Beyond Fear: Finding Strength in My Breast Cancer Journey

"So, you have a little cancer."?

In December 2015, my doctor uttered six words that indefinitely tilted my world on its axis.

In truth, the signs had been there for months. They began during my annual physical that March when my primary care physician detected a mass. At the time, I tried not to overthink it. The lump was painless and sat just above my breast, not where I'd imagined breast masses would be. It didn't hurt, I reasoned with myself, so it's not cancerous. Besides, I was only 41, had never known anyone with breast cancer, and had a six-year-old to care for. Cancer didn’t seem possible.

I know many women’s stories echo mine: you think you know until you don't. You think you're aware until you're not. You believe breast cancer is something that happens to other people until it happens to you.?

To be cautious, my doctor suggested a mammogram and then a sonogram. When neither test raised red flags, she concluded, “Fibrous breasts.” I breathed a sigh of relief, but as the months passed, the lump in my breast remained.?

Several months later, during my annual check-up, my gynecologist recommended that I see a breast oncologist surgeon, which led to more tests but still no clear answers. A needle biopsy revealed abnormal cells without a definitive diagnosis. Again, the doctor reassured me that the lump was likely benign. Again, I underwent more tests.

My surgeon, still unable to diagnose the mass, ordered a lumpectomy that was scheduled for a few days before Christmas. At my bedside, after the procedure, she described the removed mass as smooth, which I took as a likely sign that it was benign based on what little I knew about breast cancer. With cautious optimism, I went ahead with my plans to host family and friends for a holiday party. The apartment was filled with holiday cheer, but the silence from my doctor's office grew unbearable–I wanted closure.?

After the holidays, sitting in the living room with my guests, I called the hospital and casually asked for an update, still confident of a positive outcome. Two holds later, a knot of apprehension twisted in my gut, and I excused myself to the quiet of my bedroom.

When the doctor finally came to the phone, her voice sounded relaxed. "So, you have a little cancer," she said. A little cancer? The phrase echoed in my mind, a jarring contradiction. Cancer is daunting. Cancer is big. Cancer kills. If she was trying to calm my nerves, it didn't work.

Still numb, I stumbled through the agonizing task of calling my husband, who was on his way home, and other family members to share the news. Then, remembering my guests in the living room, I forced a smile and returned to my hosting duties. I spent the evening going through the motions —making small talk, refilling drinks—each moment dragging on impossibly slowly. It was only after my guests departed that the full reality of the diagnosis enveloped me, a crushing weight that silenced every remaining echo of distraction.

From that moment on, I was thrust into the world of breast cancer, grappling with a new language of types and subtypes. I was diagnosed with early stage-one—HR+ HER2+—a "lucky" diagnosis because of its slower growth. But the specter of its return loomed large in my anxious mind.

So, I opted for the most aggressive path: a double mastectomy with reconstructive surgery.? This meant that I would avoid chemotherapy and radiation while reducing the chances of the cancer returning. The thought of losing my breasts didn't diminish my sense of womanhood; it was a small sacrifice for the promise of peace of mind. The choice between implants and the more natural-feeling DIEP flap was less about sensation and more about finality. I wanted this chapter in my life closed and the offending tissue gone.

Within a month of my diagnosis, I found myself prepping for surgery. I was blessed to have my husband, a dear friend, and my family by my side as the grueling 10-hour procedure stretched on due to unexpected complications. When I awoke in excruciating pain, it wasn't at the incision sites but rather in my upper back. The nurse my friend alerted responded dismissively. She suggested that I wait it out, only coming back to scold me when she discovered me desperately trying to find relief by lying on a hard clipboard my friend had found. Overwhelmed by pain, frustration, and—quite frankly—disregard, I burst into tears. I'd just endured hours of surgery, only to be met with indifference. I felt utterly helpless.

My relentless tears eventually compelled the nurse to call the doctor, and soon, X-rays revealed the terrifying truth: internal bleeding. A team rushed me to the operating room (OR) for the second time that day. I lost a tremendous amount of blood. It was a cruel irony —early stage-one cancer had spared me from chemo and radiation, yet here I was, on the brink of death due to a preventable complication. Worse, the blood supply to my left breast was failing, necessitating yet another surgery. I was devastated. My desperate prayers and pleas for my body to cooperate were all in vain. I was wheeled back into the OR for the third time to remove my left breast, and what was supposed to be a four-day hospital stay stretched into eight.?

My return home was bittersweet, with only one reconstructed breast and the promise of another surgery a few months into the future. The prosthetic I wore from April to October constantly reminded me of what was missing, casting a heavy shadow of self-consciousness that followed me everywhere. The extended hospital stay had left me weak and deconditioned, with diminished lung capacity. Simple tasks, like breathing exercises and short walks, became daunting challenges despite a lifetime of physical fitness. My body bore the undeniable physical toll of the ordeal, leaving me to spend most of my days sleeping, too weak to do much else.

Still, some moments reminded me why I persevered, such as when I finally left the hospital and witnessed my son’s ecstatic reaction as we reunited—a balm to my weary soul. The love and support of my family and friends were instrumental in my healing. Slowly but surely, I regained my strength and stamina, rebuilding my life one step at a time.?

The physical challenges were overwhelming, but the emotional toll was even more profound. For seven long years, I was consumed by anxiety - first the fear of recurrence, then a more generalized sense of unease. Therapy, once a source of solace, was a challenge. Finally, I realized that therapy alone wasn't enough. My constant battle against anxious spirals was exhausting. Encouraged by a close friend, I sought additional help and found relief through medication. At last, I regained control over my own mind.

Eight years on, I stand here not only as a cancer survivor but also as a survivor of the fear and anxiety that often accompany such a diagnosis.

Today, I’m opening up about my breast cancer journey to inspire people to dig deeper into the topic.? Breast Cancer Awareness Month lights the world pink. Even so, I was unprepared for the realities of this disease. Living through it taught me the power of advocating for my health. Awareness wasn't enough; action was essential to navigating the complexities of breast cancer. I unearthed a personal strength and resilience I never knew I possessed and was reminded of how blessed I am to have strong relationships with family and friends. I have learned to live with gratitude at the center of my life.?

I learned the hard way the importance of having healthcare providers who are attentive and willing to listen. My battle with breast cancer led me to change my primary care physician and deepened my relationship with my gynecologist, whose insistence on follow-up saved my life. More importantly, I discovered the value of being informed and proactive in my healthcare decisions, arming myself with knowledge before appointments. We must educate ourselves, ask questions, and demand answers from our doctors.

My experience is also a reminder of the vulnerability and unpredictability that accompanies any medical journey, particularly for Black women, who also face higher mortality rates after surgeries in general. I've learned, frighteningly, that complications during what should have been routine procedures are unfortunately not uncommon for Black women and other underrepresented groups. This painful reality underscores a broader issue: systemic bias in the medical field continues to disproportionately impact traditionally underrepresented individuals, including women of color, women in general, people with disabilities, and LGBTQ individuals, often resulting in the dismissal of symptoms, delayed diagnoses, inadequate treatment, and poorer outcomes. For people of color, bias often takes the form of incorrect assumptions that we can tolerate more pain than others or underlying health conditions, leading to undertreatment and misdiagnosis.?

This journey has been a profound teacher, revealing the strength within myself and the unwavering support of loved ones. It's also exposed the urgent need for change in how we approach healthcare, especially for those facing systemic bias. By sharing my story, I hope to empower others to become their own advocates, demand better care, and challenge the inequities that persist in medicine. Together, we can create a healthcare system that truly serves everyone.