When I first started this blog, I had big dreams of writing witty little posts about how I was finally going to break up with paycheck-to-paycheck living and give Sallie Mae the boot once and for all. You know—single mom tackles debt with a vengeance, shares her hard-won wisdom, and maybe gets a couple of “you’re so inspiring!” comments to keep her from impulsively applying for a Target REDcard again.
What I did not expect was for this blog to turn into a mashup of “Extreme Couponing,” “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Survivor: Suburban Mom Edition.” But here we are. We adapt. We survive. We blog.
So without further ado, here’s your latest update from the intersection of personal finance, breast cancer, and the wild world of single motherhood. Buckle up, buttercup.
💸Personal Finance: The Bills, the Butt Bugs, and the Bald Ambitions
🍼 Child Support, Schmild Support
Let’s start with child support. Or rather, the complete absence of child support.
I haven’t received a dime in eight weeks. Eight. That’s two months of groceries, gas, or stupid expensive extracurricular activities. And listen, before you assume the worst, I’ll say this: my ex-husband is actually one of the better of the male species. He’s involved in our daughter’s life, always helps out when needed, and even knows how to load a dishwasher. The Attorney General is taking the money out of his paychecks. But where is it going? Your guess is as good as mine. Somewhere in the great abyss of government processing, my money is floating around with unclaimed lottery tickets and the souls of former DMV workers.
Naturally, I did what any self-respecting woman trying to keep the lights on would do: I called the AG’s office. After an hour and a half on hold, I was greeted by a woman who barked “I DON’T DO FINANCES” with the same energy as a Real Housewife flipping a table—then hung up on me.
I took a long, reflective breath and decided I’d rather deal with the stress of missing income than the soul-rotting agony of another phone call like that. The money will show up eventually. Maybe. Possibly. It’s like playing child support roulette, but with less fun and more Ramen noodles.
🐾 Bruce’s Bloody Poop Bonanza
Meanwhile, let’s talk about Bruce. My sweet, six-pound, twelve-year-old Maltipoo who decided—without warning—to start pooping what can only be described as Satan’s salsa. At first it was just diarrhea. Then it was bloody diarrhea. Then it was just puddles of blood. By day four, I was fully convinced he was dying. I had already emotionally started writing his eulogy and mentally chosen the font for his memorial pamphlet.
Now, I do have a wonderful low-cost vet… who is also an hour away and doesn’t do emergencies. So I had to take Bruce to a local ER vet clinic where they proceeded to do $1,200 worth of tests—bloodwork, imaging, IV fluids, the whole shebang—only to tell me…
“Looks like he just had a stomach bug. Here’s $150 in antibiotics and probiotics. Good luck!”
Bruce, by the way, is now fully recovered and strutting around the house like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t try to bankrupt me with his demonic butt.
So please join me in a moment of silence as we say goodbye to my pet sinking fund, which died a noble death protecting Bruce’s GI tract. But hey—that’s what it was there for. I was devastated, terrified, and crying in the ER parking lot. But I had the money set aside. So… gold star for financially responsible emotional breakdowns?
💇♀️ Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow (and Still $6K Short)
Also in the “money I will not be spending” category: Chemo Girl Hair Extensions.
Yes, they’re a thing. Extensions for post-chemo hair that work with just an inch or two of growth. I was so excited to get my glamour back—until I found out:
- There are no salons in Texas that do them.
- If I want them done, I have to fly in a specialist.
- The procedure takes TWO DAYS.
- And it costs between $5,000 and $6,000.
I could literally buy a car with that money.
And by the time I grow a bob—which is the minimum length Texas salons require for traditional extensions—I probably won’t even want them anymore. I’m fully committed to my Buzz Lightyear aesthetic. So for now, it’s wigs and hats and embracing the cue ball life.
🧾 $45,000 for a Little Cancer? What a Steal!
And then there’s the medical bill drama.
In my last post, I shared how my chemo treatments were incorrectly billed as out-of-network, and I was suddenly staring down the barrel of $45,000 in medical debt that should not exist. Since then, I’ve been:
- Transferred to six departments,
- Given a personal advocate and a case manager,
- And told “we’re working on it” more times than a contractor building a deck that never gets finished.
I’m still getting billed by my cancer center weekly, and that grand total is creeping up toward that $45K. Meanwhile, my insurance company is also trying to deny coverage for my Phesgo injections—a crucial HER2 maintenance therapy—because they apparently want me to find a different doctor and facility that will inject it somewhere else.
IN WHAT WORLD does it make sense to switch facilities MIDWAY through cancer treatment? I chose my cancer center because it’s IN-NETWORK. It’s like buying a plane ticket and then being told you need to switch to a boat halfway across the Atlantic.
My doctor is also in the ring with me, fighting to get this covered the way it should’ve been from the start. It’s a whole pile of bureaucratic doody hogwash. But I’m standing my ground. Because if there’s one thing cancer taught me, it’s how to fight.
🩺 Cancer Update: New Boobs, Same Port Drama
In medical news, I got my port removed! 🎉 That was supposed to be the end of all my port-related issues. But guess what?
THE PORT SITE GOT INFECTED AGAIN.
This port has been the bane of my existence. Like a bad ex, it just keeps popping back up in my life—red, inflamed, and requiring immediate medical attention.
So during my partial mastectomy and reconstruction (which I had a little over a week ago), my surgical oncologist took one look at the site and said, “Nope.” She sliced open a new incision with fresh skin, cleaned everything out, and tried a totally new closure. I was asleep for the whole thing, so… surprise!
The surgery itself went surprisingly well. I expected to be in agony, but the pain has actually been tolerable. I’ve been managing with Tylenol, Ibuprofen, and a very specific pillow arrangement that resembles a bird’s nest built by an anxious stork.
BUT.
The itching.
The itching.
No one warned me about the level of insanity that comes from post-surgical boob itching. It’s like the recovery version of Chinese water torture. But hey—itching means healing, right?
The good news? Insurance actually did something RIGHT and approved my reduction and lift along with the partial mastectomy. So yes, I am now the proud owner of new and improved boobs. As far as silver linings go, this one is… perky.
New boobs, who dis?
💁🏽♀️Personal Life: The Tiny Diva and the Tiny Toilet
🚽 Potty Training: A Psychological Thriller
Ah, yes. Potty training.
I was all in. I read Oh Crap! Potty Training by Jamie Glowacki—a cult classic in the toddler mom world. Her method is very simple: strip your toddler down to their birthday suit, let them run around the house like a feral animal, and follow them around with a potty. The idea is they’ll learn to connect the urge with the result. Revolutionary, right?
Wrong. So wrong.
My son had no clue when he needed to pee or poop. Zero awareness. Like trying to train a squirrel with ADHD. He was terrified of the big potty, allergic to the little potty, and had the bladder control of a caffeinated Chihuahua.
By day three, despite the author’s very passionate stance against rewards, I had Hershey Kisses, lollipops, a sticker chart, and the desperation of a woman losing her hair (literally). Did it help?
Not even a little bit.
Then my surgery was coming up and I was like, “You know what? No. Absolutely not. I cannot be bandaged, stitched, sore, and on lifting restrictions while also chasing a naked two-year-old around with a potty chair trying to catch pee.” So we pressed pause.
Preschool starts soon, and I’m putting my faith in those wonderful, trained, hopefully potty-whispering teachers to help the process along because I am tapped out.
🎤 Ava: Coming to a Stage (and Probably a Talk Show) Near You
Now on a MUCH brighter note… my ten-year-old daughter is out here launching her fine arts career like she’s got a Tony Award to win before puberty.
First, she sang in a church talent show at our new church—and I’m not talking about some shy little whisper into the mic. No ma’am. She belted. She served vocals. She gave stage presence. She had church folks clapping on the beat (the actual beat—miraculous). I was in the back trying to record through my tears, mouthing the lyrics like a proud stage mom.
Next thing I know, one of the worship leaders pulls me aside and says,
“She’s amazing! Can she help lead kids’ worship during VBS?”
I tried to play it cool like, “Oh yeah, she does this all the time,” but inside I was like,
“MY BABY’S A PRAISE LEADER! SOMEONE FETCH HER A HEADSET MIC!”
And she absolutely crushed it. Led a room full of kids in worship like a tiny pop star for Jesus. She was up there doing the hand motions and everything—meanwhile, I can’t even get her to put her laundry in the hamper without an exorcism.
But wait—it gets better.
This child has now decided she’s going to audition for America’s Got Talent.
Not “the school talent show,” not “a local kids’ event.” No, AGT. The real one. With Simon Cowell. And an entire stage that could swallow her whole.
She’s planning her audition song, perfecting her vocals, choreographing her movements, and casually brainstorming what she’s going to say to Terry Crews when they become besties. She’s not nervous. She’s not overthinking. She’s just confidently walking in her calling while I’m in the corner stress-eating string cheese and trying to remember if I paid the electric bill.
Honestly? I’m in awe.
It’s wild to watch this strong, kind, quirky, old-soul of a child step into the spotlight like she was born there. And if I’m lucky, she’ll let me carry her bags on tour someday. Or at least drive the minivan to her first press interview.
So there you have it. The good, the bad, the itchy, and the straight-up absurd. I’m juggling financial curveballs, healing from major surgery, arguing with insurance, laughing through dog poop trauma, and cheering on my tiny diva as she chases her dreams.
Some days I feel like a warrior. Other days I feel like a gremlin with a bald head and a half-empty coffee cup.
But every day—I keep going.
If you’re going through something hard right now—financially, medically, emotionally, spiritually, or just because your toddler screamed at you for peeling their banana “too fast”—you’re not alone.
We’re all just out here winging it. With humor, hustle, and just enough grace to get through the next diaper, doctor’s appointment, or insurance denial letter.
‘Til next time,
Your still-broke, still-healing, still-proud mama with a kid on stage and a dog with a functional butt