I am going to repost this because I think it's vital to raise awareness. I've made some changes, here and there.
This week has been the week for all the pink stuff. The pep rallies. The wear your shirt on Friday week. The ribbons.
A couple of years ago, this week, it had a celebratory feel to it. Like some obscure day that you got to wear something different, that halls were decorated, that slightly different things happened. It felt shallow, easy to skip over. Easy to move on from with no pause.
Last year, this week, I was in the hospital. I’d lost 8 pounds in one day. Top that, dieters! I didn’t want to have the surgery. For some reason, I didn’t think I’d wake up. I sat there, the morning of my surgery, alone, waiting for the doctor, praying that I’d wake up after it was over. No one knew just how frightened I was. I don’t even know why I was so frightened. I woke up, as you can see. When I woke up, I looked down, and my breasts were gone. “Just like that.” Gone. All I saw was a small torso, a ribcage. It was so surreal. I had no idea where my body had gone.
This year, it’s pink out day. Wear your pink shirts and support breast cancer! This year, it doesn’t feel celebratory. It feels quiet and reverent. It feels like I need to say something.
1 in 8 women will get diagnosed with breast cancer. That is a staggering number of women. We had three women in the older generation of our family get breast cancer. It took the lives of two of them. I am the first one in my generation to get it, and I hope the last. But it is so prevalent.
As prevalent as it is, it was never on my radar. Ever. I was never going to get cancer, especially breast cancer. All my mammograms, like my mother’s, would be just fine, skip on, move on.
I have breast cancer. It’s funny how the jargon changes when you are directly affected. I don’t really use the words: Fight. Brave. Strong. I don’t use those words anymore. I had treatments for a year and a half. Still taking pills and will be for years. I’m closely watched. My body is scanned as often as my doctor sees fit. My radiologist told me to feel of every part of my left side every single day.
Fight. Brave. Strong.
You don’t have a choice. People say, “I don’t know how you did it.” Well, there was absolutely no choice. You just do. And, personally, I don’t think it was up to me, at all, the outcome. I was living. Not dying. That part was up to me. But whether the cancer listened or not, that was in God's hands.
I’ll live for the rest of the time I have. I’m moving on. I’m changing career paths – it’ll take while, but I am. I’ve been spared, and for what? For how long? I don’t know. But I’m going to use it. I’m going to use my time to help others.
When I got diagnosed, people actually bought me stuff that had breast cancer ribbons on it. Like now I was the perfect spokesperson. Like I’d wear that thing with all the pink, breast cancer ribbons on them. My surgeon told me, “Don’t feel like you have to wear pink for the rest of your life now. This does not define you, nor will it ever.” That was a powerful statement. I have nothing breast cancer related except for remnants of a sticker that said “F----Cancer” on my car. Now that’s a sentiment that I can jump on board with.
Today, and this month, give some silent reverence to the thought. It’s not a celebration, nor should it feel like, in my opinion. This is a battle. These women live with this. Women die of this.
These women are incredible.
Stay on top of your mammograms, ladies. I didn’t have a lump. They said my cancer was like a cloud in there. It had no defined edges, therefore, no lump could be felt. We always think it’s a lump. My left breast had a red semicircle around the nipple (yep, I just actually said that word). It started to swell. I thought I had some infection. Never cancer. I had a doctor tell me it was a fungal infection. I had another doctor tell me it was poor-fitting bras, or I was allergic to my detergent- “I had nothing to worry about.”
I got a mammogram, just to be on the safe side. It had only been two years since my last one. I expected it to be clear. 100%.
The doctor that does the mammograms came in and told me I had cancer.
May the 5, 2020.
Cinco de Mayo.
A Tuesday.
From zero to Stage III, triple positive, invasive ductal carcinoma – spread to the lymph nodes under my left arm.
Fast forward another pink out week:
I just finished up scans over the last three weeks. The first two showing something abnormal. CT scan. Bone scan. PET scan. Finally, after three agonizing weeks, it was clear. But my family and I were in limbo. We all knew, without a doubt, that this was life or death. So many prayeres went up for me over the past three weeks, and I am so thankful for them. We got a glimpse of yet another part of cancer life that is terrifying. It never really ends. There will be more, but not today. And I'll take it.
Get checked ladies. Because it’s your Pink Out Pep Rally.
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