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Asleep FURever…Sweet Dreams Nathan Edgar

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My sweet, precious, and loving Nathan Edgar aka Baby Natey was put to sleep forever on Tuesday, March 12th at 9:39am. His health began to rapidly deteriorate right before the big move into our condo last month. He was in kidney failure, had difficulty walking, and had multiple seizures that would come out of nowhere.

Here is the video posted on my social media on Monday, March 11th after I accepted that I had to let him go. His 20-year-old body was giving out. He needed me to help ease his pain.

You see, he was more than a cat. He was my child. He was my companion. He was my heart. He was my comfort.

We’ve been through so much including the following:

  • two recessions
  • multiple breakups
  • heartbreak
  • job frustrations
  • job changes
  • mental health issues
  • breast cancer
  • losing fertility
  • celebrations
  • joyful moments
  • putting on Broadway shows in living room
  • meeting new friends
  • dealing with my hair accessories
  • comfort from never ending racism and microaggressions

I’ll miss my little Nathan Edgar forever. We had 20 years of love, laughter, cuddles, and dealing with my shenanigans.

I’m beyond beautifully overwhelmed by the vast number of people touched by these videos across all my social media. I read every single comment. The comments that slightly stung were those urging me to get a kitten. I had to remind myself that not everyone knows what to say or what NOT to say. I had my Nathan Edgar for 20 years. I’m an only child, and he was an only cat. I can’t even entertain the thought of another cat. I think many cannot fully comprehend just how strong our bond was. I treated him like a little human. I was a cat mom and took it seriously and lovingly.

My grief is real and comes in waves. I still look and listen for him. I miss our daily routines, especially at bedtime. He would always let me know when I needed to get off my laptop and get in bed to read to him. Yes, I read a few pages of whatever book I was reading almost nightly. He had a special pillow that he would sleep on or curl up next to me. Nathan Edgar knew he was my baby and knew he was loved.

RIP Baby Natey…

– Warrior Megsie

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The Light at the End of Financial Toxicity Post-Cancer

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I’m forever amazed that I’ve been able to turn my cancer experience into multiple lemon martinis (not a fan of lemonade). I was hit hard by financial toxicity post-cancer that has taken years to overcome – and I do mean YEARS. I had to reinvent my career which is still a work in progress. I had to face the loss of certain dreams after NED (no evidence of disease) and I began a long-term relationship. It’s painful but necessary to embrace the suck of my reality – no siblings, single, loss of fertility, financial toxicity, chronic pain, depression, anxiety, painsomnia, fending off microaggressions and overt racism, and more friends dying from stage IV cancer.

While the above is pretty much doom and gloom, I do have some major life updates that have me over the moon with glee!

Video #1 – Closing day on MY condo with my fabulous realtor Coneilia Reddy. My usual flair was on steroids due to the excitement!

Video #2 – Thanking cancer fam & FL realtor Andrea (Andi) Gamble, my GA realtor Coneilia Reddy, and my lender David Fairbank and his team for being in my corner and helped to turn this dream into a reality.

While I am utterly elated that I became a homeowner this week, my giddiness transformed into worry for my Nathan Edgar aka Baby Natey. He was diagnosed with stage III kidney disease and progressive arthritis in his back legs. I even had to give him an IV of fluids because he was dehydrated. Then he had two focal seizures on Thursday. No idea what caused them, but I was able to capture the second one on video to show the vet during our follow-up appointment Friday. We did come up with next steps if he experiences another one – how I hope it was a fluke. My 20 year old baby’s health is declining…and that’s all I can say at the moment.

Video #3 – See recap of Baby Natey’s recent vet appointment at The Cat Doctor in Sandy Springs, GA.

It has definitely been a tough time with some major celebrations and then major concern occurring all in the same week.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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2023 Reflections – Dreams, The Stage, and Beyond

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Reflecting on the ups and downs of 2023, one of my biggest dreams came true. Those are words I never thought I’d write in my lifetime. Performing on Stories from the Stage in front of a live studio audience, later aired on PBS and World Channel in June, was life-changing.

You see, I have wanted to be an actress since I was 12. My first play was called An Interlude of Deadly Silence (AIDS) at Macon Little Theatre. I was auditioning to be an understudy and was the youngest person there. I’ll never forget when the director called me onstage to read a monologue. It was at that moment that I fell in love with the stage.

I spent most of my teen years performing in community theatre, a few high school plays, and a few plays in college. I had an excellent range of performing in dramas, comedies, and musicals…a triple threat back then. I’ve never had an excellent voice for leading roles in musicals, but I could sing a solo and harmonize in a small group to an entire cast. How I wish I had more pictures of me in costume. I only have a few tangible pictures, so the bulk lives in my long-term memory.

Did I have dreams of making it big on Broadway and seeing my name in lights? You know I did! It’s still a dream, but adulting has overshadowed me. I get prickly when people say I should start auditioning since Atlanta has become the Hollywood of the South. How do they now see that I am not physically the same anymore? I’ve had and continue to have so many complications and issues post-cancer that I can’t be without health insurance and medications so I can continue existing above ground. I’m constantly grieving for my pre-cancer body that was fit, strong, and graceful. I can now pinpoint when the cancer entered my body – six months after my 34th birthday. That was the last time I looked and felt like me.

I’ve had such a fear of dipping my toe back into acting by taking classes at the Alliance Theatre and was even an extra in a Christmas movie last year – the actors’ and writer’s strike affected the distribution of it, so hoping the producers can sell it to air on Hallmark or something next year.

Now that I’ve had quite a few acting and voice-over classes under my belt, including a VO demo, it’s all I want to do, but I physically can’t, thanks to this post-cancer body that’s in pain 24/7. The fatigue never leaves me. Some days are better than others, but I always feel it. I have no choice but to work full-time to have health benefits.

I’ve never been meant to spend day in and day out sitting in a (virtual) cubicle. Getting that taste of not just being on stage or in a recording booth but truly performing different characters makes me yearn for more opportunities. I wish I could be a full-time content creator or travel the world sharing my breast cancer story and perspective with medical school students and the medical community.

Honestly, who knows what’s in store for 2024. Whatever “it” is will be unconventional and likely created from scratch. The only places I’ve felt a sense of belonging are on stage or in a recording booth. I guess the 12-year-old me desperately tries to hold on to this hope.

Happy New Year, dahlings,

Warrior Megsie

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When Chaos, Burnout, and Rage Collide

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I’m triple fatigued these days – body, mind, and soul. Every day, there are more and more dangerous, unhinged, and downright terrifying news stories, social media posts, and truly gut-wrenching videos with no end in sight. I have to constantly compartmentalize all of this away until the files in my brain are too full, and I snap.

NEWSFLASH – I have snapped and cracked from the pressure of it all. I naively thought I’d reach a point where I could finally rest for longer than a day or a week. How did my ancestors do it? How did my grandparents do it? How did they still hold onto their hope for better days?

I recently had a mayo (white) woman tell me that I have too much talent. Who says that to a person in both exasperation and awe? I was born this way and won’t apologize for my ability to do multiple things well. I’ve repeatedly said over the years that no one can put a square MEG in a round hole. I was never meant to be average. I get into these rage states of mind because I can’t seem to compartmentalize being undermined, talked down to, and fend off almost daily microaggressions. My nervous system is overloaded and internally screaming to stop letting other people’s words and behaviors affect me so profoundly.

I reached out to my healing practitioner to schedule another chakra balancing session and to my cutie therapist for an emergency session before Thanksgiving. I’ve lost that grounded feeling I had over the summer. I don’t have the internal strength to fight off the toxic people and behaviors I have to be around daily – personal and professional.

My wounds never seem to heal fully. How do I find peace, joy, and a sense of belonging in all this chaos? How do I keep my eyes on the prize? At this rate, what IS the prize? There’s no endpoint. Racists are going to be racist. Pretend woke white people will continue to get drunk off their white savior mentality. Cancer research will continue not to reflect the real-world population either.

People keep telling me my ideas and voice matter, but do they? I am placed in situations where I am forced to temper my tongue and emotions with a smile. I don’t need to hear how strong I am and all that because I already know my internal strength and natural resilience. The point is I’m fucking tired of having to constantly navigate these shark-infested waters in a boat that is growing too old and worn down.

I don’t want to take part in this hustle culture. I barely have the mental and physical capacity to do what I must now. Then, I have to somehow carve out more time and energy in the hopes that I don’t fill my creative cup with backwash because I can’t focus?!

Here’s what many people have said to me over the years and just in the past week.

  • “Audition for movies, plays, and voiceover roles”
  • “Start your own consulting business”
  • “Start your own podcast”
  • “Follow your dreams”
  • “What do you want to do”

The only thing I do know is I need to be around genuine people where I don’t have to center whiteness and make others comfortable. I’ve opened several doors this year, but there seems to be a stall and a lack of clarity about what happens next. I need to brainstorm with others to help direct me to the next door waiting for me to open.

Existing in chaos while being suffocated by feelings of burnout and rage is not sustainable. I can’t get the clarity of what I need to do and am meant to do.

Le sigh.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

P.S. YOU MATTER

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My Turbulent 7-year Relationship with NED

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There was a time when I proudly shouted from the rooftops, “I beat cancer,” “Fight like a girl,” and “I’m in remission.” I felt bliss for the first six months of my breast cancer survivorship until reality began to set in. I distinctly remember when my vocabulary shifted to no evidence of disease (NED). The more I processed the struggles, pain, and stress caused by active treatment and the years of advocating for myself leading up to receiving an invasive lobular, the more I realized this breast cancer path is ongoing. I call my blog Life on the Cancer Train because there’s no final destination where everything will stop, and I can get off and never look back.

To keep my sense of humor intact and grapple with survivorship, I like to think of NED as a relationship. Honestly, it’s the longest active relationship I’ve ever had. It has been quite turbulent because I still don’t know this post-cancer body.

Fasten your seat belts…because here’s everything I have dealt with post-cancer.

Chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN)

Infertility due to hysterectomy (removal of uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes)

Oophorectomy due to high risk of ovarian cancer (removal of ovaries)

Secondary radiation rash on the left side of the neck

Contact dermatitis on eyelids (now allergic to dye in antibacterial soap)

Removal of fat necrosis in the lumpectomy area

Removal of hematoma that attached to fat necrosis

Loss of jobs and health insurance before COVID

Racism in some private breast cancer groups

Loss of job at the height of  COVID

Grade III sprained ankle due to CIPN

Medical bias and racism

Resigning from jobs

Onset of fibromyalgia

Onset of back pain

Loss of savings

Ongoing nausea

Financial toxicity

Weight gain

Constipation

Depression

Painsomnia

Dizziness

Anxiety

Grief

PTSD

Rage

I had to take a deep breath and wipe away some tears reading this list. This isn’t pretty or pink or fun.

THIS IS MY SURVIVORSHIP.

Most people would never know how much I have been through and continue to go through because most of these are invisible. I’ve learned how to mask the daily pain outwardly, tighten my protective cloak, and develop a much thicker skin to deal with the never-ending racism, tokenism, and oppression due to existing as not just a breast cancer survivor but as a BLACK breast cancer survivor and as a BLACK woman.

I don’t need to be told, “You’re stronger than this,” or “Just ignore them.”

I’m human and have feelings.

I’m not a superwoman.

I deserve…

to be supported

to be believed

to be vulnerable

to be accepted

to be loved

to be heard

to rest.

It’s important to acknowledge these added stressors and trauma are real, draining, discouraging, and ongoing. I know I’ve accomplished so much as a patient advocate, subject matter expert, speaker, blogger, storyteller, activist, professional, and more, but all of it has come at a cost. It’s a lot to take in, but this is my survivorship and daily existence.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

P.S. I broke my pinky toe Thursday night due to a dizzy spell and hitting my right pinky toe on the corner of my dresser. It’s always something—Le sigh.

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No More Great Expectations

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I have pushed through writer’s block and finally released some pent-up thoughts I’ve had for months. As an empath, I often struggle not to take things so personally, especially when much of it is out of my control. Yesterday, I had a major breakthrough that I can’t wait to tell my cutie therapist about next week.

It has taken over 25 years to officially accept the reality that certain people will never DO or BE better. I’ll be clear, it is white people that I am talking about here. Yes, I know there are good eggs out there,  but I’m the one who must deal with being constantly undermined, disrespected, and dismissed in multiple areas of my life. Then add the insanity of the GQP, criminal defendant tRump, and maggots, and it threw me into an even deeper pit of despair.

I honestly thought there would be real change after the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmad Arbery, and sooo many more, and the insurrection. We saw the worst in people, and nothing changed for the better. I see how insidious white supremacy is and how easy it is just to shrink and not want to take up any space. The hate being spewed on a daily basis and not seeing any repercussions for their actions has caused me to stop believing in liberty and justice for all.

The fact Black History, which is American History, is being erased in certain states has cut me to the core. I’ve done so much inner work to address my own mixed fragility and learned to love my Blackness. Just like cancer can’t take away the essence of me, I will no longer allow certain white people to dampen my joy, my pride, my expertise, or my worth.

Black Lives Matter but will never matter enough for racists in positions of power or white women’s tears.

Here’s a video that summarizes my thoughts even further.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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The Stage and Audience I Never Imagined

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The biggest night of my existence premiers tomorrow on Stories from the Stage. I am happiest ON stage or in a recording studio. All I have ever wanted to do is perform – theatre, voiceovers, movies, and TV. I’m still shocked that I have a desk job. That’s what happens when adulting derails a dream. I will always regret not fully pursuing acting after graduating from college. I listened to naysayers and felt paralyzed by my insecurities.

The keynote at Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s 2018 Blood Cancer Conference in Atlanta rekindled my passion – Dan Shapiro, the author of Mom’s Marijuana: Life, Love, and Beating the Odds. The way he told his story and commanded the stage…I was overcome with emotion and actually cried. Then I randomly met him toward the end of the conference and totally fangirled. It was the one time in my life when I couldn’t even calm down enough to take a picture. Good thing a friend at that time took this picture below. It was like I saw another way to perform where stages are set in the cancer space at hotels and convention centers instead of Broadway.

One would think I am insecure now, mainly because of the massive weight gain due to the collateral damage from chemo, multiple surgeries, radiation, hysterectomy, bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy, fibromyalgia, and chronic back pain. I guess that’s what staring my mortality in the face has done. As much as I would like to take risks to pursue acting full-time, the pressure of always needing decent health insurance to remain on top of my scans, unexpected surgeries, medical bills, medication, and regular bills forces me to be an adult.

While I manage to find moments here and there where I can be the performer I was born to be, there’s a constant sadness knowing these moments are fleeting. Damn, adulting, chronic pain, and fatigue. Still, I am immensely proud of myself for not only writing and performing, but I am now officially a storyteller. It’s a stage and audience I never imagined, but maybe someone up above had other plans.

STORIES FROM THE STAGE

BEYOND CANCER

SEASON 06 EPISODE 22

PREMIERING MONDAY, JUNE 12 at 9:30/8:30c

A diagnosis of cancer changes someone’s life in innumerable ways. It can also teach us many things about ourselves that resonate beyond the illness.

Megan-Claire Chase becomes an advocate after finding out that breast cancer will alter her dream of motherhood.

Erinn Budd applies lessons learned from Grey’s Anatomy to help her get the care she deserves.

Dwayne Brown beats cancer twice and takes what he picked up back to the football field.

Three storytellers, three interpretations of BEYOND CANCER, hosted by Wes Hazard.

This will air on your local PBS stations and stream on YouTube.

Click here for details on how to watch the performances

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie, Storyteller

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Longing for More than Pockets of Joy

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I continue to toggle between healing and hurting. While I stay determined to find pockets of joy, many times it doesn’t feel authentic or even appropriate. How can those of us in the Black community authentically feel joy when we’re barraged with hateful words and policies by certain people in power who don’t bother hiding their racism, corruption, and vile nature towards us.

Florida has always had a special place in my heart until this year. I spent my entire childhood, teen years, young adult, and early 30s going to see my grandparents in St. Augustine, FL, for almost every holiday, summer, and birthday, which I also shared with my grandfather – July 3rd. I could still drive there with my eyes closed! While I miss my grandparents, I am relieved they aren’t alive to see what that fascist governor is doing. My grandfather (grampsy) was haunted by what he experienced as a Black Buffalo Soldier and an educated Black man. He was literally a walking history book, so knowing what FL has become would’ve gutted and enraged him. Here’s a great article about him and his medals.

Remembering William Chase: ‘Bill’ Chase was proud to serve his country

“An Army veteran of World War II, he served in the AT CO 365th Infantry as a radio operator. He had the distinction of being a Buffalo Soldier, earning several medals. Mr. Chase was honored by the Jacksonville Buffalo Soldiers Motorcycle Club…” – snippet from obituary.

I made a super long video that I ultimately edited but still captures my thoughts from this afternoon at the park. I call it Megsie’s Musings at Morgan Falls Park.

As I gear up for another work week and then off to Chicago for ASCO (like Vegas but for oncology), I know my pockets of joy will be authentic because I’ll see some of my closest friends in the cancer space. Who knows, maybe I’ll get discovered and get my own cancer talk show or something! It’s in those moments where I feel like I am enough.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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The Darkness Was Thick and Suffocating

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There are levels of depression that often creep up on you. Yesterday, the darkness was thick and suffocating. It has taken years to learn the signs and triggers of my depression. Even though I know them, I often don’t fully see that I’m in the midst of a depressive spell until 1-2 weeks later.

Aside from unrestful sleeping, a big sign is that my apartment has become unorganized and messy. On the “good days,” everything is in its place. It’s homey, Zen, and full of my personality. I feel it takes longer to recognize the signs of depression when living alone. Before I knew it, clothes and shoes were everywhere. Dishes and mail are piling up, nonperishable items are still in the grocery bags and not put away, and my creative space and workspace are messy.

I had been feeling surface-level depression but could still find motivation and joy until Thursday evening. What happened on Thursday? Unless you live under a rock, then you know about the two Black Democratic legislators, Justin Jones and Justin Pearson, who were expelled from the Tennessee state legislature but not the white woman legislator who protested gun violence along with them. While I wasn’t surprised, another part of my soul cracked. Then I began to wonder what’s the point of existing. What happened in TN Thursday was FULL ON RACISM displayed by the good ‘ole white boys on camera who dared to demean them for “lack of decorum,” especially after a known child molester was never expelled. Their white hoods came in the form of a microphone this time.

That triggering moment pushed me into a deeper depression. It doesn’t matter what we do. Black people will never be good enough, respected, or valued. Our lives don’t matter, and we are reminded of that daily. Then I took my thoughts a step further and how this fully applies to cancerland, too. The number of times I’ve received a comment in private FB cancer groups or openly on social media that “not everything is about race” or “race doesn’t belong in the cancer space.” Yes, I have literally been told this by those of the mayo complexion.

When I woke up yesterday, I couldn’t move. I just sat in the darkness thinking, how am I supposed to go to work, concentrate, and act like nothing is wrong? How do I deal with all the white staff who, more than likely, aren’t even bothered or triggered by what happened in TN? I had an anxiety attack which ended with a full-on migraine. I’d forgotten how painful and debilitating migraines are, and I could barely move for most of the day. I took a sick day. No lights. No sounds. No phone or laptop for hours and hours.

I promised myself last year that I would always put my mental health first after an absolutely devastating work experience in 2021. I set healthy work boundaries where I do not respond to anything when taking a sick or vacation day. I did get highly annoyed that a colleague texted me a work question that was not urgent. Boundaries, people!!!

I emailed my cutie therapist to see if he had time for an emergency virtual session. He made the time. I barely moved all day. The veil of depression was suffocating me and manifesting in the form of a migraine that lasted until around 1am this morning. When I get this way, I can’t function. I’m upset and disappointed that I had to miss a Prince tribute concert with a friend last night. I’d been looking forward to it for about two weeks! I had to put my mental health first.

No amount of antidepressants can heal the cracks in my soul caused by the never-ending barrage of racist rhetoric from TFG and GQP. I can no longer compartmentalize the amount of hate directed toward the Black community for speaking up, demanding to be heard, respected, valued, and then criticized when we succeed.

I have so much more to say, but I will end here for now.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Dream Come True in Boston: Stories from the Stage

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Ever since I was eight years old, I have dreamed of being on stage, behind a microphone, on TV, and with my name in lights. Little me experienced a dream come true earlier this week in Boston. Only this time, I’m hella grown in a much bigger body, but I felt that anxious confidence washing over me. I never imagined my face would be on a digital billboard. It was like I had finally arrived at my long-awaited purpose.

Thanks to the nonprofit research initiative Count Me In, I was selected to participate in a night of storytelling in collaboration with Stellar Story Company and World Channel for Stories from the Stage, recorded in front of a live audience at GBH studios on February 15th.  There were seven other cancer patients/survivors with me as we told an element of our cancer stories. More importantly, this event was a way to spotlight the health disparities we faced from diagnosis to post-treatment as either Black, Hispanic, and/or Asian.

I have been working with a story coach, the Executive Producer of Stellar Story Company on World Channel. I instantly connected with Cheryl from the first Zoom meeting and knew I was in excellent hands.

Morphing into a storyteller was thrilling, challenging, emotional, and impactful. My first draft went from sounding like a blog to a final compelling story. Breathing life into the words by memorizing was difficult due to working long hours in my 9-5 job, doctor appointments, residual chemo brain, and unpredictable chronic pain sucking my energy and brainpower. Crafting a compelling story within seven minutes was excellent preparation for eventually writing my one-woman show.

When I walked into the GBH studio in my beautiful dress and stood on stage for a mic and wardrobe check, I nearly burst out of my skin from nerves and excitement! Not only was this happening, but I realized it was a full-circle moment because my story was about losing my fertility and now performing on the sixth anniversary of my hysterectomy and bilateral oophorectomy.

I had a lovely time bonding with the other fabulous cancer storytellers and hearing about their struggles, resilience, and hope. Colleen and Tania from Count Me In were super supportive, organized, and ensured we knew what was happening.

None of us had to center whiteness. It was a relief not to overanalyze and worry if I sounded too bold, cocky, or angry. I didn’t have to activate my cloak of resilience and control and could be unapologetically me.

The last image in this video surprised me because I actually looked as beautiful and confident as I felt at that moment. I made this montage with some Lizzo playing leading up to performance night. This GA girl even had friends show up – thank you, Danielle, her parents, and Noel! Knowing they were in the audience added to this magical night. I’m humbled that some of the audience spoke to me afterward.

Photo credits: Patricia Alvarado Nunez of all storytellers & GBH for the billboard

We also received a private tour of the Broad Institute of MIT and Harvard and its beautifully curated museum. In true Megsie fashion, I made another video to capture the second half of my Boston trip. Oh, the fire alarm went off at the hotel, and we were evacuated for 15 minutes. Once we walked back into the hotel, my fellow cancer survivor and storyteller friend Erinn B. noticed that Shawn from Boyz II Men was in the courtyard. They had a Boston show. A fantastic end to a fabulous and impactful trip.

Final day in Boston at Count Me In, Broad Institute, & hotel

Now I am back home with Baby Natey on my lap as I type this wishing I could make performing like this financially sustainable. I never thought my cancer experience would lead to fulfilling a MAJOR dream of mine. I’ve been able to be creative in unique ways that I could’ve never foreseen.

The episodes will air on PBS and World Channel in June for National Cancer Survivors Day, leading up to Juneteenth. I will keep y’all posted. Fingers crossed, I make the final cut!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

This event is sponsored by Count Me In, a nonprofit research initiative that hopes to make every patient’s experience count in the fight to overcome cancer. Founded in 2018 by the Emerson Collective, Broad Institute of MIT and Harvard, and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, Count Me In empowers patients to accelerate cancer research by sharing their experiences, clinical information, and even samples. To learn more, visit JoinCountMeIn.org. 

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World Cancer Day and Black History Month 2023

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Yesterday was World Cancer Day. I get emotional when I think about my cancer story and how doctors have consistently dismissed my pain and concerns. The thoughts running through my head about cancer and Black History month always make me want to scream in frustration.

We need providers, researchers, employers, friends, and family to

 SEE us

 HEAR us

 BELIEVE us

 RESPECT us

Going through cancer takes a HUGE toll on every aspect of our lives. Having to constantly push through barriers, deal with microaggressions from doctors, financial toxicity, career changes, infertility, and so much more is only part of MY story. I know I’m not alone in this.

Becoming an advocate was born out of my experiences and the urgent need to spotlight the issues of access to care and support. Whether you want to hear it or not, RACE, age, and how you sexually identify play an ugly role in trying to be heard and believed. I feel for the Black community, communities of color, the young adult community, and the LGBTQIA community.

Something else I want to spotlight is how I’ve become intolerant of cancer spaces where I am the ONLY Black person in attendance. I used to go to a weekly virtual happy hour that was born during the pandemic in the AYA community. It was something I looked forward to each week. There would be new people of color who joined once but then never came back. 

After the murders of Ahmad Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and the insurrection, I found it more challenging to be in spaces where I am the only Black person. I couldn’t continue going to virtual happy hours or journaling sessions and chitchatting about Disney characters, food, kids, etc. I felt like this country was on fire, and I had no community to honestly talk about the stress of being Black and how my nervous system was constantly in flight or fight mode, which exacerbated my pain from toxic cancer treatments.

I now understand why there are certain Black-only breast cancer groups. I have yet to find a general cancer Black-only group that’s a mix of men, women, and those whose pronouns are they/them. When I would bring this up in the other groups where I am the only Black person, inevitably, a white person felt the need to recommend “another strong Black person” to me. I shake my head because 1) I don’t need white people to suggest Black people to reach out to, and 2) The Black cancer space is extremely small, and we already know each other or of each other.

I’m tired of having to center whiteness.

I’m tired of not feeling safe to express myself fully.

I’m tired of being the only Black person in the room or on Zoom.

I’m tired of white people sending private messages saying I’m an inspiration but won’t state it publicly.

I always notice the Black people some white organizations ask to take part in specific panels, programs, or be guest speakers are the ones who don’t fully talk about how racism and microaggressions have shaped their cancer experiences. They often give diluted versions of their experiences. I’ve also noticed that I am rarely asked to participate in certain cancer activities when race is on the agenda because I refuse to make the white community comfortable anymore.

The more I learn about Black culture, the more I have begun to stop trying to filter the Black out of myself. I used to pride myself on being the ONLY one in the room. Now, it enrages me. As a Black woman, I don’t have the luxury of talking about trivial things when I see murders of Black people on TV or shot in grocery stores or killed for simply existing.

While I am thankful for the many genuine friends I have in cancerland, I am acutely aware that the majority are white. Being Black has shaped my access to care, access to pain management, and access to community support. It’s like what James Baldwin said in the quote I posted, the more I read, the more I understand.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Goodbye 2022…and HELLO 2023!

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I’M BACK!!! I took a much-needed break in 2022 from blogging regularly, and I really missed it. Though I continued to journal and post some of Megsie’s Musings here and there, I missed this creative process. Thank you to those who took the time to read past posts. 

I can’t believe it is 2023! I’ve been pondering a lot about my life and all the last year’s ups and downs. I often thought I would spontaneously combust from the intense emotions, stress, fear, disappointments, grief, and anger I felt daily. Then out of nowhere, these little miracles, opportunities, and joyous moments would occur and push me back up to do what I needed to do. 

I saw a TikTok by @voiceboxesq last night that truly hit home and made me feel heard. 

  • As a Black woman, I AM TIRED.
  • As a breast cancer survivor, I AM TIRED.
  • As a caregiver, I AM TIRED.

  • As a single woman dealing with chronic pain, I AM TIRED.
  • As a professional working in way too many white spaces, I AM TIRED.
  • As an American citizen, I AM TIRED.

  • TIRED of being everyone’s strength.
  • TIRED of not having room to fully express myself.
  • TIRED of always having to center whiteness.

  • TIRED of the daily trauma for existing in my skin.
  • TIRED of mass shootings of innocent children, Black and LGBTQIA+.
  • TIRED of not feeling safe due to trigger-happy racist police and vigilantes.

I spent most of 2022 working daily on my mental and emotional health. My cutie therapist (my lovely nickname for him) challenged my automatic negative thoughts, which forced me (in a positive way) to determine if those reactive thoughts were rooted in fact or just emotion. He kept me above ground when I felt myself falling into a pit of despair. More importantly, I never had to filter my words. He always validated my feelings and then talked them through with me. 

Amid the stress, anger, and trauma, I incorporated some FUN. Though I wish it were more constant, I had to start somewhere. So, I began to date Atlanta and go to events, restaurants, and places I had always wanted to go to and new ones that some local friends introduced me to. I have no problem going to places by myself. I constantly remain aware of my surroundings. 

I posted a few fun videos with friends and myself on my social media, so go check them out. When I was putting these snapshots together, I realized I did way more than I thought, and my smiles were genuine. 

I FILLED MY CREATIVE CUP by doing the following:

  • I recorded my professional voiceover demo in a studio with my coach in my ear (she was in NY), and the sound engineer was with me. 
  • I took theatre classes at the Alliance Theatre and overcame my fear of chemo brain ruining my ability to memorize and perform scenes. 
  • I met some cancer friends in person at some conferences, and my hair accessories did not disappoint.
  • I was an Extra on a movie set that will be released next year around Christmas.
  • I had fantastic patient advocacy opportunities to be on multiple podcasts and panels.
  • I was featured in Cancer Today full article and CURE magazine’s full article.

It can feel strange and unsettling to have fun and be joyful when many things feel out of control. After all, our democracy is still in peril. There continue to be senseless deaths of people, especially Black people, LGBTQIA+ people, and innocent children, by assault weapons that have no business being legal; plus, the injustice and cruel GOP political stunts and lack of accountability by those in positions of power.

My top priorities for 2023 are the following:

  1. Continue practicing the coping skills I’ve learned through therapy to find joy in a cruel country. The essence of me is zany and joyful.
  2. Put forth an honest effort to NOT eat my stress and sad emotions away and begin taking care of this defective yet still going post-cancer and chronically pained body.
  3. Not allowing imposter syndrome and fear to paralyze me from pursuing dreams of performing, whether on stage, in front of a camera, or behind a microphone. 

Thank all of you for continuing to read my blog and watch my videos, for encouraging and compassionate words, and for amplifying my voice. I read every comment (positive or negative) and every social media post, and I see every retweet or repost.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

It has been a littler over three weeks since I had the nerve ablation procedure in my lower back. The pain isn’t completely gone but there is tremendous back pain relief. Now the back pain has moved backstage and my fibromyalgia has taken center stage again. This continues to be unmanaged because my body is intolerant of the current medications to help treat fibromyalgia. The radiating burning through my body, especially in my arms and upper back, is terribly painful. The fatigue and headaches at least 3x a week is tough to muddle through as the pace of life doesn’t slow down.

It’s painful and discouraging living in a post-cancer body that continues to hit barrier after barrier due to medication changes, multiple surgeries, surgical menopause, and chronic pain. This week’s Megsie’s Musings is about being fat shamed and spiraling mentally.

My cutie therapist is trying to keep me from completely unraveling. I’ve had both white and Black people compare me to Stacey Abrams and Lizzo. Now, these women are BRILLIANT and TALENTED. That’s not what these people said. There comparison was a direct hit to my weight.

It was fat shaming.

It was hurtful.

It pushed me down a rabbit hole of negative thinking about my post-cancer body.

Take a listen to my musings and remember to be kind and stop fat shaming people.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

Being Fat Shamed Hurts

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My Back Pain Saga: Insurance Hoops, Advocacy & Victory

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This video is longer than usual because I’m trying to cram in five years of what it has been like living with intolerable back pain and all the insanity that came with it — the insurance hoops and having my pain dismissed over and over and over again truly crushed my spirit.

So, to celebrate my victory, I’m wearing this fabulously HUGE fascinator that is a gift from a friend. Watch my video for the cliff note version of my back pain saga.

I’m pleased to say my pain level is at a steady three, which is a bloody miracle! I haven’t had pain level this low in 5 years! I got extremely emotional last weekend and earlier this week just thinking about ALL I have endured because sooo many specialists dismissed my pain and fat-shamed me. The amount of advocacy I had to do to get to this moment is unacceptable for anyone!

All I want to do is sleep. My body is trying to catch up on five years of horrific sleep. Painsomnia is real and squashes quality of life. I honestly don’t know how I’ve been able to maintain everything professionally and personally with severe sleep deprivation. This nightmare has definitely aged me internally and externally.

Aside from getting the nerve ablation, one of the best things to happen is sleeping deep enough to dream and wake up without crying. People have told me that I don’t look like I’m in pain. Well, that’s why it’s called an invisible illness. Now that I finally have real back pain relief that will hopefully last for at least a year, I can now focus on my fibromyalgia and neuropathy pain.

Living with chronic pain can turn one into a shell of themselves. Plus, I’m single and have to do many things alone, which adds to my pain and stress. I honestly don’t know where this natural resilience stems from, but it somehow keeps me pushing forward. The smile on my face today is genuine and feels AH-MAZING!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Megsie’s Musings: Cancer Call Anniversary

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I often wonder how many people received the cancer call vs who was called into the doctor’s office. I’ll never forget the cancer call 7 years ago on September 14th. Back then, I was sitting in my cubicle at work when my whole world changed with that one call.

Don’t forget, YOU MATTER!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Megsie’s Musings: All the Feels in Cancer Survivorship

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Though I do plan on writing more again at some point, I’m enjoying making videos for now. This edition of Megsie’s Musings is about the complex feelings that come with “surviving” cancer. While at times there is gratitude, I also feel rage, frustration, depression, anxiety, and fear. There is no one way to feel your emotions.

Don’t forget, YOU MATTER!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Megsie’s Musings: Proper Survivorship Plan

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I’ve decided to post videos each Friday called Megsie’s Musings. This one is the first one I posted across my social media a few weeks ago. The butterfly headband was gifted to me by a dear friend and was the perfect accessory to capture my good mood that day.

Don’t forget, YOU MATTER!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Another Year, Another Birthday, Another Review of Life Thus Far

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There was a time when I would tell the world my birthday was on July 3rd and celebrate it with all the joy, tiaras, and zest I possess.

Then adulting happened.

Then shattered hearts happened.

Then the recession of 2008 happened.

Then more breakups happened.

Then weight gain happened.

Then officially diagnosed with depression and anxiety happened.

Then jobs not paying me my worth happened.

Then breast cancer happened.

Then financial toxicity happened.

Then experiencing racism in the cancer space happened.

Then began the grief cycle of losing my fertility happened.

Then surgical menopause happened.

Then permanent damage from toxic cancer treatments happened.

Then chronic pain happened.

Then multiple falls happened.

Then the fear of living alone happened.

Then the loss of career happened again.

Then belief in my worth professionally happened.

Then the pandemic happened.

Then started believing in my many talents happened.

Then a change in career trajectory happened.

Then learned how insidious oppression has happened.

Then became known as an advocate, writer, and speaker happened.

Then more and more friends in cancerland dying from cancer happened.

Then faced microaggressions that turned into full-on aggression happened.

Then a complete mental breakdown happened.

Then changed jobs again happened.

Then more weight gain happened.

Then even more fear of existing in the USA happened.

Then amazing friendships developed that aren’t local happened.

Then continued to be plagued by loneliness happened.

Then more years in the “survivorship stage” happened.

Then beginning to do more creative things happened.

Then glimmers of hope happened.

Then glimmers of hope dashed happened.

Then soul was on the verge of completely shattering happened.

Then another birthday happened.

I turn 46 years old tomorrow, July 3rd, but I like to say 546 years old. I had felt  500 years added to my age from when I landed on the cancer train at 39 and felt continuously much older than my physical appearance. Chronic pain, depression, anxiety, rage in this country, and loneliness wear me down. I do have moments of joy, but they’re fleeting. I long for the day when those moments become long-term. The reality is that may never happen.

People from all races constantly tell me to keep using my voice without fully recognizing the emotional and physical toll it takes to keep speaking up and out about racism in and outside cancerland. I am an only child; my besties do not live nearby, and no human children or a relationship with anyone. The loneliness and fear are palpable more times than not.

I had posted on social media how being perceived as strong and often having no choice but to be strong is detrimental to my mental health. A white woman commented that I should probably change my social media handle if that’s the case. I shouldn’t be surprised by comments like this but it still made me shake my head. I know there is constant dispute over using battle terms in the cancer space. To me, essentially branding myself as Warrior Megsie was fitting because I don’t get a break from my cancer reality or the reality of being Black this country and how it affects everything from career, health, and relationships. There are no breaks from injustice, racism, and oppression in the Black community. There comes a point where the inherent strength many of us possess can’t continue warding off attacks to our very existence without cracking from the toll of it. I will always see myself as Warrior Megsie because my entrance (birth) into this universe was life-threatening, challenging, and foreshadowed the difficulties I would face as a Black little girl through adulthood.

So, as my cutie therapist tells me weekly, I will do my best to find some sparks of joy daily and be comforted in knowing I have created a digital legacy that is pretty damn special. I have the capacity for great darkness and great joy. Lately, the darkness is gripping my soul, but my bright light still peaks through. Even though I am heavily contemplating no longer writing new posts but keeping the site available for people to read past posts, I am proud of the vulnerability, rawness, humor, reality, and the full range of emotions displayed in every word.

Until next time (if there IS a next time),

Warrior Megsie

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The One Cancer Side Effect I Love

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Going through cancer is like being on a never-ending rollercoaster in the dark. You never know what drop or curve is coming next. I’ve often written and spoken about how devastating the physical changes are and how destructive the mental changes are. Yet, I realized something a few days ago that is a surprisingly positive side effect – my attitude changed.

There isn’t a day that goes by without missing my pre-cancer body. Every morning I wake up, I immediately curse it because I can no longer count on it to be healthy or strong.

Painsomnia is my nightly companion.

My cortisol belly and non-estrogen-producing body horrify me by their immense size.

The physical strength I used to possess is gone.

Nails break, eyebrows are filled in with brow gel on the daily, and lashes are no longer thick.

Fibromyalgia and chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy are the exes who won’t leave me alone.

Lower back pain did temporarily go away after two facet injections last year but now I need a third one.

This body of mine continues to bankrupt me financially and mentally. There is so much out of my control, except my assertive mind. I will no longer tolerate bullshit or being disrespected – personally or professionally. I’ve mentioned this before but there’s a difference now. I’ve been actively living in my truth and values (yay therapy).

I’ve dealt with racism and microaggressions my entire life and career but never had the confidence to truly do something about it. The first time I actually said, “I will not be the Black token” and “I do not feel safe” was 15 months ago at my previous employment. I was so scared, that my voice shook, but I knew I had to stand up for myself. I was drowning mentally and emotionally but something shifted in my spirit the first time I said those words.

I believed in my talent and expertise so much that I just knew I would land on my feet. Did it hurt me financially to leave a job back then without a backup plan? Yes, it did, but I spoke MY truth. Now that I’ve done it once I can’t go back to being silent.

Existing in this country and in this skin has cracked my soul in ways I can’t fully verbalize. While it’s exhausting, I am becoming careful about protecting access to my energy. Who knew maintaining healthy boundaries would be difficult yet freeing at the same time?!

Though I continue to struggle with accepting this post-cancer body both externally and internally, I feel more confident to be unapologetically ME and stand up for myself in situations where no one else has the courage to do so.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Complexities of Grief and Joy

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The complexities of grief and joy existing in the same space make me a tad uncomfortable and anxious. Though I’m usually an open book about everything, there were certain experiences from 2021 and the beginning part of this year that I couldn’t openly discuss without jeopardizing my career. I’ve moved forward into what I hope is a safer and more inclusive position professionally but the intense damage to my mental and emotional health are still struggling behind the smile and natural energy I show the world.

While having weekly therapy sessions has definitely put a dent in my bank account, they have been worth every cent and more. How do I know this? I’ve had over six people in the past two weeks tell me they can feel a difference in my energy. My face isn’t pinched. I’m not crying uncontrollably. My smiles are more genuine than not. These aren’t even people who know me on a deeper level either.

If I’m smiling and possess a bright aura, shouldn’t I be filled with immense joy and grief should be on the back burner? Well, yes and no.

The huge chunks of grief stem from “surviving” breast cancer and living in a country that doesn’t value people who look like me. Just when I think I’m over certain dreams that my breast cancer stole from me, I get hit with a hurtful wave of the reality of what is physically no longer possible, like kids. Is my grief irrational when I get irritated talking to friends on the phone who have toddlers that constantly interrupt the call? It’s not my place to say anything since I’m not a parent but it makes me irrationally irritated that I can’t have a conversation without them having to talk to their little one at the same time. Then it reminds me that I’ll never have those kinds of conversations with a mini-me or teach them how to say excuse me when I’m on the phone the way my mother taught me.

I’m also still reeling from the suicide of the former Miss USA Cheslie Kryst. She talked a lot about the microaggressions she experienced when practicing law on her TikTok. Daily microaggressions more often than not come from white people. They can truly harm a soul in a way that is so covertly insidious that half the time you think it’s all in your head. You blame yourself for being too sensitive and begin to doubt your intellectual ability and capacity to hold it together because you never want to let them see you cry and even show how much they’ve hurt you. Why are my Black tears never comforted or believed like white women’s tears?

While all this grief, hurt, and trauma continues to engulf me, I’m also filled with a different kind of joy that I’ve never experienced before.

I’m going to end here and will write more about this different kind of joy in a separate post because I want to spend time on the truly good things I’m manifesting.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Derailed Dreams Can Still Come True After Cancer

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I made another vlog yesterday but was too fatigued to post it last night. It’s still painful and difficult to type with my right hand as I wait for the thoracic outlet syndrome (TOS) to run its course through my right shoulder, arm, and hand. Going through breast cancer and all the other complications post-cancer caused financial toxicity and seriously derailed many creative dreams I had wanted to pursue. I was able to make a dream that I’ve had since my early 20’s come true last Friday.

So, sit back and watch as I share how I fulfilled a major dream in the world of voiceovers and some upcoming projects.


Me with audio engineer Daniel!
Baby Natey’s location during the recording of this video. Ohhhh Natey!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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My Mental Health Saga: Depression, Resignation & Frustration

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I decided to make a little video instead of writing today. I explain why and give you a life update. So, hang in there and watch the whole thing. I just winged it while on a muscle relaxer that started kicking in towards the end.

Make sure to check out my ‘About’ page for the latest published writing and podcast guest episodes.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Part 2: Different Treatment Options and Hope For Chemo-Induced Peripheral Neuropathy

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I have the chorus “I get knocked down, but I get up again! No one’s ever gonna keep me down!” by Chumbawamba playing on a loop in my head most days. I’ve referenced this song in previous posts because of the comfort it brings me. I seem to possess a natural resilience and consistently get back up and push forward when facing the never-ending challenges this world throws at me. I would be lying if I said it’s easy to keep kicking and feel hopeful.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever find new treatment options for my chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN). I had begun to not only lose hope but fear was doing its best to cripple me. As a chronically single woman, I’ve been fearful of more falls occurring when by myself as I get older. The only reason I can almost grin when thinking about the grade 3 sprain I suffered from in January is that it was the first time I’d fallen and wasn’t alone. I had been walking with my realtor looking at townhouses when I went down hard. That dreamed dissolved right then and there.

So, as the winds of resilience push me forward, again and again, I was determined to find a specialist who could help with my CIPN. Lo and behold, I found one who not only listens but thinks outside of the box because he fully understands how debilitating and painful CIPN can be for cancer patients.

Meet my chiropractor Dr. Dan Ruitenbeek in Marietta, GA. His training is in clinical neurology. He’s the first specialist who wasn’t trying to shove medications down my throat or make me feel those were the only options. What many cancer patients with CIPN don’t think about or maybe even know is the lack of blood flow and how that plays into how severe or not the symptoms can be.

First, we had a consultation and he did some tests to get a baseline of the nerve damage in my hands and feet. With every little test, including thermal imaging, I was floored but also overwhelmed with emotion by what I was NOT feeling. There’s quite a bit of math involved, too.

Second, Dr. Dan reviewed the results of my consultation and laid out his suggested treatment plans. I knew there was major nerve damage, but the numbers did shock me.

Severe sensory loss category:

  • Right foot – 62.9% loss
  • Left foot – 60.0% loss
  • Right hand and Left hand – 45.7% loss

My new treatment protocol is a combination of both in-office and at-home treatments. The first three months are like a bootcamp of sorts to see what stimulations I respond to, the levels, and any unforeseen reactions.

***Disclaimer: This is my specific treatment and not for everyone. Everything you see below is based on the severity of my CIPN and prescribed by my chiropractor.***

Anodyne Therapy – At-home treatments 2x per day

Rebuilder Tub with rubber pads and electrodes – At-home treatment 1x per day

Conductive Garment Gloves – At-home treatment to help with my hands for 30 minutes 2x per day

In-office treatments – I receive stimulation and get help with blood flow.

Light therapy (not pictured) – In-office treatment

My back, thighs, and feet are wrapped (kinda like a baked potato) and I feel this heat from the pads. I do this for 20 minutes. Though I can feel the heat in my back (helps with lumbar facet joint pain), I feel some heat on my thighs and a minuscule amount in my feet. The goal is to help with blood flow to help gain some feeling again. One day (fingers crossed) I hope to fully feel the heat.

I’m still in the first month of all these treatments. It definitely takes planning to do the at-home treatments and time to go to the in-office treatments. Still, I’m hopeful that I will begin to feel small to moderate difference after my first three months. My treatment plan is for a full 12-16 months, which also includes eating foods to help reduce inflammation and cutting out other foods. This is a slow but intentional process.

If you want to know more about my chiropractor, location, and other offices, here’s the information below. Tell him or his staff that Megs referred you. I don’t get anything monetary out of sharing all of this information about my holistic treatments. I just want to give others hope by knowing there are other potential treatments that might help deal with the falls, pain, and lack of blood flow caused by CIPN.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Part I: Why Isn’t Chemo Induced Peripheral Neuropathy Taken More Seriously?

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One of the scariest things about receiving chemo is not knowing how your body will react. I was hit by a motherload of side effects from 4 Adriamycin and 4 Cytoxan and felt like those would kill me. So, when it was time to begin 12 Taxol, my oncologist said the side effects would be a cakewalk compared to what I had just been through while on AC. I distinctly remember sighing with relief when she said it would be easier to tolerate.

My oncologist also said that chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN) might occur while on Taxol but not until around the 8th treatment or so. She said any CIPN would more than likely be mild and go away. I wish that had been the case. What happened next was something no one could predict or prepare for.

It was December 2015. I was beginning to feel drowsy from the Benadryl that was infused through my port before receiving the Taxol. My fabulous infusion nurse began to slowly infuse the first Taxol treatment. After about 15 minutes, something terrible happened. The best way to describe it was a strong current running through my entire body. I literally felt my nerves dying. I started freaking out and my infusion nurse called for my oncologist.

The CIPN happened so suddenly and so severely that there was no way to stop it or slow down the reaction. That moment changed my life and not for the better. The CIPN damage has been so bad, especially in my feet, that I’ve experienced the following:

  • Severe numbness in my feet to where I have no feeling from the ball of my feet to my toes
  • Sharp and stabbing pain in my hands
  • Permanent handicap sign
  • Multiple falls
  • Sometimes walking with a cane
  • Difficulty buttoning clothes
  • Difficulty putting on earrings, bracelets, and necklaces
  • Constantly dropping everything from dishes to medicine bottles
  • Grade 3 sprain in right ankle in January 2021

My experience with CIPN isn’t unique. It appears that many oncologists aren’t seeing it as a priority to address since their main focus is to keep us alive. Many don’t seem to worry about the painful damage and severe side effects of chemo. I was never referred to a specialist once I had reached the survivorship stage. Instead, gabapentin was thrown my way. I was told to take L-glutamine and B12. I was given topical ointments. None of those worked. I only received PT after the grade 3 sprain I had in January of this year which did help a little with my gait. Not one specialist ever took my CIPN seriously. They never even did any testing to determine how severe my nerve damage was and just kept throwing medicine at me or dismissing me outright.

The downstream consequences of chemo need to be talked about more. Just because cancer and chemo treatments didn’t kill me doesn’t mean I should continue suffering from the side effects. There are no robust programs in cancer centers for neuropathy, at least not in Atlanta, GA. My oncologist and the rest of my medical team have failed me. How?

  • Failed me by not sending me any referrals
  • Failed me by not addressing the actual nerve damage and lack of blood flow
  • Failed me by thinking the CIPN would go away on its own

I had given up hope for a long time until last month. What has changed? I made the decision that I needed to find a holistic way to help deal with not only the pain of CIPN, but ways to manage my fibromyalgia, and pain from my left lumbar facet joint.

I found a chiropractor whose specialty is chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy, not just diabetic neuropathy, and other traditional treatments. I went for a consultation and my mind was blown. Why?

He actually believed me.

He was concerned for me.

He treated me with utter respect.

Here’s another hint of another one of my multiple treatments with the disclaimer these may not be for everyone with CIPN.

Pic on the left is from today and pic on the right is with Dr. R from last week!

Who is this amazing chiropractor? I’ll reveal that information along with my consultation results and new treatment protocol tomorrow!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Invisible Illness Combo with A Side of Wheelchair

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It’s tough having an invisible illness while looking relatively young. That old saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover” is so true. I don’t look like someone who would have a permanent handicap sign. I don’t look like someone who sometimes needs a cane to walk from the car to the store. I most certainly don’t like someone who needs wheelchair assistance at the airport.

Well, for the first time in my life, I requested wheelchair assistance for my flight to and from NYC last week. I didn’t want to admit that I needed help. I knew I would get looks. I also knew I would possibly not be believed. So, when the older guy came over to the ticket counter with the wheelchair, he completely overlooks me and asks the ticket agent who requested the wheelchair. I had even gestured that it’s me, but he asked the ticket agent again who requested it. He was beyond rude. If it hadn’t been 5am I would’ve immediately complained but didn’t want to expend any of my precious little energy going nuclear on this guy.

All was made better when I arrived at LaGuardia airport and had the nicest woman waiting for me with the wheelchair as soon as I walked; okay, slightly hobbled, off the plane. I had told her about my unpleasant experience at the Atlanta airport and she told me to not worry now because I was in good hands. Not only did she wheel me all the way to baggage claim, but she also wheeled me all the way to the cab and also handed my luggage to the cab driver. Now that was star wheelchair treatment.

While I felt okay enough on the flight back to Atlanta, it was a different story once the plane landed. It was a full flight with not much room to stretch my legs. This time it was a younger guy waiting for me with a wheelchair as I not only hobbled but stumbled off the plane because I was in excruciating pain all over my body. The best way to describe fibromyalgia pain is a radiating burning feeling that is felt from head to toe with a big ‘ole headache as the cherry on top. This young man was fantastic! He was pleasant, energetic, and so thoughtful the entire ride to baggage claim. Then he wheeled me all the way up to the MARTA (name of our Atlanta trains) gate, so all I had to do was get up and walk right through it and up the escalator to the platform. Once again, I received star wheelchair treatment.

Of course, as I was driving home, I wondered if I’ll ever feel safe in this body? Will I ever feel strong again? Will it ever not hurt to the point of pushing me to tears from frustration, anger, and pain because I have to deal with this bullshit 24/7? I no longer remember what it feels like to not be in excruciating, burning pain.

So, it’s time to officially reconsider going the medical marijuana route. My primary’s PA actually validated my feelings and has diagnosed me with intractable pain. I’ll write more about this diagnosis next time. She referred me to another doctor who specializes in prescribing medical marijuana. I’ve tried the CBD/THC drops in the past, and they didn’t help with my pain at all. Here’s hoping I find the right method of medical marijuana that will help minimize the pain and not just make me drowsy.

This life on the cancer train often sucks and wish there was a final destination to be able to rest and recover. A girl can dream, right?

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Toggling between grief, depression, and happiness

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***Trigger Warning***

I’ve been toggling between being in a very dark place and remaining in the moment lately. There have been many reasons to feel excited, happy, and like I’m truly using my talent the past few weeks.

· Began acting classes at the Alliance Theatre and faced my fear of chemo brain affecting my ability to memorize lines again.

·  My latest blog piece on WebMD was featured on their main page for 1 ½ days earlier this week.

·  I was in a fashion show for Macy’s in Buford, GA with some other cancer survivors/patients.

·  Met up with a cancer friend from the Elephants and Tea community who was in town this week.

So why am I still struggling to keep the darkness at bay?

I’ve had suicidal thoughts in the past. I’ve battled depression since high school. I acknowledge there is scary darkness within and work hard to push those thoughts away. So far, my sheer will, and stubbornness have kept me from stepping off the ledge. I’m a huge proponent of therapy. I’ve been in therapy off and on for years. My current therapist has helped me push through some fear, shame, and insecurities that have been holding me back, so why do I still feel these breakthroughs and accomplishments are fleeting?

I think grief + depression isn’t talked about enough. There are so many layers of both. One minute you think you’re handling things pretty well and even feel some joy and like a weight has been lifted. In the next moment, you’re in a puddle of tears and struggling to get out of bed and face the day. The palpable grief of loss and the overwhelming feeling of depression continuously seek to suffocate and crush me. I often question the point of my life, even when things are going well.

September and October are particularly difficult months for me due to major losses and tragedies that have happened. They throw me down the rabbit hole of grief and depression.

·  The 6-year anniversary of the cancer call was September 14, which changed my life forever.

·  The anniversary of a personal tragedy is this month.

·  Mourning yet more friends who have died from stage iv cancer.

·   I’ve been medically induced into menopause officially four years now.

Almost every speaker at a cancer conference or any conference, especially when it’s a woman speaking, always talks of how their husband and kids keep them going, etc. Well, I have neither, so what is the point of me pushing through the struggles in my life? I don’t have a legacy to pass down. The items I’ve saved and treasured since I was a child through college mean nothing to everyone but me.

I get ticked off when I mention this to people who have a spouse and kids and they say no one cares about the sentimental things and to just toss them. I think many miss the point. To me, it is the story that I want to share with every picture or sentimental item because it’s about my life. I’m an only child. I don’t have nieces or nephews. The realization that my name and memories end with me is a continuous gut punch.

I still don’t physically recognize myself. I consistently struggle with this unnatural chemo-induced curly hair that has made a comeback thanks to more hair falling out due to a certain hair product reaction. I’ve been struggling with my weight since my mid-30’s thanks to all the different antidepressants, hormone changes, and now induced menopause. Then add all the steroids from chemo and the many, many surgeries and steroids post-treatment, no wonder I’m presently the size of a southern whale!

When I make the statement the right man for me doesn’t exist in this life, it makes others uncomfortable. I know it would be different if I fit into a category, but I’m deemed “too different” by the bulk of men. Black and white people have said this basically my whole life.

I continue to deal with chronic pain, weight gain, unnaturally curly hair, soul-crushing loss of what can never be, and what I didn’t know I wanted until all my lady parts were removed along with zero sex drive. Existing in this Black skin, in this country, and in this body, adds an even deeper layer of grief and depression that I don’t have the energy to address at the moment.

I honestly don’t know why I keep going to therapy. I suppose it’s my natural resilience to keep pushing forward. Still, the enormity of these permanent and unwanted changes literally sucks my breath away.

And now I’m going to wake my cat Baby Natey (Nathan Edgar) up because I need a hug.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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You Never Forget The Cancer Call

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 5 Comments

I’ve been struggling with writing lately. It’s not because I have nothing to say or am uninspired. It’s because I have way too much to say and struggling to get my thoughts written down in a cohesive way. The perfectionist in me doesn’t want to write something awful, yet I need to release some of what has been on my mind lately.

My six-year anniversary of getting the cancer call was on Tuesday, September 14th. I woke up that morning with mixed emotions. It’s one of those memories that will never fade. The flashbacks are clear and packed with emotion. I was working at iHeart Media sitting in my cubicle on 9/14/15. I’d had the biopsy at 4pm on 9/11/15 which fell on Friday that year and was told it would take 48-72 hours to receive the results. I’m always aware of the time because of all my years working in media and making sure the commercials were the correct spot length. I remember looking at my phone when it rang at 3:05pm and not recognizing the number but knowing in my gut to answer.

“Megan-Claire, you have Invasive Lobular Breast Cancer. We don’t know the stage yet. You need to get a pen and paper and take some notes because time is of the essence.”

The entire trajectory of my life changed in an instant. Yes, I’m still alive and “survived,”, but many other warriors I’ve crossed paths with during these six years have died. Why am I still here and they aren’t? They had husbands or wives and children. I don’t. Survivor’s guilt is real. It’s important for people to not negate these feelings because the guilt is just as crushing as the loss of friends. 

I miss them.

I think of their families.

I wish I could’ve taken their place.

So yes, I’m still here but not physically or mentally the same. I’m chronically ill thanks to fibromyalgia, back pain, and neuropathy. I’m in pain every second of every damn day. Some days are manageable and other days it’s off the charts. I literally look like a different person (chemo curls are back) in a body I don’t recognize at all. 

Being naturally resilient is a blessing and a curse. Even when I don’t want to show up for myself I somehow always manage to push up and just do it. I’m fully immersed within the cancer space. There are days where I feel passionate about my advocacy and days where I am utterly drained. I have to continuously remind myself that it’s okay to put myself first and can say no to various requests of my time. That doesn’t mean I am selfish or don’t care. That is self-care.

For the first time in six years, I did not completely wallow on that day. You see, cancer cannot take away the essence of me, you or anyone. Ever. The one constant that brings me pure joy is the arts, specifically the theatre. So, I went to see a musical with another theatre friend that evening. It was the first time I had done something that literally breathed life into me. I fully enjoyed myself and felt the familiar feeling of walking into a theatre and feeling like I was home. It was an evening that cancer could not touch.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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A True White Ally

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I received You Are Your Best Thing: An Anthology edited by Tarana Burke and Brené Brown and card from my lovely, supportive, and compassionate friend Shannon earlier this week. The Black authors who contributed to this anthology are extraordinary and so raw in sharing their experiences of being Black in this society. It has taken almost the entire week before I had the right headspace to begin reading it.

I feel an avalanche of emotions topple over me after reading the introduction and the first four stories. My head is spinning, tears drying, and heart is still pounding.

I must thank Shannon for sending this to me because it is not something I would’ve bought on my own. To be honest, seeing Brené Brown’s name on it made me hesitant to even open it at first. Once I read the introduction, I appreciated that Brené acknowledged that some Black people would feel this way and she and Tarana addressed the reason for this collaboration and both explained the dynamics of their friendship.

The fact is, Shannon reads my blog, my social media posts, and takes time to check on me and really talk to me about racism and how she’s worked toward acknowledging her own white privilege. She’s heard the brokenness in my voice, has seen the pain and exhaustion on my face, and continues to reassure me that she IS a safe white ally and genuine friend.

She knew I needed a different kind of support and keenly aware that she should not be that person for obvious reasons. I’ve expressed countless times through conversations and through my writing that I don’t have many Black friends and have always struggled with accepting my own Blackness and experiences. It’s what prompted the blog piece I wrote called Mixed Fragility last year. Much of my existence has been where I am the only Black person in the room, in the company, at the table or on the stage.

2020 was a pivotal year for me because it’s the first time I truly began to be afraid to drive alone, live alone, go into the store alone. I also felt a newfound sense of rage and brokenness that differs from all my previous feelings and entered a period of wanting to rise up and express the hurt and confusion I continuously feel for being in this skin.  

I’m about to make another cup of chai tea and read a few more chapters because this is the first time I can honestly fully relate to parts of these Black experiences shared. These Black authors are exceptional, and I can feel a tender pull of togetherness and understanding from their words. I used to think I was the only one who felt such rage, self-hate, and shame.

Through action and from a place of respect, Shannon let me know that she stands firmly by my side as not only a white ally and anti-racist, but also as a genuine friend.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Afraid of Experiencing Joy

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Am I afraid of experiencing joy? Yesterday, I was listening to the podcast Small Doses by the exceptionally brilliant and talented comedian, actress, author, and businesswoman Amanda Seales. Her guest on this particular episode was Layla F. Saad, the author of Me and White Supremacy. When Layla was talking about her experiences as a black Muslim woman raised in the UK, she struck a painful chord in me when discussing the fear of joy. It’s something I have thought about over the years but never fully acknowledged within myself.

After cancer, the expectation by friends, family, coworkers, and even some other cancer survivors are to feel joy and happiness that you “made it” to the survivorship stage. I don’t feel joyful about being in this stage because I’m in more physical pain than I was during active treatment. I’ve tried so many medications to try and help manage the fibromyalgia, neuropathy and back pain, but none have brought any real relief.

How do I embrace joy when just breathing can cause ripples of pain throughout my entire body?

How do I embrace joy when getting out of bed causes me to cry out in pain and hold onto my cane for support?

How do I embrace joy when I don’t have a family of my own to live for?

As I struggle to navigate my way through the thick clouds of despair, frustration, anger, resentment, and pure rage, I do have fleeting moments where I’ve experienced joy. That’s the issue. The longest period where I experienced pure, full on joy was during my recent adventure in Zadar, Croatia where I met the amazing Ancora.ai team for a bit of business and tons of fun and team bonding. I experienced so many levels of joy that I was almost in shock by how light and happy I felt. Is this what life is supposed to be like?

When I look at pictures from that trip, I almost didn’t recognize my face because it was literally glowing from the joy I was feeling. There were no filters or spotlight used. I had not realized how weighed down I had become from dealing with

battling racism my entire life

oppression and microaggressions my entire professional career

feeling like I don’t belong anywhere

fighting to have my symptoms taken seriously by doctors

the reality that racism seeps deep within healthcare and certain Facebook cancer groups

not being able to fully be myself and be accepted

and

not knowing how to be joyful long-term.

Yes, I was scared to travel to Croatia by myself but also knew I had to do it. I needed to get away from the United States and see if I’d feel the same oppressive weight over there that I do here. I wasn’t followed in any stores. I wasn’t looked at suspiciously. In fact, some of the local people didn’t automatically know that I was an American. The waiters I met were welcoming and hilarious. I never felt pressured to hurry or make a rash decision. The entire Ancora.ai team were so lovely, compassionate, hilarious, caring, and brilliant. I didn’t have to compartmentalize any racist comments or feelings of being undermined in order to make it through the day. I could just be full on Megs/Megsie/Meggie/Megan-Claire without judgment. My laughter and sheer joy were real and not faked. I didn’t have to wear a mask. Is this what joy feels like on a consistent basis?

Unfortunately, as soon as I landed back in Atlanta, GA, I felt the weight of oppression, microaggressions, fear of police, and felt suspicious eyes on me. So, once again, my joy was fleeting. In fact, the joy in Croatia seemed almost too good to be true.

Maybe that’s why I’m afraid to experience joy long-term because I’ve never known life without having to deal with hurt, pain, despair, fear, frustration, stress, and rage. Yet, I have the right to experience joy more than once every blue moon.

I need joy.

I crave joy.

I deserve joy.

Damn it; I’m going to find some joy!!!

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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How Much of Me Can I Reveal?

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My birthday is next Saturday, July 3rd. I’m hitting another pivotal age that will move me into a new age category when filling out registrations, applications, or patient paperwork – 45. Aside from noticing how much my face and body has aged the past five years post-cancer, I’ve noticed the mandatory toleration of bullshit and then racist bullshit barometer that has been forced upon me since the first time I was called a nigger in the 4th grade in order to survive is gone.

Will there ever a time where I can bring all of myself into a room? How much of me can I reveal without getting hurt? How do so many white people not see the protective cloak I wear to help fend off the inevitable insults, microaggressions, full on racists remarks, undermining of me, and them trying to “put me in my place?”

I remember turning 25 while living in LA. By that point, I had become

A little jaded.

More insecure.

Had experienced first heartbreak.

Unhappy with career.

Self-hate.

Diagnosed with depression and anxiety.

I couldn’t financially pursue acting the way I wanted because many unexpected and painful things happened while in LA that forced me to go the corporate route because I needed health insurance and somewhat steady income. I put my dreams on hold.

I remember turning 35 while living in Atlanta. By that point, I had experienced

Living through a terrible recession.

More heartbreak.

Lack of professional direction.

Being called stupid by my white female boss when I worked for an in-house agency.

Being told I’m brilliant by a white employer but unwilling to pay more for my expertise.

Letting go of pursuing acting.

More health issues and unexpected weight gain.

My hair on the left side started falling out.

More depression and anxiety.

Self-hate.

My white doctors dismissing my symptoms even though I knew something was seriously wrong.

More anger that was boiling into rage.

Now we fast forward to soon-to-be 45 while living in Atlanta. Now, I continue to have difficulty navigating through life because of

Supposedly “surviving” Stage IIA invasive lobular breast cancer.

Lack of quality of life thanks to permanent damage stemming from 16 rounds of chemo, 8 surgeries, and 33 radiation treatments.

Unmanaged chronic pain due to fibromyalgia and chemo induced peripheral neuropathy and medically induced menopause.

Being told by two white women when I was working at a huge ad agency that I had to keep my health and work separate when I began struggling from side effects from taking Arimidex to help prevent a recurrence. They said this in front of everyone.

Being called by the other black woman’s name 2x by an older white woman, who was/is a tRump supporter, after being there for two years at the job I had before the pandemic. There were only two black women in the marketing department. We have vastly different looks and personalities.

Having my ideas stolen by white women in the workplace throughout my entire career and them receiving the credit and not being able to call them out on it for fear of losing my job because I needed the money.

Realizing how oppressed and degraded I had become after consistently dealing with the white fragility of white women and every so often white men.

Dealing with white women in certain cancer groups who have actually said, “race doesn’t belong in the cancer space” and “not everything is about race.”

Being trolled and targeted on Twitter by racists because I began speaking up about it more and more.

Palpable cracks in my soul after seeing black men and women being murdered at the hands of white people over and over and over and over again with no accountability.

Discovering white people who I thought were friends and who I trusted let their racial bias and racists thoughts show, which has destroyed my trust in a lot of white people.

Watching an insurrection happen LIVE and seeing those racists being treated with dignity and able to just go home afterward.

Palpable pain, self-hate, unhappiness, and rage continues to runneth over.

I honestly didn’t want to write out the flood of thoughts that have been whirling in my head since the start of this year. Writing it down makes it real. I literally have tears in my eyes as I write this, and heart is pounding furiously because I am just so fucking tired of having to be ON all the time and never knowing who I can trust anymore. Now that the veil of oppression has been lifted from my face, how do I continue moving forward without hate seeping into all the cracks in my soul that have formed during my soon-to-be 45 years on this hateful planet?

Will I ever develop the ability to move past…

the darkness

the sadness

the hurt

and the rage.

Well, that remains to be determined.

What I can confidently say is I’m finally at a place professionally where my voice and ideas are encouraged, supported, and uplifted. I’ve never received that kind of respect before, and it feels strange yet deeply appreciated and comforting. I suppose miniscule steps forward are still steps to be acknowledged.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Aging Out on National Cancer Survivors Day

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Here it is National Survivors Day and all I can think about is how I’m aging out.

I’m aging out of the AYA community.

I’m aging out of the dating game.

I’m aging out of this post-cancer body.

I’ve been in medically induced menopause since 2017. Going through breast cancer definitely aged my body but being medically induced into menopause shoved me all way into serious aging both internally and externally. The only part of my body that has never changed is the shape of my eyes. Everything else is no longer even close to what I used to know.

(Left to right)
Me 5 years ago on day of breast cancer surgeries; day after breast cancer surgeries; Me last week!

I posted a video on my Instagram earlier this week about my menopausal hair. I finally threw in the towel and got it severely chopped off after a year of trying to grow it out. I truly thought once the chia pet tight curls fell away, that I would look like myself again. Instead, my hair began to look stringy and thin. It literally stopped growing on the right side and in the back. I was beginning to look lopsided because the left side of my hair was going back beautifully. Getting this radical cut was an uncomfortable decision for me but needed to be done.

Me this week having too much fun with the app Easysnap!

There’s an illusion that we’re in control of our bodies. When going through cancer and having a chronic illness, it is plain to see I have little control over anything, especially my body. I had gotten back into exercising but suddenly stopped due to fibromyalgia pain in my back. It was so bad that I couldn’t sleep or move without wanting to cry. Now I’m back to trying to get motivated to workout. The belly fat is my nemesis. I don’t even want to take any full-length pictures because of my whale shaped body.

So, I’m aging out of many categories that used to feel somewhat natural and supportive. Instead of being one of the “young” ones in a group, I am often the oldest person in the group. Making friends as an adult is hard. Making friends as a single adult past a certain age feels impossible. I’ll be checking a new age box on my birthday which is July 3rd. This thought has thrown me into a complete panic and despair. The bulk of the people I know are married or living with someone and have kids. The few single people I do know already have a strong friend group. The wish to hang out with friends on a consistent basis is over. No one has time anymore.

Aside from having zero sex drive, I’ve become way to set in my ways to make room for a relationship. Heck, I had hard enough time when I had the hot body to find someone who didn’t look at me like an alien because I’m difficult to classify and don’t fit any typical categories. I continue to straddle between the black and white world without fully fitting into either.

I am five years no evidence of disease (NED). It just hit me this is the longest relationship I’ve ever been in. Will NED be with me forever? Do I want to live with NED with such a low quality of life? While my brain is sharper than it was five years ago, my body has yet to catch up. How much of this aging is natural? I think zero because I feel like a 544-year-old on a daily basis. I just don’t necessarily show it in selfies or on zooms because of acting. I win daily Oscars, Emmy, Golden Globe, and Tony awards.

Can anyone even tell when I’m faking and when I’m being real?

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Lemon Martini With A Twist Of Letting Go

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I’ve always detested the saying, “turn lemons into lemonade.” I don’t like lemonade. A friend from the high school days came up with turning lemons into a lemon martini because that fits me better. I wholeheartedly agree.

I know it has been a few months since I last posted something original. Some good things have happened during this hiatus. Heck, I’ll even say some great things have happened! Unfortunately, some truly sad and upsetting things have happened too.

Is it possible to get through a month without trauma, sadness, rage, disappointment and frustration? I’m continuously thrown into the depths of despair because I expect too much of people and get hurt when they don’t show up the way I thought they would. The more I talk openly about race, the more I see the true colors of so-called friends who I never dreamed would have a racist bone in their body. I have officially lost the ability to trust and be vulnerable with people. When I say people, I am referring to white people because I only have four black true friends.

Of course, I know not every white friend will let me down, but I can literally feel my cloak of armor wrapping me tighter to fend off the possibility of hurtful words. To this day, I am most surprised by the racism within the cancer community. I naively thought the cancer space would be free from that kind of bullshit but sadly it’s not.

The more I keep trying to be my authentic self, the more alone and isolated I feel. I often feel like the only single person on this planet.

I no longer feel like a warrior.

I no longer feel strong.

I no longer feel hopeful.

This world continues to be so cruel and oppressive. I’m desperately trying to let go of past and current hurts and let offensive and racist words roll off my protective cloak. The harsh truth is there will never be relief while in this skin because racism will never end. It seeps into everything.

Until next time,

Megsie

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The Problem with Words

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I decided to repost this piece that was originally published last year in August. I’ve been struggling as I continue to watch the Chauvin murder trial. It reminded me again about the problem with words as the defense attorney of that murderer tried to assassinate the character of George Floyd. Is there no bottom with people like that?

I think about the way I’ve been talked down to by nurses and doctors. How invalidating and condescending they can be until I open my mouth and set them straight. Why is everything dictated by the color of my skin? Why can’t I just been seen as a quirky human and talked to with respect?

Once again, my creative mind isn’t functioning well at this moment. My professional life is on FIRE in an amazing way. I have taken on the role as Partnership Director with GRYT Health and asked to be a contributing blogger for WebMD starting next month. I should be over the moon, right? Right?

Unfortunately, my personal life of existing in this body and in this skin color leaves me utterly depleted and unable to turn to the creative outlets that have brought comfort in the past. So, I might repost some of my previously written blogs over the next few weeks because I’m still going through some things. Plus, most of what I’ve previously written is what I am struggling with now. While I can still let racist and insulting words roll off my back, I am still human and still affected. After all, it’s okay to NOT be okay.

Original Post August 2, 2020

As I was seeing beautiful black and white pictures of women for the #challengeaccepted posts on Instagram, I decided to use it as an opportunity to post the ugly things I’ve been told over the years. I know it shocked some people because my picture was cute but the words below it were tough to see. I felt it was important to express how words can be so damaging to a person’s psyche.

I kept it short on Instagram but decided to expand on it to see how far I’ve come in my own healing and thinking. No one should be told these things. I don’t know why I had to be the person on the receiving end of such hate and ignorance. It’s unfair. It’s unjust. It’s painful. It’s a problem with words.

I’ve been called a nigger.
I’ve been called ugly.
I’ve been called fat by men.
I’ve been called stupid by a teacher.
I’ve been called stupid by an employer.

I’ve been told I will fail.
I’ve been told I don’t matter.
I’ve been told I don’t exist.
I’ve been told I don’t belong.
I’ve been told I’m a sellout.

I’ve been called too emotional.
I’ve been called weak.
I’ve been called an Oreo.
I’ve been called unfeeling.
I’ve been called a valley girl.

I’ve been told I act too white.
I’ve been told I dress too white.
I’ve been told I’m not loveable.
I’ve been told I speak so well.
I’ve been told I’m not black enough.

My psyche has been systematically torn to pieces for 20+ years by the ignorance and racism from whites and blacks that started in my hometown of Macon, GA and has followed me through the years as a young adult and in the professional world. I reread my journal this morning from senior year of high school in 1995 and still have a visceral reaction to my words.

The pain of not being accepted.

The pain of being bullied.

The pain of desperately wanting to leave the south.

I never felt I belonged anywhere until the college years, especially junior and senior years at The College of Saint Rose in Albany, NY. That’s why I hold onto my college memories so fiercely because I found a group of friends so eclectic, smart, clever, and so accepting that I felt safe to be authentically me at that time. I’m glad I have scrapbooks and multiple photo albums that captured the fun times and great opportunities from that magical time in my life.

I honestly thought once I became a working adult that my work ethic and merit would get me ahead. As more years went by, the more oppressed and defeated I became. I would be told I’m an “expert,” yet companies could never find the money to give me a proper raise. They would be shocked when I turned in my resignation and then have the nerve to ask, “Is there anything we can do to keep you from leaving?”

I had been carrying all that negativity from racism, oppression, and feelings of inferiority on my back for so many years that I lost complete faith in my abilities and talent. I used to think it was a cruel joke that I received multiple awards in high school and college. I was constantly told I would be going places because of my talent. It turned out none of it counted in the “real world.”

My cancer experience redefined me. It helped to rediscover my voice that had been silenced for so long that I thought it was lost forever. I’ll never consider cancer a gift, but it was an opportunity to rediscover the things that once brought me true joy. Yet, I was still playing it too safe. I wasn’t fully taking back what control I had left over my life. I was remaining comfortable in the uncomfortable; still too paralyzed to make any serious moves.

It took a pandemic to force me to pause and pivot not just my career but also my mindset. Rereading that journal from my 17-18-year-old self this morning reminded me how much I’ve carried the hurt from people’s words that ultimately turned me into a shell of my former myself.

I’ve had a resurgence of my passions and confidence while rekindling old friendships and cultivating new and profound friendships. My mindset changed once I fully began to believe in myself and know my worth thanks to a lot of help from my friends. I’m blessed to have so many people continue to lift me up even when I’ve doubted myself all these years.

So, here’s what I repeat to myself now that I’ve shed that cloak of negativity that was suffocating me.

I AM intelligent.
I AM talented.
I AM worthy.
I AM inspirational.
I AM feminine.

I AM a writer.
I AM a performer.
I AM a Nut-Meg.
I AM a talker.
I AM a powerhouse.

I AM loving.
I AM sensitive.
I AM giving.
I AM kind.
I AM enough.

My newfound armor continues to grow thicker each day, so insulting or hateful words or rude comments no longer sting. They smoothly roll off my back.

I am different and always will be. And you know what? That is OKAY.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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A Cancer Story: The 5-Year Mark

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It was five years ago today that I had my breast cancer surgeries at Northside Hospital Women’s Center in Atlanta, GA. I have officially reached the five-year mark, which is apparently a big milestone. I’m flooded with memories on the days leading up to my surgery day.

I had a blood transfusion two weeks before to help boost my system for the surgeries. To this day, I am pleased as punch to know my blood type is B+ and not O. I thought it was hilarious and would yell out “I’m B+” in my cheerleader voice. In fact, I still do it. Maybe it was watching too much True Blood on repeat, but I felt special knowing my blood type wasn’t the common O. Of course, I nearly vomited when I got the blood transfusion – two bags of blood. Those suckers were huge! I had one bag of O and another bag of B+. It’s a strange and thick feeling having someone else’s blood infused into you. I had many thoughts whirling in my mind.

What somewhat brought me down from feeling like an actress on Grey’s Anatomy was thinking about whose blood I was getting? I hate to say that my first thought and fear was what if the donor was a racist? Then I paused again and thought what if the donor was a serial killer? After six hours of having two bags of blood slowly infused, I was shocked when I saw my reflection. Had I become Bella from Twilight? My face, neck, and chest were flushed red. What freaked me out for a minute was seeing my eyes red. I kept looking for Edward on my way home. My humor has always remained intact.

Now it was surgery day. It was outpatient with no overnight stay. I was only a little nervous because I had complete faith in my breast cancer surgeon and plastic surgeon. They worked exceptionally well together. I can honestly say I still have a total girl crush on them. My breast cancer surgeon has major personality and humor, plus brilliance! She really helped me push through the last three chemo treatments when I was ready to give up. My plastic surgeon is the gentlest doctor I’ve ever dealt with and has magic hands. I never felt uncomfortable with him. As he came in to draw on the areas on my chest, his voice was so calm and gentle. He talked me through everything he was doing and made sure I did not look in the mirror. Smart move.

As I was being prepped for the surgeries, I had another laugh because the nurse put this silver aluminum foil looking blanket and cap on me. I looked like a bloated baked potato!

The only thing I remember before the anesthesia knocked me out was asking if I could keep my favorite chemo hat on underneath the baked potato cap.

Lumpectomy of left breast

Sentinel lymph node dissection

Reduction of both breasts

Reconstruction of both breasts

I wish I could say I woke up feeling just groggy. Nope! I woke up in excruciating pain and terribly nauseous. Then, one of the tubes I was hooked up with came loose because I felt something wet on my back. When I turned…the sheets were covered in blood. I got hysterical and started screaming. It took three nurses to calm me the fuck down. So, I was moved to a different bed and the pain went to a high that I pray I will never experience again. After two hours, the nurses were still having trouble getting the pain managed. They almost had me admitted into the hospital, but I managed to talk myself down from the ledge. I just wanted my own bed and my cat Nathan Edgar (Baby Natey).

This cancerversary brings mixed feelings that I will get into another time. I will say it felt good to write again since I have been on a hiatus for a few months. I definitely feel a much needed therapeutic release.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Taking a Hiatus

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 8 Comments

Hello darlings. So much has happened in the first few weeks of 2021 that I can’t even write sufficiently about it. I feel so out of control, anxious, depressed, angry, and horrified by the insurrection at the Capitol on January 6th. Seeing those white racists and traitors being treated with dignity by the police, taking selfies with the police, and allowed to leave caused me to lose my freaking mind. I became so enraged by the blatant hypocrisy that I lost my ability to speak for a few days.

Then I fell really hard on January 10th thanks to the severe and permanent neuropathy in my feet. I was walking with my awesome realtor Parker and BAM…went down hard. The crazy thing is I got right back up like nothing happened and even walked up stairs, and then ran two errands before I finally felt some pain in my right ankle. By that evening, I could not walk and was hysterically crying. I used my desk chair with wheels as a makeshift wheelchair to get around my apartment. My sweet cat Baby Natey kept trying to comfort me. Being single with an injury and not being able to walk upset me to no end.

Fortunately, I was able to get a 9am appointment with an orthopedic ankle specialist on January 11th. The issue then became how was I going to even get myself up the five steps that lead to the parking lot and to my car? My adrenaline and anger were pumping so hard that I used one of my canes and just forced myself up those blasted stairs, into my car, and to Emory St. Joseph’s for the appointment. The valet was not allowed to get me a wheelchair. The guy said I would have to up to the front desk and sign one out.

WTF.

I said forget it, and once again without help, I made it into the elevator and into the doctor’s office. The woman who took my temperature immediately saw the pain, tears, and frustration on my face and helped me hobble into the waiting area. She then went to the front desk, signed me in, and told them I need help. I started crying again because I finally was not alone and had some help.

My male nurse, who is so good looking even behind the mask, and my new ankle doctor took great care of me. I had tweeted how surprised I was to be treated with kindness and not talked down to by this white doctor and white male nurse. I am so used to not being heard and talked down to that once again I was crying because my pain was actually taken seriously.

Diagnosis: A Grade 3 sprain in my right ankle. I did not immediately feel pain when I initially fell because of the neuropathy. It masked the pain for a few hours. I felt so validated by the doctor because he agreed as well. Now I am in an air cast boot that goes all the way up to the knee for two weeks. I will go back on the 25th to be reevaluated and see if I need another week in it or will start physical therapy. At this point, I have no idea how much PT I will need, but assume 6-8 weeks to start. What I do know is I take a really long time to heal post-cancer.

My gosh! I freak out each time I look at a Grade 3 sprain.
Air cast boot and this lift thing for my left foot to help lift up that side so walking won’t be as awkward.

My body already deals with chronic pain from neuropathy, fibromyalgia, herniated disc in my lower left side of back, and now a severely sprained ankle. It is too much to process when all are flaring up. I know my Baby Natey would make dinner and bring me tea if he could. Instead, I just do what I do and take care of myself but more bitterness these days.

I’ve had to suspend my house hunting because PT will eat up a lot of my time. My lease is up in mid-March, so no way I can even look for a new place, pack or move. I just have to hope there won’t be any more explosions or fires in this complex. And yes, you read that right. There was an explosion in one of the buildings up the hill from mine right before Christmas. It was horrible, the air was thick with smoke, and no one could get in or out of the complex, and power was out for hours and hours on a really cold night.

So, I am going to take a hiatus from blogging until I get this blasted ankle back up to speed. It’s too much to deal with four separate and intense pains. I can handle three but not four at one time. I cannot think or process anything and plagued by fatigue. This air cast boot is heavy. Right now, I have named it asshole until I be friends with it. I can’t be creative when in this much pain.

Until then, I hope you will look at previous posts and check out the articles on my ‘About’ page.

Tootles,

Warrior Megsie

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Embrace the Suck

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 5 Comments

I wanted to read the words below out loud so you can feel the full emotions in my words.

I think many can agree 2020 has been like an episode of The Twilight Zone played on a loop. It was like the lid on Pandora’s box was forced opened and nothing could stop the chain of events. The pure hatred, corruption, greed, rage, white privilege, and selfishness of people boiled over.

There were days where I could embrace the suck through challenging myself professionally and spiritually. I was able to rise up for myself with a new confidence. I felt bolder, inspired, empowered, and even thankful because I took the professional risks I had been wanting to take for years and years. Instead of shying away from risks, I finally had the ability to get off that hamster wheel and believe in my talents. How I wish I had had this forced pause and push back in my 20’s but better late than never, right?

I have also never felt more afraid, paranoid, heartbroken, horrified, and filled with a level 4 kind of rage than I have this year. I witnessed two of those “Karens” during the summer. I had more racist remarks directed toward me. The horrific images of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd being murdered by white men who smiled will haunt me forever. Police uniforms and red hats became the modern Ku Klux Klan attire. There was no need for them to cover their faces anymore. That racist tRump and the GOP gave a green light because they knew there would not be any consequences.

My soul cracked.

Instead of solely focusing my blog about cancer, I felt I had to start writing about racism and the difficulties I continue to face both inside and outside of cancerland. I stopped being nervous about possibly offending people. Blogging my point of view and experiences of the past and present was a way to keep from going insane.

I really wanted the white people I knew and those I did not know to see my face and that I am not immune to have racist comments spewed at me. This year truly let me know that it does not matter how educated, talented, and classy I am. At the end of the day, I will always, always be seen as a black woman first.

When I wrote the blog post “Mixed Fragility,” it was the first time I had truly uncomfortable conversations with myself about race, how I am perceived, and how I perceive others. I technically have two black female friends and one black male friend. They can relate to a lot of what I feel on a daily basis. It was the first time I have had that.

How does one ever heal from severe trauma when it is their existence causing all the pain and turmoil? Even though I am still not accepted in the black world – no invitations to the barbeque – something changed for me when thinking about all the white people I know. I began to pull away from the white friends in my inner circle. In fact, I would say I am still pulling away.

What I say next is not to anyone specifically. It would be rude to call out people by name. It is what I experienced heavily this year, so I’m speaking to the general white population.  

So here I go…

I get so sick of white people saying not everything is about race.

I get so sick of white people questioning me and not believing me when I share a racist experience.

I get so sick of white doctors dismissing my pain and talking down to me.

I get so sick of white people being unable to control their surprised facial expressions when they hear my voice.

I get so sick of white people feeling the need to tell me about black people and black organizations within the cancer community.

I get so sick of white people feeling the need to start any conversation about race by saying they will never know what it is like to be black and how that feels.

I get so sick of white people not believing there is racism within the medical community.

I cannot even be viewed as just a cancer survivor because groups and organizations make it noticeably clear they label me as a BLACK cancer survivor; therefore, I must be an expert on all black-related issues. I thought the days of being used as a black token were gone. It has never been more apparent how many white people view me.

As I write this, I can almost hear the thoughts of any white person reading this. I know you are thinking “what am I supposed to say” and “I’m not a racist” and “I don’t view you as black” and “I don’t see color” and “why are so many black people angry.”

While I am excelling professionally, I am a wreck personally. I no longer know who to trust. Some of the places and people I thought were safe showed their true colors. No one, including me, knows how to categorize me. I do not fit in any common mold. I am unapologetically ME.

So, while I had some amazing and one of kind opportunities come my way this year, I continue to grapple with depression, pain, loneliness, rage, hurt, and confusion. This James Baldwin quote is one I have used repeatedly this year. It is the first time I feel what he felt. I wonder if 2021 will be any different.

It is important for me to thank all of you for taking the time to read my blog this year. While the bulk of my posts took courage to write and share, I acknowledge it took courage for you to read it. I read every single comment, negative and positive, that I received. Life can shove many of us off the rails with unforeseen challenges, unexpected deaths of friends and family, and hard truths revealed. What I do know is I will continue to be bold, work through the uncomfortable thoughts and feelings, and keep sharing my truth.

Thank you for coming on board the cancer train of vulnerability and mixed emotions.

Merry Christmas from Megsie and Baby Nathan Edgar

Until next year,

Warrior Megsie

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Rage Runneth Over

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 9 Comments

I have really neglected my blog which upsets me because it is one of my major coping mechanisms to keep pushing forward in this insane world. Writing is a way to gauge my mental health. That aside from a busy work schedule due to my fulltime job, multiple freelance jobs, and volunteering for multiple events last month, I did not make the time to write out my thoughts.

I am sure I am not the only one who sometimes packs their schedules so much that it leaves no time for self-care. I know I intentionally did not make the time to write.

I did not want to feel.

I did not want to think.

I did not to acknowledge anything.

Today is the first time in a while where I am not obligated to attend a Zoom or run errands. I honestly do not want to write out the flood of thoughts that have been whirling in my head for the past few months. Writing it down will make it real.

The darkness.

The sadness.

The hurt.

The rage.

I am currently taking a six-week journaling class through a young adult cancer group to help process and release some of these thoughts and feelings. In this class, we are given a prompt and journal whatever feelings arise, then write feedback to what we wrote, and then share with the class. I took it last year and loved it. However, this year is different. Though I’ve had many truly amazing and exciting things happen this year (see my About page),the stress of living in a divided country where I’ve had racist encounters and racists comments directed toward me in places I thought were safe has thrown me into the sunken place – if you watched the Jordan Peel movie Get Out, you’ll understand that reference.

So, I wrote just a snippet about the rage that is boiling over within me and read it out loud to the class. There was the uncomfortable silence one gets when talking about race to a sea of white faces. The journaling therapist asked for everyone to hold some space for me and give words of support. Though I get what she was trying to do, it only made me more upset because no one was being authentic, except for the one guy in there who I talk to on a regular basis.

To this day, I remember posting my blog piece from last year called Cancer and Race in one of the lobular breast cancer groups. A white woman responded, “Race has no place in the cancer space.” I have never forgotten how her ignorant comment gut punched me. Then I think about talking with other people in other cancer organizations and one of the first things typically said is, “We work with black organizations that we can connect you with.” Why does my color make you so nervous and uncomfortable?

I am never seen as just a writer, speaker, cancer survivor, chronic illness haver, or patient advocate. Add the word Black in front of each one and that is how people see me first. Always.

If I want to be part of Black only groups or organizations, I know where to go. It is beyond insulting when a white person tries to segregate me, especially within the cancer space. Stop trying push square MEG into a round hole. It cannot be done. Ever.

Why can’t anyone see ME?

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Time Is Up PINKtober

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 7 Comments

#Repost from 9/29/19 – I still feel the same way about it, so reposting what I wrote about Breast Cancer Awareness last year with a few more rants…I mean additions.

I grow angrier and angrier each year during PINKtober. Why? We’ll be flooded with commercials and email campaigns of women wearing pink tutus, toothy smiles, and cheers nationwide.  Breast cancer is glamourized to look pretty, easy, and fun. No wonder other cancers hate us.

The media attention breast cancer gets is HUGE. The funding for it is HUGE. The awareness part is bullshit. Yep, I said BULLSHIT! A lot of that money raised from the tons of “walks for the cure” is nowhere to be seen. The bulk of these organization are funneling millions of dollars…into their pockets!

The wool that was once over my eyes is gone. Why? Because I’ve lost countless friends from metastatic breast cancer. I’m acutely aware that I could still get metastatic cancer. I’m not “cured.” I will be getting scans every six months for 10 years!

I had Stage IIA Invasive Lobular in the left breast. About 10% of all invasive breast cancers are invasive lobular carcinomas. It is still considered rare because 80% are invasive ductal carcinomas. Let me give you some information on this type because it is not common.

Here’s an overview from the Mayo Clinic’s website:

Invasive lobular carcinoma is a type of breast cancer that begins in the milk-producing glands (lobules) of the breast.

Invasive cancer means the cancer cells have broken out of the lobule where they began and have the potential to spread to the lymph nodes and other areas of the body.

Invasive lobular carcinoma makes up a small portion of all breast cancers. The most common type of breast cancer begins in the breast ducts (invasive ductal carcinoma).

I’ve realized many women and men are under the assumption that if you have a mastectomy, that you’ll never get a recurrence or metastatic cancer. I’m going to take this time to educate and give some definitions for those who may not be aware or too scared to ask.

Here are the Types of Recurrent Cancer and definition of Metastatic Cancer from the National Cancer Institute at the National Institute of Health’s website.

  • Local recurrence means that the cancer is in the same place as the original cancer or very close to it.
  • Regional recurrence means that the tumor has grown into lymph nodes or tissues near the original cancer.
  • Distant recurrence means the cancer has spread to organs or tissues far from the original cancer. When cancer spreads to a distant place in the body, it is called metastasis or metastatic cancer. When cancer spreads, it is still the same type of cancer. For example, if you had colon cancer, it may come back in your liver. But, the cancer is still called colon cancer.
  • Metastatic Cancermeans the spread of cancer cells from the place where they first formed to another part of the body. In metastasis, cancer cells break away from the original (primary) tumor, travel through the blood or lymph system, and form a new tumor in other organs or tissues of the body. The new, metastatic tumor is the same type of cancer as the primary tumor. For example, if breast cancer spreads to the lung, the cancer cells in the lung are breast cancer cells, not lung cancer cells.

Despite how the media glamourizes breast cancer, I still love wearing pink, tutus, tiaras, butterfly wings and feather boas. Why? These items were ALL in my closet before my breast cancer diagnosis. I’ve always been a tad extra and a Nut-Meg. When I look at those items in my closet, I don’t associate breast cancer with them except for two of the six tiaras I have. I bought one a year after I was declared NED (no evidence of disease) and the other for my birthday last year because I wanted one even bigger and heavier to celebrate that I’m still above ground.

Breast cancer has taken away so much. It’s a daily struggle to reclaim pieces of myself. My body will never, ever be the same. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pushing through the chronic pain.

I remember how financially giving so many were when I was initially diagnosed. I can’t tell you what an enormous help their generosity was for me, especially as a single woman, but the medical bills don’t stop once the cancer has been removed.

I didn’t think I would get diagnosed with cancer at 39 years old only two months after my birthday.

I didn’t realize how expensive getting scans (diagnostic mammogram with either an ultrasound or MRI) every six months would be thanks to super high deductibles.

I didn’t expect to have additional surgeries afterward.

I didn’t expect that I would be intolerant of every type of post-cancer medication to help prevent recurrence.

I didn’t expect to have permanent chemo induced peripheral neuropathy in my hands and feet to the point I have a permanent handicap sign because I can’t walk far anymore.

I didn’t expect that all these surgeries would trigger fibromyalgia and have to live with severe chronic pain every blasted day.

I didn’t expect I would still be single and can’t even think about dating or being intimate because I was medically induced into menopause at 40 years old.

I didn’t expect to long for children until the choice was taken away from me and had to get a hysterectomy and salpingo oophorectomy at 40 years old.

I didn’t expect to develop a herniated disc and slight tear near the nerve in my lower back which causes excruciating back pain on my left side.

Oh, and let’s not forget the Neural Foraminal Stenosis in that same area. Fabulous. According to the Atlantic Spine Center, it refers to the narrowing of the intervertebral foramen, a small hole through which nerves exit our spinal canal and travel through our body. Neural is defined as having to do with nerve cells or relating to a nerve and is often added to the condition’s name.

I have the back of a dang mummy. See my latest video talking about it where I get quite salty about my latest visit to the neurologist. Salty Instagram Video

I didn’t expect to have these continuous cognitive issues (chemo brain). Though I will say in 2020, it has vastly improved but still there. It only took 4 1/2 years but who’s counting?!

Most of all, I didn’t expect to meet so many beautiful fellow warriors who have since DIED in the past four years.

For me, PINKtober isn’t reality. It’s made to be cute, sexy, fun, and money grabbing.

The reality is we need to know the cause of why so many early stager’s eventually get metastatic cancer.  Why are so many women and men being diagnosed under 40? Why are so many with zero family history of cancer getting breast cancer? And, why aren’t there better treatment options for active and post treatment? I often say it wasn’t the cancer that almost killed me, it was the harsh treatments.

We need more funding for research for lobular and metastatic cancer.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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The Pink Age

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 4 Comments

Breast cancer is glamourized to look pretty, easy and fun. The commercials also show older women smiling with makeup on. No wonder other cancers hate us. I was diagnosed under 40 years old with stage IIA invasive lobular breast cancer five years ago. How come no one tells us how cancer drastically ages the body externally? Many of us internally feel older due to permanent side effects and other illnesses that were triggered by our cancer treatments and surgeries. I honestly never thought my face and neck would age.

Yes, I have always been on the vain side. When I was growing up, I performed in community theatre and ballet which meant always looking in the mirror. I always used to look years younger than my actual age, even in my early 30’s. This rapid aging is tough to accept because no amount of creams or concealer can fully cover it up.

I first noticed the aging of my neck four years ago. It used to be so smooth. Now it looks like lines of multilayered necklaces going down it. Quite shocking to see in the mirror. Why did I age in that area?

I honestly believe it has something to do with the radiation burns that went up the left side of my neck. I could see the beginning of lines then. I’ll never understand why I burned so terribly in so many areas (neck, back, under arm) aside from my left breast. Radiation was just as painful and horrific as chemo. That’s why I get so upset with another patients say radiation is a breeze. My flesh burned off on my under arm near the area of where my tumor once was. Yep, you read that right. It literally burned off. I felt like burned bacon. I know what it feels like to be a burn patient. The pain was excruciating.

These pictures below still make me cringe. By the end of my 33 treatments, the layered lines had formed completely down my neck. Instantly looking 20 years older in that area. As I look at this area now, it’s always irritated and itchy. It feels rough to the touch and scaly. Thanks to COVID-19, I haven’t been able to see my dermatologist. Why is it continuously itchy? I don’t use perfume or any lovely smelling lotions on it. It’s a big eye sore when I wear any type of shirt because there is no way to hide it unless I wear a scarf. I feel extremely self-conscious about it.

It has taken a full three years for the dark panda circles under my eyes to fade enough to where I no longer need to wear a pound of concealer to attempt covering them up. I only need half a pound these days. As you can see below in the pictures from four years ago, nothing could fully cover them up back then. Aside from looking fatigued, I looked haunted.

Me then and me now on a really good hair and makeup day

It’s only recently that I no longer need a pound of makeup to cover the visibly aging skin. I just need half a pound instead! Seriously though, I continue to struggle with externally looking so different and just so much older. Then add medically induced menopause to the mix, and all hell has broken loose.

It has been four years since the radiation days, and I don’t know my skin post-cancer. It’s dry and scaly in some areas now. The skin underneath my eyes took one of the biggest beatings due to constant rubbing and contact dermatitis. I was constantly trying different creams trying to find the right one to truly hydrate my skin.

I finally got to the bottom of the contact dermatitis that was so painful last summer. After an allergy test at the dermatologist, I’m allergic to the dye in antibacterial soap. Every single time I was washing my hands and using the orange colored antibacterial at home and at the cancer center and using orange or green colored hand sanitizer, I would touch my eyes to wash my face with clean hands not knowing my fingertips were causing the irritation. Now everything is clear including hand sanitizer.

Don’t even get me started on my lips! They used to be smooth. Ever since the chemo days, I continually struggle with peeling and cracked skin on each corner of my mouth. Fortunately, my dermatologist gave me some cream that I use on my lips and under my eyes to help with the dryness but it’s not a permanent fix. I never know what will cause another skin flareup. It’s a good thing I am chronically single and a hair away from being thrown into a convent because these lips would only be kissable for an alligator.

It just boggles my mind that all this aging happened without zero warning.  The physical changes are just so jarring. To everyone else, I look super healthy. Once the makeup comes off, I look a little gray, burned, wrinkly, and forever fatigued. A constant reminder of the trauma which is why I can’t ever NOT think about my cancer experience. It stares me in the face and plagues me daily.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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When Your Safe Space is Bulldozed

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 2 Comments

Have you ever been involved in a group or with a person you considered safe? They created a safe space for you to be authentically you. What happens when that safe bubble unexpectedly bursts?

That’s what happened to me recently. Without going into too much detail, once I know someone’s true stance on an issue that I find absolutely appalling, I can no longer share digital space with that person. Though it was brief, and the subject was quickly changed, I cannot unhear it. I had such a visceral reaction which let me know that I must protect my state of mind and permanently remove myself from that space.

As I’ve begun to explore, research, and learning to love my blackness, I must be even more careful of who I share space with. You know that saying, it only takes one bad egg to ruin the carton, rings true in this situation. Fortunately, I made some great friendships that have continued to develop outside of that space.

So, what do I do now? I lean on those who I know have the same values and opinions on hot button issues. I fill that time doing more to enrich and uplift my spirit and passions or just rest. My safe space is my Zen home and writing with my cat Nathan Edgar by my side.

Yesterday was the five-year anniversary of receiving the biopsy of my left breast. It hit a bit harder than usual because it truly was the last time of being just a regular patient. After that point, cancer will always be a permanent word in my medical history. Even though I have no evidence of disease (NED) at this time, I’ll never be just a regular patient.

While some cancer warriors don’t like to think about their cancerversaries, I do. My experience was utterly traumatic. I can’t get away from what I experienced and the permanent damage to my body.

I remember everything about getting the biopsy. The doctor who performed it looked like she was 12 years old and her name is Dr. Grey. Initially I laughed because I’ve been watching Grey’s Anatomy for years and told her I’m sure she’s sick of the jokes. The laughter broke the tension for a few minutes.

As I was lying there with the nurse on my right side holding my hand, I couldn’t take my eyes off Dr. Grey’s face. I watched her facial expressions and could see she found something, but my mind refused to think it would be cancer. I’m a great reader of facial expressions and body language, so I can see subtle changes that most wouldn’t notice.

To this day, I jump when I hear sounds of a stapler and especially hearing a staple gun. That’s what it sounded like with the tool Dr. Grey used to gather the tissue samples. It was so loud and echoed in the room. The nurse kept asking if I was in pain because I was squeezing her hand so tightly. No, I wasn’t in any pain, but the sounds were traumatizing me. I was counting each sample. She took more samples than she initially said she would.

I needed a safe space yesterday to talk things out and relieve some anxiety. I created one by calling a friend who never fails to crack me up and driving around just to feel like I had gotten away for a bit. I came back home feeling calmer with a half-smile on my face instead of a full-on frown.

I’ve mentioned before that ever since cancer, I’m incapable of tolerating bullshit. If someone bulldozes your safe space, know that you are strong enough to create another one for yourself.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Times of Disruption

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 7 Comments

It has been an extraordinary time filled with opportunities I never dared to dream of. My confidence level continues to rise. I’ve lived more in that past few months than I’ve lived since moving back to Georgia from Los Angeles 17 years ago.

Even with these fabulous professional and advocacy wins, including a new full-time job that I’ll begin August 17th and multiple freelance gigs, there are still feelings of uncertainty. It’s not uncertainty about my abilities as a marketing and writing professional, it is an uncertainty of my body.

Chronic pain is not something I would ever wish on someone. It’s why my cancer journey takes so many gut-punching twists and turns over rocky terrain. I’m in the body of a mummy from the neck down.

There is never a moment where I am not in pain.

There is never a moment where I forget I’m in pain.

There is never a moment where I don’t curse this pain.

As much as I stress about a possible recurrence or metastatic cancer, I stress just as equally about how long I can keep pushing with pain levels that range from 6-20. I remember a telling moment at my 8th and final surgery related to my original breast cancer surgery that I had June 3, 2019 at Northside Cancer Center. While the nurse was prepping me with an IV, she asked what my pain level was at that moment. I told her it was an 8, and she just looked stunned. I was matter of fact and told her about my pain range and that an 8 was tolerable. She just started tearing up and said, “I’m so sorry you’re suffering so much.” It was honestly the first time any emotion had ever been shown by medical staff and I found it oddly comforting. For once, it wasn’t dismissed or even questioned.

My chronic pain is multi-faceted. I wish it were only from fibromyalgia. When you add severe neuropathy in my hands and feet, my senses become overloaded. Then add a herniated disc with a tear near the nerve where I desperately need another epidural steroid injection because the first one didn’t take, then I almost can’t think because the pain is beyond horrific.

It’s a disrupter of time.

It’s a disrupter of sleep.

It’s a disrupter of peace.

So, when others think my cancer story should be over, I simply say no. It never will be because I am reminded at every moment of every day what my cancer treatments and multiple surgeries did to my body. My body is gone. I don’t know this current body. We will always be strangers and never friends because it hurts me on too many levels. Others might be able to move past it, but I cannot. 

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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The Problem with Words

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 5 Comments

I decided to repost this piece that was originally published last year in August. I’ve been struggling as I continue to watch the Chauvin murder trial. It reminded me again about the problem with words as the defense attorney of that murderer tried to assassinate the character of George Floyd. Is there no bottom with people like that?

I think about the way I’ve been talked down to by nurses and doctors. How invalidating and condescending they can be until I open my mouth and set them straight. Why is everything dictated by the color of my skin? Why can’t I just been seen as a quirky human and talked to with respect?

Once again, my creative mind isn’t functioning well at this moment. My professional life is on FIRE in an amazing way. I have taken on the role as Partnership Director with GRYT Health and asked to be a contributing blogger for WebMD starting next month. I should be over the moon, right? Right?

Unfortunately, my personal life of existing in this body and in this skin color leaves me utterly depleted and unable to turn to the creative outlets that have brought comfort in the past. So, I might repost some of my previously written blogs over the next few weeks because I’m still going through some things. Plus, most of what I’ve previously written is what I am struggling with now. After all, it’s okay to NOT be okay.

Original Post

As I was seeing beautiful black and white pictures of women for the #challengeaccepted posts on Instagram, I decided to use it as an opportunity to post the ugly things I’ve been told over the years. I know it shocked some people because my picture was cute but the words below it were tough to see. I felt it was important to express how words can be so damaging to a person’s psyche.

I kept it short on Instagram but decided to expand on it to see how far I’ve come in my own healing and thinking. No one should be told these things. I don’t know why I had to be the person on the receiving end of such hate and ignorance. It’s unfair. It’s unjust. It’s painful. It’s a problem with words.

I’ve been called a nigger.
I’ve been called ugly.
I’ve been called fat by men.
I’ve been called stupid by a teacher.
I’ve been called stupid by an employer.

I’ve been told I will fail.
I’ve been told I don’t matter.
I’ve been told I don’t exist.
I’ve been told I don’t belong.
I’ve been told I’m a sellout.

I’ve been called too emotional.
I’ve been called weak.
I’ve been called an Oreo.
I’ve been called unfeeling.
I’ve been called a valley girl.

I’ve been told I act too white.
I’ve been told I dress too white.
I’ve been told I’m not loveable.
I’ve been told I speak so well.
I’ve been told I’m not black enough.

My psyche has been systematically torn to pieces for 20+ years by the ignorance and racism from whites and blacks that started in my hometown of Macon, GA and has followed me through the years as a young adult and in the professional world. I reread my journal this morning from senior year of high school in 1995 and still have a visceral reaction to my words.

The pain of not being accepted.

The pain of being bullied.

The pain of desperately wanting to leave the south.

I never felt I belonged anywhere until the college years, especially junior and senior years at The College of Saint Rose in Albany, NY. That’s why I hold onto my college memories so fiercely because I found a group of friends so eclectic, smart, clever, and so accepting that I felt safe to be authentically me at that time. I’m glad I have scrapbooks and multiple photo albums that captured the fun times and great opportunities from that magical time in my life.

I honestly thought once I became a working adult that my work ethic and merit would get me ahead. As more years went by, the more oppressed and defeated I became. I would be told I’m an “expert,” yet companies could never find the money to give me a proper raise. They would be shocked when I turned in my resignation and then have the nerve to ask, “Is there anything we can do to keep you from leaving?”

I had been carrying all that negativity from racism, oppression, and feelings of inferiority on my back for so many years that I lost complete faith in my abilities and talent. I used to think it was a cruel joke that I received multiple awards in high school and college. I was constantly told I would be going places because of my talent. It turned out none of it counted in the “real world.”

My cancer experience redefined me. It helped to rediscover my voice that had been silenced for so long that I thought it was lost forever. I’ll never consider cancer a gift, but it was an opportunity to rediscover the things that once brought me true joy. Yet, I was still playing it too safe. I wasn’t fully taking back what control I had left over my life. I was remaining comfortable in the uncomfortable; still too paralyzed to make any serious moves.

It took a pandemic to force me to pause and pivot not just my career but also my mindset. Rereading that journal from my 17-18-year-old self this morning reminded me how much I’ve carried the hurt from people’s words that ultimately turned me into a shell of my former myself.

I’ve had a resurgence of my passions and confidence while rekindling old friendships and cultivating new and profound friendships. My mindset changed once I fully began to believe in myself and know my worth thanks to a lot of help from my friends. I’m blessed to have so many people continue to lift me up even when I’ve doubted myself all these years.

So, here’s what I repeat to myself now that I’ve shed that cloak of negativity that was suffocating me.

I AM intelligent.
I AM talented.
I AM worthy.
I AM inspirational.
I AM feminine.

I AM a writer.
I AM a performer.
I AM a Nut-Meg.
I AM a talker.
I AM a powerhouse.

I AM loving.
I AM sensitive.
I AM giving.
I AM kind.
I AM enough.

My newfound armor continues to grow thicker each day, so insulting or hateful words or rude comments no longer sting. They smoothly roll off my back.

I am different and always will be. And you know what? That is OKAY.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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And I Rise Up

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 21 Comments

I was in serious danger of losing myself. I haven’t been true to myself in years, especially once I began working after college. I was literally shrinking myself to fit in these impossibly confined spaces that were never meant to hold a force like me.

I did what I was told.

I followed the rules.

I didn’t take any risks.

Anyone who knows me whether in person or online knows that I am definitely a tad extra, expressive, creative, and dramatic. My dream since I was a little girl was to be an actress. I’ve always felt at home on the stage. So, when I didn’t follow my heart and try to make it as an actress, the disappointment in myself eventually suffocated me.

Each time I walked through the office door of my corporate jobs over the years, tiny parts of me died until it became larger chunks, and then ultimately my entire spirit died. I had a huge collection of various musicals on cd. I had thrown all of them away except my three all-time favorites – Rent, Jekyll and Hyde, and Chicago. I thought my days to be creative and fuel my soul doing things that mattered to me permanently were gone.

Why did it take a pandemic to force me out of the coffin and restore life back into me? I thought going through breast cancer and all the ongoing complications from it would’ve pushed me to follow my dreams, but no. The fear of being without decent health insurance sucked the life out of me.

This forced pause by the world and not by my body is what breathed life into me again. I’ve been networking in a way I didn’t have the confidence to do prior to COVID-19. I no longer wanted to put myself in job situations where I would be utterly miserable but feel forced to accept it for a paycheck and insurance.  

When would I finally rise up and be who I was meant to be?

That time has come. I didn’t realize the transformation from death to life had been taking place until this week. Others have believed me for years, but I didn’t believe in myself enough to do anything about it until now. Once I began asking others for help and suggestions, I couldn’t believe the sheer number of people who have been willing to take the time from their schedules to chat and brainstorm ideas with me.

Since this transformation, the following things have happened with more in the works:

I was in the NY Times.

I was in People magazine.

I landed my first part-time freelance job with a clinical trial company in Europe.

I landed my first paid speaking engagement for an upcoming panel about the lack of diversity in clinical trials.

I auditioned for my first ever voiceover job and got it.

I’m finally taking some risks in order to pursue what fuels my many passions and feel deeply empowered. It’s hard to describe the feeling. My smile has been exhausted but genuine in the past few weeks. I see a glow in my face. It’s like the light has been turned back on.

It was once so hard to breathe, but I now rise up in a way I never have before with new purpose, vision, determination, and belief in myself. I give myself permission to accept that it’s okay to not be okay sometimes but to continue to rise up. I’m finally being true to who I am. 

I

AM

ENOUGH.

These are the two songs and quotes that inspired today’s blog piece

Rise Up by Andra Day and  Who You Are by Jessie J

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

Featured

I’m Still Here

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 5 Comments

My birthday was July 3rd. I remember when I was young, I used to think I was just like the astrological sign Cancer. I thought it was fitting that I was born under this sign because I have so many of the characteristics. The irony is not only was I born under the Cancer sign; my body literally became a cancer two months after my 39th birthday in 2015.

Photo credit: horoscope.com

I think about my birthday differently ever since my diagnosis of stage IIA invasive lobular breast cancer. There’s an additional layer of heaviness with each year that wasn’t as thick pre-cancer. I can’t help but think about all the cancer warriors who didn’t get to live to their next birthday. Once you’re inducted into the cancer sorority or fraternity, it’s impossible to not be plagued by survivor’s guilt.

Why am I still here? Do I have an invisible expiration date stamped on my body?

I’ve seen so much death in cancerland. Some of us have experienced wrath from a few of those who are metastatic (stage IV) who get triggered when we complain about something in our lives post-cancer. “At least you don’t have stage IV and not dying,” is what some will often say. It’s important to not compare our cancer experiences with others because you have no idea what all they have been through up to this point. While it may not be stage IV cancer, there are other things experienced that are uncertain, frustrating, and could eventually become deadly.

What they don’t know is my story and how I nearly died at birth.

What they don’t know is how I sick I was as a child, constantly fighting off infections and hospitalized multiple times.

What they don’t know is how I’ve known I would get cancer since I was 18 but just couldn’t be sure of when and what type.

What they don’t know is the grief I feel daily over not being married and having a family.

What they don’t know is all the death I’ve seen from cancer before I was even 12 years old.

What they don’t know is my mother has had a rare blood cancer for the past 20+ years and it’s currently progressing.

From the moment I was born three months early, I have been fighting to continue living in this world. It took my parents eight years to conceive. I am an IVF baby. My mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer during the pregnancy. The doctors wanted her to have a therapeutic abortion because they said there’s no way both of us would survive this pregnancy. Their prediction was one of us or both of us would die.

When I made my grand entrance into the world, it wasn’t filled with excitement. It was filled with urgency and worry that my mother and I would die. My mother started hemorrhaging to death which is why an emergency cesarean was performed. Everyone was panicked because I wasn’t supposed to be born until the last week of October, but here I was coming out in July.

I was born 1lb 5oz at St. Luke’s Hospital in Davenport, IA. My parents didn’t even get to hold me because I was immediately rushed into ICU because I wasn’t breathing. My lungs had collapsed. Once the doctors got me breathing, I began to have grand mal seizures. After two months in the ICU, they discovered I had a benign fibrous histiocytoma in my right leg which was surgically removed. According to Google, fibrous histiocytoma is a benign soft tissue tumor that may present as a fibrous mass anywhere in the human body.

My body experienced trauma from day one and has never stopped. While I’ve never been surprised that I got cancer, I was surprised that I got in my late 30’s. The trauma continues with permanent damage and scars from cancer treatments and eight surgeries. It makes sense that I have fibromyalgia, too. I honestly believe this would’ve occurred later in life but was triggered thanks to chemo. I’ve had pneumonia twice as a child and twice as an adult.

The list goes on and on.

The physical and mental pain goes on and on.

So, why am I still here when others have died too young or have families who need them? I honestly don’t know. It is a shame that it took getting cancer to shake me out of simply existing to truly start living with purpose. The past year of my life was a little more difficult than I was prepared for, but my inherent resilience keeps pushing me forward, even when I don’t necessarily want to.

While I wait for my invisible expiration date to appear, I refuse to give up. I don’t to die on a bed of regrets. The song I’m Still Here by Sia perfectly sums up my thoughts at this moment because

I

AM

STILL

HERE.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

Featured

How Dark Am I?

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 1 Comment

I have repressed memories from childhood of the racism I’ve experienced. It’s the memories of the self-hate that seep into my mind. There are so many stories to share of when I first noticed I was different. I don’t mean quirky different. I’m mean when I noticed I was a different color that wasn’t found in my crayon box.

There was a time I loved the outdoors. I could lay in the sun, hike, play tag or kickball with friends all day. I loved soaking up the sun and smelling it on my skin.

Many of my white friends have always complain about being too pale or pasty and needing to tan. I wanted to be like them and tan too, but I was already brown. Did I really want to get even darker?

Me in my teens at the beach

I cringe even writing this. The self-hate is so evident. That fact I’m only recognizing this now shows how deeply rooted these feelings are in me.

Then I had another thought. If my white friends ever woke up my skin color, they would lose their ever-loving minds. Isn’t that what they want though? To be darker? As they want to get darker, I’ve always wanted to get lighter.

Many white people, even in 2020, don’t realize that black people of any shade can get sunburn just like them. I remember the first time I got sunburn when I was a teen and some of my white friends were fascinated by the fact my neck, shoulders, and back turned red and then peeled…just like them. “I didn’t know black people could get sunburn,” they would say. When I think back to that moment, I wonder if I purposely laid out in the sun until I burned so I could show I was just like them – them being white.

Now, I’m rarely in the sun. If I am, I always have a hat and sunscreen on. I’ve even used skin lightening cream in the past, which obviously didn’t work.

I remember when I was selected to go to Georgia Girls State at Middle Georgia College in Cochran, GA in the summer before my senior year of high school. I was so excited. There was a time I thought I might major in political science. My roommate was a black girl who was darker than me. She was kind of standoffish at first. I was slightly uncomfortable because I hadn’t been around many other black girls, let alone have one for a roommate. I acted like my usual zany self and eventually won her over. She kept saying I was “different,” but it didn’t sound like a compliment. She even wrote it on my banner at the end of the week. It felt more like she was saying you don’t act like a typical black girl, whatever that means. I’ve experienced this a lot in my life, even now.

Roommate’s comment – she spelled my name wrong. 🙂

Well, I was selected to take part in the mock trial. It was a big deal. They only selected three students to be the defendants and I was the only black one. I got to work with a judge, district attorney, defense attorney, chief of police, and a G.B.I. agent (Georgia Bureau of Investigations) to prepare for the mock trial. We even got to go off campus to film “the crime.” The jury was made up of students. I was the innocent friend who happened to get caught with the other two defendants. I had to tell the jury how I knew the defendants and what we were doing before “the crime.” The mock trial was held in the auditorium where the rest of the general assembly (all the students) were in the audience.

GA Girl’s State Mock Trial Cast – My given name is Megan Hester

I said we were at the beach just laying out before deciding to leave. When I uttered that sentence, I heard snickers from the black girls in the audience. When the mock trial was over, some of them asked why I would be laying out in the sun to get darker. They said, “Black people don’t do that.“

That’s how deep systemic racism is in America. As blacks, every single one of us are aware that during slavery the light-skinned slaves got to stay in the slave owner’s house while the dark-skinned slaves had to be in the field. So, we inherently know that being lighter is seen as less threatening and aesthetically beautiful.

I continue working on my own Mixed Fragility and admit I’m struggling. Each time I look in the mirror, the first thing I notice aside from the chemo curly hair is my nose. It’s large. It’s not dainty like my mother’s. I’ve always compared my features to my mother who is biracial. We look nothing alike, yet white people always say we do because blacks often “all look alike” in their eyes. When I look at one my favorite pictures with my mother from when I was 10 years old, the difference is striking. I’ve always hated that I favor my father’s side who are dark-skinned and not my mother’s side.

10 year old Megan and Mother

What shades are considered light, medium, or dark? Where do I fall in the spectrum? I have a visceral reaction when someone in the black or white community calls me dark. I immediately take it to mean I am not considered attractive. How warped and heartbreaking is that? Will my exact skin color ever be seen in our society as beautiful and desired?

Just how dark am I?

Me on Wed 6/24/20

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Layered Loneliness

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 8 Comments

I think back to the start of my breast cancer experience five years ago. The struggle to just survive the toxic treatments, multiple surgeries, blood transfusions, and complications post-treatment makes me wonder why am I still here? I was initially filled with such hope once I was officially declared as no evidence of disease – I refuse to say cancer free.

I am now infertile and in medically induced menopause well before my time.

I have fibromyalgia.

I have neuropathy in my hands and feet.

I have a bulging disc and slight tear near the nerve in my back.

And I discovered in January I have two benign lesions on my spine that need to be monitored.

I get so angry when I hear the following comments:

  • “Just be grateful you’re alive.”
  • “Cancer doesn’t define you.”
  • “Be happy you’re single.”

As I listened to various cancer conferences this month, the bulk of the female presenters often begin their talks with how they fought cancer to be there for their kids. Do they ever think about how crushing that is to hear as a single cancer survivor? I don’t mean anyone who divorced during or after treatment. I’m talking about the survivors like me who were single at the start of diagnosis and still single post-cancer.

When I think about it, I honestly didn’t have much motivation to “fight” to survive my cancer treatments. The main reason I did was for my beloved mother and cat Nathan (Natey) Edgar. That’s it.

I am single.

I often feel very alone.

I’m an only child.

My life post-cancer still feels quite isolating.

I don’t have many local friends. I know a lot of people locally, and have many acquaintances, but there is only one who I talk to weekly and would hang out with once a month before the pandemic. The bulk of my friends are out of state and in other counties. Many of them are married with children, or they have a significant other. I don’t really know many single and childless people – male or female.

I always hear that I should just get out there and date. Any guy would be lucky to have me. Well, I would say that would be a true statement, but my color makes dating tough. That’s a whole other story for another day. Now that I am in menopause and in chronic pain 24/7 makes dating feel impossible. The only time my dating life was pretty active, and fun was when I lived in LA in my early to mid-20’s.

I’ve tried so many different medications, surgeries, and supplements to help ease the pain, but nothing has fully worked effectively. What people don’t understand about fibromyalgia is being touched can cause horrific pain. It makes sleep difficult. It makes exercising difficult. It makes simply existing difficult. Then add permanent neuropathy in my feet makes walking difficult.

When I did try dating a little a year post-cancer, I remember one guy asked why I was walking so stiffly. I thought I could hide how painful it can be to even step onto a sidewalk or go up steps. I didn’t bother saying it’s due to cancer. Instead, I said I was sore from working out earlier that day.

How can I even think of dating when I literally cannot hide the physical pain?

Are there any single and childless cancer survivors who are also only children? It’s like lonely, on top lonely, on top of lonely. This is the one time being the only one isn’t an advantage.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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We All Bleed Red

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 4 Comments

My right hand is currently inflamed and burning, so typing is hard at the moment. I decided to take this opportunity to record a message for you instead. So, here is a short message from me on what I’m thinking about right at this moment.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

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Mixed Fragility

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 24 Comments

I feel like I’ve been hit on the head, but instead of being knocked out, it has woken me up. I’ve been uncomfortable being vocal about the racism I see and have experienced. Yet, I must push through it and not remain silent. You might be wondering why I feel uncomfortable. Well, I’ve finally been able to put it into words for you.

According to Dictionary.com, white fragility means the tendency among members of the dominant white cultural group to have a defensive, wounded, angry, or dismissive response to evidence of racism. This term is still new to me, but it is dead on.The more vocal I become about racism, the more I see this white fragility in some of the people I know in real life and those online who I only know on the surface.

Yet, I am struggling with what I call my own mixed fragility. I made up this term because it seems to fit my situation. This mixed fragility is my own tendency to be defensive, wounded, angry, or dismissive of the black community due to my own self-hate of not wanting to be associated with all that it means to be black in this country because it would cut me off from being accepted in the white community.

Whew. It was extremely difficult to not only acknowledge this but put it into words.

I’m sure a number of white friends who actually KNOW me are wondering why I have all this anger lately, and being so vocal about being black when I’ve never uttered a word of authentic support about the black community in the past. And you know what? I feel sick about it.

Let me share MY history of growing up in Macon, GA. I come from an educated family on my mother’s side where both grandparents were college graduates. My parents were married for 9 1/2 years before they divorced. Both are college graduates with master’s degrees and my mother has two Ph.D.’s. I was raised Catholic. I was often the only black person in my classes at St. Joseph’s Catholic School until I got older, then I was one of three. My mother and I were often the only black people to attend St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. I took ballet. I was heavily involved in community theatre where again I was often the only black person in the cast.

I did not have a lot of black influence growing up outside of my family. When the black kids I would meet while at summer camps would tease me for acting “too white” and for being a “sellout,” you can bet I felt anger and resentment. I wasn’t trying to be anything other than myself during those supremely awkward years. My mixed fragility would think why are these black people making fun of me for doing what I enjoy doing, and reading Anne of Green Gables, and for being naturally dramatic? The constant “you talk white” comments that plague me to this day hurt. I was immediately judged, so I judged back. Both parties were wrong.

I would feel such hostility by certain black kids (not all) in high school and the few I encountered in college in upstate NY. Those who went to Mount de Sales Academy should know of the people I’m referencing. Back then I would often think, “aren’t we at the same private Catholic high school?”

I was the only black cheerleader at The College of Saint Rose in my sophomore year. I would hear some of the black kids jeering at me from the benches saying, “quit acting white” and “cheerleading is for white girls.” I heard those comments at every blasted basketball game for that season and refused to be on the team the next year because it was so hurtful. I can only paste a smile on my face for so long.

The constant feeling of ‘you’re not one of us’ has followed me like a dark shadow. How can I love myself when those who look like me reject me? What’s wrong with being different, quirky, and extra? Why should I have to talk and dress a certain way to be accepted when that’s not how I grew up?

So, I naturally gravitated to the white community. I’ve always heard from a lot of white friends and acquaintances over the years that they don’t see my color. I honestly thought that was a good thing because in my warped mind I thought “good, they see me as white like them.”  I would often feel so accepted until I wasn’t invited to some birthday parties or sleepovers because their parents didn’t allow blacks in their homes. A guy who had been my dance partner in multiple musicals at Macon Little Theatre wasn’t allowed to go to prom with me because his parents said, “it’s one thing to be on stage with a n***er, but quite another to be seen out in public with one.” I’ve been followed in stores like Old Navy and Pier One because I must appear threatening with a damn fascinator in my hair or a purse that matches my shoes.

As an adult, I still do not have a lot of black friends. I have met a lot of black people over the years and within the cancer community, but I only have two who I consider real friends. One is male and one is female. Why? I’m still made fun of for not knowing about certain things that are staples within the black community like trap music for instance. I had to look it up and still don’t quite get it. I didn’t grow up with it.

Once tRump conned his way into the White House, I really started to feel the effects of his bigotry instantly. He and his cronies have given a green light to come out from the shadows and be open with their hate for blacks, POC and LGBTQ. I started to feel more hostility from whites than from blacks now. You can read my original post from last summer It’s a Troubling World about the white woman with her son who was misbehaving pointing at me saying, “See this black woman? If you don’t be quiet, she will ram her cart into you.” I remember when I posted this on my social media, I had so many white friends saying I should’ve said this and that to her. They just couldn’t understand why I remained quiet. Well, let me cue in that unhinged racist Amy Cooper and how she falsely escalated and accused the black bird watcher Christian Cooper of attacking her. I hope now my white friends will understand that’s why I kept quiet last year. I knew if I had said anything, that white woman could’ve called the police and falsely say I was threatening her and her kid. Only one person would’ve ended up in handcuffs or dead…me. The other white woman behind me in line witnessed the entire thing and said nothing. Nothing.

Again, some of my white friends told me they would’ve said something, or they couldn’t understand why I was so upset. I wonder…would they really have said something? Would they really have stood up for me or even a black stranger? Would they have gotten out of their comfort zone for another? Also, how did they not see by that white woman telling her son I would cause him harm, that little boy will start to associate any black or brown person as someone who could hurt him. That’s how one becomes a racist. The seeds are planted early when you’re young and impressionable.

Though I’m still working through my mixed fragility, I am keenly aware of how I’m not protected due to the color of my skin. I’ve been reading and researching to better understand my own black ancestry. I’m raising my voice not to be misconstrued as an “angry black woman,” but to speak out against what’s right and wrong. Racism is wrong. Period.

We need white voices to speak up when these situations occur. You can’t change a racist, but you can hopefully change an outcome with action. Here are two articles for my white friends to see how they can help fight racial injustice. 

https://medium.com/equality-includes-you/what-white-people-can-do-for-racial-justice-f2d18b0e0234

https://sojo.net/articles/our-white-friends-desiring-be-allies?fbclid=IwAR2pS0j7E4NdA8Z8Hr6OFNiwqsDtHFjzFdQxRMaoravHZP4mA8WYV-rPoFU

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

Featured

Stop Questioning My Infertility

FeaturedWarrior Megsie 9 Comments

It never fails to amaze but also anger me when women question my infertility. On Mother’s Day, I posted below.

I would think no explanation would be needed with this post. I’m not questioning if I am infertile or not. I’m not asking about IVF. I’m clearly stating I AM infertile thanks to cancer. Period. Yet, I inevitably get responses of “miracles happen every day” or “I was infertile once and then gave birth” or “Just believe, and it will happen.”

The insensitivity in those comments make me burn. No one has a right to question without knowing the particulars of the situation. Then when I comment on it, I get the common response of “I was just trying to give you hope.”

The world of infertility is a delicate, sensitive, and emotional topic for men and women. I wish people would stop trying to “fix” the situation, especially when they don’t personally know the person.

I shouldn’t have to post that I had to be medically induced into menopause at 40 because I was intolerant of all post-treatment medications for pre-menopausal women.

I shouldn’t have to post that I had a septate uterus which is a deformity of the uterus, that happens during fetal development before birth. A membrane called the septum divides the inner portion of uterus, at its middle. It has been associated with an increase in the risk of miscarriage, premature delivery, and malpresentation. It’s associated with poorest reproductive outcomes.

I shouldn’t have to post that that aside from discovering I had a septate uterus, my surgical report from the hysterectomy and salpingo oophorectomy also stated I had endometriosis.

Though I know the comments weren’t intentionally made to be hurtful, they were still super insensitive and felt like a kick in the gut. I simply wanted to post for those women who truly are infertile that I know how difficult Mother’s Day can be. If you ever see a woman or a man post about infertility, please do not make those kinds of comments because you do not know the backstory.

Unless the Lord thinks I should have an Immaculate Conception, there is no hoping for a miracle. If someone is asking a question about infertility in their post, that’s the only time it’s appropriate to make those comments. When someone is like me is being vulnerable and stating their truth, don’t kick them below the belt like that. Ever.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie