A few months after my 40th birthday, my doctor scheduled me for a screening mammogram – my first. Barely 24 hours later, I was told that I had cancer. Not stage 0, not DCIS, not we “caught it early” cancer. Nope. The tumor was invasive, triple-positive breast cancer, the size of a large grape and had spread to the lymph nodes in my armpit. The mammogram revealed a knotted, white starburst that was helpfully labeled with a small yellow arrow despite the fact that even a drunk frat boy could have hit it from across the room with a dart.
I felt scared (of course) but also silly, stupid, and angry — because I am a scientist. Heck, I even did my dissertation research on breast cancer! I should have found it sooner and not had the tumor pointed out (gently but with more than a little disbelief) by the ultrasound technician, “Honey, don’t you see that?” as she pointed to the raised bump on my chest.
I had no family history of cancer. I had three babies in my twenties and breastfed them all. I did self-exams (usually). I was busy with life. With my career, raising 3 kids, a husband. Breast cancer was the farthest thing from my mind.
The next year of my life was taken over by cancer: appointments, treatments, infusions, radiation, wigs, scarfs, diarrhea, blood work, heart scans, heart burn, drains, scars, fear, Xanax, tears, celebrations, milestones, more drugs, more procedures, surgery, infections, healing, recovery, grief, depression, new friends, lost friends, lost job.
The natural history of untreated breast cancer is a painful death within 2 ½ to 3 years. Thanks to modern medicine, I have now officially outlived my disease.
