Adrenal Courage

To add a little more “excitement” to my life, I developed pneumonia over the past few weeks. It started as a mild tickle in my throat — the kind you barely notice — that I caught from my oldest. At first, I wasn’t too concerned. A simple cough felt manageable compared to everything else I’ve been navigating. But after a week of barely sleeping because the coughing fits wouldn’t let up, things started to spiral. I became achy, drained, and foggy. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into your bones.

The hard part is that it’s incredibly difficult for me to tell when I’m truly sick versus when I’m experiencing medication side effects. Fatigue and body aches are completely normal for me after Keytruda infusions, and cabozantinib brings its own layer of exhaustion and soreness. Feeling run down has become such a baseline that I’ve almost stopped questioning it. Because of that, I likely waited longer than I should have to get checked out. I kept telling myself it was “just treatment” and that I needed to push through.

Eventually, I gave in and went to urgent care. A chest X-ray confirmed pneumonia. Hearing it out loud was oddly validating — proof that I wasn’t being dramatic and that something real was going on. I was started on antibiotics and given an injection (a not-so-glamorous shot in the backside). Six days later, I’m feeling significantly better. The deep aches and crushing fatigue have lifted, and while I still have a lingering cough and some crackling in my lungs, I can tell I’m on the mend.

Even so, the whole episode left me in a sour mood. I feel like I’ve been sick more often than not since Christmas — one thing after another. It’s exhausting to constantly be managing something. It’s another reminder that despite doing everything “right,” despite all the supplements, appointments, infusions, and supportive therapies, my body just isn’t as resilient as it used to be. That’s a hard truth to sit with.

On top of that, I’m carrying the emotional weight of radiation and all the unknowns surrounding my treatment plan. The waiting. The timing. The what-ifs. We have a trip to Mexico booked that I’ve been so looking forward to — a little slice of normalcy, sunshine, and escape. I’m worried we may have to cancel depending on how treatment unfolds. The thought of losing that feels heavier than it probably should, but it represents something bigger: freedom, joy, a break from being a patient.

It’s also hard not to compare myself to others with cancer who see dramatic improvements or even remission within weeks of starting treatment. I know every cancer and every body is different. I know comparison isn’t helpful. But when you’re more than a year into this and haven’t had a single clear “win,” it’s difficult not to feel discouraged. I keep waiting for that moment of good news — that turning point. And in the meantime, I’m learning how heavy hope can feel when it stretches on for a long time.