I picked up my virtual pen and paper when I hit the 30 day surgery countdown. But I could not get my words to make sense. Two weeks ago, I had all my post-mastectomy supplies happily sitting in my Amazon cart. It was like my brain and my heart were in conflict. Logically, I knew March 4th is happening. But I just was not ready to bring that countdown to life.

Now I am two weeks away, and it seems my pre-operative blood work was the catalyst for the emotional dam to break. In fact, I should probably send the very sweet lab tech some flowers. She held my hand while all the tears broke free.

Today got really real.

Today the clock started ticking.

Today my Amazon cart is no longer theoretical.

My amazing husband knows I am needle-phobic. He knows blood draws are a major stressor for me. And he offered to come with me. In my own stubborn way, I declined. Some parts of this journey I need to do solo. And apparently, my personal phobias are one of the things I guard most tightly.

Driving to the lab, I practiced my box breathing. I blared my angry playlist. Pulling into the parking lot, I talked out loud to my Momma. I told her I was scared. Then I laughed at how ridiculous my needle phobia is given that I am willingly signing up for fairly major surgery in two weeks.

Perspective is a funny thing.

I also continued hydrating because my veins are tricky and hydration is key. This is the level of control I cling to.

I walked into a waiting room full of people and sighed, knowing this would not be as quick as I had hoped. I sat and waited as calmly as I could until I was finally called back.

I try very hard not to be a difficult patient. I even drank gallons of water over the last two days to keep my veins plump. But I always tell the tech, “I am one of those. And I need to lay down.” Most smile and walk me back to a bed.

To be honest, I do not even know what the equipment looks like for a blood draw. I have never looked. But I do know I prefer to keep my blood inside my body. So this process feels like a betrayal of my preferences.

My mom used to draw straws over who would take me to doctor appointments. And if I needed blood work, I am fairly certain she had to take off work to deal with my nonsense. I used to pass out more frequently. It is terrifying for me. I have a vasovagal response and low blood pressure. That combination makes me prone to fainting.

In my advanced age, it has been a minute since I have actually passed out from needles. But the fear still lives there. I own it. I try to battle it. But it is a precarious relationship. The breathing, the angry music, taking my shoes off, talking in a stream of consciousness, all of it helps.

It is still embarrassing.

Back to that sweet lab tech.

While squeezing a stress ball to get my vein ready, boom. All the tears. I had zero control over them. Telling her why I was there made what is happening very tangible.

She was truly a care provider today. I was not just a number in her lab. I was a Momma who lost her Momma and is taking charge. But it is still scary. She took a few extra moments to connect with me as a human.

Those moments will stick with me. No pun intended.

I walked out of the lab with tears still flowing down my cheeks. I sat in my car and sobbed. It was the dam breaking. And strangely, I felt better.

I think I just needed to embrace the realness of what is happening. I needed to give myself grace and feel all the emotions I am usually very good at compartmentalizing.

In two weeks, my life begins a new chapter. So I think what I am feeling is normal (now I recognize the blood draw process itself is not normal for anyone). But the fear, the release, the weight of it all. That feels human.

So here we are.

Two weeks out.

The labs are done. The tears have been cried for now. The stress ball survived. And the woman who still needs to lay down for a blood draw is somehow the same woman choosing major surgery.

Go figure.

Momma, if you were here, I know you would roll your eyes and laugh at my needle drama. But I also know you would sit beside me in that lab bed and hold my hand. So for now, I will keep talking to you in parking lots.

I guess courage does not always look like bold declarations and strong speeches.

Sometimes it looks like crying in a lab…and then a car.

Sometimes it looks like squeezing a stress ball and trying not to pass out.

Sometimes it looks like finally hitting “Place Order” on an Amazon cart you have been avoiding for weeks.

And sometimes, it just looks like showing up because you have no choice.

Two weeks from now, my life will shift again.

Today was just lab work. But it was also emotional lab work. It was the reminder that I am human.

And also this.

I can do hard things.

I am big and brave and strong (ask my boys – this is kinda our family mantra when they also had to combat something scary – somedays I take my own advice).

Strength does not mean I do not tremble. It just means I keep going.

And if keeping going includes tracking Amazon packages and rating surgical pillows, so be it.