By Sara Kandler The last time I saw you in that wine-colored polo sweatshirt was at the so-called rehab center just before your right leg started to swell, hives rising like a red tide toward your chest drawing you back to the ER where your clothes were tucked under the gurney and three days later stuffed into a Stop & Shop bag along with your hearing aids and extra batteries, nose spray, toothpicks and scraps of paper on which you wrote notes barely legible — don’t forget to call Audrey at the hospital, answer the email from the investment fund, there’s an old friend named Deborah on the list… The Stop & Shop bag rides in the back of my Honda atop a pile of posters by eighth graders, poems and drawings of love and devastation. I’m told to unpack my sorrow, my regrets. I can’t bring myself to unpack a thing. A small white hair, a tiny crumb, the scent of you, preserved. I keep these piled up artifacts with me, instead. Follow Sara Kandler: https://medium.com/@sarakandler Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Gloria Shoon Who are we? Whole, complete, innocent children of the Divine How do we express our Divine consciousness? By living life in the present to the fullest of our potential What does that mean? Getting to know yourself and your gifts; AND using them in service and support of others Why do that? To assist humanity's ascension to enjoy the Golden Age of love, joy, peace and abundance When? Now, today, this moment!!! by Gloria Shoon Friday August 13, 2010 Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By William Laferriere I’m sitting quietly, sipping, and enjoying An amazing, rich, dark cup of coffee, Colombia’s bitter, black gold elixir. The open door yields a lively, beautiful, early spring day, April’s showers have given way To a glorious, welcoming, body-warming sun, carefully addressing The blooms of azaleas, forsythias, and lilacs. The oaks and maples align with their new buds, As if slipping into something more joyful, A light, effervescent shade of green, Nature’s sweet renewal. My puppy sniffs once, twice and again, Before launching onto the stoop, Eyeing the shadows moving under the camouflaged canopy Of the neighboring preserve. He watches intently, wishing only That he could join the new coyote (Canis latrans) offspring As they playfully wrestle with each other Under the watchful eye of their alpha parents. Once they break into the sunshine I notice the pointed ears, slender muzzles, Grayish brown faces, reddish tinges at the ears, Silvery-gray coats adorning their backs, And a fine, drooping bushy tail, resembling my old German Shepherd, Zappa. Mother waddles around her pack, Still recovering from the birth of these same 7 puppies, Knowing they are safe within the confines of this fenced enclave, Both parents dutifully hunt breakfast, Nourish their offspring, and display a primal caregiving. At long last I’m left with the following rumination: There is order in the natural world, For every call a response, For every punch a counter, For every torn leaf, a new bud, For every death, a new life. To everything there is a purpose! Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Michelle LaFlamme You were in love Longing to covet One body part Fierce on the outside Unfixable cracks The inner core Was not nurtured Striving continued Both day and night To make the “perfect home” Three offspring To carry our names One beloved grandmother Carried to the grave Weeping cracks A broken foundation I jumped the wall I built a future Peter had other ideas Shame and doubt Became my friends And CANCER Came for a visit Now is the moment Let’s sell her home Almost, but not enough Shall I cheat? And try to get caught It will be enough There are no more Happy Pills 24 years, mostly bad You called down to me From your successes Happy anniversary! I went to bed Closed my eyes Waiting for just one Brave Moment Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Ann Fonfa Never again will I be able to serve dinner, lift up my top and be the topless waitress (with something on top). Never again will we walk arm in arm in the rain with his elbow bumping my breast (we talked of this in later years as one of our memorable moments). Never again will I wear a 34D bra. Good and bad. He remembers the first time he saw me without my blouse. He was stupefied. That memory lingers still. I was 19. Never again will I fill out my silk high neck blouses. Never again will crude men admire my “hangnail.” Never again will my breasts be crushed in a mammography machine. Never again will my breasts be crushed against my lover’s chest or breasts. Never again will my breasts ache before my period. That could have been changed by menopause if it had occurred first. Never again will I catch men addressing my chest instead of my face. They certainly used to. Never again will I be so relieved to remove my bra at the end of the day. I won’t have deep red marks on my shoulders anymore either. Never again will I fill out that black corset that Barbara bought for me at a tag sale for $0.50. It looked so good too. Never again. But then again, I’ll never be 25 again either. And life goes on its merry way. And my husband just called me gorgeous in that totally believable way he has. © Ann Fonfa 1997 Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Sara Kandler A trip up to the Cape in early July preposterous says Mom August is the time my dear to gaggle on Ballston haggle at the flea market pant up the cliff at Longnook But this trip feels different because it is forty years hence no low picket fence dissecting the dune buoys slung over the back rail outdoor shower bodies wet and naked stark tan lines We’re bringing you back as promised that’s why I whisper an inn a pilgrimage clandestine mission your wishes Pack tee shirts toiletries a talisman Nestle you together mounds of gray powder heavy as clay of clay We hike far enough find the spot immerse ourselves release you Dad sifts into the dashing waves reflecting the setting sun Mom swirls in the wind paintbrushes poised singing spirits free and what of us of me? Follow Sara Kandler: https://medium.com/@sarakandler Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Shelley Caruso The morning always greets the horizon with color... The disappointment that sometimes enters our lives is just a period of reset. A reminder of how fragile all our tomorrows are, but at the same time how resilient the soul is. Adjusting your journey just for a time keeps us from becoming shipwrecked. Sometimes storms can take the wind out of your sail, but when the storm comes pull down your sails and weather the storm. I have been in a lack of energy. I have just realized I have been fighting to gain it back, which is actually more draining... My mind keeps racing to do this and do that and I am watching life speed past me. I’m so afraid I’m missing out on something when all the while I am, because my focus is just on that. It may take me a little time to get my groove back, but learning how to get there is part of the process. Today I choose to enjoy the sunrise with a grateful heart, knowing my time now is to continue to dance in the rain. Follow Shelley: @artofthebeholdershop Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By William Laferriere I’ve taken such great pleasure In watching a few of the latest Tour de France Bicycle race segments. I’m captivated and cannot help but draw Upon the many parallels of the peloton To our extensive breast cancer community. I dwell on it as a metaphorical gestalt: The peloton represents the community, The coaches, strategists and drivers Our myriad medical teams The spectators our friends, families, caregivers, & coworkers. For the peloton serves admirably as a collective body Depicting a united front and Represents our community writ large. The suffering, crashes, heat, crosswinds, Constant elbows, technical bike issues, losses, wins, Resemble our many successes, difficulties, setbacks, & colossal side effects, As we too seek to drive forward, To survive and prosper And to enjoy the road ahead of us. We observe the peloton as the bicyclist’s best weapon against The many provocative challenges, Mountains, weather, slick roads, Incalculable distances, Pedestrians clogging the pathway, And represents how We as a community Can best beat back our many tests Trials and travails. The peloton serves a familial duty In retrieving & returning the breakaway/lead riders, It also performs the admirable task Of recovering those that fall behind, & protects those Who have tumbled. The teammates and coaches within Constantly remind each other To take advantage of drafting techniques & of hydration and nutrition’s vast import For all recognize the significance Of appropriate fueling, output and rest. And so we too head towards The legacy of a finish line And know that our collective efforts Are most certainly appreciated, Respected, admired, and acclaimed. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Conny Reichardt I wanted to share my story of being a previvor.  A previvor is someone who has taken preventative measures to decrease their chances of getting a cancer they may be predisposed to.  I have been lucky enough to know I have a BRCA1 genetic mutation  so that I can make choices that will be a win not only for me but my family and generations to come. I do not have a strong family history of breast cancer; the only person is my paternal grandmother, so it was not as much of a concern as if it had been on my maternal side. So, I did as I should and went to the doctor for my annual visit every year. At 39, I did my first baseline mammogram.  From there I went yearly. I did get called back in once and had to have an ultrasound. I just had dense tissue, nothing to be concerned about. I’ll share a little more background on my health history, which has also made me proactive in my health. I got married at 26 and of course was ready to start a family as soon as my husband was. Unfortunately, it was not that easy. After many tests and being referred by my great OBGYN to an amazing fertility specialist, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS).  After trying many different options to get pregnant, we knew the best option for me was in vitro fertilization (IVF) with intracytoplasmic sperm injection (ICSI). Did I get lucky; I got pregnant with twins on my first try! I did manage to get pregnant without fertility treatments about three years later, only to lose that baby around 12 weeks. After that, I had to have precancerous cervical cells removed that were found during a routine Pap smear. We were told that in order to have another viable pregnancy, I would need to go through the whole IVF process again. We decided life was good as a family of four, however that is not what was in the cards for us; we were meant to be a family of five! I managed to get pregnant again without fertility treatments. After putting extra hormones in my body during the IVF process, I knew that I would always be at a higher risk for some cancers. Little did I know, that is not what was putting me at a higher risk for breast cancer and ovarian cancer.   A few years ago for Christmas, we were given an ancestry DNA test which included a health option that gives you some insight into your genetic data. I got my results back and learned a lot of interesting things about my ancestry that I was not previously aware of. I have no Native American in me, I am 25% Ashkenazi Jewish, I have an aversion to cilantro (YES, I hate it!) and my husband and kids are more Polish than me!  I also learned I carry the BRCA1 gene mutation.  I had heard of it, I knew it put me at a higher risk of breast cancer, but I had no idea how it would impact my life! I already had an appointment scheduled with my OBGYN, so I decided I would bring my test results and share them with him. Well, he had a different reaction than I ever expected. The first thing out of his mouth was, “Let’s get you scheduled for a hysterectomy with oophorectomy.” This is the removal of tubes and ovaries—or, as we like to say in layman’s terms, a total hysterectomy. I was 50, and I was not having any more kids, so I agreed. Because the BRCA1 mutation puts you at a high risk of ovarian cancer (which is very hard to monitor), and after knowing people that have had reproductive organ cancers, I was okay going ahead with the procedure. My OBGYN also had me see a breast specialist right away. The breast center I went to wanted to confirm with a genetic counselor that I indeed had the BRCA1 gene mutation , as the home genetic testing kits may not always be accurate. And it was my lucky day, I still came back positive on the tests ordered by my genetic counselor. The counselor went over all of my risks and gave me a lot of information. I then met with the breast specialist, who was an advocate for a double mastectomy for me.  I had just scheduled my hysterectomy; can we deal with one thing at a time!? My doctor was very honest and helpful. Together we decided to alternate between breast MRIs and 3D mammograms every six months. Thankfully, each test that followed came back clear, which was a relief knowing I am considered high risk. I got my initial BRCA results back in February 2023, went to my OBGYN in March, scheduled my hysterectomy for June, and was set on a plan for monitoring for breast cancer. After my second MRI, it was time for my annual visit with the breast specialist. After meeting with her and talking with my husband, we decided that a double mastectomy with a DIEP flap reconstruction was the best choice for me and our family. In late August after sending two kids to college out of state and the youngest starting high school, I was scheduled for another surgery. As I write this, I am still recovering from my double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction .  I do not know where I inherited the gene mutation, although there is a much higher percentage of those that have it in the Ashkenazi heritage than others, it really doesn’t matter. I know I have it, and I have to be proactive to prevent cancers.  There are other cancers that can be at a higher risk with the BRCA1 gene mutation, but I now have much lower risk for the two that are most pronounced (breast and ovarian cancers). I will still meet with my OBGYN and breast specialist once a year for checkups. If my story does nothing more for you other than make sure you have annual checkups, then I have done what I have set out to do. I could look at all of this and think, “I got dealt a bad hand of cards,” but I would rather look at it like this is the path I was given.  We don’t always like the path chosen for us, but hopefully we learn from it and can teach others. Learn More: Understanding Genetic Testing for BRCA1 and BRCA2 Mutations The Power of Knowledge (My BRCA Story) Breast Cancer & Genetics Exploring Breast Reconstruction Surgery On the Podcast, Breast Cancer Conversations: Prophylactic Mastectomy and BRCA Mutation Share your story: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Lourdes D. Heras After a breast cancer diagnosis… My life, your life, our life changes and the lives of those around us are impacted. I’m not going to lie. During this diagnosis, on several occasions I have felt defeated, but I know that I have to get up , and boy is it hard sometimes. One medicine results in certain side effects that require other medicines, and it’s a never-ending cycle. Beyond this, the fear of cancer recurrence is on our minds, some days more than others. This creates a significant impact, both mentally and physically. AND, when it happens, not only is the person experiencing the recurrence crushed, but so are loved ones. Remember you are not alone – focus on that light of hope and in the present of each day.  Not long ago, while on my way to see my oncologist, a person in the elevator rushed in a little agitated, turned to me and said, “Today has been such a bad day.” I turned to her, smiled, and said, “The day is not over, it can’t go on this bad.” As the elevator door opened, she turned and thanked me: “That is what I needed.” Of course it may not be that easy, remember that each person is different, and what works for one person may not work for another. But it is up to us to demonstrate empathy, to be understanding toward ourselves – practicing self-love, taking it one day at a time , even on those difficult ones, there is always something to be grateful for. Encourage a gradual process toward a self-loving mindset. Putting ourselves first is not selfish. By doing this, we will be better for our loved ones. If you have not been able to join one of SBC’s weekly support groups , I recommend that you do it. You will really feel better, especially on those days when you didn’t think that a meeting would help you at all. Learn More: Cancer Sucks, and That’s Okay Moving forward but not moving on… The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping Share your story: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Jayita Chatterjee [This one is for me, for my pink cancer friends that went through lumpectomy, mastectomy and/or reconstruction , and really anyone else that needs to hear this.] If you feel horrible, looking like a Frankenstein, with giant stitches all across your body… I am here to tell you it is OK to feel how you feel! It is NOT vain. If your partner or others say that you look beautiful, but you don’t like how you look right now, it’s OK. If you don’t want to look at your body right now, it’s OK. You went through a lot. You went through multiple surgeries, chemo, maybe radiation, immunotherapy. And yes, you are alive. But we are allowed to mourn our old self… not just the body, but the person we were the day before we were told we had cancer. Yes, it’s physical changes, but that’s on TOP of so many other life-altering moments. One day you’re just living your life, and the next you’re talking to oncologists, geneticists, and surgeons. The world will tell you that you’re supposed to be grateful for being alive, and how you look does not matter. But it DOES. Even when we get a haircut or get our nails done, we are anxious. Breast cancer surgery is not the same as a haircut or manicure, as hair and nails typically grow out. Chopping off a body part that you will never get back is huge! And having to make that decision is huge! You lose your hair from chemo, and you might want to wear wigs to feel a bit more normal. You have incisions all over from surgery or you have no breasts anymore, and you cannot wear your old clothes. Or you need prosthetics to fit into clothes to look and to feel good, and you want tattoos to cover your multiple scars, and you cry when you look at yourself in the mirror and you research makeup to draw on eyebrows, which you lost to chemo. So disregard when people say “Just be thankful you are alive"… we ARE allowed to mourn, and we do not have to dismiss our emotions. I always tell people that cancer is a journey that is not just physical, but mental and psychological as well. You normally wouldn’t have looked and felt like this. So is that our new normal? Yes, it is. Unfortunately, our new normal is now forever different. Having said that, equally true is that these battle scars will fade in time, and the hair will likely grow back eventually. So, yes, mourn. Mourning is healthy, mourning cleanses the soul, mourning ushers acceptance into our hearts. Mourn… but then keep living on. And wear the scars proudly! I’ll sign off here with an excerpt from Alessia Cara’s song, “Scars to Your Beautiful”: But there’s a hope that’s waiting for you in the dark You should know you’re beautiful just the way you are And you don’t have to change a thing The world could change its heart No scars to your beautiful We’re stars and we’re beautiful No better you than the you that you are (No better you than the you that you are) No better life than the life we’re living (No better life than the life we’re living) No better time for your shine, you’re a star (No better time for your shine, you’re a star) Oh, you’re beautiful, oh, you’re beautiful. Read More: Life anticipated her collapse, but she arrowed ahead and stood strong. Remember You Are Not Alone Cancer Sucks, and That’s Okay Moving forward but not moving on… On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Discovering Your Divine Purpose with Dr. Sophia Edwards-Bennett Connect with Jayita: Tumblr Facebook YouTube Instagram

By Olivia Smith Content warning: death and dying Olivia and her mom, Michelle, in Italy. “I have some news to share with you girls. I went to the doctor because I have been having concerns with my breast. I found out that I have inflammatory breast cancer . I don’t have all of the details yet, but I know it’s a very aggressive cancer, but I’m going to fight it. This isn’t a death sentence.” – Michelle “Ginger” Griswold , 11 months before she passed.  My mom and I didn’t have a perfect relationship. She did a lot of things that stressed me out, made me upset, annoyed me, and, frankly, hurt me. But I loved her; she was my one and only mom, and although we didn’t get along perfectly, she was a good person with a lot of love to give. I spent the last 11 months of her life taking time from work and visiting her when I could. I tried to push past the moments she upset me or stressed me out, and instead spend time working to understand her more and accept her for who she was. We’re all flawed individuals trying to enjoy this thing called life while we have the privilege to. Olivia and her mom, Michelle, in Orlando. I knew time was fleeting with her now more than ever, and we truly made some memories that year that I will cherish forever. One of my favorites was when I extended a work trip to Orlando and surprised her with a stay at the Princess Castle Hotel. When she heard I was going to Orlando for work, she mentioned how she hadn’t been yet and had always wanted to—my mom’s way of telling me it would really be cool if we explored Orlando together. We walked around Disney Springs while she had the energy, her with a margarita in hand, enjoying the scenery. We just spent the weekend exploring and hanging out together, just the two of us, and it became some of my favorite moments of that year, being able to provide her with love, support, laughter, and new experiences. Ever since the day my mom told us she had cancer  on the phone, my sister Stephanie and I both get anxious when anyone asks us to jump on a three-way call. We had to take many more three-way calls together in the following 11 months, none of them with good news. The purpose of this piece isn’t to document those 11 months but to talk about the last month. This wasn’t our mom’s first experience with cancer. She had stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma  about seven years prior and had been in remission, doing well. This wasn’t our first cancer rodeo. Of course I understood it was a much more aggressive and severe cancer, but why should the outcome be any different? We would fight it, and she would be okay, just like last time.  For my mom, that diagnosis did end up being a death sentence. One that came much sooner than any of us had prepared or hoped for, with a lot of highs and extreme lows throughout. The last three-way call we were on with our mom, she told us from the oncology hospital that she wasn’t responding to the third round of treatment that they had hoped would be a miracle drug for her, after she quickly stopped responding to the first two treatment plans. I remember sitting at a red light while receiving this call, feeling like the wind was knocked out of me while feeling numb in the same instant. After an agonizing 11 months with metastatic breast cancer , she had told me a few weeks prior that if this treatment didn’t work, she didn’t think she wanted to put her body or mind through any more. As tough as it was to hear, my sister and I assured her we supported whatever she chose for her body and her quality of life. As much as I selfishly wanted her to try everything and stay with us as long as she could, I respected her decision and could never ask her to suffer longer for us.  Olivia and her mom, Michelle, before radiation. The following day, I decided to stay home from a work trip I had been planning and looking forward to all year, as we still didn’t have a full picture of what my mom’s newest health update meant. We knew it didn’t look good, but we still had no timeline. I felt dramatic for canceling because my mom was in the hospital and not doing well. It wasn’t like she was going to die that day, so why did I cancel this work trip that was important to me? Thankfully, I had a wonderful boss who allowed me to have a flexible schedule while my mom was sick and spend as much time with her as I could when I wanted. However, I still carried that guilt for not showing up every day with 100% of myself that year.  A few hours later, I was sitting on the couch in my living room when my mom attempted another three-way call with my sister and I. This time, my sister wasn’t able to answer immediately. When I answered, my mom was on the other end of the line crying and apologizing because there was nothing left they could do. “The cancer has almost completely destroyed my liver and other organs. I’m in 83% liver failure. I have days to weeks to months left. I’m going to go home with hospice; I’m so sorry,” my mom tearfully told me. “Don’t apologize, I will be there soon,” I said. I sat on the couch in shock, fear, anger, and disbelief. I knew this outcome was possible, I had googled all the statistics. I knew this day would come eventually, breast cancer or not, but I thought we had so much more time together. The 5-year life expectancy of her cancer was 19%. My mind believed that she was so strong, always had been so strong, she would be one of those 19%, she had to be. And if she wasn’t part of that 19%, well then surely we would at least have close to another five years after diagnosis, right?  I live near Charlotte, NC and my sister was living in Roanoke, VA from the time my mom was diagnosed until her death. I called my sister and we made arrangements to visit our mom. I sobbed into my husband’s arms when he came home from work. I cuddled my dog. I booked hotels for my sister and me to stay in on our way down and back up, splitting up the long drive, hoping she wouldn’t die on that trip. Partially because I still hoped she’d defy the odds, that they were wrong, she had more time, the medicine just needed a few more days to kick in. And partly, selfishly, because I didn’t want to watch her die. How could I possibly handle watching the woman who brought me onto this earth leave it? How could I ever manage that and be okay afterward? How could I watch my mom take her last breath?  We hadn’t even really discussed her death  yet, and what she wanted. She told my sister what she wanted for a funeral, but that was it. She hadn’t signed a will yet, hadn’t told me what she wanted from me. We hadn’t had those conversations I wanted to have, knowing I forgive her for the things she carried guilt for throughout her time as my mother. I wasn’t ready for those conversations yet, and I didn’t feel like bringing them up. I told myself I was giving her the space to talk to me about it when she was ready. But in reality, I was afraid to have those conversations with her because that meant the end was inevitable. Continue Reading: The Last Thing I Told My Mom Was a Lie (Part 2) Read More: Newly Diagnosed with Metastatic Breast Cancer Living with MBC Metastatic Breast Cancer: Understanding the Significance of Stage IV Breaking the Silence on End-of-Life: What is a Death Doula? Supporting Loved Ones with Breast Cancer: How to Offer Meaningful Help Thursday Night Support Groups On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations A Caregivers Guide to Cancer 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 Olivia Smith Content warning: death and dying Read part 1 of Olivia’s story: The Last Thing I Told My Mom Was a Lie (Part 1) Olivia and her mom, Michelle, out to see Barbie. My sister met me in South Carolina and we drove with my 2-month-old puppy down to Florida, stopping for the night along the way. The time is still such a fog; it seemed so quick, and it felt like I was moving through a vat of honey all at once, almost as if life was happening to me and I wasn’t in my body. I was terrified to get there and see how she looked. Before this round of cancer, she was always very fit and healthy, enjoying the gym . For much of her life, she was ripped. Over the past 11 months, she had shrunk over 3 inches from the tumors along her spine and compression fractures from the cancer. She was a bit hunched over and had lost a lot of weight. She refused to look at herself in the mirror, which broke my heart. She was beautiful, but had spent her 56 years on this Earth having a bad relationship with her body, including eating disorders. The changes the cancer made to her body exacerbated her low body image and this was a big struggle for her.   On my previous trip down, two weeks prior, her weight loss and new height were pretty evident. But it was still a shock to see her only two weeks later, so very frail and her complexion looking a grayish yellow. She came outside to see us, so excited we were there, and my stomach dropped seeing the changes, making it feel real. I tried to mask the shock from my face so she wouldn’t notice. As our mom, she was already more afraid of the effect her death would have on her daughters than her fear of death itself. The next few days passed in a blur; the hospice care team finally came to do an intake on Friday. By then, my mom’s speech was a bit slurred. She also left with her husband Friday to complete her will. In her 11 months with this cancer, she had yet to do that until the last possible minute. I spent the days with her and my sister while she was awake, playing with my puppy while trying to keep his high energy from bothering my mom. We tried our best to make her laugh, keep her comfortable, and be there for her, but we had no clue how much longer she had left. I spent the nights sobbing on the floor in their bathroom by myself before I took a shower. I was so afraid of what was to come and how I could survive it. I tried to keep my pain and fear to myself, even though we were all experiencing it.  That Saturday, my sister and I were lying by my mom’s pool while she rested, and I decided to read the hospice pamphlet. The back of it had signs of coming death to look for, grouping it by how soon death was to be anticipated. One sign that meant death was coming very quickly was swelling and discoloration of the feet and ankles. Later that day, I noticed that her feet and ankles were swollen and discolored. I looked at my sister and asked if she’d read that pamphlet. “Yup,” she said. “Did you see Mom’s feet?” I asked. “Yup,” she said. And we just nodded and sighed, knowing it was coming soon.  This was all happening in August, but we were thinking ahead to Thanksgiving, as it was my mom’s favorite holiday. We had planned to go down that Thanksgiving to spend it with her in case it was her last, and to celebrate my sister’s master’s degree graduation, but we didn’t make it. At the suggestion of one of my best friends, we decided we would do Thanksgiving for my mom that Sunday and invited a few close people to celebrate with her. By the time Sunday came, my mom was barely leaving the hospice bed, except to try to use the restroom.  That morning, my mom’s husband told us that she told him she didn’t know how much time she had left, and we took it as a sign of goodbye. Later, my mom asked for my sister and me. She told us she loved us very much and was proud of us. We then knew she was definitely saying goodbye. I asked her if she was scared, hoping she would tell me no and that she was at peace and ready to go to set my mind at ease. But she wasn’t. She barely got the words out, “Yes, I’m scared,” and it broke my heart. I hugged her and tried to keep myself together. Just as my step sister and family friends were arriving, I left her room and cried while mashing potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner. I wasn’t ready for this.  My mom wasn’t well enough to sit and eat with us. Right before dinner, she had her first hospice nurse visit. The nurse told us she was at the five-day or less timeline, gave us some emergency medicine, and gave my mom an anxiety and pain pill. We sat down and tried to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with the door from my mom's room open right next to us. She started groaning while we ate, and one of us at a time would go in and sit with her. Just before dessert, my sister called for me to come in. “It’s time,” she said. I stood by my mom, brushing her hair with my hand and telling her I loved her. I kissed her forehead while she groaned and cried when I felt her cool skin, knowing it really was coming. I had to get a chair to sit on because I was shaking. My step brother was supposed to be leaving for the airport but couldn’t because my mom was actively dying. We all sat around her for what felt like hours as she groaned and moaned, and her breathing slowed. We all lied to her, telling her it’s okay, she could let go, and we would be okay. My sister and I told her she raised us well and we would be okay without her, but even I didn’t believe myself. I didn’t want to say those lies; she taught me not to lie. “Honesty is the best policy,” she had said, but I had to lie to let her go, to get out of pain. I had watched my mom suffer for 11 months, and I couldn’t ask her to suffer for one more moment. It wasn’t okay, though. I didn’t believe I would be okay. Olivia and her mom, Michelle, having tea before seeing Barbie. At one point, she groaned, “Help me.” I lost it and started sobbing; my big sister motioned to my step brother and pointed to me as if to say, “Take care of her.” He immediately stepped over and hugged me, and I spent the rest of the time she was dying sobbing into his stomach. What do you do when your dying mother says “Help me” and you can’t? That was the most painful part of all for me. I had never watched anyone die before; I wasn’t prepared. My only expectation was seeing “so-and-so died peacefully surrounded by family” in obituaries. But this was far from peaceful; she cried for help! Would she be okay? Would she find peace? As someone who doesn’t handle not having all of the answers well, this tore me apart. After a painful 11 months with cancer, I just needed to know she was at peace and out of pain at the end, and I didn’t know how to trust that after watching her painful death.  Her breathing continued to slow, and eventually her groaning became quieter and quieter. Her husband noticed she had wet herself and asked us to change her. We moved her body from the hospice bed to her bed. My sister and I helped take off her nightgown while my step sister cleaned the hospice bed and got new sheets. We moved her back, covering her dying, naked body with a blanket. Soon after that, her breathing stopped altogether. She was gone. We said goodbye, and we all left the room, calling our partners and trying to process the news. I spent the majority of that evening crying.  My sister and step sister went back into the room after calling the funeral home to come pick up her body. They let her dogs sniff her dead body so they would know what happened. Together, they picked out an outfit and shoes to dress my mom in so she could look beautiful and have dignity as her body was cremated. My sister even applied my mom’s favorite beauty item, mascara, to her eyelashes. I am forever grateful my sister could do this for my mom. I wasn’t strong enough to see her again. I stayed outside when they came to remove her body, too. I couldn’t take seeing her lifeless body another time. That evening, after she was gone, all of us kids spent time in her pool, laughing and crying over memories of her. She was gone. I still didn’t know how I would move on, how I would forget the feeling of her cool skin, forget the lies I told her, forget her last words begging for help. It’s been six months now, and although I get flashbacks and nightmares about her death less frequently, they still come. I don’t know if they’ll ever go away. The pain it brings me is hard to explain. I wish I could take away her pain, take away her death. Olivia's mom, Michelle, with her motorcycle. Sometimes, I forget she’s not still alive and well in Florida, riding on a motorcycle and enjoying the warm weather. I still don’t know how to get over a lot of it. Sometimes my brain can’t comprehend that it happened, even though I watched the life leave her pale cold body that was once a strong, warm place to seek safety. Sometimes I have a thought cross my brain of a question I need to ask her, or something funny to tell her before I realize that’s not possible, and the pain comes flooding back again. I have to constantly re-remember that she’s dead, that this is real life and not some terrible nightmare I will wake from, which oftentimes means reliving her suffering and death. Sometimes my sister and I are forced to relive her death through nightmares and spend the next day in a fog. But I’m in therapy to process it, and the waves of grief  come less and less frequently. And sometimes I can remember fond moments with her now, and make fun of her annoying tendencies with my sister. Sometimes we also make other people uncomfortable with dark humor, and sometimes we eat what we call “dead mom cheesecake” and mope. Dead mom cheesecake got its name from my sister. One day at work, shortly after our mom died, one of her coworkers brought in a cheesecake that their wife had made for my sister. My sister was tired of people being awkward about our mom’s death and not knowing how to act around her. So, when she took the cheesecake out to eat it, she asked everyone if they would like to eat some “dead mom cheesecake” with her. Her dark humor worked and broke the ice with her coworkers, putting them at ease. They felt more comfortable around her and enjoyed “dead mom cheesecake” with her. Using dark humor may not be for everyone, but it has been a coping mechanism my sister and I appreciate. Sometimes it makes others uncomfortable, but sometimes it can help break the ice to put people at ease. When it’s just her and I, it can help make things more bearable and allow us to laugh alongside the pain.  Nothing could’ve prepared me for my mom dying. But it wasn’t until I read a memoir about a woman who lost her mom to cancer, who said her mom’s last word was “pain” that I felt seen and like I wasn’t alone in experiencing such a painful death. It felt comforting to know that my mom wasn’t alone, that maybe it was more common than I thought. That maybe she is okay now somewhere, playing with my childhood dog and looking after me in another way.  Olivia and her mom, Michelle, at a breast cancer walk. People don’t talk about death often; it’s not a fun thing. I often feel isolated by it, wishing people would talk about her more, even if it brings up some sad feelings. It feels good to talk about her, to remember her, that she mattered. Death is inevitable for all of us. Through her death, I have found a passion for advocating and fundraising for breast cancer organization funding and research. I dream of a world where nobody will have to experience what my mom did. Where no loved ones will have to experience what my sister and I did.  I have been hesitant to talk much about her death, for many reasons. It isn’t easy to talk about . I wrote most of this in tears, having to relive a really traumatizing experience. Talking about death makes most people uncomfortable, and who likes to make people uncomfortable?  Also, since being more involved in the breast cancer community, I see so many stories of hope and beating the odds. So many women working so incredibly hard to rid their bodies of cancer, like the one that killed my mom. Those stories bring me and so many others such a heart-warming sense of hope and happiness. I am afraid to share my experience with her death because I don’t want to bring fear to anyone experiencing breast cancer. Everyone’s cancer experience is unique, and thankfully many don’t end in death. There have been so many advancements in the last decade, improving statistics. However, death is the one thing that is guaranteed in life, we will all experience it at some point, hopefully in a more peaceful way than my mom did. Sharing my experience isn’t easy. I’d prefer to keep it to myself and shield people from the harsh death we witnessed. However, the more people I’ve shared my experience with, the more I’ve felt not alone. I’ve heard others suffering quietly in their own bubble, afraid to talk about what they saw. Writing it down and sharing it has helped me, and if this brings at least one person some comfort and to feel a little less alone, then it was worth the pain that came with writing this. My sister and I did what we could to bring our mom comfort when her time came , even though it caused us pain, including telling her one last lie. I can only hope that the lie brought her some peace in her last moments and that she’s proud of us and who we are becoming in her absence.  If you are searching for someone who understands or have questions, feel free to reach out to me at @gingers_breasties  on Instagram or at gingers.breasties@gmail.com . Read More: Navigating Grief: Understanding the Stages of Loss and Healing Breaking the Silence on End-of-Life: What is a Death Doula? Newly Diagnosed with Metastatic Breast Cancer Living with MBC Metastatic Breast Cancer: Understanding the Significance of Stage IV Supporting Loved Ones with Breast Cancer: How to Offer Meaningful Help Thursday Night Support Groups On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Breaking the Silence on End-of-Life 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 Kathleen Friel I had the great fortune of attending the Living Beyond Breast Cancer (LBBC) Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC) Conference from April 19-21, 2024, in Philadelphia. I was able to see several members of our SBC family in person, and my mom joined me on the trip! Seeing people in person is such a treasure. This year, I was a participant in LBBC’s Hear My Voice (HMV) advocacy training program, which dovetailed with the conference. About 30 people were selected to be in the 2024 class. If you applied and didn’t get in, keep trying! It took me a couple of tries. We met as a class for about 10 hours of Zoom-based and offline training in April. We learned how to be stronger advocates for ourselves and our friends with MBC in many ways. We learned about ways to advocate to legislators, encouraging them to increase research funding for MBC and pass laws that will bring people with MBC more medical benefits. We learned about research advocacy – serving as grant reviewers or patient advocates in research studies. We spent time brainstorming fundraisers and social media education content. We laughed a lot, we shared our stories, and we grew close. At the LBBC conference, we sat together, with our caregivers. It was amazing to meet people in person. Cancer is a strong bond. Similar to in our SBC family, we can meet someone and quickly dive into the intimacies of living with cancer. Everyone in HMV has MBC, which I think gives us even stronger connection. We’re eager to work hard to advocate for the MBC community, while also living with the side effects and uncertainty of MBC. We don’t know how much energy, time, or even life we’ve got in our future. I found it very uplifting to know these lovely friends who are committed to making a difference for others in the MBC community amid their own MBC struggles. We also had a class Spotify playlist! I’m not sure if I correctly submitted mine, though here it is . The writer and singer, Nightbirde, died of MBC in 2022, after shining on America’s Got Talent. I honor the bravery of our class, and all living with MBC. Nightbirde’s definition of bravery is to live authentically. I just love her music! The LBBC conference was short but full of information and connection! All presentations are online for viewing! We heard presentations from panels of people with MBC, sharing their tips for navigating this wild ride. One panelist brought me to tears – diagnosed with MBC at 18 years of age. Unreal. She just got married and seems to be doing quite well. Every year, there’s a presentation about the newest medications and clinical trials for people with MBC. It’s always a session that brings me mixed emotions. It’s great that new drugs are being developed. I have several dear friends on a drug that was only approved last year, and the drug is working for most! Still, the timelines give me chills. Drugs still don’t work for very long, as MBC is like an evil shapeshifter that mutates to become drug-resistant. At one point in the conference, a speaker asked people to stand up based on how many years they’ve lived with MBC. Lots are at 1-2 years. Once the speaker got up to 7-10 years, not many stood up. But some did! And then the super responders got a standing ovation, those living 15, 20, or more years with MBC. It was a mix of hopeful and sobering to me, as I near my 6 th anniversary of diagnosis. Getting to see my friends in person is the best part of the conference! There was social time, which included time to visit exhibitor booths. The SBC booth rocked!! Even @ImLoganTheGolden  Laura, and William’s dog, made an appearance. There were many exhibitors from organizations that provided support to people with MBC. Since I’m writing this on Mother’s Day weekend, I also want to celebrate my mom! She’s come to LBBC with me for two years now, and her support every day means so much to me. I spent a lot of time in doctor's offices and hospitals as a kid, and my entire family has been there for me throughout. The love, advocacy, and resilience of my mom are huge sources of strength and example for me. Thank you, Mom!!

By Conny Reichardt Read Conny’s BRCA1 Story: My Previvor Story Be Still  seems to be a statement that has to be drilled in my head time and time again. So, when my daughter said, “I am going to go get a tattoo, and you should come with and get the Be Still  tattoo you have wanted,” I said, “OK!!” August 28, 2024 marks one year since my preventative double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction . I feel like I have taken Be Still  more to heart this year than I have in the past. Some of that time has been forced on me, as DIEP is not a surgery that you just bounce back from. I also think I wanted to slow down and enjoy what I have. I chose to have the surgery so I could spend more time and be more present with family and friends. The first time I faced being still was when the fertility doctor  said that in order to get pregnant, in vitro fertilization was our best bet. That bet paid off in the form of twins! Then getting pregnant with our youngest after having a miscarriage in between the twins and her, living in fear that I would lose this baby also made me Be Still . Not an easy task when you also have five-year-old twins! A few years later, while on our last ski trip of the season, I fell and broke my leg. I had to wear a brace for eight weeks and be non weight bearing. I didn’t yet know what this season was trying to teach me. Two weeks after the break, my stepdad who helped raise me and who I was close with died unexpectedly. Being forced to be still during grief  is hard when you don’t want to sit and have every thought go through your mind. After many more Be Still  moments in my life, I found out that I carry the BRCA1 gene mutation . I wasn’t still; in fact, I really had no idea what to even do with the information, so I just kind of ignored it until I went to the OBGYN for my annual exam. Then, my journey over the last two years with being proactive in prevention began. Don’t get me wrong – I have always been very good at getting annual mammograms and exams, and always lecture my friends that they need to do the same… but what am I supposed to do about a gene mutation? I started with my hysterectomy , and during that recovery my grandmother – who was one of my biggest cheerleaders and heroes – started to decline in health. She was in the hospital and went home on oxygen (she was a young 91 years old at this point), so I went to spend a few days with her and play cards and even snuck out without the oxygen tank, upon her insistence, to have pedicures. What a sweet time for me to Be Still . A few months later, at the age of 92, she went to dance with Jesus. I was at her house when she passed and went home a day later to be with my husband and daughter until the funeral. Well, they went to the funeral while I was in bed with Covid, followed by three weeks of laryngitis. Be Still . So, when I decided to have my double mastectomy with DIEP reconstruction , did I remember I would need to be still? Nope! Instead, I thought, “What, 11 hours forced to be still while under anesthesia for the surgery, and another three to four days in the hospital?” Little did I know that this time of stillness was just what I needed. This last year has been one of healing, physically and mentally. Growth in my relationships , new friendships, some that came about because of me being open and sharing about my BRCA gene mutation and preventative surgeries. But, most of all, remembering to enjoy the moments I have with those that I really wanted to have the surgeries for. Our kids are all growing up: the twins are 21 and my youngest just started her sophomore year in high school. My husband and I are trying to figure out what empty nesting is going to look like very soon. This was one of the most memorable summers I have had with them, as we were able to enjoy a cruise together and the time the kids were able to spend at home was special. Were we perfect? No, but it was different for me as I didn’t want to rush and do everything else. I wanted to Be Still  and enjoy every moment I could with them. Does having these preventative surgeries mean I will never get cancer? No, but it did decrease the chances. Most importantly, I think I have it engrained pretty well now to Be Still . Enjoy the life we are given and those in it. Read More: My Previvor Story Breast Reconstruction Surgery Understanding Genetic Testing for BRCA1 and BRCA2 Mutations Exploring Breast Reconstruction Surgery: Pros and Cons Navigating Relationships After a Breast Cancer Diagnosis On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Michelle Sandlin, Living Her Best Life with BRCA 1 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 Charlene Meeker September 7, 2022 marked the beginning of my fiftieth year navigating the complexities of the human condition. I found myself at a crossroads of personal transformation. Between 2019 and 2021, I had extricated myself from an abusive relationship, weathered the challenges of the pandemic, and mourned the losses of both my birth father and my stepfather. I was ready to embrace life’s brevity. FEAR was an omnipresent force, and instead of expecting it to magically dissipate, I set tangible goals for the gifted year ahead. Foremost among them was a comprehensive evaluation of my health. In April 2023, I received word that I had tested positive for the CHEK2 genetic mutation . As I began meeting with my medical team, I found myself also confronting a familial legacy of breast cancer . My paternal grandmother’s tragic battle with breast cancer, which metastasized to her bones and claimed her life at age 32, is a story of loss that haunts my family. My maternal grandmother and my mother’s sister, facing breast cancer later in life, underwent double mastectomies and grueling treatments. In the delicate space between trepidation and resilience, I confronted a pivotal choice that would redefine the trajectory of my life. Confronted with the stark reality of an elevated risk of breast cancer due to my CHEK2 gene mutation , I stood at the crossroads of uncertainty and courage. It was not a decision born of surrender, but fueled by an unwavering determination to seize control of my destiny. The looming prospect of a risk reduction mastectomy  became a surgical dance with both fear and hope.  As I carefully considered the gravity of this decision, I realized that within the scars, a testament to battles fought would be etched — a declaration of an unyielding commitment to life. In that transformative moment, I chose the path of empowerment, understanding that by sacrificing a part of myself, I was affording the chance for a future unburdened by the shadows of what might have been. The operating room became my battleground, and the scars, my victory marks — a tangible symbol of the strength summoned to safeguard the precious gift of life.  Apologies are owed to Angelina Jolie for the ignorance I once carried regarding her prophylactic double mastectomy . Initially dismissing it as a purely cosmetic and vain choice, I now recognize the courage it took to make such a personal decision. Her celebrity status drew valuable attention to this potentially life-saving decision to greatly reduce breast cancer risk, and I commend her bravery.  The decision to proceed with the surgery was daunting but undeniably right for me. Opting for reconstruction  added another layer of fear, yet it, too, felt like the right path. Graced with an exceptional healthcare team at Vail Health in Colorado and supported by a beautiful circle of friends, I embarked on a journey that my insurance covered comprehensively, alleviating the looming stress of potential debt . Recovering from my mastectomy, I often thought of my family members who had gone through breast cancer as I faced the challenges of surgery recovery without  the added burden of cancer treatment. Their grit, courage, and tenacity shine through the genetic codes we share.  As of this writing, one week post-reconstruction, my mind races ahead of my healing body. The haunting question, “What do you truly want to do with the time you have left?” persists. I cannot revert to life before my mastectomy now that I have newfound tools and experiences, and my commitment to share my story, advocate for healthcare options, and support others on this path remains steadfast. Living a long, healthy life demands a renewed commitment to making sound physical and emotional choices . And punctuating it all is the imperative to overcome fear and embrace creativity — a step in the direction of a new chapter. In fifty-one years, I’ve navigated my fair share of frightening situations, but my mastectomy stands as the catalyst — a personal manifestation of fear. I can confront it squarely, acknowledging the depth of my abilities. The next chapter awaits with excitement.  Here’s to health, fears conquered, and the embracing of new beginnings! Read More: Genetic Testing for Cancer: What You Need To Know A Patient-Centered Approach to Plastic Surgery Reconstruction My Previvor Story On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Prophylactic Mastectomy and BRCA Mutation: A Personal Story 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 Stacey Fannon I have a voice of my own. Sometimes I have a frog in my throat. Sometimes my voice needs to say something, to bring comfort to a crying daughter. My voice expresses my emotions. My voice is a release of something heavy on my heart, mind and soul. My voice is a tool for well-being. My voice cannot tell a lie. If it does, inner peace eludes me. I am sorry for saying “I don’t like you” when I hear a recording of you. My voice calms me when I hum. My voice makes others laugh when I laugh - so in a way my voice is contagious. My voice speaks for my higher, wiser self. My voice reminds me that I am strong and courageous, gentle and kind. The voice in my head tells me to be positive. My voice says “I am healthy and strong. I am already healing. Healing takes time. Be patient. My body is designed to heal. Speak healing into existence.” Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Sara Corckran It was 2002, and I was a 30-year-old pregnant teacher who had taken the day off of school to sit next to my husband, Alex. I perched in the visitor’s chair, a packet of tissues tucked away in my very first purse . I loved that purse—I think I still have it today. It was blue with a subtle plaid and red handles, a gift from my mother-in-law that made me feel very grown up. As I reached into the purse for another tissue, I dropped the crumpled one in my lap. The tiny movement startled Alex, pulling him from his chemo daze . He noticed the tissue exchange and, for the thousandth time, asked why I was crying. It surprised him every time. To me, it couldn’t have been more obvious. I didn’t have the words yet to tell him I was exhausted from the fight. While he was battling cancer, I was trapped in my own kind of war —a relentless boxing match with my thoughts. My thoughts had gloves—a right hook, a gut punch, a knockout. I never saw the punches coming, but I felt every single one of them. I felt alone, powerless, and scared. I believed that darkness was inherent with cancer. Fast forward 18 years. I know it was 18 years because just a week before my daughter’s 18th birthday, I went in for a routine checkup. And that’s when I heard the three words I never thought I would hear: “ You have cancer .” The floor dropped out from under me , taking my breath, my balance, my blood pressure with it. Here we go again. On the morning of my first chemo treatment, I laced up my sneakers and took my dog, Oliver, for a walk. My husband walked beside me, quiet but present. The air was crisp, the water shimmered in the early morning light. It should have been a peaceful moment, but I felt the familiar weight settle in . That sinking feeling—like I was stepping back into the boxing ring. I braced myself for the punches. For the fear. For the darkness I thought was inevitable . But something was different. This time, I noticed the lights were on. I could see things coming . And I realized I wasn’t defenseless—I had gloves of my own. I had a strong stance, a steady foundation. And I had something else, too: a backpack filled with tools. These weren’t just ordinary tools. They were hard-won, tested by time, and refined by experience. They were the 11 strategies I had learned over the years—through my work in positive psychology, through the practice of resilience, through the quiet lessons of struggle and survival . They weren’t just theories or feel-good ideas. They were what kept me upright. What reminded me that I wasn’t powerless. What helped me choose hope instead of despair. Hope isn’t just something we feel—it’s something we practice, something we build. And when life hands us the unthinkable, it’s what helps us rewrite the story. That’s the difference between who I was in 2002 and who I became in 2020. I no longer believe that darkness is inherent with cancer—or with any adversity. The darkness comes when we don’t have the tools to see the light. But light exists, even in the hardest moments . It’s in the people who show up for us, the small joys we allow ourselves to notice, and the practices that help us shift our thinking from fear to possibility. I carried those 11 tools with me through every infusion, every surgery, every moment of doubt. They reminded me that even when I felt weak, I was strong. That even when I felt alone, I was loved . That even when I felt like I had no control, I had choices. And those choices—how we respond, how we show up for ourselves, how we frame our story—make all the difference. Actionable Tool: Shift your thoughts to shift your reality. When you’re facing difficult moments, ask yourself: What would I choose if I wasn’t afraid? Or:  What would I do if I truly believed I was capable of handling this?  This question has the power to pivot your mindset. Instead of reacting out of fear or doubt, start making choices aligned with your values. This practice empowers you to build resilience with intention . Resilience isn’t something we’re born with; it’s something we build . And no matter what life throws our way, we all have the power to pick up the pen and write a new ending. Reflection Questions: What is one story you’re telling yourself about your current struggle? What might I see or learn if I approached this challenge with curiosity instead of fear? These tools aren’t just about surviving; they’re about thriving, no matter the circumstances. About the author: Sara Corckran has been on both sides of a cancer diagnosis—first as a caregiver, then as a patient. The first time, she didn’t have the tools to cope. The second time, she did—and it made all the difference. Now she shares what she’s learned in her book Grit and Grace and in her free weekly newsletter, The Heron’s Perspective . She believes that while pain is part of life, suffering doesn’t have to be the whole story. Read More: How Cancer Trauma Can Impact Your Life – and Ways to Move Forward Breast Cancer and Mental Health: Recognizing and Addressing Depression and Anxiety The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Emotional and Physical Challenges Post-Treatment: Katrece Nolen on IBC Survivorship 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 Andrea Berting Two weeks after my second chemotherapy infusion, I found myself feeling somewhat normal - at least, as close to normal as I would manage during this phase of treatment. I could keep down solid food with some level of nutritional value, my bones barely hurt, and I was mostly functional with only one nap per day. I was unstoppable! A force to be reckoned with! But what should I do with this extremely limited amount of energy? I realized that my favorite burlesque and variety show here in Chicago - Bad Taste - had a performance on an evening that I felt more or less like a human. Strolling into the theater in my comfiest cardigan, lowest effort makeup, and baldest head, for a moment it almost seemed like I had achieved something resembling my pre-diagnosis existence. Sure, a few strangers threw some pitying glances my way, but the crowd was mostly made up of friends who were happy to see me there, cancer or no cancer. After finding a seat, I looked up and happened to make eye contact with an acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in several months. Immediately, she gave me the Sad Eyes ™ that I’m sure every cancer patient knows too well. Approaching cautiously, as if I was a precious piece of porcelain that might shatter at any moment, she told me how glad she was to see me - after all, she was “following [my] journey on social media”. Using most of the finite energy reserves I had set aside to get through the evening, I managed to stifle an exasperated sigh and simply gave her a pained smile. It’s difficult to put into words exactly why calling my illness a “journey” inspires such revulsion in me. So difficult, in fact, that it took me nearly a year after finishing what one might call “active treatment” to even begin writing this post. In 2010, I took a two-week solo road trip from my then-home in northern Virginia to Austin, Texas and back. It was the first time I ever traveled alone, and it was exhilarating. That was both a literal and figurative journey for me - I visited cities and landmarks I had never seen before, and exposed myself to a variety of landscapes and cultures I wouldn’t have come across otherwise. I came away from that trip with a newfound sense of who I was, and who I wanted to be. Doing something huge like that on my own felt powerful. In 2012, I quit my job as a high school teacher to pursue a career in theatre. That decision took me halfway across the country to Chicago, and kickstarted a convoluted path that started in part-time retail and brought me exactly where I had hoped to end up. Those feelings of unrest and disappointment, of taking two steps forward and one step back, and ultimately of accomplishment and pride in my work were all critical points along the way of an extremely satisfying journey. I have taken many “journeys” along these lines - physical trips, emotional challenges, spiritual transformations, blah blah blah. There is nothing about my experience as a cancer patient that I feel remotely resembles any of that. Overall, I find it extremely off-putting when people feel the need to use flowery language to talk about something as awful as cancer. No, I didn’t “fight like a girl”. I’m not a warrior (ugh), or an inspiration (yuck), or anyone’s sister except for my actual brother's. In my mind, calling cancer treatment a “journey” falls under this umbrella. It’s just another way to make it sound somewhat pleasant or tolerable, even borderline fantastical. Please, please, please, do me a favor and just call this BS what it is - a f***ing awful ordeal that nobody should have to go through.  “But wait,” I hear you saying, “My mom/aunt/best friend/dentist calls their cancer treatment a journey! What about them? Are you saying that they are BAD and WRONG???” You’re right - there are lots of people who refer to having cancer as a journey they’ve taken. And guess what? That’s totally fine! If you’re a person who has had cancer, then you can call it whatever the hell you want and I’m not here to stop you. Plenty of folks find it empowering to use this type of language, and I fully support them. We lose control of a never-ending list of things when we go through treatment, and speaking about it in a way that works for you is important! So yes, if you hear your grandma refer to her “cancer journey”, then she probably won’t roll her eyes at you if you use that phrase. Listening to the cancer patient in your life, and really paying attention to the way they refer to their experience and treatment themselves, will give you all the clues you need to talk to them in a non-exhausting way. (This works for all kinds of stuff, by the way - nicknames, pronouns, job titles, etc. Paying attention to the way others refer to themselves is a great way to make sure you’re speaking about them respectfully!) Until you get a chance to observe what language they prefer to use, it can be difficult and scary to reach out to someone dealing with a cancer diagnosis. After all, you don’t want to make them feel worse than they already do! From my experience, here are some safe things to say that pretty much every cancer patient will appreciate: “Everything about this is awful and I hate that it’s happening to you.” This kind of statement is empathetic, acknowledges that the person is hurting, and uses straightforward language. Win-win-win! “Please let me know if I can make you dinner/drive you to an appointment/buy you weed/walk your dog.” It’s tempting to simply leave it at “let me know if you need anything”, but what seems like a flexible offer to you can feel overwhelming to the patient. They very likely have no idea what they’ll need, and won’t reach out to you because they don’t know where to start. Offering specific, concrete things you know you can do will make it more likely that they will take you up on it when those needs arise. “If you ever need to vent, I’ll listen.” This is a little more open-ended, but I find that it’s a good approach because it doesn’t put pressure on the person with cancer to spill their guts immediately. Personally, I know I felt like a few people expected me to cry on their shoulder on command, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because they actually cared about me or because they wanted to feel like a good person for “supporting” me. If you’re open to listening, then YES ABSOLUTELY LET THEM KNOW, but follow up by being ready to talk about non-cancer things until they feel like emotionally unloading. “I don’t know what to say.” Probably the # 1 most painful thing you can do to your friend or loved one with cancer is to completely disappear. Hearing “I don’t know what to say, but I want you to know that you’re great and I love you” is one billion times better than feeling like you’ve driven someone out of your life by being a scary sick person.  This is by no means a comprehensive list! Everyone is different, so use your best judgement. If you know that your friend has a weird sense of humor, then sure, tell her that her hair loss from chemo is simply the first stage of shedding her mammalian traits so she can transform into a beautiful snake girl. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.

By Kristen Carter Dear Kristen, I had these great dreams for the future, but now that I’ve had breast cancer I’m afraid to look ahead. What can I do to feel positive about life again? -K.J. Dear K.J., Dreaming of the future is a uniquely human thing to do. We are the only species (that we know of) that can project ourselves into an imagined future. And those futures can be so lovely! Filled with love, babies or grown children, travel and adventure, professional success, and on and on. Other species live in the moment, satisfying basic needs like eating and not being eaten. It makes me wonder who has it better, them or us. What you are experiencing is unfortunately so common among women with a breast cancer diagnosis and anyone who comes face-to-face with their mortality: we somehow lost trust in the future we’ve imagined. On one hand, this should come as no surprise. Nothing is guaranteed, after all. On the other hand, it is so human to dream, and therefore we can’t stop ourselves from doing it. What’s required here is radical acceptance. As the life coach Martha Beck says, “So what? Now what?” What do we do with the reality that is staring us in the face? The answer is, we embrace it. This is our truth, right now, in this moment. Once we’ve done that, we can move forward. Until we accept what’s real, we carry our future dreams around like a giant piece of baggage. Acceptance and setting down that bag of hopes and dreams will require some grieving. Let yourself mourn for what you’d hoped for. Then you can begin looking for what is actually around you, and go from there, perhaps even discovering new hopes and dreams. What is around you? Family? Friends? Work? Hobbies? Take stock of what IS in your life, rather than what isn’t. How can you make the most of what you already have? If you can enjoy what is present, you have the key to happiness. I believe there is always something to be grateful for if we look for it. And that is the way to feel positive about life again. Tools I love to use when I need to feel grounded and to cultivate hope: Writing in my gratitude journal before bed. Calling an old friend I haven’t spoken to in a while and catching up on the phone (not zoom). Making plans for the short-term future. It doesn’t have to be settling down and starting a family in five years, or a dream vacation; it can be a 5K road race coming up this summer. My favorite tool is cutting up old magazines and making vision boards. It’s creative and gets me inspired every time I look at them. In fact, I have several around my house. Know that you are not limited to just one! xo Kristen

By Survivingbreastcancer.org Some things are priceless. For people affected by breast cancer, support, information, and community top the list of essential items with no price tag. They are the very pillars of the mission of Surviving Breast Cancer. At the heart of our mission is the belief that well-being and quality of life are fundamental parts of the breast cancer journey and a significant complement to a person’s medical treatment. While the above may be invaluable, providing them still costs money. We greatly appreciate our donors’ support, and we think it’s important to explain all the wonderful things your contributions provide. One of our supporters thought it was important enough to mention it in a note to us: “ My wicked smart friends at Survivingbreastcancer.org are starting Pinktober off right by highlighting a story that goes beyond the pink ribbon. Please listen and if you do support a breast cancer cause this month, make sure you know where the money is going.” Noel, MA Support Groups/Meet and Greets Fostering community is at the very core of our mission. Breast Cancer Survivor & Friends Meet and Greets is one of our premier events. Like many other events, since the pandemic, the meet-up happens online now and continues to build a strong sense of community. The importance of community to humans can’t be understated. A growing body of research shows that the need to connect socially with others is as basic as our need for food, water, and shelter. There’s also growing evidence that social support is good for a person’s health—even improve cancer survival . Each $25.00 donation enables us to host a Thursday Night Thrivers meet-up and participants share the impact of those events with us: “Thank you for hosting this amazing event, and for all of the other things, you continue to do to keep us all educated. I feel such a sense of community, and I’ve only come to two Thrivers’ meetings!” Charmica, MI “Thank you for last night! I was so happy to celebrate the start of 2020 with such a dynamic and friendly group of women. The conversation transcended even beyond breast cancer stories, thus creating even stronger connections.” Laura D., MA This summer, we convened 155 Survivingbreastcancer.org community members for our first annual Summer Soiree! Attendees received care packages to enjoy an evening of making connections, laughing and enjoying some relaxing rock painting! Check out the video to catch the highlights! Educational Materials Donations also make it possible for us to ensure that our nearly 6,500 website visitors each month have access to valuable information, including necessary information about breast cancer, risk factors, symptoms, genetic testing, and more. Educational information is provided in many forms, such as podcasts . Each contribution of $250 makes you a member of our Producer’s Club and enables us to produce a podcast that features conversations with medical professionals (doctors, radiologists, oncologists), caregivers, and advocates. Unless you wish to remain anonymous, we like to give a shout-out to our P roducers during a podcast episode that corresponds with their contribution date. And in true producer style, members of the Producer’s Club are also invited to share feedback with the podcast host and share suggestions for future podcasts. To date, 30,000 people have downloaded our podcasts, motivating us to continue to bring podcasts to our community. “I just finished listening to the most recent podcasts with Alicia Duncan and WOW!!! I wanted to laugh and cry! So much of what she said was so relatable!” Tammy, CA The financial support we receive also makes it possible for us to create blogs that cover a wide range of topics. Each post costs $100 and allows us to share timely information, helpful tips, and personal stories that resonate with others. “Oh, how I can relate to ALL of this! I was 35 and pregnant after two miscarriages...Thank you for baring your soul. The waves that your words create are a never-ending ripple.” Trish, NH A Boost of Confidence A $500 contribution allows us to mail out a care package as a surprise to someone diagnosed with breast cancer that would not otherwise receive such a gift. When someone is diagnosed with breast cancer it is hard to take the time they need to prioritize themselves with self-love and self-care. Beauty may only be skin deep, but sometimes just looking good can deliver a boost of confidence! These gift packages are filled with a combination of non-toxic makeup and other products and serves as a fantastic opportunity to help someone feel good. We are grateful for every type of generous support we receive, whether it’s an annual contribution , a legacy donation, or an endowment that helps us create educational material, host meet-ups, or support our health and wellness programs. We also welcome and encourage donors to design their fundraising efforts and provide suggestions to help you get started. Taking Our Minds Off of Cancer Our newest initiative, the Breast Cancer Book Club will be launching November 1st. In partnership with the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center (UPMC) we will be hosting our community Breast Cancer Book Club. The Breast Cancer Book Club is a monthly virtual book club for breast cancer patients and survivors. Unlike the traditional support group, where breast cancer is the usual topic of discussion, this book club is designed to take our patients minds OFF of cancer, while still providing opportunities for support and connection! Your $35 donation enables us to provide a book for a breast cancer survivor in our Book Club. We believe that there should be no barriers to access and your donation helps us insure that anyone interested in joining our Breast Cancer Book Club is able to without worrying about the cost of the materials. Make a recurring monthly donation to sure we can fund our survivors for one month and beyond! Learn More . You can be sure that all gifts serve as a foundation of our community. With your help, we can continue to deliver hope. Please feel free to contact our Executive Director Laura at, laura@survivingbreastcancer.org to discuss legacy endowments as we honor the living and memories of our loved ones. Want to know where we are headed? Below are our Current and Stretch Charity Fundraising Goal and Funds Disbursement $5,000 website development · Flush out members area · Special content for members only or early access to sneak peaks of upcoming podcasts, etc. $10,000 provides experts in counseling, grief services, social workers, physical therapist and nurse navigators to moderate group discussions boards. · Can also help us secure experts and medical professionals to review our blogs and content so that we can say “Written by xxx and medically reviewed by xxx” thus strengthening our content. $25,000 Build out a breast cancer buddy program matching the newly diagnosed with a breast cancer mentor with a similar diagnosis who is a few years out. $100,000 Build a curriculum around breast cancer prevention and disseminating it into high schools and freshman seminar classes around the county. $500,000 purchase Retreat House/Farm. $1,000,000 hire 5 FTEs (IT, Marketing, Events Planning, Distribution, and Education) $5,000,000 hire 20 FTEs to extend personal outreach into 20 Regional Territories (working with the Underserved Communities) $10,000,000 scale up BC Virtual Patient Care Platform to serve global community (UK, Australia, Canada, India, S Africa, China, Japan) Love What We Do? Start Your Own Fundraising Campaign on Social Media It's easy to start a fundraiser on social media! Below are tutorials on how to set up your fundraiser on Facebook and Instagram and raise donations for survivingbreastcancer.org

By Kim OBrien Originally published on YogaVista.tv as "Surviving Breast Cancer: My Personal Experience" A Breast Cancer Diagnosis Hey Yogis! I typically follow that tagline with an enthusiastic Chair Yoga Class, but today I share something more personal. For the past year, I have been working my way through a breast cancer diagnosis. When I first heard the news, I was caught completely off-guard. I thought I was doing everything possible to make myself “bullet-proof” against a disease like cancer: I cleaned up my diet years ago I swapped out my beauty and home cleaning products with natural, non-toxic alternatives I exercised regularly — practiced Yoga, Qi Gong, meditation and breath relaxation techniques daily I kept up with the latest in natural health and well-being I have no family history of cancer (zero, zip) At the time of my diagnosis, my only risk factors for breast cancer were being female and over 50. Cancer was NOT on my radar! My Doctor found the Lump September 16th, 2022 marked the one year anniversary that my lump was found. I dislike using the word “anniversary” because I prefer to associate the term “anniversary” with special occasions and this one is not special in any way. My lump was not detected by a mammogram , but instead at the hands of my most excellent doctor. Every year she takes the time to check for lumps. Are Annual Mammograms Enough? Like many women, I did not have my annual mammogram in 2020 due to Covid and unfortunately, I was not diligent about doing self breast exams. By the time things settled down with Covid I didn’t get back in for my annual physical until September 2021. Even if I had had my regularly scheduled mammogram in May of 2020, there is no guarantee that my lump would have been found. For one thing, I have “dense breasts”. It is harder to see tumors on a mammogram because dense breast tissue and tumors both show up white. That makes it hard to identify cancerous growths. Secondly, as my surgeon advised and I later confirmed through my own research, many cancers are fast growing. You can have a clean mammogram Tuesday and by Friday of the same week a tumor can begin to form. Regular Manual Breast Self-Exams Waiting an entire year for a mammogram is simply not enough. Regular, manual, self-exams must be part of your breast health protocol. As one fellow breast cancer “thriver” suggests, “squeeze your stuff” and I could not agree more with Fitz Koehler. Laid-Back Attitude around Breast Cancer Aside from being caught off-guard by my diagnosis, I was equally floored by the laid-back attitude around breast cancer. The number of people who told me it was not a big deal and there is no need to worry is too long to count. I kept hearing: Breast cancer is “curable.” “Treatment has come so far and you will be fine.” “My aunt had breast cancer 20 years ago and she is still alive.” “I believe God chose you for this, so that you could be an example to others.” and my all time favorite, “Well, my church teaches that greed causes cancer…” Okay, so if I have this right, breast cancer is a cakewalk, I will live for another 20 years and God chose me because I was strong or because I was greedy or is it both? Breast Cancer is a BIG DEAL! Well, I am here to tell you that breast cancer is a BIG DEAL! Even though treatment options have come far, they are still hard, uncomfortable and DO NOT come with any guarantees of longevity. I am NOT “the chosen one”… that’s Harry Potter. And if in fact greed does cause cancer, then there is a whole lotta greed out there because statistically speaking, “1 in 2 men and 1 in 3 women will be diagnosed with cancer in their lifetime.” Source My Cancer Treatment This is what my treatment involved: Two Biopsies — I passed out cold during both procedures One Surgery — successful, but I dealt with a very uncomfortable Seroma post-surgery for weeks 3 Months of Chemotherapy — of which I am here to tell you honestly, that losing my hair was NOT the worst side effect; in fact, having no hair ANYWHERE on my body was very freeing in a peculiar and humorous way 6 Weeks of Radiation — which I chose to drive myself to every single day because I needed some “me time” without the eyes of loved ones looking at me with compassion tinged with pity And it is all topped off with the prospect of several years of drug therapy which comes with many uncomfortable side effects that may reduce the future risk of recurrence. However, as I have said before, there are no guarantees or certainties with cancer treatment. And that, my friends, has been the hardest realization for me to come to terms with: “MAY reduce the risk of recurrence.” We all have Cancer Cells In the beginning, I thought all this toxic treatment would heal me and kick cancer out of my body for good. However, the truth is that we all have circulating cancer cells in our bodies and there is no way to eliminate them, not even chemotherapy can do that. We can only tune our bodies in a way that hopefully makes our “soil” uninhabitable. Working through Breast Cancer How did I work through my experience with breast cancer? And please take note that I didn’t call it a “journey”, because I have decided when I am on a journey it’s going to be a path I choose to explore, not endure. I wish I could tell you that it was Viktor Frankl’s writings that inspired me to seek a reason beyond myself to keep my fight to stay alive strong. Actually, it was more Winston Churchill’s words that motivated me: “When you’re going through hell, keep going.” So I kept going, because at times, it was Hell. Healing through Yoga And how did I keep going? As soon as the strong effects of chemo wore off at the end of each week, I was back teaching Chair Yoga on zoom, at least until my next chemo infusion. I learned quickly that sharing my love of yoga was as healing for me as it was for the participants. I am blessed to have a local community who didn’t care if I was sick or bald or had to cancel class at the very last minute. The yogis kept showing up week after week to zoom with me, to support me, so together we could heal our hearts, bodies and minds. My yogis, my family and my tribe showered me with kindness, compassion and a love as I have never experienced before. But that last sentence is not completely true. The love that I received was always there… I simply failed to see it. But I see it now and I will never take a smile or a warm hug or a kiss for granted again. Laughing Out Loud During treatment I stopped watching or reading anything that was sad. I was sad enough and I didn’t need to add to it. So every single time when I took to the “cancer couch,” I binge-watched The Big Bang Theory or Friends or Seinfeld or Ted Lasso… Anything that offered me the opportunity to Laugh Out Loud. Laughter heals or, at the very least, it distracts. “We can either change the complexities of life – an unlikely event, for they are likely to increase – or develop ways that enable us to cope more effectively.” – Dr. Herbert Benson. The Slow Process of Recovery I will never be fully cured of cancer, and I am in no way fully healed, but I have started the slow process of recovery. I am far from being the person I was pre-cancer and I am not sure I will ever be her again. My heart is broken. The conventional treatment may be in the rear view mirror, but learning to live with cancer creates new challenges. The Struggle of Surviving One final thought I’d like to share is that cancer is hard on the body, but even harder on the mind. For me, recovering physically has not been nearly as hard as recovering mentally. Yes, I am currently surviving cancer, but some days surviving is not merely enough. Every day I have to convince myself to keep going and keep moving forward. Here is where Friedrich Nietzsche’s eloquent words guide me, “He who has a WHY to live for can bear almost any HOW.” I have many WHYs to live for, but I am struggling to navigate the HOWs. My Daily Affirmation I cannot recall exactly where I read this next line, but it has become my daily affirmation: I have decided to stop trying to Save My Life and instead Start Living It. I know that I am not alone in this experience. One thing I have come to fully appreciate is that Pain is Pain; Sadness is Sadness; Loss is Loss; Disappointment is Disappointment. It all feels the same way on the inside. Sending you health, awareness and light for a renewed spirit, Kim OBrien P.S. Finding Answers in Books There were several books I read during my cancer treatment to help me find answers and peace. Some of these books were extremely hard for me to read like Chris Wark’s: Chris Beat Cancer . Chris chose to bypass conventional cancer treatment and take the “natural” path, yet within this book I found pivotal information that helped me recognize that some of the side effects I was experiencing from chemo were toxic. This knowledge which I shared with my oncologist resulted in a down-dosing of my chemo regimen. Sadly, my oncologist admitted to me that I was probably “overdosed on chemo”. I found comfort in Kate Bowler’s books, Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I Loved and No Cure for Being Human . I recently tore through Jeffrey Rediger’s book Cured and I took copious notes. That book led me to the one I am currently reading, A Year to Live by Stephen Levine. This last book may sound bleak, but it is turning out to be one of the most important books for my mental health. And, if you believe that we have the power within us to heal, then Jose Silva’s book, You the Healer , just might be something you’ll want to pick up when your mind is open and your spirit is ready to receive. --- Thank you for sharing your story, Kim. SBC loves you! SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Our Podcast Our Weekly MeetUp Online Support Groups Free, Weekly Events

By Aneela Idnani Warning: This blog contains medically graphic images and nudity which may be triggering or upsetting for some. “BREAST CANCER SUCKS, WHAT GOOD CAN WE SUCK OUT OF IT” I have the best kind of breast cancer: early stage, slow growing, and positively life- changing. After a 20-year tango with trichotillomania (a mental health condition affecting 1 in 20 people, where emotional imbalance triggers compulsive hair pulling), I understand that our bodies communicate with us - to get us to see, think, feel, and act differently…for the better. So when my breast cancer diagnosis came knocking at age 41 , I opened the door, invited it in for tea, and asked, “Why are you here? What do I need to change?” I, of course, already knew the answer, and was working toward it without this intervention from the Universe. But work, kids, friends, and volunteer obligation after volunteer obligation kept pushing it further down my to-do list: -Take better care of myself by eating healthier and exercising more, -Stop “should-ing” all over myself, -Stop “doing” to the point of exhaustion, -Stop taking on more just because I could, -And just let myself BE . A week before my breast cancer diagnosis, I was poised to add a few new projects to my already-full plate. My need to “always be doing” stems from core negative beliefs that “I am not enough,” or “I am not doing enough.” I trust that my breast cancer diagnosis is the Universe’s cheeky way of encouraging me to slow down & stop adding to my plate, to take care of me, & to focus whole-heartedly on that constant, but quiet, voice in my heart telling me to take action on what I really want and stop pushing it off. My Annual Physical In November 2021, I went for my annual physical. I’m not one to have a “family doctor,” rather bouncing from doctor to doctor as needed based on convenience of scheduling and drive time. I connected with this doctor when I met her back in the Fall of 2020 when I needed help with a new diagnosis of Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), a mental health condition of anger triggered by the hormonal changes of my menstrual cycle. Her clinic was a 5 minute walk from my house. When she moved, I followed her to her new clinic, a 20 minute drive away. After the routine pap smear, she looked up and asked, “You turned 40 this year, right?... You should start your routine mammogram screenings. We can do those here, just make an appointment on the way out.” Ever the people-pleaser, I did as I was told. The radiologist who smooshed my breasts between two cold, plastic plates said my breast tissue was very dense. She suggested I go for an ultrasound to get a better baseline for future comparisons, “totally routine,” she assured me. With winter holidays fast approaching, I could have brushed it off and waited another year - until my next annual check up, but ever the people-pleaser, I did as I was told. As I chatted with my ultrasound technician, she went from cheerful to “click, click, click.” I stretched my neck to see what looked like an old school TV with no signal - all “snow” except for a tiny pocket of clear, blackish-gray. I waited for minutes that seemed like hours to talk to the radiologist via speakerphone. “We see a small suspicious area in your left breast...you'll need to come back for another ultrasound and biopsy to confirm what it is,” she said. Though I was trying to keep my typical anxious thinking at bay, my first thought was financial, “Is my insurance going to cover this!?,” I whispered in my head as I held back tears in my eyes. At this point I still was thinking, “this is all routine…this is gonna be nothing…my tissue is just too dense…this can’t be happening to me.” I was in denial and I think my anxious brain chose money over health as its focus because it was an “easier” worry - I had insurance and it was going to be “good enough” to support me through this. The Diagnosis Two months later, on February 2nd, 2022, after winter break travels and COVID hit our house, I was finally able to get my biopsy. On February 3rd, 2022, as I tried to keep it out of mind, the lab electronically spilled the beans by releasing the detailed report to my digital e-health account. My mind got messy. I held onto my anxiety in silence for 24 hours wondering if I was reading the lofty medical terminology correctly. “Invasive Ductal Carcinoma”....“Positive…” I held my two young boys, ages 5 & 9, a little tighter that evening because I was feeling all the feels. As we watched “Encanto” videos on repeat, the tears trickled and I tried my best to hide them. I wish our healthcare notification system shared medical reports AFTER the doctor discussed the analysis. However, it is a federal regulation to "ensure greater transparency and personal access to our medical records" -- at the detriment to our mental health! The next day, February 4th, 2022 - “World Cancer Day,” the radiologist called and confirmed the details: I had a small growth in my left breast. My routine screening was now cancer. After my panic attack set in, I took a breath and reached out to a friend in New York who is a radiologist. She shared a bit of what to expect next in the process and even reviewed my scans and reports. She shared how many friends in the past few years have been diagnosed. This is what early & often mammogram screenings can do: save lives… …Hopefully. My Breast Cancer Tour As I started my tour of Minneapolis breast cancer surgeons, plastic surgeons, oncologists, and radiologists, I kept hearing “This is the best breast cancer to have.” I was interviewing for my care team , and making sure I answered these questions before choosing: -Who heard me? -Who spoke to me in a way that made me feel safe? -Who didn’t sugar coat this “ish”? My initial tests showed that the tumors in my left breast were: *Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC) - the most common kind, which means the doctors know more about them *Early stage (1A) and small in size (1.3cm), meaning it hadn't spread *Growing slow, with a low Ki-67 score of 8% There was hope that this was treatable with surgical removal (mastectomy) and that I could close this chapter quickly! One doctor said, "It's probably been there for years...it's just now big enough to see." This comment triggered memories of my first pregnancy 9 years ago. While breastfeeding, I got mastitis. I had to be aspirated multiple times to surgically drain the abscess infection. Perhaps all those needle pokes 9 years ago triggered aggressive cellular growth cycles in the area? Thinking back to my dad’s battle with cancer - a year prior, he had slipped on ice and broke the bones in his arm. His cancer? Leukemia, which is abnormalities of the bone marrow. While it is only two anecdotes it makes me wonder if trauma to an area of the body increases the chance of cancer . I hope this cause/ effect is studied more in future. Then came confirmation that the cancer was ER/PR positive and HER2 negative . These tumor markers indicate that the cancer is "fed" by estrogen. My jaw dropped. For the past year I was on birth control due to the PMDD diagnosis. I was feeling positive emotional changes with regard to the PMDD, but, I wondered, “was the birth control, by keeping my estrogen levels steady, rather than an ebb and flow, feeding my cancer!?” I don’t want to know the answer, but again, I hope this cause/ effect is studied more in the future. Knowing the small tumor was in my left breast, I was looking at a lumpectomy . But, I was still sent for an MRI as a precautionary step to ensure there were no other tumors in either breast. Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) is a noninvasive diagnostic technique. After being injected with a radioactive dye and laying in the tube of the MRI machine, a magnetic field and computer-generated radio waves create detailed images of the organs and tissues. My MRI "lit" up a few more suspicious areas . But to know how suspicious, I had to go back for another ultrasound and biopsy that provided more detail: the tumor was 1 "large tumor" (1.3cm - still small) and a scattered cluster of 4 more smaller tumors. (Perhaps each needle prick of the mastitis aspirations!?) What was one a simple lumpectomy to get 1 cancerous lump out, was now a mastectomy - full removal of the breast. Reconstruction or Going Flat Despite being a poster child for early detection, it still felt drastic. Whether the cancer is early stage or advanced, surgical removal of the breast tissue seems to be the primary solution. I pray for a day when we have a less extreme solution, and I pray for the doctors, patients and researchers who get us there. Until then, I had no choice but to accept the shift from lumpectomy to mastectomy , while still having to choose whether or not to remove my right breast, and if I would do reconstruction . If I kept my right breast, I'd have to undergo annual “surveillance” to ensure a new breast cancer did not arise. With my mental health history, I decided that would cause too much anxiety. I also wanted symmetry. I grappled quietly in my mind with what to do after removal. I could undergo additional surgeries to reconstruct my breasts , or I could join a growing group of women who opted to “go flat.” I sat with the question, "Am I still a woman without my breasts?" and I worried what my husband would say. I thought about my childhood. Gender never mattered. I was a tomboy and more comfortable playing baseball and legos with the boys than whatever the girls were playing. When my elementary school librarian would not let me read Hardy Boys, I was confused and angered... I could only check out Nancy Drew. When I started working in my 20s, I never felt like the only woman in the room, because I wasn’t! Whether it was accounting or advertising, I was surrounded by strong female leaders. I felt no sense of loss at the thought of removing both my breasts and no desire to go through the added surgeries and potential infections of getting implants. My Decision I decided “Am I a woman without my breasts?” was the wrong question. My breasts never made me who I am: human. Instead, the question became, “What will get the cancer out and get me back to life the fastest?” The answer: aesthetic flat closure (AFC), the medical term for going flat. This procedure would be 4 weeks of rest and recovery versus 6 weeks for reconstruction. Also NO additional surgeries! In the past, women who opted for AFC were either very old, or very sick. The end result of their surgeries were not the prettiest. It was almost as if doctors thought “my patient doesn’t care, so why should I even try to make the closure look nice,” or there would be doctors that thought they knew better and would leave extra skin “in case” a woman changed their mind and wanted to do reconstruction later, at the detriment to their mental health and ability to reconnect with and accept their new body. But in recent years - as early screenings lead to early diagnoses, there has been a cultural movement amongst younger women to go flat AND want the closure to look aesthetically pleasing. However our healthcare system has not caught up with the trend. A plastic surgeon is not covered by insurance for an aesthetic flat closure, only for reconstructive surgery AFTER the breast/oncology surgeon performs their expertise of breast tissue removal. This is why it was important for me to find a breast surgeon that gave me confidence in their ability to perform the AFC operation - and in their ability to adhere to my wishes. Here again, I hope the healthcare system will catch up to patient needs. I would really love to understand why insurance companies are OK with putting me under again and going through pains of a subsequent surgery with a plastic surgeon for “touch ups” (which is covered by insurance!). Post- Surgery and The Mental Toll The first few weeks post-surgery threw me into a deep depression. It was the showering that broke me. Seeing the scabs made it all too real and finite. As did the hematoma on my right side (see below). My breast was gone, but I was left with this giant black and blue blood clot that I was told would reabsorb with time. It was such a monstrosity of a deformity that left me so angered. “How could my doctor do this to me?” I thought. Of course, she didn’t. I know she saved me and Every body heals differently. My tears flowed faster than the shower. I refused to let my mom, sister, or kids see what had become of me. But I forced myself to welcome my husband’s help as I could not shower alone, physically or mentally. I nearly fainted out of exhaustion the time I did try on my own. Sameer was and is my rock, lifting me out of the ditch my mind was driving me toward. During the first week post-surgery, friends and family would call to check in. When they asked “How are you feeling?,” I would not answer with the truth: Guilty. Watching my dad battle leukemia, I've seen what real “big C" Cancer can do. The toll the sickness took, the toll the chemo took. Seeing him tied to machines to help him breathe, so weak he couldn't move. I'm not THAT kind of sick. After seeing 3 radiologists and 3 oncologists , I received the good news that my case of micrometastases in the lymph nodes post surgery is “too small and gray area” and my oncotype score of 10 is too low for the research to direct a strong recommendation for either radiation or chemotherapy. My breast cancer, contained to my now non-existent left breast, was cancer with a “little c.” There should really be another name for it so as not to confuse others who immediately take the leap that “cancer” means “chemo.” The worst of it is the mental toll that it's taken on me. I was ridden with guilt as friends and family took that leap, especially those that saw my dad’s journey & then realized, “Oh it’s not that bad.” I recognize that this cancer is different from the hardship others endure. I'm not "big sick" -- I just have “a little sick." While I am blessed to not have to undergo additional treatment, I will have to take tamoxifen, an estrogen-blocking pill (hormone therapy), to keep the cancer at bay. My recovery from trichotillomania taught me that health is a spectrum and comparing my highs or lows to others’ experiences is a downward spiral. Cancer is not a contest. Cancer is triggering though! In the midst of medical appointments, researching my surgical options, and sitting with uncertainty, I found my trichotillomania urges spiking, causing my hands to play with my eyebrows and lashes again. Trichotillomania recovery has never meant being "pull free," to me. This would mean complete abstinence from the act of hair pulling to self soothe. Trichotillomania is a medical condition. “Pull free” is like asking a diabetic to “just stop” having diabetes. Or hey you, reading this article, “just stop” having breast cancer.” Obviously not possible, but we can take action to manage these conditions, and reduce the space they take up and the hold they have on us - little by little. Rather, when it comes to trichotillomania, I strive for shame-free and being "pull less" - a few hairs here or there after highly triggering moments, and then reigning back control by taking care of myself in healthier ways. My brain needed lots of self-soothing after finding out I had breast cancer, and it took to it’s old ways: pulling out my eyebrow and eyelash hair in order to meet that need. But this is what control over trichotillomania is: awareness to make space for grace, a few hairs between my fingers, and then saying, "enough," and having the strength to move on to a healthier strategy that shows my self love. What I Have Come To Believe If you are facing a breast cancer diagnosis, or any adversity really, here is what I have come to believe through this experience and the experience of turning my trichotillomania pain into my purpose. Before you read this, I will fully acknowledge that some of these points may anger you. Sit with it. Do not deny yourself any feelings of anger, confusion, frustration. Do not swallow those feelings and slap on a cheerful veneer. Also, do not allow those negative feelings to consume you. Please do not take these strategies for “toxic positivity.” Rather, these are about mindset shifts that allow you to accept your circumstance, but not be defined by it. Trust me, it takes effort to believe in and act on these strategies and there are certainly days that I don’t put that effort in and sit with my sadness and grief and frustration! But the more I do, the better I feel and the better I feel, the more I act with love instead of fear. Take.your.time: Turn the gloom into bloom. It is not easy to give up control and “go with the flow” on a breast cancer journey. But we must try. The more we push back - questioning the necessity, the absurdity and the drasticness, the more we fill with sadness and anger. When we accept the situation, we can face the future with hope. Look beyond the ditch. In journalist Frank Bruni’s memoir, he shared a friend’s anecdote - when learning to ride a motorcycle the instructor said, “Don’t look at the ditch, else you’ll go right in.” It’s the same with our depressive thoughts - we can’t look at them for too long - we must look beyond to where we want to be. Embrace “thoughts and prayers.” Thoughts and prayers get a bad rap. If something bad happens and you are in a position to act, then thoughts and prayers are not enough. For example, politicians have the power - and responsibility - to act and set policies that prevent a bad thing from happening again and to ensure those policies do more good than harm going forward. But, if you are a friend and something bad happens, like, say another friend has tumorous growths in their body and they have to remove their breasts to get better, sometimes your only course of action is thoughts and prayers. So request and receive that positive energy, resonating through the universe and reaching you in your time of need. Thoughts and prayers are healing powers. Make lemonade from our melons. Adjusting to a new normal is a trying process from surgery to recovery. When things go wrong in our lives we have a choice in how to respond. When my “melons went bad,” I could - and did cry - as each breast surgery and oncology visit triggered memories of the loss of my dad to cancer. I could - and did get angry - that I had to go through this pain, yet another pain in the multitudes of pain in my life. But that “why ME?” attitude is not one that I wish to invite in any longer. Nor the endless suffering that negative thinking brings. We must find purpose in our pain. All the pain I’ve gone through - my dad’s death, to my battle with trichotillomania, to incredible heartbreak, and other painful events I still struggle to talk about - have brought me out farther and stronger, than I could have ever imagined. Only by embracing the pain, instead of pushing it down, by acknowledging its existence, making space for it in my life. But how do we find purpose? How do we not go down the tangent of lamenting “why ME?...What did I do to deserve this?” By shifting emphasis, with curiosity: “WHY me?...What am I supposed to make of this?” And for us with breast cancer, we have our melons and we gotta make lemonade. Allow time to heal. No one wants to hear “time heals” when they are in pain and suffering, but there is truth. Space, time, and distance make the feelings you are feeling feel smaller. It took almost 20 years to find healing from the loss of my dad, but I got there because I did the work my psychologist asked me to: “Identify 5 good things that came from his loss.” When it came to my breast cancer, I was so angered by the hematoma. Now 5 months later, it’s nearly fully reabsorbed AND the scarring on my right side is barely noticeable as compared to my left, which is still bright red. Now, I’m wishing I had two hematomas! Ha, here I am wishing for more suffering upfront, to allow for greater healing in time! Listen to the whispers of our hearts. If we don’t listen to our heartsong, the Universe will continue to throw lightning bolts and intervene. If you are pushing down the voice in your heart, I implore you to grab it by the hand and pull it back up to a decibel you can hear. Listen to your small, inner voice - the one telling you what you REALLY want, else the universe will keep trying to get your attention! And if it gets to the point of the Universe intervening, like, say, a breast cancer diagnosis, remember that crying is 100% part of the process, and so is looking at that intervention with hope and possibility. As I moved out of surgery and back to life, I moved back into my old ways - taking on more than I really needed or wanted to, but should do because I could. And you know what happened? The Universe intervened and threw a new lightning bolt. I got COVID. My body, so focused on healing my chest post-surgery, had no fight left to give the virus. I was hitting 103 fevers, sweating, and shivering simultaneously, and hallucinating. I didn’t listen to the cancer. I had to listen to the Covid. In a literal fever pitch, I resigned from two non-profit boards via text and let go of the last few extracurriculars that no longer matched my heartsong. With this breast cancer, I say “no” and declutter my plate of external obligations that are fueled by core negative beliefs of not doing or being "enough." With this breast cancer, I take the opportunity to rest and reset: *To reignite the love + laughter in my marriage *To build stronger bonds with my sons *To connect with my trichotillomania community with authenticity and courage *To strengthen friendships that have weathered from distance *And to carve space and time to really focus on what my heart has been whispering I hope my story and new way of seeing what breast cancer can bring to your life inspire you to listen to the whispers of your heart. Please feel welcome to connect with me via instagram at @aneelaidnani . I am wishing you love, strength and awareness in all you are and all you do. Thank you for sharing your story, Aneela. SBC loves you! Connect with Aneela here: Twitter: @ak310i and @habitaware Instagram: @aneelaidnani and @habitaware SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Our Podcast Online Support Groups Free, Weekly Events

By Renata My name is Renata, and eleven years ago I moved to the US from Italy with my husband and our two children. In February 2022, I was doing a regular check in the shower, when I felt a mass on the exterior side of my left breast. I immediately called for an appointment with my doctor. I had to wait a few days because I wanted to change doctors and I had to wait for the insurance to confirm it. In the meantime, my breast started swelling and it hurt. I was worried, but at the same time I knew that tumors don’t cause any pain, so why worry? I didn’t say anything to my husband. I tried to hide the swelling and the pain, and found excuses when he wanted intimacy, up until the day of the doctor appointment. Last year my husband lost a dear aunt to a neglected breast cancer, and it hit him hard. Showing him that the woman he sees as the column of the house, was vulnerable, wasn’t easy for me. But probably, I didn’t want to be seen as vulnerable. When the doctor saw me, he confirmed that it was most likely just a cyst, as tumors don’t generally hurt. But still, I was worried. At this point I talked to my husband, explaining to him it was just a cyst, but I had to do a mammogram and an ultrasound the week after. Testing and Diagnosis The mammogram was concerning because it didn’t show anything, but obviously something was there. The ultrasound however, showed more. A young doctor came into the room after he checked the results, and said he thought it was Inflammatory Breast Cancer and it was imperative to see a surgeon sooner rather than later, and my doctor would call me in a few days to schedule an appointment. This was on Monday. On Thursday, I called the doctor because nobody had called me. A nurse said the doctor was on vacation and would be back the following Monday. I gently explained the urgency, and she said she would put my note on top of the pile. I know how these things work. I understand that they probably have tons of patients who say that it’s urgent and want to be a priority, but mine really was a priority. I thanked her and hung up. Quick suggestion, keep nurses on your good side. My brother is a doctor, and this probably helps me see the doctor’s side. But still, I was a little nervous. The practical side of me said, “Hey, one day won’t change a thing,” but the patient side wanted this to be done sooner. Thinking about that now, I know why I was so nervous: when you go through medical issues in Italy, the waiting time is very long. I didn’t know that in less than a month I would have started chemo. Less than an hour later, the same nurse called me back to tell me that she checked my report, and she already called the surgeon, Doctor J., who was waiting for me to call. So, I did it immediately. He fixed an appointment for the following Monday and my husband went with me. The doctor performed another ultrasound and said he didn’t like what he was seeing. He wanted to perform a biopsy right there. The needle to numb the area went under the nipple, and it was a sharp pain. After drawing a few samples, he then went to numb the armpit, which was way sharper. I screamed a little and tears rolled down my cheeks. The surgeon called me on Wednesday after lunch. “It’s cancer.” These words echoed in my head like a death sentence. The day after, on March 31st, my husband and I went to his studio where he explained with drawings and words that were totally new for us, about the different kinds of cancer, the different stages, and different therapies. Mine was apparently Stage III Invasive Ductal Breast Cancer involving the lymph nodes . The good news, because apparently there is one, was that while Estrogen and Progesterone were negative, the HER2 was positive, and the chemo would work. Thank God for my husband, who recorded the meeting, because I was confused. Next Steps and Treatment The doctor scheduled for me a series of exams and a procedure to insert the IV port. The first exam was the MRI the day after, and with the result I got promoted from Stage III to Stage IV, Metastatic Breast Cancer . With the help of my husband, I talked to my children. It wasn’t easy for me to tell them something so hard and cruel, that their mother was sick and needed help. After 20+ years in which I was the one taking care of them, it was now their turn to return the favor. Something a mother would never want to do, would never plan to do, is ask her children for help. I started my first chemo on April 19th, with Taxol every week, Perjeta, and Herceptin every three weeks . It’s not the chemo that knocks me out, but the Benadryl they give me to prevent allergic reactions. The moment it runs through my veins, I feel myself losing power over my body. It’s a horrible feeling. I’m at the end of this round of chemo. Next Tuesday, with the results of the CT scan (performed today, July 15th, 2022), the doctor will tell me what the next steps are. No Major Side Effects I’ve been lucky so far, no major side effects. I shaved my head, not because of the loss of hair. It was because my scalp hurt so badly I couldn't even sleep. Shaving my head was the right choice for me. My husband trimmed the first layer, then my daughter shaved it. I still don’t like how I look bald, even after two months, while everybody else says I actually look pretty. I bought several beanies on Amazon that are specifically made for cancer patients. They are very pretty, and I had a couple of friends who made some for me. I never had vomiting , but I did have some nausea at the very beginning, though the medication they prescribed helped me. I took it two or three times. I sometimes have episodes of diarrhea , and that required some adjustments. For example, I can’t spend a day at the beach or hiking because, believe me, having to use those restrooms in the parks or at the beach when you have diarrhea, is not something you’d like. Then I had to accept that my house is not always clean and shiny, because most of the time I’m too tired to clean. I had to change jobs, because the previous one required standing for long hours, and it was a full-time job. Now, I have a part-time job and I’m sitting. This allows me to be home in the afternoon and take a nap. Yes, every day I take a nap because the fatigue is tough. I struggled accepting it, and it’s my husband who makes sure I take my daily nap. Sometimes, I think I’m okay, but I am not, and that’s why we need a husband or a good friend who will be honest with you and kick your butt, metaphorically of course, if you don’t rest. Exercise, Writing, and My Now One thing that I didn’t compromise on was my morning swimming . Every morning I go swimming for an hour. The only difference is that while before I used to swim 45 laps/hour, now I can barely swim 20, but the important thing is to keep doing it. Physical activity is one of the most important things we can do to cope with chemo. The water is perfect for the joints and in the water you move all of the body at the same time. I alternate ten laps swimming (cardio) with ten minutes of exercises, then again ten laps and ten minutes. It doesn’t help to lose weight, but it helps with the pain and side effects. I generally wake up at 5:30 and have a light breakfast while I chat with my sisters in Italy. At about 7am, I leave to go swimming and then to work. I work in the gym where I swim. At 1pm I go home, have lunch with my husband and sometimes one or both children. After lunch, my husband sends me for a nap (he comes to check if I’m really napping or if I’m on my phone!). I don’t want to take too long a nap, so I set the alarm for 45 minutes. After a nap I generally write a little. I love writing stories, watching documentaries, or reading. At about 6:30pm I start fixing dinner, and after dinner I continue what I left in the afternoon. At 9:30-ish I get ready to go to sleep. About the eating part … Since I started chemo, I was assigned a nutritionist. She explained to me that chemo would change my taste perception and also that I needed nutrition, so she didn’t want to take off some foods when maybe those were the ones I liked, and vice-versa. She asked me about my habits and when I explained that being Italian, I cook our every-day meals from scratch, she said to keep my habits and to be sure to have enough proteins in my diet. So, I did, and I didn’t change a thing. It’s true, my taste perception is completely altered. Salty food is never salty enough and often has no taste at all, and some foods are bitter. For example, I loved salad with lettuce and tomatoes, but now it tastes awful. On the other hand, sweet food is always too sweet, but I can really appreciate it Take good care of your skin , head to toe, because it gets really fragile and dry. Use lotion, a hydrating one, in the morning and at night. Even if you don’t have hair, use shampoo, one that’s sulfate free, and then an oil on your scalp. You lose hair, not only on your head, but everywhere. Not at the same time, but later in the journey. Hair loss, especially in the intimate parts, can cause itchiness. Don’t be shy and tell the doctor. Mine prescribed a cream that helps. There were things I wish I knew before, like the reason why some cancer patients are bald is not always for the hair loss, but also for the scalp pain.The second thing is the side effects don’t show up all at the same time and not right after the first chemo, but some show up almost at the end. My Suggestions I’d like to give a few suggestions of what really helped me. The first suggestion is physical activity . Swimming is amazing, the water hugs you, supports you, and water is healing. While you’re in the water you really can forget you have cancer. Just for an hour, but believe me, it’s a good thing. Sometimes, I let the water lull me, and some other times, when anger was taking over my mood, I went underwater and started screaming. It’s been so liberating. Any other activity is fine, just do it. The second suggestion is journaling . Oh my, how helpful this is. I make it double because I journal in two languages! Finally, my last suggestion is to surround yourself with people who make you feel good, who listen to you, and who understand you even when you don’t talk. Just be yourself, and they’ll love you for what you are. If you don’t have supportive family or friends, or if they’re not enough, find a good support group . I had to search a little longer to find what was good for me. At the beginning, I thought I didn’t really need a support group. I have an amazing family, here and in Italy, and great friends to support me. Then, further in the journey, I realized that, as great as they are, my family knows nothing about what I’m going through. Nobody knows how chemo makes you feel like a person that went through it. I needed to talk with someone that went through my journey, that understood what I felt. We human beings are all different, even the same therapy has different reactions on two people, and the cancer is not the same for those two people. That’s why I couldn’t limit talking with only one person. I needed to talk with more people to have a better outlook of what I’m dealing with. That’s true for me. The first support I found was a mentor . But that is a one-to-one relation, and only by phone. That wasn’t what I needed, but it can be what you need. I then found a support group with weekly zoom meetings and a chat group available 24/7. This was exactly what I needed. Perfect for me. SurvivingBreastCancer.org was my answer. Find what works for you. Thank you for sharing your story, Renata. SBC loves you! Connect with Renata on Instagram: @momrenata SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Our Podcast Online Support Groups Free, Weekly Events

By Rachel Bennett Steury I checked in at the same admissions counter as my husband did for his own cancer surgery seven years prior. The cubby for the phone connecting surgeons to family members in the lobby was the same. The TV showing the patient status for the day was the same. Even the chairs were all arranged exactly the same. I find myself reflecting on the time when Mat was faced with his cancer diagnosis a lot, while I traipse through my own . As my friend Gayle once said, “Damn, you two have some really radical cells!”  My co-pay was processed and my honorary bracelet was affixed to my right wrist. Thank you to Obamacare, once again. The clerk directed me out the door with the point of her finger, “Follow the blue tiles on the floor until you see A1.” The pre-op wing of the hospital was all abuzz at 7:00 that morning. The first round of surgeries for the day were being prepped. An overflow of blue gowns and white coats. An abundance of people hovering over hospital beds, saying goodbye to their loved ones before they went under the knife. Patients move in and out of here like an assembly line, I think. A sophisticated machine with an endless supply of sick people churning out an extended lifespan as the final product. The tech took my vitals, then asked me all of the mandatory questions to ensure I was fit for my lumpectomy . After I nearly had to pinky-swear that I did not have cream in my coffee earlier that morning, I was cleared to proceed. Indeed, I had an empty stomach and a mind full of wonder for how the day would transpire. I was escorted to my quarters for Mat to douse all of my skin with disposable wipes soaked in germ killer. They say this practice decreases postoperative infections. At that moment, it just made me cold. I put on my gown and tucked myself into bed. I was skeptical that a thin piece of foil would be enough warmth for me in that ice box. But thankfully, it wasn’t your typical sheet of Reynolds. This had a vacuum attachment blowing warm air into the pockets of the foil. It’s safe to assume, the inventor of the mammogram machine is not the inventor of this cozy blanket. Scribbles on the dry-erase board explained the game plan for the day, with me scheduled to leave the premises by 2:00 p.m. It’s wild to think this sort of surgery is outpatient. Modern medicine has come a long way.  The only other time I’ve had a major surgery requiring anesthesia was when I gave my kidney away. My hospital stay was extended an extra day since it caused me to lose my lunch and my water and anything else I ingested. After a thorough retelling of my medical history, the anesthesiologist stuck a patch behind my ear called scopolamine, designed to help with nausea and motion sickness. It looked like a round Band-Aid that I was forbidden from touching and then rubbing my eyes. My doctor came by to check in and answer any last-minute questions. She autographed my breast as if she were LL Cool J, circa 1990. She told Mat to expect a call when I was out of surgery . Then, the lights went out. I woke up from the heaviest sleep I’ve had in a long time. The first person I saw was Mat. The second person was the nurse who wasted no time with small talk. “Are you ready to go?” Mat assured me our exchange wasn’t as abrupt as my foggy brain remembered it being, but they were definitely ready to turn over my room to make way for the never-ending line of patients. Mat said the surgery was a success. Instead of taking just one lymph node, my doctor took out three because they were so close together. And of course, with a second incision, she evicted my cancer, the Rat Bastard, once and for all. If my doctor flipped it the bird on its way into the metal pan, I’m not sure. She struck me as the kind of radical-guerrilla-revolutionary that would, right before putting on her shades and walking into the sunset. Thank you for your badassery, Dr. Sinclair. The nurse helped me get dressed while Mat brought the car around to the front of the building. My throat was raw from the breathing tube and my brain was in a haze, yet I remember being surprised by my ability to move my arm  so freely. I anticipated feeling crummy and unable to do much at all. Perhaps the pain meds gave me a false confidence that would wear off. Or maybe arm limitations don’t apply to all breast cancers like I originally thought. I couldn’t see Doc’s handiwork until I got home and wow, was it a beaut. A 3-inch curved slice on the side of my breast and a 3-inch slice under my arm, both sealed up tight with clear tape. My skin was doused in that yellow stuff, and there were extra letters and numbers written all over my chest. Red, purple and blue bruises were beginning to take shape like an abstract art exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. None of it hurt, but I guessed it soon would. Folks who’ve been through this may relate to the feeling I had of “just get it outta me.” That is where I had been living ever since I knew it was in there. Sometimes with healthcare, you have to hurry up and wait, sometimes things don’t work as fast as they should, and sometimes you can be surprised at how it all comes together. I’m privileged to be here. Fortunate for many reasons. You might even say lucky. I know this to be true.  About the author: Rachel Bennett Steury was diagnosed with ER+ PR+ HER2- Stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC) at the age of 46. Under the pseudonym The Real Rachel BS  on Substack, she shares reflections of her experiences with IDC through Stories From the Cancer Trail: A Breast Cancer Retrospective. Rachel’s writing has been featured in magazines such as Wildfire Magazine , IndustryWeek , Indianapolis Business Journal  and Building Indiana , and in regional outlets including The Sacramento Bee , The Indianapolis Star , The Fort Wayne Journal Gazette  and Valley Scene Magazine . She is a digital nomad who lives everywhere, but can typically be found in Hawaii, California or Indiana. She can be reached at rachel@bennettsteury.com   Read More: Empowering Yourself: Questions to Ask Your Doctor After a Breast Cancer Diagnosis Understanding the Different Stages of Breast Cancer: What You Need to Know What is Breast Cancer Rehab? I Refuse to Accept This as My New Normal A Patient-Centered Approach to Plastic Surgery Reconstruction On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Beyond Medicine: Forest Therapy and Cancer Recovery with Regan Stacey Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events