Faux ‘pause

Weeks 19 & 20 A.D.

I started the kids’ spring break off with a bang. I was feeling like a high roller, taking Zander to a couple Easter egg hunts that had him swimming in eggs, candy and smiles. By Sunday, I got to watch Emma play softball. The girls were playing so well earlier in the weekend that I anticipated a long day at the ballpark.

I had early morning duty to get her to her games and I packed some breakfast to eat when my body was fully awake—egg white bites and chia seed pudding with fruit. I dropped Emma at the gate so she could start her warm up. After a little cat nap in the driver seat, I ate my breakfast. I may have slightly overestimated my hunger, but I managed to shovel every bite of chia seeds in.

Game one was over with a win and Zach and Jillian, who had arrived at the start of the game, were running to Costco between games.

“Need any food while we’re out?”

“Nah, I’m still really full”

Emma and I walked to my car to sit and relax between games. It had been a chilly morning but the morning sun made the car warm up perfectly for us. As we sat, my stomach grumbled. It slowly turned into pains. Emma eventually had to run back into the fields to warm up for game two. I stayed in the warm car, hoping the sun—which was now warming up my face—would somehow make my stomach stop hurting.

After about an hour, I saw Zach and Jillian pull into the parking lot at the fields. I grabbed my chair and begrudgingly walked over to them.

“My stomach feels funky.”

“Need the bathroom?”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

We ended up sitting in the bleachers, where I proceeded to get more uncomfortable. In addition to the more persistent stomach pains, I realized my lower back was hurting, aching.

Shit. I’m sick.

I slowly started to panic. Ok, the bathroom is right behind me in case it’s a poop-attack. But if I get that watery mouth sensation, I need to run for puke cover. There was a 50/50 chance on which one of these events to happen and 100% certainty that one would.

I eventually gave into my odds and threw in the towel.

“Zach, I think I need Jillian to drive me home. This isn’t good.”

I left in the second inning. Jillian happily drove the interstates for more practice as I leaned into the side arm rest with my eyes closed, willing myself not to puke. At least not in the car and not to have to make my sixteen year old pullover on I-435.

We almost made it home too. Almost.

Three miles from home, stopped on red at the stoplights facing my local Casey’s—I got the watery mouth feeling.

“Kid, I’m gonna need you to pull over at the gas station. I’m about to be sick.”

“Uhhhhhh…like when the light turns green?”

“Like as soon as it turns green. Just pull up behind the Casey’s. I’m not gonna make it”

I barely made it. Let’s just say, chia seeds stuck in the nasal passage from projectiling is not something I recommend.

Definitely sick. Probably norovirus—hello you old devil.

I prayed this is not what spring break would become for everyone. It already was going to suck because we had made zero plans to travel or do anything fun because…well, cancer crashed our available time off and ability to plan anything.

Luckily, we managed to make it through spring break with only me as the casualty. Kind of the 2026 trend.

As Easter approached, I wanted to continue my course of getting back to the things I love to do. It had been since Christmas that I baked. I fed my sourdough starter and went nuts. I baked two batches of rolls and made a Robin’s Egg cake. I certainly felt accomplished, but good Lord did my body hurt. Baking is a sport, convince me otherwise.

The next week was busy. Z had his school music program and zoo field trip that I popped in for. It was the first time I had shared about my cancer with some of the moms I frequently run into for class events. It came about with the “how have you been” small talk. And me being me, I will answer that honestly.

“Well, I have…had?…breast cancer”

In that moment, I realized, I don’t know what my status is. I’m on hormone blocking treatment, but is the fact that I’m still on a medical treatment mean it’s a current diagnosis or is the fact that I’m past the mastectomy phase mean I don’t have it anymore? My diagnosis and treatment was, comparatively, not as intense as others’. But I’ve also not rung a bell. And isn’t the bell the official all clear of cancer? Shit, I don’t know. I guess it’s something to ask my doctors.

I don’t want to present my situation incorrectly, but also, it’s not like Emily Post wrote a book on “Proper Cancer Terminology for Patients”.

But the real highlight to this week was missing my period.

Now, in most cases, a woman of my age would be scared shitless. I’ll admit, I would have been under normal circumstances, but I’m no longer living under normal circumstances because…cancer.

No—I know what this missed period means. The ‘pause. Tamoxifen menopause has begun. To be sure, and because at this age one would rather be overly sure, I took a pregnancy test. Plus, there was a puke incident—even though I’m sure it was virus-related.

Amazon delivered on point. Overnight with a $25 purchase, which included random supplies for dinner the next day.

The kids seemed offended by the 2-pack of pregnancy tests that sat on the counter.

“You don’t really think you’re pregnant, do you?” one of them said in disgust.

“No. But I also need to be sure. I’m sure you appreciate that I wasn’t on harmful medication while you were in the womb.”

See, the drug I’m on, Tamoxifen, is not in any way safe for babies/pregnant mothers. And while I’m not at all expecting a positive test…I also have one child who surprised us on a pregnancy test. So…you never know. And my luck is, well, testy.

As I sat in the bathroom and took the pregnancy test, a hint of sadness entered my mind. I know I’m done having kids, but these circumstances really finalize that for me. It’s part bummer and also totally fine because I actually can’t fathom starting all over again in motherhood. My 43 years of age would do me in. I realize I would be at the geriatric pregnancy age and it’s called geriatric for a reason.

I looked down at the test. And smiled. Negative my friends. No babies. Just chemically-induced menopause. Not quite the real thing, but close enough. Your girl is officially in her faux ‘pause era.