By Brookshire McDonald Surgery versus Leaving a ruptured implant in Was where my case Was to begin. Two CAT scans And a breast MRI, too Are what I recently Went through. A rupture held by the capsule Were shown in each scan, Thus leading to the results Of a master plan. With three docs I made appointments to see To learn recommendations They had for me. One included a consult From the hospital “Big Duke” Which included a team meeting And not just a fluke. The long twelve days of deciding Going flat was for me Turned rapidly into results I did not see. Health issues Including a list very long Led two doctors to agree Surgery would be wrong. My age, past blood clot, on blood thinners, And MGUS helped them decide As they hoped to their decision I would surely abide. The rupture is in a capsule And only 2% chance of going anywhere; This is the information The team did share. A change in attitude Was to follow; Thus in misery I could not wallow. An occasional sting I would have to endure. This isn’t so bad, That’s for sure. I’m alive to feel it At eighty-six, So isn’t this conclusion A really great fix!! Note: MGUS is monoclonal gammopathy of undetermined significance, abnormal proteins in the blood. It can lead to blood cancer, but mine is stable. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Jill Rackham Time has moved on and now 3 years have passed, since my breast cancer diagnosis hit me full on like a blast. The long awaited end of my 3 year hospital treatment is almost here. Yay, no more injections, blood tests, cannulas or infusions and all that fear. I will still have hormone therapy for 7 years more. So I’ll keep taking the tablets to stop all oestrogen just like before. This means being beyond a natural menopause will continue for some time. HRT will never be allowed for me, but I’ve got this, I WILL be fine. I try to push the various medication side effects out of my head. Preferring to think positive but some days the effects make me want to stay in bed. Even now not an hour goes by where the word cancer doesn’t pop into my mind. I grieve for the old me and wish breast cancer wasn’t so very unkind. My mental chatter continues meaning my mind often feels full. If I’m not careful this makes me feel overwhelmed and very dull. I’ve worked hard to take each day as it comes and to calm my busy mind. I strive to enjoy simple things and make happiness easier to find. Navigating my life post cancer has certainly been tough along the way. I’ve needed to lean on others to help lift me away from a dark day. I’m always open to discussing how my journey has made me and my family feel. I think I’m still processing all that's happened and talking helps it feel less surreal. I have met several fabulous ladies affected by breast cancer over this year. Each one is brave and amazing, I hold their friendship very dear. I have so much knowledge of breast cancer because of all that happened to me. I will continue raising awareness to help others to see. My book of poems has this year raised over £1,000 for charity. I hope my poems offer those in need some hope and solidarity. Some recent symptoms led to scans to check secondary breast cancer had not occurred. I’m so thankful nothing sinister was found but instead a different medical issue has stirred. So now as my new normal renews and my soul gently continues to heal. I hope that onwards and upwards in life I will now go - that’s got to be the deal! Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

(The darkest hour descends before the dawn) By William Laferriere   “The Light Within,” a moving poem by William Laferriere that speaks to the quiet strength and resilience we carry deep within—especially during life’s most uncertain moments. Oh, the light within— it flickers, does it not? like a candle caught in hushed silence or a frightened hare trapped in the cupped hands of night. I feel it sometimes, pulsing, a quiet hum within my soul, a sunlit secret buried deep in the marrow of my being. What is this light? This glow, this ember— is it memory? The echo of a laugh? the warmth of a hand held too closely and all too briefly? or the shadow of a dream I can’t quite remember upon waking? Is it something older, something primal, a spark left over from the birth of our cosmos, stitched into the very fabric of our atoms? It wanes of course. There are days it feels like that dying rose, sputtering in the cold, barren fog of winter, a match struck in a storm, its flame swallowed before it can bloom. But even then, even in the dim, it persists. A faint glimmer, a stubborn refusal to be extinguished. And yes darkness lasts but a millisecond… If you turn on the light… And when it burns bright— (Do let it burn bright—) it’s a wildfire, a supernova, a lighthouse cutting through the thickest fog. It spills out of each and every one of us, golden and uncontainable, painting the world unrecognizable. Is this what it means to be alive? To carry this light, this fragile, ferocious & glorious light, let it guide you, even when the path is shrouded in the mist of doubt Do share it, And let it touch others, And weave it into our collective existence I’m not certain… But I think, maybe, this light within is not just mine. Perhaps it’s ours. A collective glow, a shared radiance, a consciousness each of us a fragment of something bigger, something infinite, something eternal. And so I tend it, this light, this gift, this mystery. I feed it with hope, with love, with the quiet courage of simply being.  And I trust,   even on the darkest nights, that it will lead me onward. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Jill Rackham Time has moved on and now two years have passed, since my breast cancer diagnosis hit me full on like a blast. But... Every day taking tablets is now part of what I do. I remind myself I’m lucky that these drugs are available to do what I need them to. Every time I hear the word menopause it reminds me this is part of my cancer management plan. Having this enforced on my body early is when all my side effects began. Every time I see my scars from surgery I’m reminded of what has been taken. Four times going into theatre has left me with flashbacks and feeling quite shaken. Every bone infusion I have takes me back to the hospital where all this began. I’ve got to know the nurses so well and I’m thankful they always help me in any way they can. Every review with the surgeon or oncologist seems to prompt bad dreams for me once more. But thankfully my appointments are much less frequent nowadays than before. Every time I have an ailment or pain of some kind. Knowing my risk of a distant recurrence, cancer thoughts once again take over my mind. Being a cancer patient means a GP visit often results in some kind of a further test. I’m glad everything is checked out, but it means my worry intensifies even when I try my best. I have so many daily reminders of what happened in this crazy journey of mine. But despite all this, the rocky road I’ve been travelling on is getting easier with time.   I try to think positive as my life continues in its new way. As I am so lucky to have got through all this, that I’m pleased to say. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

(Redefining what it means to be a woman) By William Laferriere she walks to the mirror hesitantly opening her mind a monumentally different reflection stares back she gazes at a body altered, a soul grappling with change breasts are gone, uterus removed lost in the transformation, is her sense of self she searches for the woman she once was the femininity that seemed so integral to her identity in this new form she questions whether she is still a woman, or if that part of her has been erased and yet her heart beats with strength her spirit unscathed but in her mind, a profound uncertainty lingers is it the body that defines us, or is it something deeper? is it the soul that holds our very essence? in this time of loss and pain she seeks to rediscover herself to redefine what it means to be a woman to be a person, to be whole as a community we stand with her   this darkness to be overcome and remind her that her worth is not measured by what she has lost that strength lies in her resilience, in her quiet, unyielding spirit a woman, still, with a heart that endures in her eyes, a spark of resilience remains a flame still flickers still burns bright that sense of self, that sense of pride she recognizes a WOMAN, still, with a heart that beats anew Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

Watch the video version of this poem below! By Marie McGuire I am able now, I wasn’t able then I had to follow the rules set forth for me Some of those rules have lingered and spring up in various situations Those rules set forth by others No longer apply I visualize a goodbye box and inside the box I place these rules Saying goodbye You are no longer a part of who I am I decide today and each day the rules from divine guidance that are best for me Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Elisa Herrera I met a girl who left her home, chasing a life she had never known. Dreams in her hands, a bag packed light, she stepped into the endless night. I met a young woman, lost but strong, in a land where words felt wrong. No taste of home, no stars above, she longed for laughter, a mother’s love. Long days beneath an unkind sun, cold, dark nights—alone, undone. Silent stares, the weight of fear, a stranger’s world, no welcome near. I met a woman, weary, worn, her dream now tangled, bruised, and torn. Cancer came, a ruthless thief, alone she stood in pain and grief. She searched for help, for hands to hold, for voices warm, for hearts consoled. At SurvivingBreastCancer.org , she found a guide, a place where love and hope reside. I met a girl who chose to fight, through every chemo, every night. She learned to rest, to breathe, to heal, to face her fears with strength so real. A child, a woman, a soul so bright, who walked through darkness toward the light. She fought her battles, she found her way, and still she stands, unshaken today. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Joelle Kaufman Growing up, vigilance against cancer shaped my life. My mother battled breast cancer at thirty-six  and again at thirty-eight, and her experiences cast a long shadow. Every doctor wanted to know about my early onset family history  and ensure I was educated on self-examination. From age thirty-three, my frequent visits to the Mills-Peninsula Women’s Center for mammograms, ultrasounds, and MRIs became a running joke; if loyalty programs existed for imaging centers, I’d be at their highest tier. Yet nothing can prepare you for the gut punch of hearing a doctor say, “I'm sorry, you have breast cancer .” Your world stops spinning at that moment, and you’re left gasping for breath, desperate for a lifeline.  Because of my mother and sister’s breast cancers, I was regularly screened every six months alternating between a mammogram plus ultrasound with bilateral MRI with contrast. All three of us were found to have the BRCA1 genetic mutation . Out of an abundance of caution, given the combination of our history and genetics, I had multiple biopsies any time the scans showed anything irregular. I had considered having preventative (prophylactic) mastectomies  with every biopsy.  In 2022, I decided to move forward with the surgery to radically reduce the possibility of breast cancer . I scheduled my bilateral mastectomies with DIEP flap reconstruction surgery for January 10, 2023. As part of the standard practice preceding a prophylactic mastectomy, I was asked to have a mammogram and ultrasound. The escalation to an MRI was not unusual for me. When my medical team said they needed to biopsy an area, I pushed to have the biopsy and results prior to the surgery to keep my 10 to 14-hour procedure including reconstruction on track. Dr. Lee Char called with the biopsy results on January 9, 2023 while I was on a Zoom call. Excusing myself, I took the call, still expecting I’d proceed with the prophylactic bilateral mastectomy planned for the next day. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “it’s malignant.” Breathe, I told myself. Stay calm. I planned to remove my breasts the next day—cancer had won this inning, but I was still in control of the game. “So we do the surgery tomorrow, and then what?” I asked. “I’m sorry, Joelle,” she replied. “We can’t proceed with surgery. With your tumor pathology, the standard of care is chemotherapy before surgery. Your oncologist will explain.” I felt sucker punched. My plan to avoid cancer had failed, and now I was facing chemotherapy. My mother’s chemo 40 years earlier and my sister’s chemo 20 years prior flooded my memory. I was committed to shaping a different experience as I faced cancer. Batting Rituals One of my tactics to face the speed and shape of cancer’s curveballs was to adopt a set of regular rituals and routines that I named “happiness tripwires.” These transformed the weekly cancer treatments into experiences with positive associations. I renamed infusion days as Cancer Obliteration Days. Cancer obliteration days were five and a half hours long, not including travel, as I used cold-capping to preserve my thick, iconic hair.  Every chemo day began with washing my hair. As part of my cold-capping protocol, I could only wash my hair once a week. That weekly shower, with water running over my scalp, was a self-care ritual that set the tone for the day. Afterward, I chose comfy, loose-fitting clothes and packed slippers for the infusion center. My go-bag contained comforting items  like my binder with my notes, drug and side effect print-outs, letters from my son, transliteration of prayers, and other paperwork, iPad, aromatherapy oils, and a stuffed dinosaur named Stego. With permission from my oncology team, I drank Athletic Greens for nutrients. I continued exercising five days a week, alternating between weightlifting, metabolic conditioning, and walking with my best friend, Jessica. These activities strengthened my body and kept me grounded. There’s growing evidence that regular exercise can reduce chemotherapy side effects . Breakfast was fuel: pastured eggs with spinach, onions, and peppers paired with a glass of water. My ride to the center doubled as a social visit with a friend. Arriving early to the hospital ensured my labs were done promptly, speeding up the infusion process. After labs, I’d read a weekly letter from my son, Taylor. Away at college, he described his days and baseball games. These letters reminded me to focus on the joy of my children’s lives. My other collegiate son, Ben, provided the musical playlist for my obliteration day. During the infusion, my rituals kept me centered. My rabbi had compiled a playlist of prayers and songs, which I’d listen to while reading my binder of personal prayers. Humor was essential—jokes with staff, funny emails from friends, and even Stego’s antics lightened the mood. These routines, paired with micro-milestones and celebrations, helped me maintain a positive mindset and broke up the monotony. Survivorship: A New Chapter Four months later than I had originally planned, I had the 14-hour bilateral mastectomy and DIEP flap reconstruction . Prior to the surgery, my oncologist had confirmed through a fine needle biopsy that I was clinically cancer-free, but nothing is 100% certain until the pathology is confirmed after surgery. My pathological complete response (PCR) didn’t reach me until I was back at the infusion center for immunotherapy after surgery and the nurse incorrectly suggested that I was starting Adriamycin (AC) chemotherapy. When I was surprised and resistant, a flurry of activity led the team to discover I was cancer-free but no one had told me! No AC needed, thankfully. When I received the news that I was cancer-free , I felt massive relief and joy. But what followed was a void. The center of my universe was no longer UCSF, cancer treatment, and surgeries. The gravitational pull of cancer was lifted, leaving me in a space of not-knowing as my body used its energy to heal and my mind processed WTF just happened. Despite feeling profoundly grateful and healthy, it was not how I thought I would spend my time on this planet. My sister, a two-time survivor, shared the sentiment: “People expect to feel relieved at the end of their cancer journey or treatment. And so I think I was surprised when I didn’t. The doctors tell you that you are healthy. Don’t smoke. Exercise regularly. Good luck to you. Which, after being in the thick of the fight, feels like a little bit of a letdown.” The void left by cancer felt peculiar. I recognized cancer itself lacked inherent meaning—it was merely an occurrence in my life. While there were aspects of the healthcare system I’d like to enhance, I was grateful for the remarkable advancements in treatment and side effect management. My journey starkly contrasted with those of my mother and sister. I paused within this vacuum to dwell in the space where there was neither urgency to propel forward nor battles to be fought. At the same time, my body recovered while my mind reset. Remarkably, within this calm, new possibilities began to form. I realized I needed to drift a while before charging on to the new course ahead. Crossing into survivorship was a profound transition. With my pledge year to the survivor sorority complete, I was now an official member of this resilient fraternity. When the phone rings or email dings, I offer reassurance, a calm ear, and friendship to anyone reeling from a diagnosis. Surprisingly, the journey with cancer is interspersed with moments of joy, sprouting in response to struggles. The familiar faces and new ones around me fortified me with love, prayers, and humor. As I peer into the future, I’m intrigued by the opportunities that might unfold and what I might conceive in my subsequent chapter. So far, it’s been a journey of profound gratification. I wish you such a journey. Lessons Learned Uplift yourself with humor.  A funny friend, a daily joke app, or lighthearted stories can provide much-needed relief. Create meaningful rituals.  Infusion-day “happiness tripwires” that bring comfort and joy can transform the experience. Create new rituals for survivorship – gratitude is excellent. Prepare your home.  Post-treatment, create a space to relax and recover, respecting your need for peace. In survivorship, your home may reflect new directions and interests – or not. It’s up to you. Celebrate milestones.  Micro-celebrations break up the journey and provide moments of joy. Celebrate milestones of survivorship, too. Welcome support.  Let others help you. Their love and care can lighten the load. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Joelle Kaufman is the author of Crushing the Cancer Curveball : A Playbook for the Newly Diagnosed, their Family And Friends . Her life has been shaped by breast cancer since age 13, culminating in her own 2023 diagnosis—the fourth in her immediate family. As CEO and Founder of GTM Flow, she combines cancer-forged resilience with cutting-edge go-to-market leadership strategies. Joelle’s expertise spans healthcare and business, earning her positions on the UCSF Patient Experience Council and the Advisory Board of USC’s The Pink Test. Her insights have been featured in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Fortune Magazine. You can learn more at www.joellekaufman.com . Read More: Understanding Genetic Testing for BRCA1 and BRCA2 Mutations Exploring Breast Reconstruction Surgery: Pros and Cons The Power of Knowledge (My BRCA Story) HOW? From Fear to Freedom: Embracing a Risk Reduction Mastectomy On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Breast Reconstruction and Plastic Surgery Explained 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 Jill Rackham The dreaded day of which I’m sure no one wants to happen had arrived – the day of my breast surgery. All my breast tissue was to be removed, thankfully my three tumours were caught early. Walking through the hospital doors felt hard as I had to be on my own. COVID rules of no visitors made the hospital feel far away from home. On the ward, all checked in, the surgeon came to talk me through proceedings. He drew on my body and took photos as my mind raced with so many feelings. The surgeon’s words were factual and as kind and comforting as can be. I knew this surgery had to happen today to get the awful cancer out of me. A nurse came to collect me as my theatre time was here. I tried to remain calm in an attempt to eradicate my fear. My body did not feel like my own, I felt like it had let me down. I was so sad that it had enabled cancer to turn my smile into a frown. The anaesthetic room was cold with lots of equipment beeping. My stress levels were rising as I knew it would not be long until I was sleeping... The next thing I knew a nurse was smiling down at me with the lengthy surgery now finished! I felt very groggy and tired but so relieved my tumours were now diminished! For me this was such an important day. At last my cancer had been taken away. Many months have now passed by and this day is still firmly etched in my mind. It was a tough day and memories of it are always easy to find.   The changes to my body and my scars have taken some getting used to. But now my body is my own once more and I am grateful in all it enables me to do. The scars remind me daily of what my body has been through. More surgery ended up following, but this day is the day my mind is always drawn to. I am so hopeful that I will remain cancer free. It’s been a tough old journey so far for both myself and those around me. I’m starting to dare to dream about happy times the future may bring. My prognosis is positive and that is such a very important thing! Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Diane M. Simard Pink, pink, pink. That nauseating, breast cancer shade of pink was everywhere when I was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma  four days before Valentine’s Day in 2015. I have a mostly hate relationship with pink. In my early childhood, whenever I felt sick, I would freeze in place, get dizzy, then hurl on the spot. My instinctive mother learned to recognize the droopy look on my face before I unleashed. She always told me to run to the bathroom whenever I felt sick, but my brain didn’t work that fast. Once, when I was nearly four, I was in our kitchen, standing near the refrigerator before bedtime. My body unexpectedly felt like it was melting into my stomach and I was about to faint. Then everything turned sideways as Mom stormed across the kitchen, picked me up, and held me horizontally under one arm while making a beeline for the bathroom. But the damage was already done. I left a vomit trail of destruction down the hallway. Mom got the floor cleaned up and helped me find a fresh set of pajamas, then sat me down and gave me a lecture. It was one of the few times I remembered her raising her voice when she spoke to me. “You have to run to the bathroom whenever you feel sick. Why can’t you learn that?” “I can’t, Mommy,” I said between sniffles. “I can’t move cuz it happens so fast.” Getting sick or getting the lecture were not the worst part. The worst part was the punishment of having to swallow a spoonful of gut-rot dark pink Pepto-Bismol every time I got sick in an inappropriate location.  Reflecting back on those memories as I faced my diagnosis in 2015: Pepto-Bismol was pink, pink was the official color of breast cancer, and I hated both. The shock of my diagnosis  was raw. My largest of three breast tumors was only 2 cm, and I’d had no symptoms . In fact, no one on my medical teams could feel any tumors, yet the cancer had already spread to the axillary lymph nodes in my left armpit. Thankfully, two of the largest tumors were close enough together that they indicated something was possibly clustering, which had appeared on my annual mammogram in late January and I was called back for additional testing.  After my diagnosis, when I was at work, I was able to keep my mind off of breast cancer, except when my coworkers wandered into my office to have what I called “cancer talk.” At night and on the weekends at home, though, my mind raced  as I continued to contemplate the possibility of a terminal cancer prognosis. Oddly, I was filled with determination instead of panic. I was obsessed with becoming “good” at cancer for whatever time I had left, but I didn’t know how to become good at cancer because I didn’t know whether to plan to live or plan to die. So, I followed my standard business approach and assumed the worst. I ordered self-help books on how to eat right . I fretted about the side effects of chemotherapy , searching for an explanation of what treatment was going to feel like. I had a paranoid obsession of gaining weight, so I drastically adjusted my diet. I speed-read through five books in three days, searching for the latest breakthroughs in cancer nutrition and self-care. One of the books focused on the body’s natural abilities to heal itself, using those abilities to complement traditional medical cancer treatments. For example, the author suggested that regular physical activity  tended to activate the body’s immune system versus living a sedentary lifestyle. Check. I had exercised every day of my adult life, yet I still had cancer. This book also suggested that cancer patients should choose foods with a low glycemic index (such as agave nectar) instead of foods with a high glycemic index (like white or brown sugar). Check. I was already doing that, too. I appreciated the reinforcement that I was already doing some things right, but I needed new, innovative strategies . Something, anything , to help me survive breast cancer. I implemented lists of self-help tips and bought anticancer foods and supplements that I read would keep me healthy during treatment and prevent cancer from returning, assuming I survived. I sprinkled turmeric on my food because it was touted as a potential anticancer “wonder seasoning,” but everything tasted like it was coated with mustard-flavored dirt. I drank green tea, overdosed on broccoli, and choked down kale salads. I pushed myself to do everything right according to the nutrition books, and I grasped onto a false hope that if I suddenly changed my eating patterns, my statistical chances for getting rid of cancer would improve. This type of diligence had always worked in my professional life, so I had no reason to think it wouldn’t work with cancer. I dutifully read through the pamphlets included in what I called the “Welcome to Breast Cancer” packet provided by the imaging center where my breast MRI was performed. The pamphlets offered encouragement and pictures of pink ribbons and smiling bald women with carefully applied makeup and adorably fashionable headscarves. They were superficial and not helpful, because they attempted to present breast cancer in a gentle, peaceful manner. I didn’t need the sugarcoated version of breast cancer; I needed honesty. I needed to understand what treatment was going to feel like . All the philosophizing and reflection of why I had gotten breast cancer was useless and exhausting. Finally, I wisely began to shift my focus away from the why and toward the how of healing and recovery . Not to mention the preparation required for the unimaginable battle if the disease had indeed already spread beyond my lymph nodes. I had been in training for almost 50 years to prepare for cancer, which I knew was going to be my ultimate challenge. I had learned how to achieve what I wanted, but also how to cope when life threw an unexpected twist, such as when I didn’t win, got rejected, or something imploded that I cared about but over which I had no control. I could control some things about my breast cancer experience , like attitude, diet, self-care, and schedules, but I couldn’t control whether any of those activities would actually heal my body. After a month of testing and second opinion consults , I was staged as 3C , which my medical team agreed was the best approach, given all my anomalies. I was prescribed sixteen rounds of chemo, followed by surgery, then thirty-three rounds of radiation. I slogged through active treatment over the next ten months. The chemo nausea was so severe I had three acupuncture treatments, which unleashed a crystal in my inner ear and landed me in the emergency room to deal with a whopper bout of vertigo. I couldn’t wear heels for six months and I didn’t switch driving lanes for another year for fear of launching another vertigo attack.  Toward the end of chemo, I became concerned about my mental health  and how I seemed to be slipping into depression due to my heightened state of anxiety. When I asked my medical oncologist for a referral to a counselor who works specifically with cancer patients, she said she knew they existed, but didn’t know of any. Plus, if I did find someone they likely wouldn’t take health insurance. I was alarmed and incensed at the lack of mental health support for cancer care in 2015, and decided I would advocate for more educational resources. As a result, I seed-funded and founded a specialty at the University of Denver in Colorado called the Center for Oncology Psychology Excellence (COPE), which is now part of their behavioral health offering for clinical psychology students. COPE provided coursework and clinical education opportunities to over two hundred graduate level students. In addition, I wrote a memoir-style book about my cancer experience, The Unlikely Gift of Breast Cancer , that won several awards, including being named one of the best breast cancer books of all time by Book Authority. COPE and The Unlikely Gift  were what I called my life raft out of my breast cancer funk, and they opened the door to the second phase of my life when I turned fifty during treatment. Today, I advocate for more attention and educational resources for the psychological impact of cancer through writing, speaking, and podcasting. My third book, Unlikely Gifts Unwrapped: Unfiltered Reflections on Life After Breast Cancer , is the sequel to The Unlikely Gift  and will be released March 18.  In hindsight, cancer was a miserably unpleasant voyage, but it was also a test. It was an assessment of the strength of my character and the value I place on living. It provided a symbolic transformation for me from enabler to leader, from victim to advocate. It also helped me unwrap an unlikely gift and helped me discover the self-acceptance I had searched for a lifetime to find. Read More: Newly Diagnosed: Now What? The Psychological Impact of Breast Cancer: Strategies for Coping Making Food Choices During Breast Cancer Treatment Navigating Cancer Treatment: Top Tips from an Oncology Pharmacist Exercise and Breast Cancer Permission to Feel Why a Second Opinion Matters for Breast Cancer On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations 11 Years of Survivorship - A Breast Cancer Survivor’s 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  Brookshire McDonald Lose my hair Oh NO! My head will be exposed SO!! Your head shape Will be revealed to you; And a surprise may come Right out of the blue. Without the loss You never would know, Just how your face Can come aglow!! So try not to be sad Or bemoan, And even refrain From a slightest groan. You’ll get through this And be happy too; They have a medicine To address cancer in you!! Some of you Will get to ring bells, After completing the fight To kill cancer cells, Others who didn’t Go that route, Will still see What it’s all about. So grab your scarf, wig, hat, Or even stay bald. No one choice Is perfect for all! Then look in the mirror And see the strong person You are. You’ll become ahead in this race And closer to win—by far! Brookshire McDonald Patron Saint SBC Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By  Francine Strother The mammogram found a suspicious mass, An ultrasound and biopsy will show if I pass. I wasn’t afraid, the professionals I did trust, I will do what you recommend, if I must. Yes, it is cancer and surgery must be done, To preserve my health is number one. Each step along the way, I was told what would happen to me, It was so reassuring that nothing was a confusing mystery. The surgeon said, off to radiation you go, I knew nothing about it, but the experts will tell me what I need to know. Contract to sign, please give me a reason why you might say, We’ll tell you if the treatment changes along the way? Radiation makes people tired, I suppose, But that is not an answer to the question I posed. Are you afraid? was my encouragement on the first day, I wasn’t, but should have been, as only vague information would come my way. I feel vulnerable as an imposing machine I lay under, Surely they will tell me how it moves, I wonder. Treatment went well the whole first week, A positive experience is what I did seek. I was always ready on time and did as they asked, I trusted completely that they were guiding me through the task. A longer first day, then the treatments will be quick. For 5 days, I watched the same machine rotation pattern tick. I’ve done 25% of my time under the machine, I’m doing good, now I know the routine. I didn’t expect the rotation pattern to change, But an abrupt reversal of rotation to begin the next day startled and disoriented my mind out of reality range. What is wrong, this isn’t the way it is supposed to be, Why did they change the treatment I’ve had for a week? I am so scared. Déjà vu to the contract wording, Why didn’t they tell me my treatment hadn’t been working? 2 way communication doesn’t work, no use to scream, Please tell me this is a nightmare dream. Afterwards, they said it was really the same, I don’t believe you, my eyes are not playing a game. No big deal, confusion happens all the time, such as this, Neither of 2 technicians could spare 10 seconds to warn me of this. Go home in a daze, don’t want to continue, No sleep, confusion, use up a box of tissue. Surely the doctor will tell me why my treatment was reversed, thus, It was a misunderstanding. The door is squeaking. And you are just criticizing us. Now I see where I stand. I’ll bother you no more to help me understand. Finally, a reason why backwards the machine rolled, Extra x-rays are taken every 5 days, but patients aren’t told. So I will have this again next Tuesday? No. But you just said...?  You are again confusing me. A new schedule was printed and handed to me, One day is shown with different words from all the others I see. To ease my mind, I ask what will come about? I committed a mortal sin by daring to ask, I was quickly chided and taken to task. They say, Oh gee, I knew that would freak you out. Hand me a revised schedule with those words deleted, Poof! With those words gone, no answer is needed. What is happening to me, I have a right to know, Oh, well, not so, pull open the heavy door myself and go. I don’t want to go back, no sleep, confusion, a struggle to continue, but my body needs to heal, Go into survivor mode, the days left are few, pretend I am on an even keel. Thanks for giving me 3 nice tubes of cream when I was done halfway, I asked for instructions, just go put it on, she did say. I struggled emotionally through the remaining days, Once done, in two weeks someone will call you, he says, To check and see how you are doing, But no phone or messages ever did ring. 3 month checkup, I’m still at loose ends, It is just a bump in the road he says. Request medical records 3 times to see what I can learn, Mailed twice, but the PO lost them in turn? In 6 months, a new mammogram, the nurse says it’s clear, So you don’t need another one for a year. But the doctor told me every 6 months to be sure, I am utterly confused, my mind is a blur. Breast cancer radiation has no physical pain, But emotional and psychological pain remains. Psych yourself out and go in everyday, Hoping with this invisible force, on this earth you will stay. Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Cheri Silver Before it was common, I was interested in natural medicine and remedies. When I was pregnant, I decided that I would breastfeed because I felt it may be my only chance to try it. My sister had told me that it usually takes a month to get used to. I decided to join La Leche League since my sister passed before I gave birth the first time. It turns out they used a lot of common sense child rearing practices and also were into healthy eating practices. This led me to joining a healthy food co-op.  Later, I learned that the more I nursed, the better chance I had of reducing my cancer risk. I nursed both my girls. I had friends who had been diagnosed with cancer, and nursing seemed like an easy way to keep cancer at bay. That and eating healthy.  In 2019, my doctor asked my husband and I to take a Color DNA test, which would show us if either one of us carried any gene mutations associated with cancer  risk. We did and all came out negative. A year later, in the middle of the pandemic, my aunt mentioned that my cousin had just finished radiation for breast cancer. That night, around 1:00 a.m., I felt a big lump in my breast. It felt like a hard-boiled egg. I was a few months late with my mammogram due to Covid. I had needed some biopsies in the past, but they were always benign. Since I wanted a diagnostic exam, I needed to see a doctor first. I managed to get in with an ob-gyn a few days later. She could tell my lump was big and wanted me to have a mammogram and an ultrasound. Since I couldn’t get one scheduled for five weeks, I called her back and there was a cancellation for the next day.  The radiologist was pretty sure it was metaplastic carcinoma and put that on the report. The gynecologist was upset that she wrote that. While I may not be a brain surgeon, I knew that carcinoma meant cancer. The gynecologist kept arguing that she might be wrong and it may be benign. I asked what were the chances it was benign. She said 5-10%. Now I don’t claim to be a mathematician, but I do know that means there is a 90-95% chance my lump is cancer.  I went through a week or two with the breast surgeon and plastic surgeon arguing with me that maybe I only need a lumpectomy or only a single mastectomy because there is a chance that my lump is benign. My gut was telling me otherwise. I heard of some people who had a lumpectomy or single mastectomy and then had to have a double a week or two later. I was already 71 when my lump was found. I’d already nursed two children and had been married almost 50 years. I was happy to have been cancer-free for 71 years. I didn’t shed a tear nor feel sorry for myself. I had friends who had mastectomies because of the BRCA gene mutation and they seemed fine. I also considered myself small-breasted and had this image of getting new perky breasts to replace mine.  I also had this idea that since I had this one big lump which was 3.5 cm, it would be removed during surgery and I would get the new breasts and be done. Ha! I was very naïve. My friends with the BRCA gene mutation  did not have cancer. I did. I had a double mastectomy on September 23, 2020. A week later, I was told that I have stage 2B metaplastic triple negative carcinoma.  Two lymph nodes were removed and fortunately they were clear. But the oncologist informed me that I would still need chemo, the kind with hair loss. Since my lymph nodes were clear, I would not have to have radiation.  When hearing about my diagnosis, I was told I was negative for three things . My husband was with me and said, “That sounds good, being negative on everything.” My surgeon said quietly, “No, triple negative is the worst.” We were stunned. I learned I have a very rare form of breast cancer, metaplastic, that is fast-growing and aggressive, and that triple negative is very aggressive, too. I had been naïve. I thought there was only one kind of cancer for breast , one kind for colon, one for stomach… Over the last four years, I have learned that only 5-10% of breast cancers are metaplastic and 10-20% are triple negative (TNBC). Great. I’ve accepted that my body is never normal.  The hair loss didn’t bother me too much because I only had chemo for five months and due to the pandemic, we weren’t going anywhere and no one was allowed to visit.  I have several groups of friends. I told my closest friends and my family and didn’t care if they shared the news with others. My daughter started a CaringBridge page for me which was very helpful. This way, I could let my friends know the results of tests and what was next. I didn’t want to chance leaving a friend out, plus I like to write what’s happening . If I’m down or sorting my emotions out, I wait with writing.  Meanwhile, friends and relatives came out of the woodwork  and began bringing food, gift certificates, presents… I felt very loved and cared for. People thought I was brave and strong. I just kept going to all the tests and doctors I was sent to. I was more like a robot.  It was a weird time. No one was allowed in hospitals with a patient due to Covid . I had to go for surgeries and treatments alone. My husband dropped me off at the hospitals by the front door. The surgeon gave me a pain block when I had the mastectomy so I felt fine the first three days. I had surgical drains for about 10 days post-mastectomy. Others had suggested joining lots of support groups online , which usually was helpful. This is where I learned the most. I also got into a support group which met online due to the pandemic. The women in the group had different kinds of cancer but were very helpful.  My first chemo  was delayed due to allergies I developed from ChloraPrep, a cleanser used on my chest prior to my double mastectomy . My first chemo was Adriamycin-Cytoxan (AC) , known as the Red Devil, for two months. I got very bad mouth sores, so I primarily did a liquid diet of high protein drinks and soups. I didn’t like the magic mouthwash. Baking soda wasn’t as harsh.  Then I developed an infection from my breast expanders, so I had to have the exchange surgery before finishing chemo . A few weeks later, I went on Taxol chemotherapy. I tried the ice mittens and boots which were to prevent neuropathy. Maybe my case was milder, but I got the neuropathy so bad that I never finished all the Taxol. My fingers and toes hurt so bad at bed time.  After stopping treatment, I wasn’t bouncing back to my precancer disposition, nor was my hair coming in very quickly. More facts I learned. Sometimes our bodies take a year or two or maybe three or four to return. Hair comes in very slowly for the first six months.  Scans were being done on me over the next couple years. The first ones showed lymph nodes seemed to have grown and later nodules. Many tests were run, including biopsies. My nodules were very small and were being checked for precaution. I finally had my lung sectioned in April 2024 to discover that my breast cancer was now in my lung.  I was on speakerphone when we spoke to my oncologist, who informed me that I was no longer curable. Needless to say, I became very depressed for about two or three weeks. Then someone told me that other diseases were not curable either like diabetes, arthritis, MS… And the doctors try to make patients comfortable with quality of life . I’ve had arthritis for half my life. Even though I was informed that I was now considered Stage 4 , it was no longer a death sentence . I joined groups online with this diagnosis to learn of people who have had this for 15-20 years and longer. I felt some relief.  My oncologist wanted me to try getting into a clinical trial, which I did for a year. In it, I took a targeted therapy, Trodelvy, with an immunotherapy , Keytruda. I also joined another support group. The other one was all women who were diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer (MBC). I learned that after scans I wanted to be considered stable, with no spread or growth of cancer cells. When my nodules did grow, I went back to my local oncologist, took a couple months off treatment, and now I’m back on chemo. This time I’m on Gemzar and carboplatinum.  There are now a lot of different treatments for cancer. I’m grateful for that. I’ve also been fortunate to talk with oncology dietitians and use suggestions on what is best to eat , plus I have been doing nutrition for most of my life. My side effects seem mild next to others. Sure, I have a little nausea at times, but no barfing. And yes, I have some constipation and I’ve had a couple small episodes of diarrhea, but in all my years I’ve learned to listen to my body and can usually counteract problems.  I still fear more growth, which is very common among cancer patients. I also fear any possible pain I may get that might not be treatable. I’ve slowed down a lot, which is frustrating, and I’m no longer good at multitasking. So far, my memory is still very good, but I get a bit of anxiety about not being able to recall everything. I have put together photo journals which I have labeled with the people included to help jog my memory if this happens. I try to be proactive. I have also written some memory books for my family about some of my memories.  In the meantime, I continue having meals with friends and family, socializing over games or just chatting, discussing good books… I also like to cook so when I’m feeling up to it, I make double or triple portions and freeze them. Much of my cooking is now done from a seated position with help from my husband.  Update: 1/13/2025 The Gemzar and carboplatinum did not work. I decided to go to City of Hope for another opinion since it is a cancer hospital and only 45 minutes from us. The oncologist I was assigned has worked with metaplastic carcinoma. We discussed different options and decided to try Enhertu .  The first time was uneventful, but the second dose was the worst treatment ever. I was shaky, unsteady and at first it hurt to breathe. Three weeks later, when I went back, I had a chest scan which showed my lung had become inflamed and the cancer had grown again. I went on a heavy dose of steroids for two weeks to give my lung a chance to recover.  Now I’m on Xeloda , which is oral chemotherapy taken at home. Again, my side effects did not show up until the second week. My heels hurt to walk on, and my mouth sores are back.  At City of Hope, I also see support staff. The naturalist recommended some supplements.  I’m hoping this treatment works because it’s hard to keep changing and get acclimated to new treatments. It’s also depressing. So far, the cancer is only in my lungs.  Cancer is a hard journey that most people don’t fully understand. I continue to stay positive.  Read More: SurvivingBreastCancer.org Support Groups Metastatic Breast Cancer: Understanding the Significance of Stage IV Different Kinds of Breast Cancer Advances in Immunotherapy: A New Frontier in Breast Cancer Treatment Understanding Genetic Testing for BRCA1 and BRCA2 Mutations Cancer Etiquette: How to Talk With Loved Ones About Their Breast Cancer Cancer in a Pandemic On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations TNBC Metaplastic Breast Cancer | Jess Duemig 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 William Laferriere sacred flames flicker  a swirling dervish dance   ancestral spirits arise smoke carries prayers to unseen deities  the past whispers and echoes a portal opens wide  the veil between worlds thins as the cosmic dance begins healing energies flow washing spirits clean the shaman swirls  her wisdom unfurls the ancient calendar turns and realigns  intentions and affirmations are set ablaze  desire takes flight negative energies burn in the fire’s pure light offerings consumed  transformation ignites  personal growth blooms  and reaches new heights balance achieved as positive and negative embrace Mayan traditions pulse in this sacred space generational wisdom passed down modern hearts connect and contend  an ancestral grounding in protection in abundance both flow freely dreams manifest in the fire’s alchemy cultural threads weave into the myth of time The sublime ritual of a Mayan fire ceremony Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Triona Lonergan I’ve been chosen….. yeah, wasn’t even aware there was a competition, but here I am ….winning!!!  Requirements for entry were ever so difficult, but I sailed through without even studying! Sounds pretty elite…. But that’s just me, right   Everyone wants to belong, be part of something, feel significant, have commonality with like-minded folk. Friend groups…communities, cool kids, artists, writers, pop groups. But you cannot join my group. You only qualify as groupie. I can’t decide ‘not’ to be part of this group. When you’re in, you’re in (it’s like the mafia) and there’s no going back. No welcome letter, No Christmas card, It’s a secret Society, and you only learn of other members through whispers and nods.   I like to think of us as astrologists, Except it doesn’t matter what your birth month is…. There’s only ONE zodiac sign matters!! My initiation was not a champagne toast or round of applause as I was called to a podium in a billowing ball gown, bowing while being presented with my certificate of acceptance to the Knights Templar, Freemasons or Illuminati.   It’s a lifetime membership, with no benefits, And I made the cut!    Share your poetry: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

By Marylou DiPietro July 13, 2018 – Friday the 13th  One day after hearing that I have a “very suspicious mass” on my breast.  Suddenly everything is different: the vastness of the sky, the depth of the water, the songs of  birds ricocheting across the valley.   Now there’s a temporariness to everything, a shallowness, a thinness that’s impossible to describe.   My blue pencil case reminds me of the first article of clothing that was not a hand-me-down: a  royal blue shirt with a white scalloped neckline. I only had the shirt a week when it must have  fallen out of my bag when I was walking home from a sleep-over at my brand-new best friend’s  house. I remember praying to Saint Anthony as I retraced my footsteps along the maze-like  streets between our houses. I remember thinking how mad my mother would be when she heard I  lost the shirt I begged her to buy me. I can still feel the deep sadness that the thing I loved so  much was gone so fast. A thing – like my mother’s unexpected kindness – I hoped would last  forever.  The idea of temporariness settles into my bones like an anchor. Do we really think we’re going to  live forever? Could we be that stupid and naive? Do we trick ourselves into believing we’re  immortal?  There’s an urgency now…a deep dive to recover the truth: who I am, what powers do I have?  What limits I have denied?  I’ll draw now… for drawing has given me great solace. I ignored that part of myself for so long.   July 14, 2018  Turn toward the water. Find peace and clarity. Call Sally. Do not wait for answers. Do not let  anger impinge on your ability to move ahead. Let the bad memories drift out to sea. Have faith  that your children know how much you love them. Remember that the true love of the man you  married is what saved your life.  July 15, 2018  Suddenly everything is black and white. The door is open, the door is closed. There’s no doubt  who to trust and who to love. No doubt what I want, what I cannot bear. Everything is in its proper place. There’s no illusion of control or rewards or punishments. Someone else – a doctor  – will speak the truth about my life. The words that come out of her mouth will be all that  matters.  July 16, 2018  My body is holding me captive. I cannot escape the wrath my body has bestowed upon me. I  cannot banish the cancer growing inside me. The cancer is just as much a part of me as my  hands, my feet, all my internal organs.  July 17, 2018  It’s better if others don’t know, I think. I need to share the news with those who love me and who  I love.   July 18, 2018  Suddenly the clarity is astounding. The unnecessary accouterments fall away like an outer skin I  did not know I had.   I thought I knew where I stood with my own body, but I was wrong.   So, the battle begins – between the person I thought I was and the person I have been tricked, unwittingly, into becoming.   There is never a warning – even when we think there is, there is not. Much like the shock of  giving birth. We think we know what is going to happen … we read about it in books, see it in  movies, are told bits and pieces by other women who have been through it before us. Still,  nothing, not one ounce of information can prepare us for what is about to happen.  July 19, 2018  We tell ourselves we must go forward … we must keep breathing, even though it feels like  someone else, someone you never met, is taking each breath.  My sister says she’ll put me on the prayer list. I wonder what that means. I want to say yes,  please put me on the prayer list, but all I say is thanks.  July 20, 2018  I write down the word “invasion” instead of “invasive”  I have been invaded. I am in a fog. I wonder how strong I really am.   I paint the sea and sky and hills like perfectly formed breasts, and for now, at least, I am  satisfied. Connect with Marylou:   www.maryloudipietro.com Read More: In Love with Cancer Find One Good Thing in Every Little Moment An Open Space On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations The Power of Storytelling in Breast 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 Joelle Cleo Valente Episode 1 - THE SQUATTER -  1 - My routine self check - How it all started In October 2023, coming back from a run, I noticed a little bump  on the top right side of my breast when taking a shower. It was barely visible to the naked eye, no pain or discomfort were noted. Puzzled, I tried to make sense of this intruder by recalling an incident on my right shoulder a week prior as a possible explanation. Keeping a positive mindset and pushing away the thought of “could it be the ‘C’ word?” I phoned my primary care physician, a no-nonsense, old fashioned woman that I trust and respect. She immediately ordered a mammogram/ultrasound , reassuring me that whatever it was, we will get to the bottom of it together and not to worry. I rang a friend for the drive to the breast center located forty minutes away from my house to brighten the undertaking . The facility dealt exclusively with breast care, an impressive building with several wings that looks like a hospital and a waiting room full of anxious women waiting. Overwhelmed and confused about my visit to such a place, I felt like an impostor intruding in other people’s business, thinking that’s a bit much for just a mammogram check up? Besides, I have never been sick in my life, and there is no “C” word in my family history . Of course I’ve had mammograms before, but the surroundings were more casual. I needed to snap out of this twilight zone presto and be present mentally. I took a deep breath, grabbed a glass of water from the cooler and sat back waiting for my turn. A strong nudge from my friend Pam woke me out of my stupor. “Hey! they called your name twice already,” she whispered. “I’ll be outside waiting for you when you’re ready, chin up girl.”  2 - The exam - May the show begin After a ritual checking in, a nurse came to pick me up, instructing me to remove my clothes from the waist up in a cool and collected manner that demanded no more inquiry from me. “Put on a gown and wait in the designated area, someone will come and get you.”  My name was mentioned again as a new woman in her early 30s stepped in, introducing herself as the technician in charge of mammograms, displaying a warm smile as he could sense my angst. She was very pleasant, apologizing in advance for the breast squeezing, flattening, pretzel twisting positions, cold surface and cold hands.  “Almost done,” she claimed, “one down, one more to go.” I knew she was trying to make me feel at ease, but it wasn’t working – by no fault of her own. Apprehensive to ask, I mumbled something like, “Did you find anything?”  “Your left breast is clear, but it seems that your right breast needs further exams ,” she replied calmly, offering me a lollipop to seal the deal as we walked to the ultrasound room, where I was barely greeted by another lady in her 50s with a stern demeanor who clearly didn’t want to be there. She briefly described her next move and went on with the painless “transaction.” I tried to relax and clear my thoughts, but my heart was pounding and my cloudy brain kept on shouting, “Get out of there.” What's with this place that made me feel so uncomfortable?  I didn’t recognize myself. Once again I blabbered something like, “Did you see anything significant for me to worry about?” She dismissed my request immediately with a cold, “Front desk will proceed with your checkout and will inform you about a follow up if necessary.” In a hurry to get me out the door, she blurted a “Yeah right” when I wished her a good day, which she clearly needed. Happy to change into my civilian clothes, I was back again in the main waiting room packed with newcomers scrambling to find seating, puzzled by this insane scene of women, young, old, alone or flanked with friends or family members, for “the” special visit, I couldn’t help thinking how insane this was. Who are all these women? Why so many? Is there an epidemic of some sort I’m unaware of?   I was asked to wait again for my paperwork by one of the front desk girls – they were girls really, in their early twenties, cackling as they couldn’t pronounce anyone’s name correctly and didn’t care to, doing it as their distraction for another boring day at the office.  Another forty-five minutes went by before my name was voiced for the last time (I hoped). I was told that a biopsy was scheduled for the following week , asking me to contact my doctor for more details, giving me my walking paper with no more details besides how to prepare for the procedure.  I guess that was all for today, folks!  I lastly stepped out of the facility looking for Pam, I breathed deeply, and felt such a relief. I realized that the energy inside these walls was full of pain, suffering and mental anguish that triggered my uneasiness and panic mode. I made a mental note to protect and prepare myself for my next appointment to the collective heartache that place was.  The drive home was a cinch. I kept on taking deep breaths, feeling more at peace with the next exhale. Pam was chatting away, explaining that she had to leave the waiting room because “the air was suffocating.” Those were her words, I wasn’t crazy! Pam felt it, too.  The next day I phoned my doctor to chat about the next step, the biopsy, as she outlined the procedure as being a positive move to the next step in making the right decision and action toward recovery. She continued her positive reinforcement by saying: “We’re no longer in medieval times my dear, all will be resolved in due time, trust me.” She’s such a peach!  I sensed that a new chapter of my life was about to unfold , calming myself with the understanding that my combative nature and sense of humor would overcome these fears, noticing that the unknown was my enemy at this time. “One day at a time” was my new motto, reminding myself that I have walked through many storms already and emerged enlightened by the lessons I have learned.  “Everything that shows up in our lives has something to teach us” - Wayne Dyer To be continued … Joelle Cleo Valente  AKA: Cleo Valente is an award-winning filmmaker with two decades of experience in the entertainment industry, working for major networks as a writer, producer, for major shows and independent productions.  Contact: realgrlproductions@gmail.com   https://bio.site/CleoValente Read More: Breast Cancer Symptoms Breast Cancer Risk Factors Supporting Loved Ones with Breast Cancer: How to Offer Meaningful Help Breast Cancer Story: The Waiting Room On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations The Power of Storytelling in Breast 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 Samantha Kuhr Ten years ago, my “normal busy” life came to a crashing halt when I heard those infamous words: “I’m afraid it’s cancer.” I was a 43-year-old mom of two very active boys, wife of 17 years, active, non-smoker, with no family history of cancer. We work hard and play hard. Perfect, right? It turns out none of that mattered when I was unexpectedly diagnosed with stage 2, grade 1, invasive breast cancer. I had no indication that my body was being invaded and felt no lumps. In fact, I ran six miles the morning my medical team discovered two tumors and a third suspicious calcification area during my routine mammogram.  As a mother, I needed to not only process this diagnosis and manage how my body felt, but I had my young children to worry about , too. Once I had complete testing to know exactly WHAT I was dealing with AND what the path forward would be, I sat with my boys and told them mummy has cancer. I’d immediately be undergoing a sentinel lymph node biopsy, a double mastectomy, and lymph node removal. BUT here’s what that means, and I reassured them I would be okay (like I had a crystal ball or something!).  Julian’s first words were, “Are you going to die, mummy?” Seeing his little face tremble was the hardest part. It was incredibly jarring. I vacillated between shock, fear, sadness, and frustration watching my family suffer alongside me, as I tried to make sense  of this out of control freight train headed towards me.  The anxiety of waiting on pins and needles for test results is now part of my new normal. I’ve experienced a marathon of tests, scans, and surgeries from a sentinel lymph node biopsy, double mastectomy, tissue expanders, PET scans, bone scans, multiple implant exchanges, and everything in between. My late-night negotiations with the universe still weigh heavily on my scarred heart. I’ve spent countless hours lying in various scanning machines (and still do), begging and praying for good news. The fact that life could be taken in an instant was never more clear to me. Then came deciphering the doctor-speak, and I had to make choices that would ultimately determine the course of my life, as if I was picking out what knickers to wear. I was forced to become an expert in tumor markers, genomic profiling, Ki-67 levels , medical insurance, Tamoxifen side effects   – it was all very overwhelming and exhausting. Yet losing focus and flinching for one moment could be the difference between living and dying. I thought a team of doctors would tell me what to do, but I discovered that this is science and they are all “practicing” medicine. Ultimately, I had to make my own   decisions about surgery and treatments. We pondered such delights as potential recurrence and survival rates versus percentage of potential side effects for chemotherapy and radiation. And  as Hot Hubby pointed out, I decreased my survival rates by driving to these appointments with the crazy LA drivers out there each day! At some point during this nightmare, my oncologist dangled the carrot: “ If we reach 10 years cancer-free, your risk of recurrence drops significantly .” Well, challenge accepted! Ta-da, here I am 10 years later, still standing, and at the risk of being cautiously celebratory, I am taking a moment to do a little victory lap.  The truth is, I’ve lost count of my seemingly endless surgeries and procedures, and I’ve fought many private battles over the past 10 years. What still shocks me is how this disease came from nowhere. I had no family history, felt no lumps, ran six miles the day of my diagnosis, and had never felt more healthy. Who’d have guessed my own rogue cells were plotting a coup? The harsh reality of cancer is that not everyone survives the fight. What’s humbling and quite evident is that my outcome wasn’t decided by medical treatments and lifestyle changes. I didn’t “fight harder” than other cancer patients. I did everything medically possible to rid my body of this disease, but ultimately I had to accept my unpredictable course of fate. And if you know me, that was the hardest part. Cancer turned out to be my unexpected teacher, forcing me to squeeze joy out of the ordinary and to cherish my loved ones. Now, little things; the sound of rain, the smell of my morning coffee, my ability to hike up a hill, or simply laughing with my boys… all these simple pleasures now feel deeply significant.  So I’m here to remind you that cancer is sneaky, and can show up when you least expect it. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take a minute today to give yourself a quick self-check, schedule regular annual checkups, and embrace the friendly mammogram machine.  Early detection is my superhero. Remember, if something feels or looks off, get it checked. My survival is a testament to the importance of regular health screenings, a practice I value now more than ever.  Join me in this party of life and survival on Instagram  and Twitter ! Read More: Understanding Your Pathology Report HOW? They Were My Blessing: Facing Breast Cancer With Young Kids Parenting and Breast Cancer 7 Things To Never Say To Someone With Breast Cancer On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Preparing for Breast Cancer Surgery: What You Need to Know 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 Sue Goodchild It all started on a sunny day in July 2024 when I received an invite to go for a mammogram . I opened the letter, read it, and put it to one side. At the age of 67, the thought of having to take everything off from the waist up fills me with embarrassment, what bra shall I wear, does it fit nicely, will they think that I’m fat, all of you ladies will know what I mean. A few days later I picked up the phone and made my appointment. With the date and time arranged, I carried on with life as normal. I had always been for my mammograms when invited, as one day they could save my life . Little did I know then how important this particular mammogram would be and how the next few weeks would change my life. At my mammogram appointments, there are no men. The whole thing is done by a very professional group of ladies, who talk me through what is about to happen, how to stand, where to put my arms, and the like. The machines are huge and are programmed to take scans of my breasts and underarms at all angles. I remember thinking, “I hope the machine doesn’t take on a mind of its own,” as it could be painful and leave me with an extremely flat chest in all the wrong places. But seriously, mammograms may be a little uncomfortable, but that’s it. Before I know it, it’s over and I’m getting dressed. No one cares what shape I am, what size my boobs are or anything like that — they have a very important job to do. Now normally in the past I would receive an all-clear letter, but this time, I was invited back for more investigations. On reading the letter, a little bit of fear ran though my body. In total denial, my mind started talking to itself... “It has to be wrong,” “I don’t have anything wrong with me,” all sorts of reasoning was going through my mind. I then thought, “Why shouldn’t it happen to me? I’m no different to anyone else.” I showed the letter to my husband. He said that it is what it is, and whatever it is, we will deal with it.  The day came for my visit to the breast clinic. I gave my name to the receptionist and took a seat in the waiting room with my husband. There were a few ladies there waiting with me, and I was watching as they came and went for their appointments. A nurse then called my name, and in I went to see the radiologist. He was a very nice gentleman sitting in front of his computer, which had two screens. He welcomed me in and said that he knew a lot about me. I thought, “Oh no!”  When I looked at his desk, he had all of my previous mammograms in front of him. On the screens he had the scans of my boobs. I remember thinking, “My god they’re big,” but then he would have to have them large on the screen so I could see what he wanted to show me.  He explained that he had noticed something suspicious  on my left breast that had been there since 2012, but had changed. He said that he was going to do some biopsies and asked me to lay on the couch while he gelled me up and used a scanner to find what he thought was suspicious. An injection was given in my boob to numb what he was about to do, but I have to say this whole procedure was very painful indeed.  He took four biopsies and put a titanium tag in my breast at the suspicious location so if it turns out to be cancer, it can be found easily. He said that the titanium tag won’t go off in Gatwick airport security. I wait to get confirmation of this in a few weeks when I go on holiday; I hope he is right, as it could be a little awkward. I then got dressed and left to go home. I was advised that they would be in contact with the results in about two weeks. The follow-up letter came inviting me back for the results of the biopsies. I met with a lovely team of nurses who were very caring. I felt sure that the results wouldn’t be anything serious, but I was about to have the biggest wake-up call ever. They advised me that it was cancer, but assured me that it was small and had been caught early. I was told that it was a 14mm grade 1 invasive ductal carcinoma (breast cancer). The consultant advised me, I was given a lot of information to read , and an appointment was made for me to meet the consultant and arrange a date for surgery.  Not long after, I met with the consultant, who told me that a lumpectomy would be done to remove the cancer and that my lymph nodes would be biopsied. It was Thursday, and as I sat there, she advised me that the following week there was an opening on Wednesday. I was so tempted to say, “Leave it for a few weeks,” but my friend who was with me said to get it over and done with, so the following Wednesday was booked. I don’t know if I am naive, but I thought I would be going in, having the tumour removed and sent home for recovery. I can tell you that there can be a lot more to it.  On Monday, I went to the hospital for a check-up, blood tests, and ECG to make sure I was safe for a general anaesthetic. On Tuesday, I went to the nuclear department at another hospital to have a sentinel node scan and a radiopharmaceutical injection in my boob the day before my operation. Then on the day of the operation, I had to be at the breast clinic by 10:30 a.m. to have a wire inserted into my left breast that would help the consultant find the tumour more quickly. To me, this seemed like something out of a horror film: this long wire sticking out of my boob. I thought, “How am I going to get my clothes back on with this?!” The nurses rolled it up and taped it down before sending me for more mammograms to make sure it was in the right place. Myself and another lady were taken across to the main hospital to get ready for our operations. The other lady went down first, with me going down at just after four in the afternoon. I woke up in the recovery room at just after six in the evening and was then taken to the ward. I wasn’t in there for long, but they wouldn’t let me go until I had a wee, and I was surprised that it was blue! This was due to the dye injected during surgery. It wasn’t long before I was up, dressed, and ready to go home.  Since my original first meeting at the breast clinic, life went really quickly. I am pleased to say that I am now clear of breast cancer and healing slowly but surely. I cannot thank the radiologist, the consultant, the nurses , and everyone else involved enough for their never-ending support and care. I don’t have to have radiotherapy, but I do have to take letrozole hormone therapy and Adcal-D3 (a calcium and vitamin D3 supplement) for five years and have mammograms annually. But other than that, I now look forward to a full recovery and being able to wear a bra without it being uncomfortable. My advice is to always go for your mammograms no matter how embarrassing you think they are. They will save your life. Secondly, make sure you have a very comfortable bra that fits nicely over your boobs and doesn’t rise too high under the arms, just in case your lymph nodes are tested. If you have ample boobs like me, you will be grateful that they are under control post-surgery.  I must say a big thank you to the wonderful team at the West Sussex Breast Clinic, the consultant and team at Worthing Hospital. Read More: Understanding Contrast-Enhanced Mammography Breast Cancer Symptoms Understanding Your Pathology Report: A Comprehensive Step-By-Step Guide Nurse Navigators: Your Guide Through Treatment On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations The Power of Storytelling in Breast 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 Nicholle Chadwick Some mornings I wake up thinking or maybe it’s me pretending to be just a normal person, but then I put my fingers through my hair and it all flashes back like a bad nightmare. I remember that the reason I have little hair is because I recently had to fight for my life and the fight is something that I’ll always have to do.  It was 2022, a day before my thirty-seventh birthday. Everyone in my house was fast asleep. I got up and went to the bathroom, and before climbing in bed I reached over to grab some chapstick and rubbed against my right breast by pure accident. Little did I know that my life changed in that moment. I felt a lump .  The lump was hard, almost like a small BB from a BB gun, but I told myself that it was nothing and went to sleep. I waited a few days and decided I should probably tell my boyfriend, who happens to be a radiologist. He then discovered several lumps. I decided not to freak out because I was young  and had no family history of breast cancer, but I made an appointment at my OB’s office. They got me in relatively quickly and did an exam. The NP’s words were, “You have pretty lumpy breasts so it’s probably nothing, but we will order a mammogram and ultrasound just to be safe.” As I awaited these tests I had several talks with my boyfriend without any worry; that if anything it was just a cyst. I went in for my exams without much anxiety and without answers. The exams came back inconclusive, so an MRI had to be ordered. I started worrying a little just because I wasn’t sure why I needed further tests if I just had lumpy breasts , but then again, I reasoned it as that. So I went for the MRI. The breast MRI was one of the most uncomfortable things I had done at this point in my life. I was not ready to be face down for an extended period of time, but I got it done. Those results stated I needed a biopsy, so of course I went ahead and got that scheduled. Up until the night I received a call from the breast surgeon, I remember saying, “There’s no way I have cancer, I have no family history and I’m too young.” The last time I said that was the night before my surgeon called.  That call is one that I’ll never forget. I had really bad phone service at that time, so the first time I answered I couldn’t hear the surgeon on the other end. I didn’t know the number and I was working, so I just hung up. The second time, I answered rudely and had her on speaker phone. There was a day off of school and I was working from home, so my son was standing right outside my bedroom door; at this time he was 14. All I remember the surgeon saying is “It’s cancer, but treatable.” Everything in the entire world changed for me at that very moment . I was upset about how I found out, how my son found out at the same time, how I doubted I could ever have cancer, how I didn’t educate myself more of the possibilities. I just kept thinking, “How? And now what?” Life got very real after that. I was in the process of changing jobs. Luckily my new boss was understanding, as I am a mental health therapist and was going to need some of my own time to process my new diagnosis. My father (well… at the time, the man I thought was my father) died one week after my diagnosis, and as the only child I had to settle all of his affairs. I then found out that I tested positive for the BRCA 1 gene mutation , but again, HOW? I had no family history. So, I decided to do an ancestry test in the middle of chemo and all the pain associated with this new diagnosis. I found out that my biological father was a man I never knew , and that he carried the BRCA 1 gene mutation. I also found out that ovarian and breast cancer run heavily in my biological father’s side of the family. Again, I was left with the question: HOW? I felt like everything I knew about myself was wrong, and I wasn’t sure what to do. The only thing I could do was FIGHT. I fought my diagnosis by showing up for chemo every week despite the reactions, the low blood counts, and the negative feelings. I fought for my kids and my family. I decided that I could fight back by spreading awareness because anyone can get breast cancer, it doesn’t matter how old you are or if you think you have family history or not.  I spent so much time doubting I had cancer that I never thought about the possibility that I had it and what it meant. What it meant was that I had chemo for the next eight months (12 rounds of carboplatin, Keytruda, Taxol and then Adriamycin-Cytoxan and Keytruda), then a double mastectomy, and then thirty rounds of radiation.  My genetic mutation also means that my children have a fifty percent chance of developing the BRCA gene mutation . I also am at an increased risk for melanoma of the skin and eyes, pancreatic cancer, and ovarian cancer. I have more surgeries scheduled, including an exchange surgery for my breasts as well as an eventual hysterectomy and monitoring every three months.  Even though the “hard” part of chemo is done, I have constant reminders – whether it’s my short hair or the yellowing of my nails – that my life is far from normal. My new normal has been hard to find, but I’m taking it one day at a time. I am thankful that despite the hard days, I got up and fought every day for my kids. I never lost track of my reasons. Cancer is tough, but I believe that I am tougher because of my support system . I am thankful to have a care/medical team that constantly makes sure I am doing what I need to be doing so that I can continue to outlive cancer. I’ve decided that 2024 is my year of travel and my time to give back whatever I can to those in the community that need extra support emotionally. So here’s to living and enjoying instead of just surviving.  Connect with Nicholle on Instagram Read More: Breast Cancer in Young Women: Common Questions Answered Understanding Genetic Testing for BRCA1 and BRCA2 Mutations They Were My Blessing: Facing Breast Cancer With Young Kid s On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Understanding the Complexities of Genetic Testing 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 Victoria Ramirez I always thought of myself as a planner. I had a master’s degree, a career in clinical research, a supportive partner, and a future I thought I could predict. But in June 2023, at 31 years old, I found myself facing a reality I never saw coming: stage 2 triple-negative breast cancer . Before my diagnosis, my life revolved around deadlines, meetings, and goals. Like many women, I often put others’ needs ahead of my own , pushing through exhaustion and stress, believing that if I could just finish one more project or take on one more task, everything would eventually fall into place. I thought I was invincible, assuming breast cancer was a concern for an older version of myself. But everything shifted one day when I felt a small, unassuming lump on my breast. My initial reaction was denial. I was too busy, too young , too healthy  for cancer—right? But something deep inside told me not to ignore it. I scheduled a doctor’s appointment, and within days, I was thrust into a whirlwind of tests, biopsies, and anxious waiting rooms. The day I heard, “It’s cancer,” everything else fell away. Triple-negative breast cancer (TNBC) is known for being aggressive and more likely to affect younger women, particularly women of color. Suddenly, I was part of a statistic I didn’t even know existed. The next few weeks were a blur of fertility preservation , chemotherapy plans, and preparing for the unknown. I chose to be proactive and freeze my eggs before starting treatment, knowing that chemo could impact my ability to have children. While my friends were planning weddings or family vacations, I was bracing myself for the fight of my life. I lost most of my hair after the second chemo session. It seemed like such a small thing compared to everything else, but watching clumps fall out in the shower was devastating. It was a moment where the reality of what was happening truly sank in. I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror. But as much as the physical changes were challenging, it was the emotional toll that really took me by surprise. I felt like I was losing parts of myself—my energy, my confidence, and even my identity. However, as I moved through treatment, I found strength I didn’t know I had. Each chemo session became a small victory. Each day I woke up feeling even slightly okay was a reminder that I was still here, still fighting. I leaned heavily on my family, my partner, and the few friends who truly understood what I was going through .  After five months of chemotherapy, I had a double mastectomy. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, but I knew it was necessary. There were moments when I doubted myself, times when the fear of the unknown felt suffocating. But in the midst of it all, I began to see my journey as more than just survival —I saw it as an opportunity to redefine what strength and resilience looked like. Now, in survivorship, life feels different. I’ve had to confront the reality that “normal” may never return. There are scars, both physical and emotional, that will never completely fade. But I also see how this experience has shaped me in ways I never imagined. I have a new perspective on time, relationships, and self-advocacy . I learned to say no, to prioritize my health, and to speak up when something doesn’t feel right. This journey has taught me that I am capable of withstanding more than I ever thought possible. Today, I’m passionate about using my story to raise awareness, particularly for young women and women of color . There are so many of us who fall through the cracks, who are told we’re “too young” for this diagnosis, who struggle to find resources and support that reflect our experiences. I want to change that. I hope to use my voice to empower others to pay attention to their bodies and prioritize their health. Cancer is a chapter I never expected to be written into my story, but I’m determined to use it to make a difference. While my scars may serve as reminders of a difficult journey, they are also symbols of strength, survival, and the promise of a future I’m still planning —one that I hope will be even more impactful than I ever imagined. Connect with Victoria on Instagram Read More: Breast Cancer in Young Women: Common Questions Answered Different Types of Breast Cancer The Promise of the Triple Negative Breast Cancer Vaccine Breast Cancer and Fertility On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Jacquie Carter Angell: Balancing Business, Motherhood, and mTNBC 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 Emerald van Wyk One fateful morning in July 2019, my world shattered as I discovered a lump in my breast . A wave of sheer terror crashed over me, leaving me breathless with fear. Desperate and trembling, I immediately reached out to my general practitioner, Dr. Lakha. His promptness in setting up an appointment for further investigation felt like a lifeline, yet the dread only deepened when he confirmed my worst nightmare. Dr. Lakha confirmed that there was a lump present and that further investigation would need to follow. Without hesitation, Dr. Lakha referred me to the hospital radiology department and within a week, I held the results in my trembling hands. The word “biopsy” echoed in my mind, shattering my spirit. But this was just the beginning of an uphill battle. My medical savings were depleted, leaving me helpless in the face of the biopsy’s daunting cost . The irony of my situation was not lost on me – I felt both relieved and trapped. On one hand, I was grateful for the brief reprieve, a moment to brace myself for the possibility that the lump might be malignant. But the crushing reality remained: time was of the essence, and every day I waited brought me closer to an uncertain fate. In my darkest hour, I confided in my dear friend, Vanessa, explaining that I would have to wait until January 2020, when my medical savings would renew, to undergo the biopsy. Her concern was palpable, but all she could offer was her prayers. Little did I know, God had sent me an angel in the form of Vanessa. A week later, she called me with urgency, urging me to see Professor Carol-Anne Benn ( a renowned surgeon and breast-disease specialist) at Helen Joseph Hospital in Johannesburg, South Africa. Vanessa assured me that Professor Benn wouldn’t turn me away, as she was a champion of equal healthcare for all. That phone call felt like a ray of hope breaking through the suffocating darkness. When I finally met with Professor Benn, she didn’t hesitate. A biopsy was scheduled immediately. At that moment, I couldn’t help but feel that Vanessa had opened a door I hadn’t even known existed – God’s grace working through her. The days leading up to my biopsy were agonising. On the morning I was to receive the results, my anxiety reached a fever pitch when I learned that Professor Benn had been called away to an international conference. Another week of waiting. Another week of torment. I clung to my Bible, finding solace in its pages as I prayed for strength to endure. Finally, the day arrived. I sat down with Professor Benn, her words forever etched in my memory: the lesion in my right breast was malignant, but it was a slow-growing cancer. Invasive ductal carcinoma , stage 1. My world crumbled in an instant. The weight of that diagnosis was unbearable, like a heavy load of bricks on my back. The news was a devastating blow, one that left me debilitated for days as I struggled to comprehend the enormity of what lay ahead . Yet, somehow, I found myself at Professor Benn’s practice at Milpark Hospital, greeted by a compassionate young woman named Zamo Mguli, the navigating nurse . Zamo’s kindness pulled me from the abyss, guiding me through the overwhelming process that lay ahead. For the first time in days, I felt a glimmer of hope, a determination to confront the demon growing inside me. But the news kept getting worse. The MRI at Rosebank Clinic in Johannesburg, South Africa revealed more lesions, smaller but no less terrifying. I remember leaving the clinic, tears streaming down my face, overwhelmed by the horror of it all. Yet, even in my despair, I found a spark of positivity when I learned that a disciplinary committee of experienced doctors would decide my treatment plan. I knew then that God was guiding them, and I placed my faith in their hands. The call came soon after, and the navigating nurse informed me that I would undergo a lumpectomy with reconstruction surgery, followed by radiation. The news brought a mix of relief and fear, but I knew I had to fight with every ounce of strength I had. On November 14, 2019, my 90-minute operation was performed. I woke up the next day, surrounded by machines, my body fragile and my mind racing with fear. Being diabetic complicated everything, but with the careful management by Dr. Barend, the surgery was a success. Still, the aftermath was gruelling. I returned home with two drains attached to my body, a constant reminder of the battle I was waging. The pain was relentless , and the challenges seemed endless, but I pressed on, determined to heal. Radiation began on January 21, 2020, and continued for 31 excruciating days. This was the most harrowing part of my journey. The anxiety was suffocating as I lay motionless, positioned in precise angles, terrified of making a wrong move. But I wasn’t alone. The other women undergoing treatment shared my fears, and their tears became my comfort. We were in this together, and somehow, that made it bearable. I am eternally grateful to the multidisciplinary team who cared for me with such compassion and professionalism. To the radiation team at Netcare Clinton, your patience and dedication were a beacon of light during my darkest days. You treated me with kindness and understanding, even when I was at my lowest. And to my oncologist, Dr. Ramdas, who saw my anxiety and immediately referred me to my psychologist, Monica Austen – your holistic approach saved me. But the road was far from over. During my annual gynaecology visit, my doctor discovered a large lump inside my uterus. Concerning factors were the sheer size of the lump and its placement (under usual circumstances, a lump like this is located on the uterus wall, making removal easier – but in my case it was in my uterus, making removal more risky). Being a breast cancer survivor and a diabetic patient added to my risk factors, so my gynaecologist and oncologist agreed that the best course of action would be hysterectomy. On May 25, 2020, I underwent my hysterectomy. The prayers from various churches enveloped me, and I give God all the praise and glory for guiding me through yet another trial. God’s presence was undeniable throughout my journey, sending angels to support me along the way. On September 29, 2020, during a consultation with Dr. Ramdas, I received the words I had longed to hear: I was cancer-free . The Lord’s mercy and grace had carried me through, and my heart swelled with gratitude. Yet, the battle wasn’t entirely over. On October 6, 2023, I met with my new oncologist, Dr. Karen Motilall, who, along with Professor Benn, recommended another operation: a wide local excision of a breast sarcoma to ensure that any tiny lumps were benign. The procedure, though successful, was a severe test of my physical, mental, and emotional strength. This new chapter is fraught with uncertainty, but my resolve has never been stronger . I will continue to fight, to heal, and to trust that God will see me through, just as He has done before. Reflections and Inspirations I have always believed that like many cancer survivors, I am a living testimony. Every time I come through a major life challenge, I learn more about who I am and become a stronger woman because of it. With my renewed health, I strive to be a better person than I was yesterday. This path requires me to trust that the Lord’s purpose for my life has not yet been fulfilled. I have been put here on Earth to encourage and inspire, and I remain hopeful. God knows how this chapter of my life will end. I remind myself every day to allow the process to unfold and not be afraid to fear the unknown. Read More: Newly Diagnosed: Now What? The Cost of Breast Cancer Nurse Navigators: Your Guide Through Treatment Tips for Pain Management with Cancer On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Preparing for Breast Cancer Surgery: What You Need to Know with Dr. Tammaro 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 Beth Cazalet So many articles and books provide great information about what you might want to have with you when you are undergoing chemotherapy treatment to make it more bearable. Creating or receiving these chemo bags  or products for chemo bags can be a very therapeutic way of taking some control during your cancer treatment. However, almost nothing I've seen tells you how to prepare a hospital bag for a longer stay or inpatient treatment , when more factors are out of your control. I started a chemo regime of carboplatin, paclitaxel and pembrolizumab (immunotherapy) in October 2023 for triple-negative breast cancer  and I was in hospital with hepatitis by December 2023. I HAD packed a hospital bag, but I assumed I would only be in overnight for a check over, not that I would be there for two weeks, so the bag I had packed was pretty inadequate.   After weeks of antibiotics and steroids, I was released from hospital. I was taken off paclitaxel and pembrolizumab, which are known for attacking the liver, and had more weeks of steroids to get my liver back to normal. I was extremely lucky that even with the limited amount of chemo I had, the drugs had shrunk the tumour enough to remove it. I now have no evidence of cancer but am back on oral chemo to be safe and to limit the potential of recurrence. My hospital bag is ready, just in case. Below are some ideas for what to pack in a hospital bag . If you have private medical care or are lucky, your hospital may provide some of these items, so take this list as a starting point.  Day clothes/nightwear:  Several sets of each. Preferably, outfits should not go over the head. Opt for button-down shirts with loose fitting sleeves so that if you have a cannula in your arm, you can take your top on and off when needed for blood tests and infusions without disturbing the cannula. Trousers with elasticated waistbands are easier than zips and buckles, especially if you have a cannula. A zip-up sweater or cardigan is also helpful. Take several pairs of underwear and socks (not just one). A dressing gown (robe) and non-slip slippers give you much greater dignity if you stay in PJs. Wash bag and toiletries:  The hospital may give you toiletries, but it is best to have your own toothbrush and toothpaste. If they end up washing you, they usually provide all of it. They may also give you towels and a washcloth, so you do not need to pack those (my hospital didn’t provide washcloths). Body lotion and lip gloss are also helpful as you can feel dried out from temperature differences compared to your home.  Eye mask and ear plugs:  The hospital can be very noisy and light, making it difficult to sleep and recover. I found eye masks, earplugs and noise cancelling headphones essential (preferably headphones that you can keep on even if you roll over in your sleep). Contact list of phone numbers and chargers:  You need to have a list of people’s telephone numbers either printed out or be able to access them on your mobile phone/tablet. A good charger and cables are also important.  Details of your cancer medications, other regular prescription medications and over-the-counter supplements (like vitamins):  This helps ensure that there are no adverse drug reactions and that you can get what you need. I created a spreadsheet to keep track of my cancer medicines and when I took them, which proved very useful when they were trying to figure out what I was reacting to.  Notebook and paper:  These items are helpful if you have questions and want to make notes or create lists of things for people to bring to you or instructions for home. Entertainment:  A puzzle book, novel, magazine, craft activity or a tablet with some movies, TV, or music downloaded can help pass the hours, especially if you wake up in the night and need help going back to sleep. Read More: Packing a Care Bag for Cancer Treatment Why a Second Opinion Matters for Breast Cancer Nurse Navigators: Your Guide Through Treatment On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Good News for Triple Negative Breast Cancer: A Vaccine and Hope for the Future Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events

Boston, MA – October 2024 – SurvivingBreastCancer.org is thrilled to announce the success of its second annual Tell Cancer To Go #TakeAHike event. This year, 100 teams and nearly 200 participants came together to raise more than $20,000 in support of breast cancer awareness and resources for patients and survivors. "We’re incredibly grateful for everyone who participated and donated," said Laura Carfang, CEO of SurvivingBreastCancer.Org . "This event shows the strength of our community and the commitment to making a positive impact in the lives of those affected by breast cancer." Though the event has wrapped, donations are still being accepted at  https://givebutter.com/0fCiEU   to continue supporting SurvivingBreastCancer.org ’s programs. About SurvivingBreastCancer.org :   SurvivingBreastCancer.org (SBC) is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization supporting those who have been touched by breast cancer. SBC provides free online resources and emotional support services to guide individuals when they are first diagnosed, through treatment, and beyond. Media Contact: Ana Quintero Marketing and PR Specialist SurvivingBreastCancer.org ana@survivingbreastcancer.org

By Alyce Stewart On October 19, 2016, I was diagnosed with breast cancer . My first reaction was, “Are you kidding me?” I had already gone through this drill once, diagnosed in December 1993 with stage II kidney cancer . This was not a scenario I ever wanted to repeat, but there it was… the Big C, once again staring me in the face. How could this happen? I had my annual mammogram in January, and the results were negative, with no evidence of disease. Breast cancer doesn’t run in my family, and kidney cancer doesn’t metastasize there. Did I lose a bet or what? Being a type A personality, I went home, got on my computer, and did exactly  what the doctors tell you not to; I went to the internet. Having supported many others through their breast cancer journeys, I was pretty well versed in the subject, or so I thought. Nope, I had no idea what was ahead for me . But the one thing I did know was had I not listened to my inner voice and my aching body, this may not have been diagnosed . Hmmm, that’s a familiar story; seems I was on this path before. Oh yes, I remember it took almost ten years to discover the tumors growing in my kidney . In the late 80s, I complained of pains in my back, headaches, and flu-like symptoms. Many doctors saw me over the ensuing years and said ridiculous things; for instance, “Your underwear is too tight.” What a bizarre diagnosis, and there would be others just as absurd. The last one was my favorite, “You’re that age.” What the heck does that mean?  I finally met a doctor in November 1993 who listened and sent me for an ultrasound. As I lay on the table, I asked the technician if I could watch, and she said, “sure.” She applied the cold, goopy gel, adjusted the screen so I could see, and began the exam. We were chatting with each other when there it was : a white, ghostly-looking image. She stopped talking; the quiet scared me as I realized it wasn’t supposed to be there. When she finished, she softly asked if I had a follow-up with my doctor, and then I knew  something was very wrong. A week later, the prognosis came back, and that was the first time I met the Big C. I was hospitalized immediately and lost my right kidney on the 9th of December 1993. After removing the kidney, the doctors pronounced me cured, and I thought I had dodged a bullet. As the years passed, I would tell others to listen to their bodies and not give up. I told them to get second opinions  and to question their doctors. I was on a mission; I wanted to save others from going through what I did, searching for answers to my pain. I would tell them you know your body best, listen to it. I thought I’ve got this. WRONG!  In 2010 I went to my GYN doctor and told her I had a strange pain in my left breast . She examined me and said, “You’re fine; you just need better bras.” Yup, underwear again. This scenario played out for several years; why I didn’t question her, I honestly don’t know. Here I was telling others to seek second opinions while I accepted what my doctor said. I turned a deaf ear to my body’s messages and never sought a second opinion. What a hypocrite I was. In 2016 the pain worsened and spread to my armpit; I thought I had pulled a muscle. I had massages, adjustments, and exams. Nothing worked, the pain continued, and there was no relief. It was time to listen to my body and get to the bottom of this. I got my second opinion when I saw my family doctor, who ordered multiple tests resulting in a diagnosis of breast cancer both in my left breast and my left axilla. I learned I had dense breasts , and my mammograms could not pick up these images. With dense breasts, other tests have to be ordered, such as MRIs and ultrasounds. I had surgery, chemo, and radiation and was declared NED: no evidence of disease. My mission continues as I jog along this crazy trail called life. I talk about dense breasts and share my story of six years of pain and not seeking a second opinion. I didn’t listen to my body, and I put all my trust in a doctor’s hands, which was a huge mistake. I stress that you MUST listen to your body, don’t ignore the message, and seek other opinions. The results can be deadly if you don’t. When I had my surgery in 2017 for my breast cancer, the doctor was unable to remove all of the cancer, so I was deemed at risk. Due to this risk, I have been having blood work every six months . In October 2023, my cancer marker results were high. I was told this could be a false positive and the test was repeated a week later, again the results were high. After much testing it was determined that I am now in stage 4 and I have metastatic breast cancer  (MBC) in my lung and bones.  I have now added speaking about MBC and explaining that there are many treatment options available, and patients are living longer with this diagnosis. I am a Thriver and I tell my story and talk about MBC whenever I can. Education and early detention are so important , and I emphasize that to all because I feel so blessed that this was found as early as it was. I have monthly treatments and will for the rest of my life. I’m doing well, my breast cancer is under control, but now I live with a chronic disease, metastatic breast cancer , because I did not listen. Your body knows; listen to it! Read More: Breast Cancer at 33: A Young Mom’s Story of Self-Advocacy Metastatic Breast Cancer: Understanding the Significance of Stage IV Why a Second Opinion Matters for Breast Cancer Breast Cancer Symptoms Video: What is Breast Density? On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations Understanding Breast Cancer Screening Modalities Share your story, poetry, or art: https://www.survivingbreastcancer.org/submit-breast-cancer-story SurvivingBreastCancer.org Resources & Support: Podcast Weekly Meetup s Free Events