one chapter especially resonates with me.

“We can experiment with non-doing. If we are willing to encounter our old habits in this way, without turning non-distraction and non-doing into unattainable ideals, and if we can bring gentleness and kindness to the process over and over again for even the briefest of moments, then we might test the very real possibility of being at home and at peace with things exactly as they are without having to try to change or fix anything in this moment. When it comes right down to it, this orientation constitutes not only a gentle and healing discipline. It is a radical act of love…and of sanity.” —Jon Kabat-Zinn.

So for today, on my first chemo day, I’m going to practice a radical act of love. I’m going to try to embrace being at home and at peace with things exactly as they are. I’m giving myself the gift of sanity in what is clearly an insane situation.

“Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers.” —Robert Ingersoll

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2020. January 29. Let’s cut to the chase. 
My cancer is back. There’s just no way to put it more delicately. It’s not a delicate subject.

The good news is…yes, there is good news…this mass is tiny, it’s in a location that is easy to get to, and it is surmountable. So, as I recently told a good friend and fellow breast cancer warrior, “Steve and I are in a bit of a funk, but 100% optimistic. Just one day at a time. Staying in the moment as much as possible and trying not to get ahead of ourselves. Counting our many blessings, and feeling confident this will be nothing more than a big bump in the road we will navigate over with each other’s love and support and that of our family and friends.”

Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim. —Nora Ephron

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2021. January 1. Day One 2021.
I am hopeful that the new year will provide us all positive and magical changes. That we will enjoy good health and stay safe. That the fog we’ve been living in will lift, and we will enjoy each other’s company without fear. It seems we all have healing to do of one kind or another.

One thing that will remain unchanged in 2021 is my appreciation for you—your support, your kind words, your understanding, your encouragement, your positivity, your belief, your loyalty, your friendship, your love. I’m beyond grateful you chose to follow me on this journey. What a gift it is that we can still lift each other up in spite of all that separates us these days.

Gratitude is when memory is stored in the heart and not in the mind. —Lionel Hampton

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2022. February 2. It’s a process.
I had my monthly check-up at UCSF a week ago. My tumor measured ever so slightly smaller. Which is good, but Dr. Rugo was hoping for better results.

All of this information can be overwhelming and worrisome. I have found a wonderful refuge in my daily mediation practice. It helps to keep me present, accepting the way things are in this moment. It’s made this journey much more manageable for me and reminds me to be grateful for all that I have—for the friends and family who support me with their love and good wishes, for the otherwise good health I do enjoy like seeing and hearing and tasting and smelling and walking and talking and laughing, for the wonderful home and surroundings I have the privilege of living in every day, for the ability to sit at this computer and share with you what I’m going through and the comfort it gives me. Meditation reminds me that I am alive in this moment and, in spite of this one challenge, I am a very lucky person in so many ways. Blessed, really.

The nature of this flower is to bloom. —Alice Walker

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2023. January 16. When I agreed to consider participating in the “Phase 2 Study of Magrolimab Combination Therapy in Patients with Unresectable, Locally Advanced or Metastatic Triple-Negative Breast Cancer,” the coordinator gave me a 33-page participant information and informed consent form, a 4-page HIPAA Research Authorization form and a 1-page UCSF Experimental Subjects Bill of Rights form. Reading through each page and digesting all the information they contained was overwhelming, intimidating and frightening. Each one required my signature, my acknowledgment, my consent. I hesitated to commit. It was only after reassuring myself I could back out at anytime, did I finally put pen to paper.

So here I sit trying to enjoy my last day and a half of “normal.” Not giving this clinical trial a shot might have given me regret. At this stage in my journey, that’s something I just can’t afford.

No regrets. No looking back. Just hold onto life and move forward. — Susan Gale

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2024. January 1. Out with the old. In with the new.
On New Year’s Eve we went to our dear friends and nearby neighbor’s house for a mid-afternoon party. The view from their back deck is incredible. As the afternoon turned into evening our small gathering of close friends witnessed what felt like an endless and breathtaking sunset. It was genuinely magical, made even more so through our shared experience with all of us “ooing” and “ahhing” as the sky grew more amazing with each passing moment. Who needs fireworks. The universe does provide.

I hope the year ahead is filled with magical moments that stop me in my tracks like that sunset did, reminding me to be grateful. You don’t need to be dealing with a life-threatening illness to appreciate those times when they happen. But it did make me wonder how many there might be left. I’m not being morbid or negative. Instead it’s a reminder to not let these occasions slip by without acknowledging how precious they and the people who share them are to me.

May 2024 shine brightly on you all!

Stir the eggnog, lift the toddy, Happy New Year, everybody. — Phyllis McGinley

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2025. January 19. New year, shmoo year.
On December 18, I had an office visit with Dr. Rugo to discuss the results of my chest CT scan. We were optimistic about the visit since the preliminary radiology report was overall positive, as I reported in my last post “Happy Holidays.” Our expectation was we would schedule another Chest CT in a couple months to keep an eye on things. You can imagine our surprise when Rugo started talking about the slow growth in my right paratracheal lymph node, as well as the right axillary node, and what our best next steps should be. It was like my brain hit the brakes and was shouting, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. What?” Steve and I didn’t say anything. We just sat there listening in stunned silence.

So…that’s how 2025 kicked off. There were fireworks all right, but they were the internal, messy, mind-blowing kind. And we are not exactly celebrating yet. I drive down next Sunday and will stay in San Francisco until Friday [for focal radiation on the paratracheal lymph node]. My next chest CT scan is set for March 18. Sometime after that we’ll make a decision about treating the axillary node. And the band played on.

On another note. Northern California seems like a long way from our neighbors in southern California suffering all the horrible devastation from the fires. I mourn for everything that’s been lost—structures, irreplaceable artwork, musical works, iconic and historical landmarks, livelihoods. Most of all my heart breaks for those who lost their lives in such a horrific way..including pets and wildlife. It’s impossible to wrap my brain around the enormity of it all. Feeling helpless, I continue to count my blessings every day. Grateful I’m still here. Even more grateful you’re still here.

Watch out for each other. Love everyone and forgive everyone, including yourself. Forgive your anger. Forgive your guilt. Your shame. Your sadness. Embrace and open up your love, your joy, your truth, and most especially your heart. —Jim Henson