Written by Katie Joy Duke; Published by Wildfire Magazine; New Normal Issue; Dec 2023/Jan 2024

The only magazine for and by people “too young” for breast cancer. I’m officially a published poet!

Written by Katie Joy Duke; Published by ReThink Breast Cancer on December 5. 2023.

On May 31, 2023, I had my final round of Herceptin and Perjeta infusions, an immunotherapy I received to help destroy the ER+, HER2+ metastatic breast cancer I was diagnosed with in March 2022.

Hi Katie Joy, do you have some perspective or insight you can share with us on the question of when someone should give up versus when they should keep going?

I can assume this question relates to business and the challenges one faces as an entrepreneur, but I am compelled to answer whether to keep going or to give up as a person who has faced significant personal challenges and why giving up is never an option.

I was reading bedtime stories to my 5 year old daughter when I first felt the lump.

It was tender, located just behind my left nipple, and immediately I sensed something was wrong. That night before taking a shower I recorded my thoughts “I think I have cancer.”

My firstborn daughter, Poppy, never took her first breath. She was stillborn at full-term. Many of the parents reading this blog will unfortunately relate. It’s tragic when a baby dies, and I’d like to share a sentiment that anchors me to my purpose as a bereaved mom: While she lived within me, I breathed for Poppy—my lungs were hers too. I also survived her death, and I am still breathing—for the both of us.

A Tall Order

I’m sitting in my backyard on a warm summer afternoon with my laptop and a glass of iced water. Wilson, my 6-year-old doggie, is resting in the shade of our Japanese Maple, and the wind chimes that remind me of my beloved father are gently singing in the breeze.

Where does a mother start when it’s 4:00am and she finds herself awake, alone, and realizing it’s been 5 years since her first child was born?

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted to my blog, and that’s ok, I’ve been working on other things — my memoir, an online handbook for grief, my coaching and direct sales business, mothering my 2 year old, navigating the pandemic.

I am sitting alone in a quiet café, the sun unexpectedly shining on my face. It’s an unfamiliar but welcome feeling. It’s been a dark grey and very wet winter here in the Pacific Northwest. This one hit me harder than any other.

Today would be Poppy’s 4th birthday. October 26, 2015 was the gloomiest day of my life. The Universe opened a portal for my daughter’s spirit that day. She was born. She was dead. Back into the pool of the Unknown.

It was just before my father’s death in February that I last wrote on my blog. Four months have passed and life keeps blazing on. With him and without him. He is here. Aren’t you, Daddy?

Tonight I bought a flight home to see my dad for the last time. He’s dying. His spirit is strong but his body is giving in. My father was first diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2003 just a few weeks before I was set to graduate from college.

Happy Birthday Poppy Annabelle.

It had been a while since I’d cried myself to sleep, but last night I nearly did. As I crawled into bed I couldn’t help but remember that 3 years ago I went into labor with our baby Poppy.

I was in a rollover car accident this afternoon. I was driving home from therapy on Boren Avenue when a car blew through a red light at the James Street intersection and hit the passenger side of my CRV.

I am finally the mother I always knew I would be.

It’s a gorgeous Memorial Day here in Seattle. I’m out with Moxie enjoying the sun and live music at The Folklife Festival. She’s asleep in the stroller, unfettered by the music.