It's Time

I’ve needed to write this for a while. I’ve known since Christmas. Rewriting drafts of this blog has shown me just how conflicted I’ve been about it. Writing this makes it real. It’s the way I hold myself accountable. Once it’s in writing, I’m held to it.

My house is on the market. Pending the sale of it, I will be returning to Arizona.

Even typing it feels heavy.

There’s a mixed market here, so I’m truly praying the sale goes smoothly. Seeing the sign out front feels like watching a body decay in front of me. It’s grief. Another end of a season. A season I wasn’t ready to end.

I carry a soul-shaping gratitude for being able to enjoy living in Tennessee. There will be a proper ode crafted later. But for now, I’ll just say: I have been exactly where I’ve needed to be. The Tennessee humidity played a role in my healing.

I got the privilege of bonding with my kids in a way I wouldn’t have had I stayed in Arizona. Taking the leap and leading my family here has grown us as a unit. My kids are my favorite people on this earth. I got to bear witness to the first year of my daughter becoming a mother to twins.

Convictions were strong about ever returning to Arizona. I felt if I went back, something had gone horribly wrong. These past three years have adjusted that perspective.

I now come back, healed.

Things did go horribly wrong. I needed to be where I was to experience it. I’ve needed the home I bought to be where I fought for my life and won.

As I’m preparing to leave this home, I’m deeply aware of the changes my body is going through.

I am one of the lucky ones, according to labs and recovery. My long-term outlook is very optimistic. On paper, I’m in great shape. But there is a laundry list of things medicine can’t remedy.

After a bilateral mastectomy, breast reconstruction, chemotherapy, hormone therapy, and a recent bout with double pneumonia, I’m seeing now the real scars of breast cancer.

My vision has taken a huge hit. Seeing at night has become a major challenge. Thanks to age and chemo, I have early signs of cataracts. The very thing that might lessen these symptoms is the very thing that might bring the cancer back.

Neuropathy crept in when I thought I’d escaped it. I drop things because my fingers stop working. They cramp easily. Even opening a milk jug can be impossible. Playing the piano isn’t as easy anymore, but I still play. Noticing this change nicks an artery.

Insomnia is fun! No, not tired. Fatigued. Not depressed either. It’s bone-dry lethargy. I don’t sleep for more than maybe three hours at a time. Most days, I feel like I’m either just waking up or getting ready for bed. There are spurts of energy that I capitalize on. I’ve found that increasing my D3, K2, and B12 helps a lot. But it’s a battle.

I take daily medications, each with their own side effects. On top of healing from chemo (which is wild, because it’s almost been a year). It’s a process to get used to it all, and I keep my fingers crossed for more good days than bad. One med to keep the cancer away. One to keep my sanity in place. One to manage the inferno underwhelmingly referred to as "hot flashes."

My brain took a hit. My memory isn’t as sharp. I fumble words. Another nick to an artery. It’s not debilitating, but I feel the deficit. Some days, I stare off without realizing it. Like I’m still in active treatment. I’m learning how to compensate. But I worry about what’s permanent.

Through absolutely no one’s misstep or failure, I haven’t been able to plant strong enough roots in Tennessee to sustain the next few years of reclaiming my life.

The bonds with my people in Arizona have strengthened despite distance. Being closer to that familiarity feels like the sanctuary I need.

What once was a reason to leave Arizona has become exactly what I need: consistency and predictability.

I’ve never seen Arizona from this reformed perspective.