May 8, 2003, will always be the day my existence split into ‘before’ and ‘after.’ My knees buckled when I heard: “You have cancer.” Flashes of my life moved beyond anything I wanted to comprehend. I had limited time. All the plans vanished with a silent pop. The humming in my ears grew deafening.

When I found the pea-sized lump in my breast, I prepared for the worst. But the doctor assured me everything was fine. “Just a fluid-filled cyst. Common in young women your age.” Nonchalantly, I was dismissed.

It was just what I wanted to hear. My instinct subsided. I returned to my daily grind: work, commute, school.

Time passed, and the little foreigner grew. It went from a tiny sphere to quarter-size in ten months, and in fifteen, it felt like a large lime. The skin on my right bosom itched in the mornings when I’d get in the shower.

I placed a phone call for another doctor’s visit to address the issue. My primary care doc was on vacation, so they scheduled me with someone else. This guy examined the area, asked me a few family-related questions, and said, “I think this could be a concern.”

Stunned, I explained the prior diagnosis. “Urgent” was how he put it. Was my life and future about to change? He organized simultaneous mammogram and ultrasound appointments.

As I lay in a dark room on a hard, cold table, the paper crinkled under me. I sat up on my elbow to get a better view. The monster invading my body appeared on the monitor. A black octopus reached out from the gray screen, tentacles and all! An alien had taken over my breasts. Truly, the most terrifying sight I’d witnessed.

Weeks later, chaos surrounded me. Between more appointments, scans, needles, blood work, and biopsies, my days were anything but routine. They inserted dyes and radioactive such-and-such into my veins. I glowed in the dark, or so I joked with my friends.

I underwent surgery to remove a body part and another to insert a port. On a cycle of thirty-five days, for six treatments, a poison dripped into the tiny hole in my chest from bags that hung at my side.

All my hair disappeared. I’d find it on my pillow every morning or in the shower drain. First, my head, and then it worked its way down until I was hairless.

After each appointment, my glands swelled like I had swallowed tennis balls. The body aches felt as if someone had beat me with a bat. Joint rashes, red and splotchy, covered every area of my arms and legs. White pustules formed on my tongue, making it sore and difficult to eat. Waking up at 3 am every night interfered with my much-needed beauty sleep. And the pills I had to pop to stave off chemo-driven nausea were a must, but the acid reflux burned like chili peppers.

I won’t mention the fifty pounds of weight gained from steroids. With my bald head, I made the perfect ‘Uncle Fester’ for Halloween.

I felt like cancer took away not only my femininity but my prettiness. The reflection that stared back at me from the mirror wasn’t anyone I recognized.

My oncologist told me I was her healthiest cancer patient. I’m not sure how I accomplished that, but I was killing it, literally.

My friends put together a team to participate in the Susan G. Komen Walk for the Cure in November of that year. The “I Love Lucy” girls met up weekly to practice. Not only did we have to build up to twenty miles per day for a total of sixty, but we had to raise twenty-five hundred dollars just to participate.

By the time the walk weekend came up, I had concluded chemotherapy, though routine radiation continued. Since I had been active before my health issue, training did not bother me. However, trekking the long distance daily did a number on my feet, and my ladies carried me over the finish line. That put the kibosh on my strolling days for ages afterward.

Doctors predicted my cancer would recur within 24 months. But I didn’t let that stop me. My oncologist enrolled me in a clinical trial, and we both believe one of those new drugs saved my life. And, 23 years later, it became the standard of care for women with invasive lobular carcinoma. Guess you could say I helped with that.

I’ve tried not to waste a single day since. Over the last two decades: I paddled on a dragon boat team for cancer survivors; took part in medical research on my specific disease; and spoke about my journey to high school girls who encouraged me to write a book. If I had known the early signs of malignant tumors, or if I’d had knowledge of my rights as a patient, my diagnosis might not have been so severe. It became my responsibility to inform the masses. Let them learn from my mistakes.

I returned to college. It felt like the right move to pursue my lifelong dream of obtaining a degree. Plus, it would give my writing added credibility.

When I received word that I was to be a grandmother, my emotions overwhelmed me. I thought I’d never live to see a grandbaby.  Now, with two granddaughters, it’s important for them to understand my health history. But we don’t dwell on it. The things we share are our love of books, crafting, dancing, and playing a musical instrument. My hope is they never share a similar story of breast cancer.

Since I had been single for ages, when my mother introduced me to my husband, I had to be sure he was okay that I’d had a life-threatening disease. His first wife died of brain cancer, so for him to risk going through that again had to be his decision. Plus, considering I had foobs rather than boobs, I had to prepare him for my ‘Barbie’ look. Lucky for me, he’s been a champ.

Educating women about breast cancer is still a focus for me. One in eight women will receive a breast cancer diagnosis during their lifetime. This illness claims the lives of many women, ranking second among female fatalities. Survivors now exceed previous counts because of modern research and new medications.

Those words spoken 23 years ago knocked me for a loop, but they have enriched my journey tenfold. Although I wouldn’t wish my experience on anyone, I cherish the moments the universe has given me.

While some identify as survivors, I prefer to consider myself a thriver. I fought cancer with everything I had and won!

Editor: Shannon Hensley