By Lee Ann Morin A year ago, my world was turned upside down. I opened a my-chart result expecting to confirm a kidney stone. Instead, I read the words “multiple lytic osseous lesions… metastatic disease… multiple myeloma or lymphoma.” It took over a month to get a definitive diagnosis of Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer to lymph nodes, multiple bones, and sub centimeter nodes on the lung . There were a lot of moments of tears, fear, and anger. I was carried through those initial moments by my loving partner, my kids, parents, siblings, friends, coworkers (past and present). Treatment was met with the anticipation of what it would entail, hope that it would work, and fear that it wouldn’t. Due to the type of MBC I have, I have been able to take endocrine therapy and avoid chemotherapy for now. Fatigue has been the most difficult side effect but I’ve made peace with it, rest, pace myself, and practice self care when I need to, even if it means declining activities I like to do. I have a great support system and a fiancé who, with one look, knows my level of fatigue, tells me to go lie down, and takes care of the rest. ️ Why Me? When I started my MBC journey, I was grieving for the life I thought I was supposed to live. I was angry and asked, why me god? Why me? I had too much to live for! I was sad more than anything else. I was sad I might not get to see milestones in my kids and grandkids lives. I was sad I might not get to live to see retirement. I was sad I might not get to grow old with my love. I was sad my parents might have to bury a child. I was sad that the one parent my kids could depend on might not be there for them. No one knows what God's plan is for us. No one. I am only too familiar with the "Why me" questions as I have had to answer this question before. When I miscarried three precious babies. Why me? When I found out my first rainbow baby, Garrett, had spina bifida. Why me? I was working at a job that I was totally burnt out from and dreaded going into work every night. Why me? When I was married to a good man who was an alcoholic. Why me? When I had to pull my big girl pants up and work my ass off to make a plan to leave a life that was sucking the life out of me. Why me? When I finally found the relationship with Dave, I had always dreamed of, and then he was in a horrific motorcycle accident and was facing a long recovery. Why me? An Answer To My Question I was able to finally answer my question to God. Why NOT me? If I had not had the miscarriages prior to both of my sons births I would not have THEM. If Garrett didn't have spina bifida he and I wouldn't be the people we are today without all the hard lessons learned. (I would never want my baby to have to go through what he does but he lives his life with grace and humility and there are a lot of lessons there!). If I didn't have the tremendous stress of working at the hospital in the trenches, I wouldn't have been pushed to search for my dream job that I absolutely love. If I wasn't a codependent, I wouldn't have learned all the lessons I needed to to be the strong, independent person I am today and to finally have the courage to walk away. If we hadn't had the opportunity to go through the extensive hospitalizations, surgeries and recovery, Dave and I might not have the unbelievable faith filled bond and relationship we have today. I have faith that there is a plan. No one has an "expires by" date! Yes, I have terminal cancer, but I am also alive and for right now I feel pretty darn good. I trust that this is part of my journey on this earth and I am learning from it, may help others from it, and feel blessed by it, as I do all the other "why me" moments I have had. Cherishing Every Moment In retrospect, what an amazing year it has been! I have been very transparent with my journey and have been touched by a lot of people I had lost contact with. I have become closer to my siblings. I have a dear friend who has contacted me- Every. Single. Day. since the news! I step outside the box a little more, break the rules a little more, and have made an effort to speak to people when I normally would have been quiet. I live a little more. Treatment so far has stopped progression, although I have fleeting thoughts about it each day, it doesn’t consume my life. I can’t control it but I can control how I respond to it. I can control how I choose to live my life. I don’t take anything for granted, ever. I am planning my wedding to my best friend. I am planning trips. I am planning my retirement. I cherish every moment with my kids, grandkids, parents, family, and friends. I eat the ice cream without guilt. My advice to anyone going through a difficult experience is to just find joy in every day and have hopes and dreams for the future. That’s the best we can do. Thank you for sharing your story, Lee Ann. SBC loves you! SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Our Podcast Online Support Groups Free, Weekly Events

By Jan Hillman My name is Jan and I’m three months into my third breast cancer journey. I was first diagnosed in 1986 at age 34 with stage two breast cancer in my right breast. I was treated with a lumpectomy. Eleven years later, another tumor appeared in the same breast. A PET scan revealed a second mass, both stage two, and I had a mastectomy and reconstruction. My life has been an amazingly positive journey , and this third chapter is a defining one. The new year of 2023 began positively. After years of volunteering for Breast Wishes Foundation (BWF), a Southwest Ohio-based non-profit organization granting wishes that bring joy to those with breast cancer, it was time for me to take the next step. That next step was answering the invitation to be the chair of the BWF Board. As Board members, we rolled up our sleeves. With a new 2023-25 Strategic Plan and vision to grant 500 wishes by the end of 2025 (as of this printing, 250 wishes have been granted), we grew our Board, raised more funds, and strategically marketed BWF. Early in the year, I was feeling fatigued and my joie de vivre had diminished. My primary care provider ordered blood work that revealed that I was anemic. She discussed this with me and recommended that I have a colonoscopy and an EDG, in which a gastroenterologist looks at the lining of the esophagus, stomach, and duodenum. I had both of these procedures and awaited the results. On a Wednesday evening in mid-May, I received a call and news from my gastroenterologist, Dr. Samuel, which was shocking, breathtaking and completely unexpected. He tried to soften the message by saying that he had bad news. Something about the hour and his tone of voice made that statement clear as glass. He continued to say, “Jan, you have metastatic breast cancer in your stomach.” Wait – what?! Dr. Samuel underscored the rarity of this finding, how it was surprising to him and the pathologist who had analyzed the biopsied stomach tissue. He told me that he had contacted an oncologist, Dr. Chamarthy, who would call me as soon as we said goodbye. My mind flew back to 1986 and 1997 when I was diagnosed with stage two breast cancer. All those old memories and treatments resurfaced, including the lumpectomy in 1986 and the mastectomy in 1997. Back to the present time… Dr. Chamarthy called me directly and we scheduled an appointment right away. My fiancé, Barry, accompanied me to my appointment and Dr. Chamarthy underscored the rarity of breast cancer metastasizing to the stomach. We discussed options for diagnosis and treatment and decided to proceed with additional diagnostic testing including PET scan, CT scan, brain MRI, bone biopsy, bone marrow biopsy, and breast MRI. Good news came from the breast MRI; there was no breast cancer found in my breasts. However, beyond my stomach, metastasis was discovered in my spine, rib, pelvis, sternum, bone marrow and skull (not brain). For my treatment, Dr. Chamarthy recommended chemotherapy in the form of intravenous paclitaxel and I had a port placed in my upper chest to ease chemotherapy administration and blood testing. By my choice, I am receiving 95% of my health care from Premier Health here in the greater Dayton, Ohio area, with most of that care at Upper Valley Medical Center (UVMC). I chose UVMC because it is close to home and, moreover, the compassionate, caring, skilled staff and their friendliness provide a comfortable feeling at every appointment, treatment and procedure there. My health care team is superb and every member including the nurses, physicians, technologists and all the other members have gone above and beyond to provide me with stellar care aimed at my healing. I am an equal opportunity healer and have continued to meditate and pray daily, keep up with my yoga and stretching practices, eat healthfully, walk, garden, and have weekly reiki and chiropractic treatments. The outpouring of love, prayers and support from friends, family and complete strangers has been astoundingly beautiful. It has been three months since I first learned of my metastatic third breast cancer. I’m living each day fully and that means keeping my life perspective in laser focus – forgiving, letting go and healing; not taking myself or my disease too seriously; having loving, memory making, and meaningful , thriving time with family and friends; and maximizing the power of positive change that comes with the most challenging life situation I’ve ever experienced. In real terms this also means devoting time, energy and strategy to raising funds and granting wishes for Breast Wishes Foundation. My approach is inviting people to learn about the power of bringing joy to those with breast cancer by granting wishes and requesting their consideration to give the gift of joy. Helping grant wishes that bring joy for others with breast cancer is bringing me immeasurable joy. Joy is truly the mother and father of hope. I commend the work of Surviving Breast Cancer! SBC’s mission to empower those diagnosed with breast cancer and their families from day one and beyond is powerful and uplifting, the core values are right on and the approach is strong. Bravo and kudos to Surviving Breast Cancer! Thank you for sharing your story, Jan. SBC loves you! Learn more: SBC Meditation Library New Meanings and Shifting Priorities The Alternative to Feeling Like a Victim On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations How to Get a Grip: Coping Strategies for Complicated Times SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events Submit Your Writing: SBC Blog Submissions

By Jennifer Reynolds Read Jennifer’s original diagnosis and treatment story: Hard Days, Better Days, and My Fight After I was diagnosed with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC), I completed chemotherapy and a double mastectomy . My treatment then continued with radiation . After radiation in 2021 and right before Christmas... I was finally done! I had 33 sessions of radiation. It was brutal during the last week. Otherwise, it was just tedious and tiring everyday to go there and do that. It wiped me, but it was doable. At the end of radiation, my skin started opening up after being burned. It was right on my incision scar of my cancer side and also in my axilla area. It was so very painful and I remember Christmas being very difficult, but I put on a strong and brave face as best I could. Life has been busy. I do love staying busy, as it helps me to help others. I am a lactation nurse – so I know breasts, but in a very different way! Helping moms and babies succeed in the postpartum period is so wonderful. This past year, I have been working a lot, as I have three jobs. I work as a lactation consultant at a hospital, at a pediatric office and as an independent business. Through all my treatments, I worked when I could. I am currently taking Lynparza, a PARP inhibitor. This October will mark two years of me taking Lynparza , and then I will be done. Yay! For me, it causes fatigue and diarrhea. I can only tolerate two of the four pills recommended, but I take them. As for the other medications I’ve been on, I have struggled a bit in this area. Aromatase inhibitors cause lots of side effects. I dislike them! I have tried almost all of them. I am now about to try exemestane and hope it is okay and easier on me than tamoxifen, letrozole and Arimidex. My doctors advised five to 10 years MORE on these. I am quite busy but still make time for family, fun and exercise. I love spin, pilates and yoga. I am also trying to keep the garden going and I love it, but my first son Tyler has done most of the work. I also am a breast cancer mentor at my facility here in Long Beach, California. I just love helping others. Life is crazy, right? I have ups and downs, and a lot of emotions at times. Forced menopause sucks, and so does cancer! BUT I do hope to be done for GOOD and am pushing forward to continue being cancer free two years later! Life is good and I do appreciate everything SO much more. That is expected I suppose from my perspective. Thank you for reading! Thank you for sharing your story, Jennifer. SBC loves you! Learn More: Breast Cancer Radiation Hard Days, Better Days, and My Fight Managing Breast Cancer During Pregnancy and Breastfeeding Breast Cancer at 33: A Young Mom’s Story of Self-Advocacy Jennifer's lactation consulting website On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Radiation Therapy: What Every Breast Cancer Thriver Needs to Know

By Dionne Phillips Author Dionne Phillips Hearing the words “ you have cancer ” is heavy, hard, life-changing, scary, and any other adjective you may consider a synonym of the feelings or words used above. Your treatment regimen might consist of surgery first, then chemo/radiation, or vice versa. If the pathology report comes back with clear margins and you are considered “cancer free,” there is no one who wants things to go back to normal more than the person who received every experience firsthand. I suspect there are co-survivors who would argue this fact, whether it be parents, significant others, siblings, friends, or children. My intent is not to diminish their feelings or experiences but to validate those of the survivor/thriver. We are the ones who receive the call or letter requiring a diagnostic mammogram, MRI, or biopsy. We experience the internal struggle of whether or not to share because we don’t want to worry our loved ones, so sometimes we carry that by ourselves—or we share and have to reassure our loved ones that it’s just a precaution, only to later learn that it is not. Then there is the call, if you’re lucky, that shares the diagnosis information . I’ve heard stories of people finding out accidentally from people they should not have because they work at the facility, or the results drop in your electronic chart and you receive the notification before the nurse navigator calls, or there is a call to schedule surgery before you receive results from any of the aforementioned sources. Trauma, confusion, fear, AND you have no time to process it because you are now in some version of a fight for your life. Unless you work in oncology or have a close relationship with someone who has experienced breast cancer, you may only be familiar with staging, and may not fully understand metastatic breast cancer (MBC). You aren’t necessarily familiar with the different types of breast cancer , i.e. ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), lobular carcinoma in situ (LCIS), inflammatory breast cancer , and triple-negative breast cancer , and you also may not know there are even more types . Then there is the language associated with the presence or absence of hormone receptors: estrogen receptor (ER) positive or negative, progesterone receptor (PR) positive or negative, and human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (HER2) positive or negative. People can also experience different combinations and subtypes of those. You then either have too much time to consider your path of treatment and implement it OR you don’t really have time to process the whirlwind because you are presented with the diagnosis and must decide the treatment path almost immediately; there are pros and cons to both. The decisions include the type of surgery: lumpectomy, mastectomy (single or double), reconstruction or not , what kind of reconstruction: expanders, DIEP flap, lat flap, nipple-sparing or not, just to name a few. As a young survivor/thriver , double or single mastectomy has secondary and tertiary implications, i.e., do you have children, would you like to have children in the future, can you afford to harvest and store your eggs , and what are your views on breastfeeding ? These and so many, many more are the “quick” life-changing decisions that need to be made. If you get to the point that you hear the cancer is gone, it’s a relief, but at its “simplest,” you have to process what you just experienced , and in some cases, you may still face hormone replacement therapy, hormone suppression therapy, and/or radiation. Cancer takes a toll on your body, and you can have an inflammatory response from surgery and other forms of treatment. The trauma of it all may cause you to gain weight or hold on to it. With all of these life-changing experiences and no time to process your emotions, when you finally get a moment, you may feel that everyone else has moved on. At work, they want you to get back to it. At home, no one notes that you pushed through because you had to, because you wanted to, but now you are no longer fighting for your life. You are tired, and maybe everything has LITERALLY returned to how it was the day before you received the diagnosis. Yet, you are different. Not ungrateful, you realize that whether you believe in God or the universe, you have reached the goal, but now the journey has caught up to you. You know you can’t return to the day, moment, or minute before diagnosis, and while you don’t want a pity party, you want to be seen. You want to be checked on . You want those around you to note, without you telling them, that “strong friend” may have been the title you held before, and you need that same love you divvied out without complaint or comparison. You want your circle to hear you and see you when you are quiet. You appreciated their support at the most “dangerous” point of this fight for your life. But survivors and thrivers still need help with laundry. We would love calls and texts just to check in without having to talk about your stuff; hormone therapy, chemo brain, and/or the trauma of it all have shifted their bandwidth for external stressors. They are not 100%. Not wanting to answer 500 questions about treatment doesn’t mean we don’t want to talk about our favorite series, sports team, or hobby. Being cancer-free doesn’t mean we don’t need support as we adjust to our new life. It means that we’ve made it through the part that is responsible for the bulk of trauma. But, we still need you to journey with us on this new path as a support, with empathy and kindness. Learn More: 9 Essential Tips for Breast Cancer Survivors The Breast Cancer Care Continuum: The Journey From Patient to Survivor Breast Cancer in Young Women: Common Questions Answered Cancer Etiquette: How to Talk With Loved Ones About Their Breast Cancer On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Two Breasties on Survivorship

By Jayita Chatterjee “Sometimes life is like an archer’s bow. It pulls us back so we can shoot forward with more force and clarity. And just like an arrow, the more you get pulled back, the more potential energy you have… the more potential energy you have, the farther you can go.” - Dr. Raj Raghunathan, If You’re So Smart, Why Aren’t You Happy? The tattoo of an arrow on my arm helps me remember this message. Sunday, March 19, 2023. It’s the day I got diagnosed with breast cancer . It’s the day when my world changed. A myriad of emotions took over me that day…. and not the good kinds. However, I knew I needed to arrow ahead and stand strong in the face of this new challenge that life tossed my way. I have always been good about staying on top of health checks. I went in for my annual women’s check with my OBGYN in early February. Since I had turned 40 this year, I qualified to do my first mammogram screening. On February 27 I got my very first mammogram done. The first week of March, I got a letter in the mail saying that my mammogram performed on February 27 showed a finding that required supplemental imaging studies, such as additional mammographic views or an ultrasound, and that I needed to go in for a retake. Of course, my husband and I immediately Googled the chances of a callback. We found out that apparently a lot of women do get callbacks on their first mammogram, since there is no baseline to compare against; hence it’s not a real concern. As such, we did not make much of it. On the morning of March 13, we went in casually for the retake, i.e. a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound. After reviewing the new images, the radiologists said I needed to come back the same afternoon for a biopsy following their standard protocol of time between the imaging and the biopsy procedure. I was in no mood to eat, but forced myself to have lunch. I asked my husband to join me again for the second visit of the day to the radiology center. I knew I might not be cautious at the wheel if I drove, given all the craziness, and he too wanted to be with me for the biopsy. I had a core needle biopsy done and a coil marker placed at the site of the tumor finding. I knew I did not have much hope when the radiologist accidentally grunted while pushing in the needle and hit a hard mass. After the procedure, the radiologist sat down with me and my husband and reviewed the findings. She said that she did not like what she was seeing, that we should brace ourselves, and handed us a list of local breast surgeons. She asked us to wait for the official pathological results from the biopsy, but also advised us to start screening/reaching out to breast surgeons so the cancerous tumor could be taken out as soon as possible. This whole time I had been holding strong, but at this point, I felt a lone teardrop stream down one cheek. The next few days were a blur. My husband and I are not from the medical field, I did not have any family history of breast cancer, I did not know a single woman in my social circle that had breast cancer, hence we were practically cancer-illiterate. I started researching breast cancer in general: its types , stages, causes, grades, treatment options, etc. I gathered my questions for the surgeon for our first meeting. We also looked at top breast surgeons in the area, and we narrowed down our choices. We decided we would seek a second opinion to validate my treatment plan, so I got on the books of two. All this while trying to maintain some form of normalcy in our daily life without being overcome with the fear of the unknown. Two things that I did decide on at the very onset were to stay strong and to be transparent with my daughter. Our 11-year-old daughter is a mature kid. I did not want to withhold information from her; I did not want her to go online and try to find answers for herself. I wanted her to be able to ask me questions openly; I wanted an open dialogue; I did not want her to bottle up her feelings and her fear. I wanted her to know that the doctors and I would do the best we could to see this through, but at the same time I did not want to overwhelm her. I knew she could handle this if I was right beside her and if I was sharing information with her at a level that was age appropriate. And to this day I think those were two solid decisions I made. We have a ritual of spending about 30-45 minutes of mommy-daughter time before bed every night, and that’s our time to talk about our lives, how our day went, our feelings, our dreams… anything under the sun, basically. That was my time to have those transparent discussions with her. And I know she continues to thrive because she is empowered to ask questions and have an open dialogue with me about something as disruptive as cancer. Sunday, March 19, 2023. We were anxiously waiting on the official biopsy results the entire week. And while our family was out on a casual drive and grabbing an early dinner, I got a call from my radiologist. I wasn’t expecting a call on a Sunday… so I knew the results had to be bad. And they were. I was positive for breast cancer. I had stage I invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC) and ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), ER/PR+ HER2- breast cancer. Since March 19, I’ve had a slew of doctors’ appointments with breast surgeons, reconstruction surgeons, and oncologists. I’ve had MRIs, blood work, and CT scans. I had a bilateral mastectomy, sentinel node biopsy, and reconstruction phase 1 with tissue expanders. After my mastectomy on May 5, I received my pathology results and Oncotype DX results, had chemo port placement surgery on June 20, and had Taxotere-cyclophosphamide (TC) chemotherapy from June 26 to August 28. Up next, I have reconstruction phase 2 surgery (removal of expanders and DIEP flap reconstruction). Then I will start hormone therapy, in which I will be taking tamoxifen for five years. Even while going through treatments and enduring bad side effects, cancer could not take away my desire to stay positive, to be grateful for the support I have, to enjoy the present, to never give up and to find ways to give back. I find myself reflecting these days: What am I doing to leave this world a better place than I came into? What legacy am I going to leave behind? Have I helped others enough who might not have the same privileges as me? I feel that self-reflections like these make me fall in love with life and help me gain more clarity of my life’s purpose. Often I am so caught up hustling and simply living my everyday life that I fail to recognize opportunities where I could have been of service in a greater capacity than taking care of just my family and loved ones. Often I get so wrapped up in enjoying the fruits of today that I forget to plant seeds for the future. But the things I do now, after my diagnosis, that genuinely make me happy inside are journaling/blogging, meditation, yoga, nature walks, sharing knowledge and awareness through social media, and advocating for mammograms and health screenings. I am honored to have been chosen as one of the ten “ 2023 Faces of Hope ” for the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer Washington DC Walk by the American Cancer Society. I intend to keep fundraising for cancer support organizations, to keep working with newly diagnosed cancer patients and sharing my journey, and to keep researching and educating myself. Cancer is tough, but I am tougher! Connect with Jayita: Tumblr Facebook YouTube Instagram Learn More: Newly Diagnosed Questions to Ask Your Breast Surgeon Breast Cancer in Young Women: Common Questions Answered The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping DIEP Flap Results On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations DIEP Flap Reconstruction – What you need to know about Changes in Insurance Codes

By Lakysha Laing Turning 50 is a milestone birthday for many people. It’s a time to reflect on the past half-century and to look forward to the next. It’s also a time to celebrate all that you’ve accomplished and to be grateful for the good things in your life. For me, turning 50 is even more special because it’s also my fifth year in remission from breast cancer. October is my birthday month, as well as Breast Cancer Awareness Month. At the age of 45, I was diagnosed with stage 1A, ER & PR+, HER 2- invasive ductal carcinoma , breast cancer. My Oncotype score (used to predict the risk of the cancer coming back and to help doctors decide whether chemotherapy was necessary) was considered high risk at 56 out of 100. My breast cancer diagnosis was a devastating blow, but I was determined to fight. I went through numerous surgeries, eight rounds of chemotherapy, 30 sessions of radiation, and continuous treatment for lymphedema. With all of this, I’m so grateful to say that I’m now cancer-free and call myself the #JoyfulSurvivor . This time is a reminder to me of how precious life is and to cherish every moment. Here are a few things that I’ve learned over the past five years and now turning 50: I know myself better than ever before, and I’m more confident in my abilities. I’ve had the opportunity to learn from my mistakes and to grow as a person. I no longer seek external validation from others to make new friends, get that next role or do what is best for me. I just do me! Writing a book is a liberating and transformative experience. For me, completing The Strength of Silk – Living a Life of Grace & Gratitude in December 2021 was a major turning point in my journey towards freedom and self-discovery. It helped me break free from the limitations I had imposed upon myself and the ones that others had placed upon me. I received honorable mentions for my book in 2022 and 2023 from Reader’s Favorite International Book Contest. Gratitude is everything. I’m so grateful for my family and friends who supported me through my cancer journey. I’m also grateful for my doctors and nurses who gave me the best possible care. Life is short. Don’t waste your time on things that hold little importance. Focus on the things that make you happy and that bring you joy. Every day is a gift. Make the most of each and every day. I encourage everyone to take some time to reflect on your blessings. Be grateful for all that you have, and never forget to cherish the people you love. Connect with Lakysha: Instagram Read More: New Meanings and Shifting Priorities The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping Prioritizing Myself On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Discovering Your Divine Purpose

By Stephanie Hargis My name is Stephanie Hargis. I am 26 years old, married, and have a four-year-old daughter. In March 2022, I found a lump in my right breast and went to the doctor. I, along with my nurses and doctors, thought it could’ve just been a swollen lymph node since the lump was painful, I had no family history of cancer, and I was only 25 years old .  After doing a sonogram and a biopsy, I was diagnosed with stage 2 triple negative invasive ductal carcinoma. At the time, I was finishing up the last year of my bachelor’s degree in social work. I didn’t want to stop going to school because I knew I could use that as a distraction from cancer treatment. My oncologist used my blood sample and submitted it to Myriad Genetics for genetic testing. I did not meet with a genetic counselor. I was told by the surgical oncologist that I could wait for the results in order to make a decision about what surgery to do. I had made up my mind on doing a double mastectomy and decided to not wait. In April 2022 I had a double mastectomy. It turns out I made a good choice! I tested positive for the BRCA 1 gene mutation . This gene mutation puts me at risk for ovarian cancer, so I will need to have surgery in a couple of years to have my ovaries removed. I remember feeling like I was “defective” because no one else in my family had cancer. Two days after my mastectomy, I was back in the hospital for a week because of a fully collapsed lung. I started chemotherapy (doxorubicin and Cytoxan) that June, and completed my treatment on Halloween. I graduated magna cum laude from The University of Texas at Arlington in December. I continued going to check ups and getting multiple scans. In April 2023, I found out the cancer was back . I actually did not have any symptoms and did not feel anything different. It was much easier to notice something out of the ordinary on my body before any surgery and implants. The oncologist had ordered a PET scan and that came back clear. Less than two weeks later, I had an appointment with my surgical oncologist where she felt a strange lump. I had to go do a sonogram and biopsy, and that is how I found out about the cancer again. I had to have more scans done to make sure it hadn’t spread, which thankfully it hadn’t. In May I had surgery again. This time I had a lumpectomy and 12 lymph nodes taken out, which thankfully tested negative for cancer. I had to do physical therapy to get my arm moving like normal again.  Coincidentally, I started chemo and immunotherapy  in June 2023, on the same day that I had started chemo the year before. The chemo I was administered was gemcitabine and carboplatin, which made me feel really sick. The immunotherapy I received was Keytruda. On October 27, 2023, I finished chemo and the first part of immunotherapy. I am currently going through radiation. I have to do a total of 20 sessions. I am almost halfway done and I am experiencing what feels and looks like a sunburn. I will be completing radiation on January 18, 2024 and starting more immunotherapy on February 13. In August 2023 I started the advanced standing master’s program for social work at UTA and if everything goes well, I will be done in August 2024. This experience has been full of ups and downs, but I feel blessed to still be here today fighting and pushing through. The longer I have been in treatment, the more I find myself struggling with chemo brain and fatigue . Some days I cannot seem to get out of bed, but I am thankful that my daughter is understanding and knows those days are all about snuggles and movies. Other days I can get more things done and play outside with her and our puppy. During my first chemo experience, chemo brain would frustrate me so much, especially while being in school. I would leave school crying because I was unable to memorize information that I would need for tests and quizzes. Over time I have learned to be patient with myself, and to be like Steve from Blue’s Clues  and use my handy dandy notepad on my phone to type things I need throughout the day. When I have a chance, I work on different types of puzzles to help stimulate my mind. A piece of advice that I would give someone who just got diagnosed would be to live your life to the max and reach your goals because cancer cannot and will not stop you. Find one good thing in every little moment and focus on that to get through the bad times. Thank you for sharing your story, Stephanie! Connect with Stephanie: stephaniemelo27@yahoo.com Read More: Breast Cancer in Young Women: Common Questions Answered 11 Tips To Manage Chemotherapy Side Effects Understanding Genetic Testing for BRCA1 and BRCA2 Mutations They Were My Blessing: Facing Breast Cancer With Young Kids Addressing Breast Cancer Recurrence in High-Risk Patients Immunotherapy Response Monitoring in Patients with Breast Cancer On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Yes, I Have Cancer, But What About My Kids? Submit Your Story: Story, Poetry, and Blog Submissions

By Molly Gaynor I’m 35 years old . I’m two years post active treatment for breast cancer.  I have eight more years of pills.  People tell me, “I can’t wait for you to be able to put this behind you.”  I’ve heard a lot of responses to my cancer that I did not appreciate, but it’s always been from someone who hasn’t been through cancer, so I tell myself that they just don’t understand, and they don’t know what to say.  It’s an uncomfortable topic.  When I hear this from someone who has also been through this journey, I wonder how you can say that.  Is cancer something that you can just put behind you ?  Maybe it is for some people. Maybe that’s healthy.  I think we all cope differently, and that’s okay.  I think we should normalize talking about life after cancer, though.  I expected chemo, a double mastectomy, and radiation to be miserable, so I didn’t complain much except to those closest to me. Once it was all over, after a few months I listed some complaints to my oncologist and he said, “This is the first time I’ve heard you complain.”  I explained that I expected everything to be miserable up until this point. I viewed it as a small portion of my life in the grand scheme of things.  I did not expect, however, that I would still feel miserable, and in some ways even worse after it was all over.  I didn’t expect to not recognize myself. I didn’t expect to feel foreign in my body. I didn’t expect that movement would continue to be difficult. I didn’t expect the weight gain. I didn’t expect the joint pain. I didn’t expect the hot flashes. I didn’t expect the worry.  Now, when I think about retirement, I sometimes wonder what the point is. Am I going to make it that long? How do I get ahead with medical bills coming at me all the time?  Cancer sucks. I think we need to normalize acknowledging that. That it’s okay to be miserable sometimes. Just don’t stay there.  Your feelings are valid, and it’s healthy to feel them and work through them.  You move through the negative emotions  more quickly when you allow them and move on from them.  Find a support system  online or in person. Feed the love more than you feed the fear. You’ve got this.  Connect with Molly: @mindsetmolly Learn More: Moving forward but not moving on… Breast Cancer in Young Women: Common Questions Answered The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping Unlocking the Power of Emotional Intelligence On the Podcast, Breast Cancer Conversations: Finding Your Voice With Brenda Denzler & Elaine Schattner Share your story: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Kate Wunsch My name is Kate. I was diagnosed with stage 3B inflammatory breast cancer in April of 2022. This is a self portrait showing what some days of survivorship feel like. Connect with Kate: @keiightt Submit your story, poetry, or art for our blog: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org  Resources & Support: Podcast   Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Maria Montanile I could have done without 2017. From beginning to end. My wonderful best friend, Teresa, succumbed to lymphoma in February. Her mother texted me, “Your best friend went to Heaven this morning.” This was around 7:25 am. I wanted to go be with the family, but knew they needed time to grieve, so I did not visit them that day. I am a teacher and I had an observation from an administrator that morning at 9:30 am. I considered rescheduling. How could I teach while crying? I did not cry for long though because this feeling of peace infiltrated my heart suddenly. I could still do this. I did not cancel. I was not nervous or insecure this time and that was very unusual for me. My administrator said I did a fantastic job teaching my small reading group. I have to thank Teresa for this one. Still helping me out. Fast forward to June. I found out that I had DCIS breast cancer, stage 0. I was hysterical. I’m not supposed to get cancer. What made me so special? I got local radiation and a lumpectomy. That was it. I was extremely fortunate. In 2021, I ended up needing a mastectomy. Still stage 0, but it was all over the breast this time. I was still extremely fortunate. Fast forward again to early November. My 93-year-old father died from lung cancer. He told me two months before he died that he had lived a good life. I told him about all of the things he had taught me, such as working hard for your family and being on time to work. In turn, he expressed the reasons he was proud of me. He took my hand and told me not to cry. He said that he would be okay. That was the year 2017. Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Linda Dugan The Start On January 6, 2021, the day of the insurrection on the US Capitol, I learned that cells in my right breast were staging an insurrection. A door slammed shut on my life that day and I consciously choose to not look back. A little history… I have dense breasts and have been resolute in keeping yearly mammogram appointments since my 30s (I’m 65). Into my 40s, my yearly appointments included sonograms and in my 50s, frequent 3D imaging. I never missed a yearly appointment. Then the pandemic hit. My annual exam was delayed by two months due to the facility’s Covid scheduling. I wasn’t concerned, but asked for the earliest possible appointment, which was January 6th, 2021. It was the first time in 30 years that my annual exam was after 14 months rather than 12. When I walked out of the appointment, the tech handed me a paper and told me someone would call me. I read the paper in the changing room and realized I had cancer . The tech notes indicated signs of tumors in my right breast and right lymph nodes. My phone rang while I was standing in a waiting room filled with patients and a disembodied voice confirmed what I already knew. No one met with me or tried to help me understand my situation. I was told that ordinarily I would have a biopsy the same day but, again due to Covid, I would have to wait a week. No one directed me where to go next so I had to find my own way to the scheduling office. Cancer and Covid I called both my gynecologist and GP on January 6. My GP set up an immediate after-hours appointment with me. Before the biopsy results were completed, he strongly suspected triple negative breast cancer  (TNBC), given the tumor size and the cancer’s swift progression. My GP had access to prior mammography and sonogram records (with no prior indications of cancer) and surmised that the size and spread were highly suggestive of TNBC. He was right. I was diagnosed with TNBC , stage 3C. Thanks to my GP’s diligence and community connections, within days my husband and I had our first appointment with a breast oncologist through Roswell Park Comprehensive Cancer Center in Buffalo, NY. This is a story for another day, but if I had listened to the follow-up suggestions from my gynecologist and/or the facility that discovered the initial cancer, it would have been to my great detriment. Both recommended a breast surgeon, who I would not have been able to see for at least a month. My GP said, “You need an oncologist right now, not a surgeon.” And he made a personal call to a noted breast oncologist that same night. My GP and oncologist have repeatedly assured me that the delayed mammogram may have actually been to my benefit (so to speak), as it was likely the cancer began after what would have been my annual exam. I’ll never know whether the delay meant the difference in staging—for better or worse. Both doctors also agreed that the initial tumor could not be felt by self-exam. By the time treatment started, I could feel the breast tumor. Nonetheless, “what ifs” occasionally creep in and I work to keep them at bay.   January 2021 was a blur of MRIs, scans, genetic testing, biopsies, port placement, and various doctor appointments, but in just over three weeks I went from the initial mammogram appointment to sitting in an infusion chair as the “red devil” (Adriamycin chemotherapy) was pumped into my body. I’m certain the tumor grew significantly in those weeks before starting chemotherapy. I give great credit to my oncologist and GP who facilitated the speed of these pre-infusion appointments. Cancer anytime is traumatic, but cancer during a pandemic is its own special kind of hell. My husband was not allowed into any of the facilities where the pre-treatment exams occurred. He was only allowed into the first oncology, first surgeon and first infusion appointments. Only our sons and daughter-in-law were allowed in our home. Otherwise I was always alone, but beyond grateful for my amazing medical team and the incredibly supportive oncology nurses. My close friends and family were there for me  “virtually” and found unbelievably lovely and creative ways to support me when we could not be together. (“Ghosting” by other friends and family was a sad surprise, but I have since learned that it’s quite a common experience for cancer patients.) In the long run, I had to develop internal coping strategies knowing that, as much as my family and friends wanted to support me, the challenging treatment journey (I actually call it a forced march) would mostly be solo.   My Treatment For chemotherapy, I first received four rounds of Adriamycin/Cytoxan (AC). After AC was completed, I then received 12 rounds of Taxol, followed by surgery (lumpectomy and axillary lymph node removal). The surgery results indicated I did not have a pathological complete response (pCR), as cancer cells were still present in my lymph nodes. It was disappointing as I had an amazing response to chemotherapy (the five-centimeter tumor shrunk to “pea” size), and my surgeon was optimistic. I then received 30 rounds of radiation, followed immediately with 6 months of oral chemo (Capecitabine).  Mental Health Support and Physical Recovery My career was in mental health and, early on, I recognized the need for mental health support  as a subset of my oncology treatment. Despite Covid restrictions, I was able to meet with a psychologist at Roswell. Within three sessions, she helped me develop coping strategies that I still use to this day. The strategies that work best for me include cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) with an emphasis on cognitive defusion, which involves detaching from thoughts to observe them. This helps to break the cycle of intrusive thoughts. I also work on “flow state” strategies, where I am completely immersed in a high interest activity (in my case photography), where time and distractions can fall away . I find these strategies helpful in breaking patterns of intrusive thinking, fueled by anxiety. I also found amazing support (via phone calls) from a cancer coach that I connected with through Roswell. She has been there with me through the ups and downs, and I consider her a dear friend. We have never met in person, and have never needed to. When Covid restrictions lifted a bit, I tried an in-person support group, but personally found it to be counter productive. I have also made it a point to write thank you notes, with explicit reasons for my gratitude, to literally everyone who has lifted me up and cared for me during my treatment. Expressing gratitude is shown to reduce anxiety and stress. I participated in a six-week session of the LiveSTRONG fitness program  for cancer survivors through my YMCA, which was a first step in trying to regain strength and mobility. In addition, I completed twenty sessions of physical therapy  to improve strength, mobility and balance. Additionally, with a dear friend, I completed two winter hiking challenges (through infusion and oral chemotherapy) through a local organization. Some hikes were successful, and others I cried and practically crawled, but enough can’t be said about the physical and mental health benefits of being outside and walking during chemotherapy. The neuropathy side effects from chemotherapy remain a significant issue; however, I have a successful fitness routine developed through LiveSTRONG. Fast Forward I have now reached 2.5 years with no evidence of disease (NED) —but with my TNBC diagnosis, or any cancer diagnosis, the future is unsure. In the fall, I hosted a fundraiser and raised over $4,300 which went directly to research and TNBC foundations. I recently went through training at Roswell and have been confirmed as a cancer coach. My own cancer coach is as excited as I am. I knew from the very start that I was in a new and unexpected life, and looking forward was the only direction I should take. I’m grateful to be here, grateful for an amazing health care team, grateful for all those that supported me along the way, and grateful to have opportunities to give my support to others who are just beginning this grueling journey. Read More: The Importance of Physical Therapy During and After Cancer Treatment Navigating Relationships After a Breast Cancer Diagnosis Exercise and Breast Cancer The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations The Benefits of Pilates for Breast Cancer Recovery Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Suzanne McCoy I’m a 68-year-old woman who’s fallen madly and deeply in love … with herself. Sure, there’s parts of me that, at times, get on my nerves, but I’ll often look the other way. This wasn’t always the case. After a nearly 25-year absence, my breast cancer returned to a place she once called home: my left breast. This time however, instead of a small overnight bag with just the essentials, she brought a much larger bag: a suitcase with a new appropriately-labeled luggage tag: INVASIVE ! I was not happy to see her again. I had two teenage girls . I had shared custody of my daughter from a prior relationship and my niece (who was very much like a daughter to me). Oh, and let’s not forget about our dog Coco, a rescue from a local shelter. At the same time, my ex (the other mother of my daughter), who I shared custody with, had been rushed to the hospital with a brain aneurysm. So here came the big “What if?” — What if we both die? Her on the operating table… and me a slower but sure death. Who’s going to take care of the kids? And... what about Coco? Sure, we had relatives who we trusted to take the kids in and give them the love they would surely need… but what if they couldn’t take Coco? What then? Back to the shelter? I was not in a good place! I was, however, in a relationship  with a woman for the past 7+ years. This too... was not in a good place. In the beginning it was good. Other than me, a “toilet paper under” kind of gal, and her insisting the right way is over… it appeared we were on the same page… with the things that really mattered. When my ex called me from the ER asking me to run to the house to take care of the kids, I remember thinking to myself: “My partner is not going to support me.” She had never been supportive in the past regarding me already having a pre-existing family. She had zero interest in becoming part of an extended family. I had no reason to believe that at this crucial time, things would be any different. A week or so later, I headed to my partner’s house so we could spend some time together. I had been spending most of my time taking care of the kids while my ex was in the hospital. When I called her to tell her I was almost there, she began to rave and rant, shouting, “This is not what I signed up for! No one else would put up with this shit. Everyone here at work says… blah blah blah…” I had begun to un-hear her. I knew then that it was now or never. I had to let her go. I won’t lie. It hurt. But I knew, if I was going to have my best chance at beating this cancer again, I needed to rid myself of this toxicity, to concentrate on another one. So, with the support of loved ones and a good medical team, I put those boxing gloves on, and brought the figurative semi-automatic (just in case). I kicked cancer’s butt a second time! I was overjoyed! I was grateful! Life was good! … Until it wasn’t. A new battle had begun. A different kind of battle. I was still alive and breathing, but felt a new disease spreading . I was STUCK! No medical team could save me. I existed as a much dimmer version of myself . It wasn’t that I was afraid of the cancer returning. If it did, we would attack it like we did the last time, me and my medical team with surgery, hormone blockers, etc... In that case, I knew the enemy. We knew what weapons to use. It was a no brainer, really. But this battle... this was different. Who and where is the enemy? Why won’t they appear? Show yourself, dammit! And then, one day she did appear. Staring back at the reflection in the mirror, I said, “l don’t know you.” She said, “I know you don’t, but you will. You WILL know me, and you WILL love me… like I love you.” Bittersweet tears fell from our eyes, just as they are now as I write these words. It didn’t happen all at once, but slowly... surely... over time... I fell so deeply and madly in love with her. We searched for ourselves. We rediscovered one another. We saw, perhaps for the first time, who we really were, or had now become. Together, we took selfies. We printed and displayed them on our living room wall. The scars reminded us not only of the battle we had won against cancer, but equally, if not more important (to us anyway), our victory over the battle within. Until this time, I can honestly say, I have never really loved myself. In my own defense, I didn’t know that I didn’t. Cancer took my left breast, but it was the catalyst for saving this life. Had I not gotten my second bout of breast cancer, I may never have found the courage to leave a relationship that had become toxic. I may never have met the love of my life: me! I am truly living proof that there is life and love after cancer. I also am living proof that you can be in love with two people at the same time. I recently met my “soulmate.” I am madly and deeply in love with both of us! What was that you said? “Who do I love more?” ;) I wish for all of you who read this… the absolute JOY of falling for yourself ! Read More: How Cancer Trauma Can Impact Your Life – and Ways to Move Forward Invasive vs. Non-Invasive Breast Cancer: Key Differences and What They Mean Parenting and Breast Cancer Navigating Relationships After a Breast Cancer Diagnosis Overlaps Between Breast Cancer and Domestic Violence On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Discovering Your Divine Purpose with Dr. Sophia Edwards-Bennett Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Brookshire McDonald Another bad side effect Has come along. I’m really happy I’m not writing a song. A ruptured breast implant Is the diagnosis now So I’m looking for ways To face it somehow. The thoughts screaming at me Are it’s time to go flat; So that’s the journey I’m looking at. I’ve called my Urogyno doctor Out of the blue; Would he tack up my bladder At the same time, too? Well, before finishing this I was told, My leaky bladder is caused ‘Cause I am old; So tacking it up Would not do— Another case of Depends Is right for you. I’m back to gathering info For the implant that’s gone wrong; However I still can’t see Writing a song. I’ll keep you posted As to what the future does hold. For now I need to breathe And really be bold. Things in my past Have been much worse Those were written In a much prior verse. I’m back to the mirror looking To see the strong me. Clinging to my SBC sisters As you can see. So thank you my sisters For all your love; I can feel the hugs from you And from above! Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Betty Leigh Hello, my name is Betty Leigh and I am thrilled to tell you that I am a 3-time breast cancer survivor. I am here to tell you about my non-diagnosis and what happened after that. In 1995, I was living in upstate New York as a single mom with my children, Michael and Katie. I worked at a local radio station as a disc jockey and also as an actress doing TV commercials. I remember one morning, lifting my left arm to brush my hair in the bathroom mirror and seeing a grayish lump at my underarm . I didn’t think much of it at that time. But after a few weeks I called the local gynecologist. The local gynecologist examined it and told me that it was nothing to worry about and that I should think about taking estrogen, as “I wasn’t getting any younger.” I left happy to hear the “good” news and didn’t think of it again, until… About a month or so later, it started to hurt and looked more pronounced . I went back to the doctor, who spoke to me like a silly child. “Now, what did I tell you last time?” he crooned.  “OK OK OK,” I thought, and left. I went back a third time and he scolded me for being overly dramatic. I left his office and went to the emergency room of the local hospital  and asked for an X-ray. They refused because I didn’t have a doctor’s note/request. I said strongly that I think I have breast cancer and asked, “Do you want to have turned me away?”  They said, “Um, well, no…” and they proceeded to set me up immediately for a mammogram. After the mammogram, I waited and waited in a small room and finally the man who had refused me came in and said words I will never forget: “It is more than suspicious.” Yes, I DID have breast cancer. I made some calls, including one to—of all people—my ex-husband. I asked him for help and mostly recommendations. It was a Friday, so I quickly called and made an appointment with Dr. Daniel Roses, a breast cancer surgeon in New York City. On Monday, I met with Dr. Roses, along with my ex-husband. I was examined, had a biopsy, and Dr. Roses told me that I needed to have a lumpectomy ASAP. Can it be? Well, yes it can, and the lumpectomy was scheduled for Friday of that week. For my surgery I stayed a week in the hospital, the children stayed at their school principal’s home with his wonderful wife, Laurie, and I stayed with my ex-husband. After the lumpectomy in 1995, all was well until 2013, when I had a mammogram and ductal carcinoma was diagnosed… OH NO. In those days, the procedure was a lot simpler. I had a lumpectomy at 7:00 a.m., went to a room to relax, and went home at 12:00 p.m.  All was well again… until 2014, when I had another mammogram and was again diagnosed with breast cancer. It was the same kind as the year before, ductal carcinoma. Once again, I had a 7:00 a.m. lumpectomy. My daughter, of course, was there with me. I was relaxing after the surgery and I got a call on my phone from my agent that I had an audition with Sophia Coppola for a Gap commercial one block from the hospital. “What?!” said my daughter. “Are you serious, Mom?”  Up comes Dr. Roses. “Hello, how are you doing, Betty?” he asked.  “Well, I am fine, I think all went well,” I said, “but Katie, my daughter, is mad at me.”  “Why is she mad at you?” asked Dr. Roses. “Because I have an audition around the corner in an hour ,” I answered. “What?” said Dr. Roses. “Betty, that IS crazy, you should go home and relax.”  “Well, I just got a call from my agent and I have an audition with Sofia Coppola for a Gap commercial.” Dr. Roses looks at me for a moment and then turns to my daughter. “Katie, your mom has to go to the audition .”  I DID go to the audition… AND I GOT THE JOB!  Check out the commercial here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uu7qI4NKjrY After each of my three diagnoses, my mind was free to face the future however I wanted to . Those thoughts and feelings were completely up to me. If I could choose, my choice was and continues to be positivity. With ourselves, family, and friends we can do the same. There is a beautiful Buddhist thought I want to share with you: “Are we planting anger and worry, or are we planting being grateful and kind?” Read More: 9 Early Warning Signs of Breast Cancer You Shouldn’t Ignore Why a Second Opinion Matters for Breast Cancer 10 Years of Survivorship: Cancer Is My Unexpected Teacher How Cancer Trauma Can Impact Your Life – and Ways to Move Forward The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations My Mom and I Were Diagnosed With Breast Cancer In The Same Year Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Teresa Nolan Feeling stressed Got a massage I lay on my stomach A stone, it seemed In my breast And I knew I knew I went home Didn’t think about it For a bit Until I did And then, I felt it In the shower I knew I knew That was May June, see the gyno July, get a mammo August, whad’ya know? All the while Flashing various docs My broken boobs I knew My mother had it When I was small She survived She was scared She was scarred Physically Emotionally And while she waited For the shoe to drop It never did She used to take me with her To the shop for her special bras So I knew About the differences About the frustrations About the indignities From a young age I knew Self-exams Dense Breasts Ultrasounds Breast Clips Biopsies Genetics I knew I knew and I was still surprised But not really Because I always knew And then suddenly I knew nothing A whole new language Her 2 Negative ANC PALB2 Red Devil?! And every day more to learn More to know In the midst of the unknowable Now the things I know are new I thought I knew But what did I know It’s a lot This extra job of not dying It wears you out All the hoping All the keeping strong This I certainly know But I also know this: I survived I am strong Often frustrated Sometimes scared Definitely scarred But hopeful And fighting And here. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Gail May Why are you so sad? Is what the Dr. said, you are alive and thriving, not 100% but better than being dead Well that’s easy for you to say was my reply, I’m grateful I survived, I’m thankful I didn’t die But the struggle is real and the emotions I feel are sometimes hard to accept, the surgery was necessary and something I don’t regret  Yet everyone says you made it!! Hallelujah put a smile on your face I wonder how many would say the same if it were them in my place. I look in the mirror at a giant scar where my breast used to be As I hold back tears I hear the words ringing in my ears, you should be happy you’re cancer free. Free from a disease that took a major part of me, and left me feeling less than the woman I used to be. It will get better, the Dr. said with a smile You will adjust to the changes although it might take a while In the meantime you’re healing well Your margins are clear so cheer up, smile, wipe away those tears. As I left her office I said thank you Dr. for all you’ve done, the cancer may have been removed but the real journey has just begun. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Marie McGuire My heart opens, blossoming just like a flower Receiving unconditional love extending this love reaching out to other hearts and as these hearts vibrate strong, healthy, energizing We connect with smiling faces as our hearts continue to share Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Jill Rackham My breast cancer diagnosis has given me lots to be thankful for. Despite my diagnosis leaving me feeling so emotionally raw. Thank you to my husband for being alongside me throughout. You were there to pick me up when I wanted to scream and shout. Thank you to my children for being thoughtful and helping me so much. You have been so amazing and both have such a caring touch. Thank you to my mum as I know how hard it is seeing your child go through troubles of any kind. Your support has been appreciated and mums like you are a rare find. Thank you to my family and friends who have taken the time to check in with me. Spending time with you means so much and your kind messages are always lovely to see. Thank you to my surgeon for your skill in taking my tumours away. Knowing that cancer had been removed enabled me to breathe a little easier from that day. Thank you to my oncologist for discussing with me in detail my treatment plan. Your words help reassure me that we are doing all we can. Thank you to my oncology nurses for always looking after me so well. Your kindness and compassion have helped me so much, I can tell. Thank you to all other hospital staff who have been involved in my care. You have made this journey more bearable and helped lessen the scare. Thank you! Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Elizabeth Brodbine Ghoniem I was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of years ago; I was sixty-six. Was I surprised? Not really; I’d already had two other breast cancer scares. “Third time’s a charm” didn’t apply. Or perhaps it did. One oncologist called me “lucky.”  They discovered the cancer early. It had not spread . Only surgery followed by radiation would be necessary—no chemotherapy. There would be medication to take for five years, but I could worry about that later.  It started with my annual mammogram. The radiologist found suspicious activity in my left breast. Unlike the calcifications she was already watching, these new masses had jagged edges (pleomorphic). The next step would be a stereotactic biopsy. Since I had had two biopsies before, I thought it was no big deal. But the radiologist kept looking at me suspiciously, repeatedly asking if I had any questions. That should have been my first clue. Later, I decided to look it up online. Only a man could have designed this process. Yes, it is exacting, but imagine you are lying face down on a specialized table with your breast hanging through a hole, your head to one side, your arms fixed over your head. You’re told to hold still for 20 to 30 minutes, while your breast is squeezed like a lemon until the last drop of juice. Then the doctor inserts a needle to suction a sample, and inserts clips to mark the location of the area in question.  It was the worst mammogram I’ve ever had.  Apparently, patients used to sit in a chair for this, but many passed out, so now they opt for a table. Improvement? Really?  I searched online and found one vendor’s website showcasing the device. The patient and doctor were smiling; they appeared  happy (before the procedure?). The process was described as “comfortable patient access.” That should have been my second clue.  After all, the company sells to doctors, not to patients like me.  Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for advancements in technology that allow doctors to discover cancers much earlier and save lives—mine included. But perhaps the same efforts that our tech billionaires put into launching rockets to Mars could be redirected to fund development of better, more patient-friendly diagnostic machines, instead of this medieval torture device. Maybe then, fewer women would avoid mammograms, and we’d have fewer late-stage diagnoses. The call came while I was on Zoom with my writing group. I muted the meeting and left the room. A nurse had the unfortunate task of delivering the results: cancer. My hands shook. Even though I had prepared myself for the diagnosis, it was still shocking. Fortunately, my husband was home. He stood beside me as the nurse rattled off: DCIS, grade 3, ER+.  The ductal carcinoma in situ  (DCIS) diagnosis meant that it had not spread outside the ducts in the breast. It was grade 3—meaning how different it was from other cells within the grading system of 1-3, with three being the worst, and was estrogen-receptor positive (ER+), indicating that estrogen was feeding the cancer. We didn’t know enough to probe  beyond “what’s next?”  We met with the surgeon the next day, who explained more. The plan: breast-conserving surgery—aka lumpectomy—followed by radiation, and then hormone reduction therapy. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer . Because of that awful statistic, I was able to reach out to friends and family who had breast cancer, including my younger sister. Everyone assured me that it would be okay. After all, everyone was still alive 7 and 10 years after the diagnoses and treatments. Even my doctor friends, including a retired breast surgeon, were quick to reassure. They had caught the cancer early. I was “lucky.” Surgery was routine. The only annoyance. No exercise for three weeks. My excellent surgeon insisted upon that multiple times. Please don’t get the impression that I’m an exercise nut because I’m not. But this was summer, and I vowed to get back into shape. Kayaking? Not allowed. Swimming? Off the table. Even walking longer than a couple of miles was discouraged. My husband, normally a drill sergeant, insisted on joining me for any walks. Instead of “walk faster, you’re too slow” I got “too far, turn around.”  I may have sneaked in a few extra steps. Just don’t tell him. Thanks to a ruling from President Obama’s administration, the medical profession must release test results as they become available. Helpful? Yes. Scary? Absolutely.  My phone pinged with my surgical pathology report . Of course, I had to look: 2mm margins, DCIS with solid and cribriform types (intermediate grade) with necrosis. Two pages of results that I did not understand. I searched online and found an article by the American Breast Cancer Foundation and tried to decode my fate while I waited for the doctor’s call. Thanks to my care team, the doctor’s office called shortly after. Another surgery was not needed; they had gotten all the cancer. The margins were clear, at least 2mm. I guess I missed the pre-surgery discussion of potentially more than one surgery. At least it was irrelevant. But what about the other results: necrosis, tubular, a decrease from grade 3 to grade 2? Did this mean I could skip radiation?  Two days later my husband and I met with the radiation oncologist. During the exam, the doctor remarked on how my anatomy was ideally suited for radiation; she liked the separation of my breasts. Should I be flattered?  Radiation, like chemotherapy, is meant to kill any remaining cancer cells to reduce the risk of migration and recurrence. But nothing comes without risks. All I could think of was Marie Curie, the first woman to win the Nobel Prize for her breakthrough research on the chemistry of radioactive substances. She had died from too much radiation exposure.  I wasn’t Marie Curie, and this wasn’t the early 1900s. But when you are told that radiation will be beamed into your body to kill cells, wouldn’t you also worry?  The doctor understood my hesitancy. A new test, DCISionRT, could be done to determine my individualized risk for recurrence and benefit from radiation. “Tests are good,” my husband uttered. Unlike our first call, he had come prepared with questions. He did not earn his PhD and become a professor at MIT without his fair share of research. “Just one more question,” he said and asked a slew more, which the doctor patiently answered.   The results from this new test would take two weeks. In the meantime, I was stuck in limbo, unable to plan my future. The doctor understood and agreed to schedule our next appointment as if we were moving forward with radiation while we awaited the results. This was prophetic because, sure enough, I was at high risk for recurrence, and radiation would reduce that risk by more than half.  To prepare for radiation, you first undergo mapping. This process is conducted using a CT/simulator, which scans and maps the breast area to be targeted and the areas to be blocked (your heart and lungs). Tattoos are applied in strategic locations; these are small freckle-sized markings that the radiation technicians will use to align your body during radiation therapy. I have four of these: one on my left side, one on my right side, one in the middle of my front, and the last in the middle of my back, all aligned with my breasts. This involves a pin prick into the skin. It was uncomfortable but certainly tolerable. However, I will forgo getting any decorative tattoos, as I can only imagine how this multiplied by 10,000 pin pricks would feel. I leave that to others. After the mapping session, the team—the radiation oncologist, physicist, dosimetrist, radiation technicians, and nurses—meets to discuss the optimal dose and transmission of the radiating beams, as well as your position during treatment, whether you will be prone or supine.  I don’t know why I struggle with the terms “prone” and “supine.” I know that one means lying with your face down and the other with your face up, but I get tripped up sometimes. It’s like when someone says to lift your left arm and you lift your right one instead. I was interested in the etymology of the terms. It beats searching for something about cancer.  “Prone” originates from Latin pronus , meaning to bend forward, lean forward, bend over—your face not up. “Supine” originates from the Latin supinus , meaning lying on the back, bending backward, obviously face up. Yet I’m not alone in my confusion. James Joyce in Ulysses writes:  “ He lies prone , his face to the sky, his hat rolling to the wall.” And, I wonder if Flannery O’Connor was equally confused or just wanted to be ambiguous when she wrote in one of her letters: “I too have been prone  on my couch this week, a victim of the common cold.” Wouldn’t you visualize someone lying on their back, face up?  A week after the mapping, on a Friday, I had my pre-treatment session, which included the team’s decision on my treatment. I would have eighteen radiation sessions, Monday through Friday, with weekends off. For sixteen sessions I would be prone, my left breast hanging down through an opening in the table. It sounds awful but really it’s not that bad. Unlike the stereotactic biopsy, your breast hangs free—no compression. For the last two sessions, I would be supine for a “cone down,” the radiation field narrowed for an extra boost, not necessarily a higher dose.  The radiation technicians—always two, sometimes three—introduced me to the linear accelerator. You can undoubtedly research this machine, which I did, but simplistically it is the device that beams the radiation on you. The technicians had me lie prone on the x-ray table, aligning my body to the exact position recommended for treatment, and took additional pictures. All of this was recorded, and the machine was programmed to know exactly where to radiate its beams. Radiation treatments would begin the following Monday. The doctors and staff thoroughly explained the process, discussing in detail the short- and long-term side effects; none were serious, except for those rare instances that occur only once in a million. I wouldn’t go there. The sessions would take no more than fifteen minutes from start to finish. I asked if it hurt. They said it wouldn’t, but I’ve been given that same answer before and I was skeptical. I thought I had a high level of tolerance for pain until experiencing excruciating pain during a dental visit. The dentist, now my former  dentist, said Novocaine was unnecessary as she yanked off a temporary cap to replace it with a permanent one. “It will only take twenty minutes,” she said as she continued to yank away, and I gripped tighter and tighter to the side of the chair. Twenty minutes turned into two hours. Finally, she asked if the cap fit okay. I lied. No way was I going to let her continue and no way was I going back. So yes, I was skeptical when the radiation oncologist assured me it would not hurt. Day 1 came the following Monday. I was petrified, and I didn’t sleep the night before. It also didn’t help that my appointment was during rush hour, it was raining intermittently, and it was the first full week of school. Traffic couldn’t have been worse. Waze kept redirecting me and I eventually gave up and ignored their instructions. My husband was in a separate car on the phone, trying to calm me, assuring me that they would wait for me if I were late. Assuring, another word that was becoming all too familiar. Its meaning: to make sure or certain. At least that was true; I made it to the lab with two minutes to spare.  I was greeted warmly by the receptionist, nurse, and the two radiation technicians whom I had met the previous Friday. I changed into a lovely blue waist-length gown and looked back at my husband, who seemed more anxious than me as the technicians led me away. Tossing off my sandals and the gown, I climbed onto the table, lay face down (prone) and started breathing deeply. The technicians guided my body in place, smoothing down my shoulder blades, asking me to “relax my shoulders.” Okay, really! I am lying half-naked face down on a table in a freezing room, where there is a big machine hovering above me, and I am supposed to relax. Yes, they kindly gave me warm blankets for my lower body and arms, but I was still cold, and my claustrophobia was getting the better of me—more deep breathing. After the technicians assure me I am in the exact position, the machine is lowered and positioned inches away from my body. The technicians leave the room.  Moments later, I hear noises, some clicks and then a louder, longer, screeching sound. I try yogic breathing. In for ten and out for ten, but it feels more like the beginning of hyperventilation. The machine rotates across my body. More clicking and again longer, screeching sounds. Then it’s over. The doctor was right: no pain. I learned the screeching sounds were the radiation beams doing their job, one side and then the other. Fifteen minutes later, I am dressed and on my way home. And just in case you were wondering, I am not radioactive. Note to self: next time wear socks. Day 2. After battling with my husband over when to leave—he’s known for barely making flights—I win, and we leave about fifteen minutes earlier, which makes a huge difference. Same routine. I jump on the table, this time wearing socks. Warm blankets, of course, and the machine moves around me. There’s no pain, but later that day, I felt some twitching in my breasts. I visualized red, androgynous figures, swords and shields raised, battling the beams as they came in, struggling to survive and proliferate.  Day 3. My husband and I arrive early. Treatment is delayed. The server is down. Did the warriors win? We meet with the radiation oncologist. My husband raises the concern about the twitching in my breasts. She assures us that the twitching is likely a remnant of surgery and could last days, months, or even years. But what if she is wrong, and there are truly cancerous warriors inside me, battling to survive as I fought to rid myself of them?  Later that day, I received a call: the server was up. Could I return for my treatment? The warriors better be prepared because the radiation beam was coming for them again. Treatments went smoothly after that, but my mind still came up with all sorts of conspiracy theories as I lay there being beamed down upon. Besides the little red warriors—I still believe they do exist—I lay there wondering what would happen if one of the technicians moved the beam to my eyes, blinding me or my brain and wiping out all my memories. Of course, none of this happened, but my strongest recommendation is not to binge-watch four seasons of Stranger Things  while undergoing treatments. Radiation is over. I can return to my routine—whatever that even means now. Cancer changes you. Even though my prognosis is excellent – 97-99% survival rate, I realize that life will end at some point. I still hesitate before making plans too far in advance, and I find myself analyzing every ache and wondering. However, I also buy that ridiculously expensive dress I’ve been coveting in the store or that perfectly matching necklace. I don’t wait for “the special occasion.” Life itself is the occasion. Read More: Understanding the Different Stages of Breast Cancer: What You Need to Know Ductal Carcinoma in Situ (“Stage Zero” Breast Cancer): What You Need To Know Empowering Yourself: Questions to Ask Your Doctor After a Breast Cancer Diagnosis Understanding Your Pathology Report: A Comprehensive Step-By-Step Guide On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Understanding Nurse Navigation: Support and Resources for Cancer Patients Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

The holidays are fast approaching and my mantra lately has been “2018 is going to be my year”. I have already starting outlining all of the New Year resolutions and goals I have for 2018 from vacations, career goals, to getting back into running and yoga shape, the list goes on! However, amidst the excitement of a new year with new beginnings and opportunities, it has also been hard to realize all of the hardship my body has gone through from treatments to surgery, radiation, and experimenting with various hormonal therapies. I thought the hard part was behind me, but accepting and understanding this next phase, this next phase that will most likely consist of 10 years of hormonal therapies to ensure breast cancer does not recur, is equally as hard, and I wasn’t expecting it to be! Are we ever prepared for what comes next? I think it all hit me when I was mid-air, on an airplane and heading south to visit my family for Thanksgiving. These feelings always come at the most inopportune time don’t they? I was doing what everyone usually does around Thanksgiving: -My bags were packed, -I was visiting family, -The holiday cheer was in the air, and 30,000 feet somewhere over New York, it hit me, “I had cancer”, wait no, “I survived cancer!” As if somehow, I forgot what a tumultuous year I had endured; my hair was growing back, my energy level was increasing, I was back to work etc. I was living the “normal life”. But out of the blue, mid-air, I started to panic. My mind started to race and all I could focus on was the millions of “what if” questions: “What if flying is going to cause me to get lymphedema ” as I glanced down on my stylish compression sleeve from lymphadivas . “What if the cancer comes back ”? I have been having a lot of joint pain lately. Has it spread to my bones? “What if the tingling feeling in my toes spreads and the neuropathy travels up my legs?” Maybe I should loosen my shoe laces. What is going on? That’s it, I thought to myself, I’m going to be that person on the plane that presses the flight attendant call button requesting that we land in DC, I needed to get off the metal missile jetting through the air at colossal speeds. A minute felt like an eternity and I was starting to wonder if I was ever going to make it to my final destination, in beautiful sunny Florida. This fear, anxiety, panic attack, or whatever you want to call it lasted only about 20 minutes. I’ve never experienced anything like this before nor was I expecting to! We can prepare as much as possible for the required protocol of breast cancer, the doctors can tell us all about the side effects and what we can expect from chemo, surgery and radiation, but what I was not prepared for was the mental health component associated with cancer. To some degree, it’s the underbelly of cancer we do not talk about because there is still such a stigma associated with it. I am determined to change that narrative! In fact, I think it is essential that we continue to share our stories and talk about the uncomfortable. The topics of fertility, dating, sex, identity, and mental health! This is all part of cancer care – treating the whole person, not just the disease. If the quality of life becomes too compromised, we tweak and adjust. Suffering is not an option; the only choice is living! The holidays can be stressful and bring up emotions we may or may not be prepared for. Here are a few tips for dealing with a diagnosis and the holidays : Remember, it’s ok to say “no”. Don’t overbook or over commit yourself Invite family and friends over to help with the cooking, you don’t have to do it all by yourself. Plus the social company can take your mind off of things too. Use services like PeaPod to have items delivered if it is too hard to get to the store, or ask a neighbor to pick up a few items for you if you can’t get out. Don't be afraid to ask for help. Take time during the day for yourself. Cozy up with your favorite book or magazine and enjoy reading with a cup of tea Plan a phone date with a long-distance friend Take a 15-minute walk, get outside and breathe in some fresh air Look in the mirror and tell yourself you are beautiful, smile, and think of one thing you are grateful for on this day. Happy Holidays from the SurvivingBreastCancer.org team Have a story you would like to share! Let us know! Interested in writing a Blog post? Let us know! #BreastCancer #holidays #stress #hormonaltherapy

By Leslie Ferris Yerger, founder of My Density Matters So that my story doesn’t become your story. And so MORE women with breast cancer become SURVIVORS. ‘Do the best you can until you know better, and then when you know better, do better.’ – Maya Angelou Eighteen months ago, I was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer after receiving that phone call that we all want to get saying, ‘All good, see you next year’ from the radiologist’s office reporting on my mammogram and ultrasound just one month prior. After learning that breast cancer was in almost every bone of body, I was beyond confused to say the least. How could this have happened? There was much to learn. What I now know, is that mammography finds less than ½ of the breast cancers present in dense breast tissue, and that those of us with dense breasts are 4-6 more times likely to get breast cancer to begin with. Having dense breasts is a higher risk factor than having a mother or sister with the disease. Around half of all women in the world have dense breast tissue; it is completely normal. Therefore, though mammography has saved many lives, it can fail those of us who actually need it the most. Many in the medical industry have known this for years. It is time, now that we know better, to do better. It is those facts, along with realizing there is a better way to detect breast cancer in dense breast tissue that is FDA approved and commercially available but not widely used, that motived me, along with personal reasons, to walk, and walk, and walk. See a description of this technology here . Molecular Breast Imaging, which finds around 400% more cancers than mammography in women with dense breast tissue, was invented at the Mayo Clinic where they are conducting a multi-site, 3000 women trial comparing MBI to 3D mammography. Preliminary results are astounding. Out of 1000 women with dense breasts tested, MBI has found 9, while 3D mammography has found 2. Wow. It is this study at the Mayo Clinic, called Density MATTERS, that I fundraised for while I walked 500 miles from France through Spain, on the Camino de Santiago. Many people ask me WHY I walked the Camino. My answer depends on how much I want to get into it, and how deep of a conversation I really want to have, or if there is time to explain. So sometimes I just say: for the adventure, to do something cool, for spiritual or religious reasons, or even to satisfy the slightly independent wild hare I have always had, or even to fundraise for a great cause. All of these answers are true actually. But my REAL WHY is much more than that. It’s about that thing nobody wants to talk about. It’s about that thing we all dance around. It’s about that 41,000 number. It’s that 41,000 women per year die of breast cancer in the US. Just imagine what the worldwide figure must be. My REAL WHY is about kids without moms, grand kids without grandmas, and widowers without wives. It’s about careers unfinished, potential not met, and dreams not realized. It’s about lives cut short, and all of the hurt that goes with that. To think this happens 41,000 times over every year is heartbreaking. To think that there is a way to detect MANY more breast cancers earlier when they are curable, that is FDA approved and commercially available, but is not available to most women is unfathomable. So this is the REAL reason WHY I walked 500 miles. So there can be more kids with moms, more grand kids with grandmas, and less widowers without wives. So careers can be finished, so potential can be met, and dreams given a chance. The next step is to finish funding the Density MATTERS multi-site study including 3,000 women so that we take one step closer to Molecular Breast Imaging becoming available to all women. This is the technological advancement we all want, need, and deserve to have. Now that we know better, this is a way to do better. Please join me is spreading the word so that women everywhere, including survivors with dense breast tissue, can begin to have access to better additional breast cancer screening methods such as Molecular Breast Imaging. So that my story doesn’t become their story And so MORE women with breast cancer become SURVIVORS Now that we know better, we MUST do better.

Silence is Golden By Jeff Neurman Last week, in this tiny corner of the world wide web (does anyone call it that anymore? And when did they dispense with the need to type “ www ”?), I wrote a public service announcement in the form of some useful cancer terminology for people to know. Since everyone either has cancer or knows someone who does (a truism I am “borrowing” from the great podcasters at Thanks Cancer! (@ThanksCancer)), it seems that people should have some idea what all the buzz is about. Of course, that was just a short blog post and the world of cancer is vast, so I will have to take pen in hand again (another anachronism) to expand upon my list in the coming days. In the meantime, however, I wanted to issue another PSA (which also deals with the other type of PSA). You see, as important as it is to be able to intelligently converse with someone who is dealing with cancer, it is of near-equal importance to understand the many things that those of us with cancer would really prefer if you did not say. Now, before anyone gets all flustered and starts accusing cancer warriors /survivors /endurers /not-dead-yetters of being hypersensitive, allow me to offer the following: First, as a reminder, we have cancer. Second, just as everyone’s cancer behaves (or misbehaves) differently, so too does everyone afflicted by it have a different level of sensitivity about what can and cannot be said. This admittedly makes it a bit tricky, since one never knows how any particular person may respond to the usage of certain words. That makes for a lot of gray, and if there is one color that people do not like it is gray (except, currently, in their living spaces where it is a fashionable paint choice). To hopefully cut down on the anxiety that those attempting to speak with someone with cancer might experience in light of this, I have tried to not only list the words and phrases that are a bit sensitive but to put some context around them. A disclaimer: No one is accusing anyone of having anything but the best of intentions, but we all know where the best of intentions can lead (assuming one believes in Hell, which I think is a personal choice). • “Trooper”: Unless the person suffering from cancer is wearing a beanie and offering to sell you some Samoas or is sporting a sash while trying to earn the Emergency Preparedness badge, I suggest staying away from this one. Facing cancer is not equivalent with being a member of the state highway patrol or somehow enlisting in a private army of one. • “You’ll Be Fine”: I know of someone who is by all accounts clairvoyant. And although she knew I would say that before I did, she is sadly not an oncologist. Sure, the intentions behind this one, like basically all of these no-no’s are well-meant, it nevertheless feels rather dismissive to someone to have all of their very real fears and anxieties and concerns whisked away by a cavalier three words (one of which is a contraction, for crying out loud) as it suggests that those fears, anxieties and concerns are not justifiable. Well, we would like to think that the utterer of this no-thinker is correct, but to do so we are going to need to see a functioning crystal ball or, at minimum, some proficiency with Tarot cards or a Ouija board. An additional word of caution on this term: The more closely-related that the speaker of it is to the intended audience the less appropriate it becomes. Just because a close family member cannot deal with the reality that her child has cancer does not give her license to say it will all be fine, particularly while in the middle of the third day of one’s second round of chemo infusions while all that infuse is trying to do is nurse some ginger ale and keep down a couple of saltines. (This is just a hypothetical, of course.) • “Don’t Worry”: I will admit that worrying is not generally a productive use of one’s time, particularly when that over which one is worrying cannot be controlled. Nonetheless, to suggest that someone who has a potentially (if not likely) life-truncating illness should not worry is just a teensy bit Pollyanna-ish. Sure, some people just accept whatever comes their way. Good for them. Many of us, however, are a bit less blasé about having cancer. If we want to worry about it, then dammit we will. • “Good Cancer”: If ever there were an oxymoron . . . . I am not an oncologist (by training), but thanks to all of my worrying (see above) I am pretty confident that any type of cancer can kill you. And although we do live in a very competitive world these days, I do not think that it is particularly productive to rank cancers based on their potential lethality. Thus, since they all suck, let’s not try to rationalize that any of them are good. They are not. That is why they are used in tandem with the term malignant, which means, if I may paraphrase, “bad.” • “Be Thankful”: It will come as a great shock to many, but one can hold two differing thoughts in the brain at the same time. Or, at least some of us can. I am thankful every day for my sons, my wife, our dog, my parents, my in-laws (but don’t let them know that) and many other things. But I was thankful for all of that before I learned I had cancer. I don’t need a potential death sentence to be thankful, just like I don’t need someone telling me to be so. • “Seize the Day”: Okay, okay. No one has actually used this exact phrase with me, but that is largely because I do not hang around people that use such lofty phrases or, similarly, read obscure books by Saul Bellow. But I know sooner or later that someone is going to say that – or something even more obnoxious like carpe diem (Latin is rarely appropriate in polite conversation) – so I just want to go on record now saying don’t do it. The preceding has been a courtesy notice for those who would otherwise potentially stick a foot in a mouth. It is only a partial list, so check back here regularly for future updates as they are foolishly uttered to me and my many friends with cancer. In the interim, if you are uncertain if what you are tempted to say is kosher or not, just keep it to yourself. You can be silently supportive without offending anyone. Practice your sympathy eyes.

Last week I shared a personal post in our newsletter where I called out the person I was before cancer, and who I have become after cancer. The post was short, but basically, even 3 years after my initial diagnosis, I am still processing and coming to terms with my body. There is an important factor here we don't often talk about and that is mental health. When you hear the words you have cancer, yes, you know you are going to go through physical hell but can we talk about the mental turmoil we experience? You all responded to the call: Andrea spent a year trying to hold on to who she was pre diagnosis and surgery. She was leaner and more muscular. Then her lungs partially collapsed and she just couldn’t. Aromatase inhibitors have changed how her body works. Having zero access to estrogen means making muscle and maintaining it is hard. All Andrea knows is that she has to move significantly EVERY day for a number of reasons: Andrea states: My body needs the exercise to help maintain my mood. Exercise is the only natural mood stabilizer and it only works if it’s consistent and over time. My joints benefit from daily movement. Finding novel ways to move is fun, whether it’s a Zumba or burlesque class. It helps maintain a steady weight especially when I do weight lifting. Meditation is also important. Even 10 minutes of mindfulness is important. She gives herself goals like training for a half marathon, or to improve her 1 mile swim time. Having goals keeps us focused on what’s important. For her its always the journey and not just the day of a race. Andrea, what's your one great piece of advice for others going through breast cancer right now? "Talk to older women about what they do for aching joints, sore muscles and how they maintain their muscle. It is a privilege to learn from them. I hope to be old too one day. Learn what nourishes your now menopausal body. It’s less and different from what it may have been before." Brookshire's first primary breast cancer diagnosis was in 2004. She felt immediate denial and called her brother to ask his doctor friend how they determine the tumor to be cancer; was it by a person in training looking in a microscope and saying, “It looks like cancer to me?” Brookshire wondered if she was in the low percentage of false positives-not realizing at the time she had 5 aunts who had had breast cancer and were of the generation that the “cancer” word was never said. Her second primary breast cancer on the opposite side was discovered in 2006 (each found on mammograms in the same month.) Having fallen from a ladder, Brookshire was still on crutches when she was called in during lunch hour to the physician’s office. A nurse opened the door to the waiting area, and seeing her on crutches exclaimed, “ Oh you have that, too! ” Brookshire felt this to be a mentally taxing manner to learn you have cancer! Brookshire silently thought, “I guess this means I really did have cancer the first time.” Sarah is also 50 lbs overweight and is trying to navigate menopause after a total hysterectomy. She has the BRCA1 gene mutation, and has stopped taking Letrozole because the side effects were horrendous. "I felt like I was a very unhealthy 90 year old woman" she exclaims. Sarah had been active, healthy and have spent her life outdoors and, like so many of us, she is always looking for the silver lining. After she stopped taking Letrozole, she was positive that she would feel better, work out and loose all the weight. Nope!! Sarah laments that the weight gain continues and she still has horrible pain in her feet and ankles. The mental health aspect is one that she has not addressed. She is strong. She has always been healthy. She has support. She's got this! Cancer treatment for her was a breeze compared to navigating life as a survivor. It’s tough. It takes effort and awareness every single day. The mental health component is one that is real despite spending most of her days ignoring that component. Sarah is a paramedic and nurse and has been involved in emergency medicine as a first responder for over 20 years. She has seen things that are oh so traumatic for so many people. She states, "My mind and body holds trauma, I understand trauma. I put my work trauma in my “work box” in my brain. I didn’t put cancer in the trauma category. OMG! Really???? How did I not know cancer is trauma??" It is turmoil, it is scary and Sarah has picked herself up and carried on. Sarah, how has being less active, less healthy, less strong, less lean affected your mental health? "I believe it takes its toll and it is easy to discount. As I carry on and learn to live as a survivor and live and thrive in life every day, I strive to learn to be more aware about my most recent trauma. Our bodies and our brains hold trauma and we pay the price in our every day lives. At this point in my life I want to understand and be aware of how cancer changed me, how it has affected my mental health and be real with that. I want to sit in the fire with that, I want to understand because after all, I had surgery and chemo and medications to get cancer out of me. I want to address the trauma so I can let go of it and let my mind and my body heal completely. It’s a journey, one that will continue to teach me throughout life with all the bumps and all the joys."

By Laura Carfang How do you speak with someone about breast cancer who hasn't gone through it? Scrolling through my own social media feed, I am surrounded by "my tribe who gets it". These people have quickly become some of my closest friends! How do you educate someone about breast cancer who doesn't have it? Having been diagnosed with breast cancer, we quickly develop proficiency in our new language. We become connoisseurs of our chemo cocktails and spokespersons for our own advocacy. On one Zoom call with a breast cancer friend, I remember within the first 5 minutes of the conversation I knew some of her most intimate fears, sexual concerns, and funeral plans. We started to laugh as she mentioned that "we go deep fast" because we can. And frankly, with a terminal illness, there isn't always the luxury of time. I am transported back to the novice stage of not knowing anything about cancer prior to my own diagnosis. The "carefree" world back then when my biggest stressor was a job, a colleague I didn't get along with when my 20 something self thought I knew-it-all, or the fact that by boyfriend accidently washed my favorite white tee with his red shorts. Recently, I've held conversations with women who were either not diagnosed but felt something, or, were newly diagnosed and wished to chat. In both situations I noticed myself spewing out way too much information in my new fluent breast cancer language and desire to help. I wanted to share the the numerous resources I have in my toolbox, i.e., the reason why breast density matters when they probably didn't even know the term, and wanting to introduce them to the women in our network who were in similar situations... but then.... stop. Take a breath. This may not actually be helping, I thought! That's when I realized that I needed to change how I spoke with someone who doesn't have cancer (or newly diagnosed) about breast cancer. My lesson learned goes something like this: Listen first Answer their questions, not the questions you want to answer Provide bite-size informational nuggets Remember the person is probably scared, don't add to the fear Offer actionable and helpful tips Remind the person that you are there for them if they want to talk more or learn more I am still learning and I would love your advice! Have you been in a situation like this when you want to over share everything, (and I mean everything) that you know about breast cancer? What did you end up doing? How did you handle the conversation? Let me know and we can come up with some tips and resource guides for our community!

By Kyla Thompson All the things I wish you were here for. All the things I wish you could tell me. All the things I struggle with because you aren’t here. October 21st, 2014. The day a part of myself went missing and will never be filled again. A part of me that was formed over thirteen years. Like every mother-daughter relationship, it is special and unique. She is the person that holds you for the first time. She is the person that will tell you the impact you will make on this life. She is the person that will teach you how to make friends. She is the first person to help you become a woman. In the span of four words, it can all come to an end. And you have to find your answers to all the questions somewhere else. That is the most challenging part - feeling like you have to find the answers all by yourself. A challenge that gets harder as the problems become more and more complex. As the problems come up, I find myself crying because all I want in that moment is my mom by my side helping me. It has been 7 years and 4 days since my mom was on this side of heaven. As I type those words, they don’t feel real. And I genuinely don’t know when it won’t be a show to me. I know that she is gone - I saw her body laying in a casket at her funeral. But I feel as if she will one day just knock on my door, and the moment I open it, she will give me a big hug. As I dial her number into my phone, knowing that she won’t pick up, but just longing that maybe she will. Longing for something. A connection. I miss her a lot. Every year the day of her passing brings about a different set of emotions. This year, as I turned twenty, it was filled with a new kind of love. As I am surrounded by my best friends, the people that love me, and whom I love, I feel more alone than I ever have before. Alone, because none of them will ever meet or know my mom, the person who had a large part in shaping who I am. The friend with whom I cry randomly is a person that will never know for whom I cry. At the same time, I love the things I see that my friends have with their moms. I want my mom to tell me my shorts are too short. I want her to tell me the stories of the stupid things she did college. I want her to tell me about her first boyfriend. I know that none of these emotions will ever go away, and the love I have for my mom will forever take different forms. My heart feels like it is being shattered into a million pieces every time that I know she isn’t coming back. That she is forever gone. It is a pain I wish upon no one.