Practicing Medicine

Today wasn’t filled with chocolates, flowers, or dinner plans. Today was about checking in with my oncology nurse practitioner—a different kind of appointment on a day that’s supposed to be about love and care.

She greeted me warmly, looked over my chart, and said, “You’re doing well.” Her notes reflected the same:
“Here for follow-up. Doing well, no complaints today other than some increased fatigue. She is scheduled for surgery on March 4th. No nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, constipation, mouth sores, neuropathy, or cough.”

It sounded good on paper. But inside? I was so tired. So drained.

It’s a strange kind of exhaustion—one that isn’t just about sleep or busy days. It’s the deep, bone-level weariness that comes from fighting for so long. From showing up to appointment after appointment. From having test after test, lab after lab, scan after scan.

Today they scheduled my ECG, echocardiogram, and breast MRI. More tests, more checkpoints before surgery. More moments of holding my breath, waiting for results, praying nothing new shows up.

As I sat in the clinic chair, listening to the plan, it hit me: even though treatment is working, even though I’m “doing well,” I’m still in it. Still walking this tightrope between hope and fear, health and fragility.

I smiled politely as we wrapped up the visit, thanked her for her care, and walked out of the office. On the outside, I looked like I had it together. On the inside, I was counting the minutes until I could get home, crawl into bed, and not have to be “the strong one” for a while.

Valentine’s Day may be about love—and today, I realized I need to save some of that love for myself – the girl under the warrior mask who’s doing the very best she can.