Everyone has a story to tell. What follows is mine. It contains the ups and downs from my diagnosis until today. Some of it good; some of it bad. If one person is helped with this story, then it is well worth being told.


In May of 1993 at 30 years of age I found a lump in my right breast. I have always had "lumpy breasts" however this one felt different. It was on the outer lower quadrant of my right breast. I immediately called to get an appointment to have the lump checked out. When I went to the appointment I was asked the usual questions, such as "Do you have any family history of breast cancer?" I had to answer no because I was unaware of any familial links. "Do you take the birth control pill?" No. I tried for 2 weeks once and had reactions. " Have you ever nursed any of your children?" Yes, I nursed my first two for 15 and 12 months respectively. Well, in answering these questions I was told that the lump was probably "fibrocystic" because of my age, no family history, no birth control pills and I nursed my children. I was told to cut out caffeine and it would get better. I was relieved and went on with my life of being a young military spouse, and mother of 3 children.

In early 1994 the lump had grown in size and I was getting suspicious but not overly concerned because I had the "no risk factors" on my side. By now I had moved to Texas and in a new medical environment; this meant learning the system all over again. I made an appointment with a family practitioner and was told the same thing: "fibrocystic breast disease." I made an appointment with OB/GYN for a pap smear and this doctor was a little concerned about the lump. He sent me for a mammogram. The only way to explain the attempted mammogram experience is to say that I was laughed out of the department. I was too young for a mammogram, and besides, only surgeons can order a mammogram for someone of my age. Well, off I trot back to my GYN doc. Standing in the hallway crying, I ask, "Is it possible for a woman of my age to have breast cancer?" He said simply: "Yes." That was the fuel I needed. He wrote me a consult for surgery.

Surgery was a new experience. In May of 1994 I met with a surgeon who told me, "If you are worried about breast cancer, I can take them both off." Imagine my shock at that statement! He did however order a mammogram. By this time, my lump had developed an internal itch. Of course, this was not supposed to be a sign of breast cancer. "Cancer does not itch," I was told. I had the mammogram done, and while the lump did not show up, it could be felt and had grown considerably since I first discovered it. The mammography report suggested a follow-up since there existed something of an asymmetry between the left and right breasts. I was getting ready to go on vacation for a month, and the surgeon was leaving for some military deployment, so between us, we agreed that if the lump and itch had not resolved themselves by August, he would perform a biopsy.

I went on vacation to my home state of Virginia. Looking back, it was a wonderful time. I felt good. I didn't feel sick and enjoyed immensely the time spent with my family and friends. All the time, however, the lump was growing, the itch increasing and now the skin was red where the lump was. I remember laying on the beach one day and feeling shock at how the lump had changed but still had some comfort in that the doctors must know what they were talking about. They see cancer everyday; they certainly would know if mine was cancer.

In August, 1994, I went in for the biopsy. The surgeon told me all the way into the OR that he was certain it was not cancer because it did not "feel" like cancer. During the biopsy I roused a little and felt the surgeon tugging. I started to cry. He placed his hand on my head and I went back to sleep. I woke up in a private room. Starved silly the nurse brought me lunch and I jumped into the sandwich happily because the biopsy was over and no one had said anything to me about it being cancer. My surgeon walked into the room then and stood at the foot of the bed. He said, "It's malignant" I looked at him for a moment trying to recall, "Is malignant the bad one or good one?" It then dawned on me what he had said. He immediately launched into how he had set me up for surgery the following week, and how we needed to start chemotherapy, and on and on... I called him a liar and threw my sandwich at him. He didn't flinch but I noticed tears in his eyes. Here was the doctor who had told me if I was worried about breast cancer, he would take them both off, with tears in his eyes.

That moment started me down a path from which there is no road back. I chose a modified radical mastectomy because at the moment of diagnosis I wanted the cancer off of me. It felt as though I was dirty and the only way to get clean was to get the cancer far away from me. Once the mastectomy was done, my prognosis came in. All the tests were done to determine where I stood as a cancer patient. The lump was identified as infiltrating ductal carcinoma. The size was 7.5 cm. I had 6 positive lymph nodes. The tumor was positive for estrogen and progesterone receptors. My S-phase was 5%. What does all that mean? How it was explained to me was that I had a very large tumor that had spread to the lymph nodes but if I was going to get cancer it was the kind I wanted. (?) Your garden variety cancer it was said. The hormone receptors were good because that meant I could benefit from the new drug Tamoxifen. The S-Phase meant the tumor cells divided slowly and I did not have an aggressive tumor. Basically, I was sick but they could save me.

I immediately had a port put in so that I could receive chemo through it. In removing lymph nodes the surgeon took over 30 so my right arm could no longer have any blood pressure or needle sticks in it due to the lack of lymph nodes to fight off any infections. This left only the left arm accessible for needle sticks. The port was a great option for me at the time. On 16 September 1994 I started chemo: Adriamyacin, Cytoxan, and 5FU. Six cycles every twenty-one days. The oncologist told me he wanted to treat me aggressively with as high a dosage of the chemo as I could tolerate without killing me. Basically I felt I was risking my life just to save it.

Between the first and second treatment I lost my hair. I was told it would happen but I hadn't thought it would happen that quickly. I think one of the biggest reasons it was so emotionally difficult for me to lose my hair was because it created a visual indicator that I was sick. The mastectomy scar, I could cover from the world-and yes, myself. The hair--not so. The hair loss forced me out of my shock, and toward acceptance. I am not quite sure how acceptance came about, except to say simply, with time.

Chemo made me weak, achy, and many days were spent just lying around. It altered my taste for food and left me with a metal taste in my mouth. About the time I would start to get my strength back, it would be time for another treatment. Just before each treatment I would get antsy and irritable. Looking back I see that those are normal feelings, but then I felt as though I was bumbling along. On my last treatment I took a cake with "No more chemo" across the top to the clinic. I could not eat the cake but it was my mini-celebration. I was out. I was on the "other side of the fence" as I often times visualized. My last treatment made me ill though, and I started a vomiting fit that wouldn't quit, landing me in the hospital to keep me hydrated. Chemo's last punch was a doozy but I had made it.

I started radiation treatment a month after chemotherapy ended. I had to wait that long because I had received adriamyacin and the radiation doctor felt it best to wait. The radiation experience was not painful at all, and far less intense than chemo, but it was still taxing on my mind. I laid under the radiation machine and wondered "if this stuff wasn't so bad then why I was behind a big thick door with red lights flashing while the techs stood outside and watched me via the cameras?" It was fine for me to be there but not them-how safe was this stuff anyway? Thirty-six times I laid on the table and thirty-six times I didn't come up with an answer.

Radiation ended and I started Tamoxifen. Tamoxifen can have many bad side effects. One of these is an increased risk of uterine cancer. It seems somewhat silly that an anti-cancer drug can cause cancer. In my case however, I believed the benefits outweighed the risks. I could have an endometrium biopsy every year to check for changes and if any changes occurred, then I would opt for a hysterectomy. I felt that option was better than the options available if I developed breast cancer again. Tamoxifen was offered for 5 years. I have just over another year left on it, and I have already begun to plan for exactly what I can do when the time to go off the tamoxifen arrives.

Speaking of five years, I want to know where the "Five years you are cured" came from. I was shown a five year survival rate chart when I started chemo. That chart showed me where people with my same diagnosis were at the end of the 5 years. That did not say that I was cured of cancer. I am amazed by celebrities on TV who say after only one year, they are cured. I want their doctors, and I want their drugs. I am in no way, shape, or form "cured" of cancer. When I die at 92 peacefully in my sleep, I will have been cured of cancer. What I am is "N.E.D." No Evidence of Disease. This means that there is no disease detectable by any diagnostic test at this time. Neither does this mean there are no cancerous cells running around inside me, nor does it mean that the cancer will not come back. What it means is I will always be on the lookout and count my blessings for each and every day. It is not my intention to scare anyone with that statement-always the optimist but forever the realist.

Because of my age, after treatment I chose to have the breast reconstructed by using muscle and fat from my stomach. This is called a TRAM procedure. I am in awe of medical science and technology. When the plastic surgeon showed me pictures of TRAM reconstructions, it was like looking at a "real" breast. I knew the procedure was lengthy, involved pain, and that I would have a scar from one hip to the other. I still chose to have it done. I wanted to feel "normal" again. Unfortunately my TRAM failed. I ended up having 3 surgeries in 3 days. The breast the plastic surgeon made had to be taken off due to lack of blood flow. I was then left with a skin graft and right back where I had started. It was nothing I did or the plastic surgeon did. It just happened. I credit my surgeon with the skill and knowledge to make it right. I ended up getting a saline implant and am very happy with the result.

So now that all treatments were over and my breast reconstructed, it was now time for me to think of my future. I knew that with the size of the tumor I had, and the amount of lymph nodes positive, that I stand a high risk of the cancer coming back in the other breast. How to reduce the risks? There are no proven risk reducers. My greatest worry was the cancer coming back in the other breast since I am still in my 30's, had positive estrogen receptors, still pre-menopausal, and I only had an option for 5 years on Tamoxifen. I thought long and hard about a prophylactic mastectomy of the left side. Actually, I had wanted that done at the time of my initial diagnosis, but I felt the urgency to get myself into chemo, so didn't mention it. Now I decided to look into it. I found that there are no real studies on whether a prophylactic mastectomy would reduce the risk, but neither did I find any proof that it would not. So after careful consideration, and asking my surgeon, oncologist, and gyn I decided to do it. And this is where I stand now.

In all of the above story it was "all about me" but even though it was all about me, I could not have done any of it without God, my family, my doctors, and my friends. I found along the way that those friends who I thought would always be there, went by the wayside. And those friends who I considered acquaintances were the ones who really pulled together for me. I found my family rallied around me in what ever emotion or physical pain I experienced. And although getting my diagnosis was a nightmare, from the moment of truth until now, my doctors and their teams have bent over backwards to help me along the way. I have ran from one extreme to the other on any given day, and between all of those in support around me, and my faith in God, I am still here.

Having cancer is incredibly bittersweet. From the painful physical and emotional scars that do or don't heal to the precious bond that gently ties one to the new "cancer" friends one invariably meets in the course of treatment. From the newfound wonder of what is really important in life to the realization that nothing makes sense in life until you face your own mortality. I didn't ask for cancer; it asked for me. I chose not to give into it but I can't deny how it has changed me for the better.