I Chose to Rise
- Surviving Breast Cancer
- 2 hours ago
- 7 min read
By Carol Monteiro
It was 2021, and the world was holding its breath. The pandemic had reshaped everything – our routines, our fears, even access to healthcare. Annual checkups became afterthoughts, including mine.
Everyone I spoke to felt blah! Spending time on couches, overeating, drinking and weight gain. Life felt off. I blamed it on a year-long sabbatical, the comfort foods, the extra wine, the lack of movement. I chalked up my low energy to pandemic blues.
And then…
The Discovery
I felt a hard mass under my right collarbone. I ran my fingers over it absentmindedly, assuming I’d bumped into something. Not alarmed a bit.
Weeks passed. Then months. I gave it no further thought. It was not until one day I felt the need to call my doctor for a virtual consult as I was experiencing pain in my right wrist. I found I was losing strength and grip. After evaluating the wrist virtually and while writing up the requisition for an x-ray, “Anything else bothering you?” he asked casually.
I hesitated as nothing came to mind. Then I felt the need to say something and casually mentioned this hard mass I had discovered under my right collarbone.
His tone shifted immediately. Calm to clipped. No questions asked he said,
“I want you to go for an express ultrasound – today. You’ll hear from me in two hours.”
Two hours? That sounded urgent. Still, I pushed aside the worry, telling myself not to overreact. This had never happened before.
The Diagnosis
At the lab, I got in quickly. The ultrasound technician spent an unusually long time over one spot, clicking image after image. Her questions, though not alarming, were gentle and casual. When did you notice it? Does it hurt? How are you feeling?
Concern flickered in my mind. But again, I brushed it away.
“Your doctor will receive the results within two hours,” she said after over 45 minutes of examination. I found that odd, but yet again, did not give it much brain space.
Fifteen minutes after I left the lab, my phone rang. My doctor, his voice, firm now. “We need to do more tests,” he said. “I’ve booked you for a mammogram first thing tomorrow. There may be further steps.”
“Further steps?” I asked curiously.
“I can’t say more until we investigate,” he replied. “The doctors at the hospital will walk you through. Give yourself 2-3 hours.”
I was puzzled, and the lack of a prognosis was beginning to make me anxious.
The Words That Changed My Life
Following the pandemic protocols, patients were not allowed to arrive with companions. As such, I sat alone at the hospital, COVID restrictions keeping my husband outside. After registration, I was handed a stack of forms to fill out.
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic – too clean, too sterile. The chair beneath me was stiff, unwelcoming. I found a corner and started filling out the forms. As the questions delved deeper into my and my family’s medical history, particularly with regard to cancer, I began to feel my stomach tighten.
I had to make a few calls to my mum to ask details on those that had cancer in our family. As she was getting worried, I comforted her that I was just filling some medical forms and it was nothing to worry about. Meanwhile, I was finding it hard to keep the myriad of thoughts out of my head.
I handed the clipboard to the receptionist and took a corner spot in the waiting room. My fingers traced the edges of my phone, its screen flashing with unread messages.
“Breathe!” I told myself. “It will all be okay – just breathe.”
First it was the blood test – uneventful, done by a cheerful student.
Then came the mammogram.
Then the ultrasound.
Picture after picture. Reading after reading, she swiped honing in on that hard mass. Her face betrayed nothing, but her silence screamed. Forty-five minutes passed before she paused and told me she would need to bring in a doctor. She quietly left the room.
Meanwhile, I could hear the notifications of my husband’s messages. My phone was in my purse on the door and there was no way for me to comfort him.
And then a doctor entered, direct and unsmiling. His presence tightened the air. “We need to do a punch biopsy. It will be quick. I will freeze the area, which will sting, and then it will all be over.”
The needle pierced deep, a dull, insistent ache blooming under my skin. My breath hitched, but I didn’t flinch. Pain was irrelevant now.
Later, I was escorted to a waiting room, where I quickly gave my husband a brief on what had transpired. Minutes later, the oncologist arrived. I had my husband on speakerphone.
The doctor asked how I was doing and then said with conviction…
“You have breast cancer.”
Four words. That was all it took. A crack split through my world, invisible yet absolute.
My husband sobbed through the phone. I sat frozen. My mind grasped at disbelief, but my body already knew.
I asked, “Are you sure?”
Duh! Of course he was. The doctor confirmed it with a solemn nod. He went on to say, “You’ll need a mastectomy within the month.”
The biopsy was sent for pathology. However, the doctor gave me an unofficial diagnosis based on what information he had. He was convinced and called me back in a week for the official diagnosis after the biopsy pathology.
Then, just like that, he was gone. A nurse stepped in, placing her hand over mine – warm, grounding and caring. She handed me a bag of something. I hung up on my husband, who was uncontrollably sobbing in the car waiting for me to get done.
I looked down. The bag was full of pamphlets. A thousand unspoken fears.
The Turning Point
Forty-eight hours. That’s all it took.
One moment, I was worried about wrist pain. The next, I was staring cancer in the face.
I had two choices – break under the weight or rise. I chose to RISE!
The first night, fear settled in like an uninvited guest. I lay awake, my mind clawing through every moment that led to this. “Where did I go wrong? How did I miss it? What comes next?”
The silence was unbearable, thick with unanswered questions. Then I heard it – a quiet voice inside me, steady, unwavering: “There’s purpose in this.”
I didn’t know what that meant yet. But I knew one thing: I refused to disappear under the weight of this disease.
My husband was unraveling. My children, desperate to help. I saw their pain, their helplessness, their fear reflected back at me. I couldn’t fix everything. But I could be their anchor. So I focused on what I could control: ME.
I kept the news close, guarding it like something fragile. My mother-in-law was unwell, and I was not ready to share my news with the world.
Some nights, the fear returned – sharp, insistent. But with every sunrise, resolve took its place. I learned. I questioned. I shifted. My diet changed. My mind sharpened. My body moved more. I meditated. I studied. I prepared.
I was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma in my right breast. It started as stage 2; however, after I changed hospitals and had a second opinion with repeat tests I was staged as 3. I was HER2+.
Cancer was in my life. But I would decide the terms on which it stayed!
I’d faced mountains before – starting over across continents, rebuilding a career, raising children without nearby family, learning to drive, swim, ski as an adult.
I knew I was resilient! This? This would be another mountain. And I would climb it.
A New Purpose
My treatment plan included chemo (8 sessions of AC, paclitaxel, and trastuzumab), a full mastectomy, radiation, and 15 sessions of Kadcyla.
I was fortunate to qualify for a DIEP flap reconstructive surgery and am beyond delighted with the results. I guess that is the silver lining of this experience.
My Treatment Experience
I had a great team of doctors who managed my expectations well. That, coupled with my “can do” approach to life, I feel I cruised through it.
But I would like to be realistic: The treatments were harsh, and dealing with side effects challenging. I struggled to share my pain with my family as even in my state I felt I needed to take care of them. My children were my huge support.
However my spouse really struggled coping with the uncertainty and discomfort. He buried himself in work and did his best to emotionally be there for me. My temperament changed and I felt that those around me could not understand my pain because of my cheerful personality.
Due to COVID protocols, I had to go to my appointments alone and the anxiety of going through treatments, chemo, radiation was only mine.
I found when I shared my dark moments with those close to me, I would end up having to look after them and manage their emotions. I did not have the bandwidth for it and so learnt to manage things on my own or leaned on my girlfriends and another friend who was going through the same.
Some relationships faded. Others became lifelines. Five steadfast friends – and their partners – rallied around me. They became my shield, my safety net, my steady ground. My children’s friends sent care packages, their handwritten notes carrying a warmth that reached places medicine couldn’t touch.
Even strangers stepped forward – my pharmacist, my hairdresser, my neighbors. Each one showing up as if the world itself had decided I wasn’t fighting alone. But I wasn’t just surviving. I was transforming.
I now mentor others through various organizations, helping them find strength in food, movement, and mindset. In the quiet moments, I remind them: “You are not alone.”
Cancer forces you to meet yourself. All your fears. All your strengths. Every limit, every possibility. All the love I received had to go somewhere. I couldn’t just absorb it; I needed to channel it. So I built “ThrivedIT”, a space for those touched by cancer. A sanctuary of raw stories, hard-earned wisdom, and defiant hope.
And if you’re walking that path – patient, caregiver, loved one – know this:
“You are stronger than you think.”
“You do not have to do this alone.”
Connect with the author, Carol Moneiro:
Read More:
On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations
Breast Cancer Stopped My Life—Music and Meditation Helped Me Breathe Again
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