Avoiding the Darkness

I’ve decided to share this experience in case anyone else can relate. It’s helped me to know others that have made these tough choices, and I’m hoping I can help others going through this. My plan is to attack this with as much honesty as possible. There will be swear words. There will be sarcasm. There will be moments of strength, and moments of weakness. Most of all, there will be me. Me being vulnerable — a stupid thing to do on the internet. Me being angry. And there will be you. You reading it, relating to it, or joining in the frustration of what is breast cancer; whether you currently have it, are trying to avoid it, or are dealing with it on periphery.

Here’s a bit of what I posted on my Facebook page to let my friends and family know what I’ve got going on:

In 2020, I was sent in for my first mammogram. The doctor and I both felt a lump. I was 35. They kept me there for hours taking multiple images. It was to the point the radiologist told me and Chris that if she did anymore, I’d probably be bruised.

During that appointment, she showed Chris and me what it was that concerned her. I had tiny speckles all over. To me, they looked like the night sky. There were so many of them, they looked like stars, and the groups looked like miniature galaxies. But these things, that in any other circumstance could look beautiful, turned out to be a potential threat. Depending on their shape, she explained, they could morph into cancer.

“I can’t send you for 20 biopsies,” she said. Then she explained that based on family history and these images, I was high risk for breast cancer.

Suddenly, my life became a schedule of six month screenings (alternating MRIs and mammograms), genetic testing, phone calls to discuss best practices, and me researching just how much eating all of the berries could help lower my risk, and asking what diets could help (spoiler alert: there’s actually not a lot of solid research in this area).

Every six months, I’d start to get panicky. I’d get nervous. They weren’t having me come in just for fun. They were screening me, watching for changes, for the day one of those stars became a black hole. Luckily, I didn’t have to sit alone, and I had a friend come with me. She’d sit and make me laugh and distract me for the hours we would sit in the halls of Magee, me wearing a pink robe, and her wearing her smile.

In May, it finally happened. After my six month MRI, they told me that I needed a biopsy. I held onto the words that it was “very low suspicion.”

I opted for a research study to do a color-enhanced mammogram biopsy. When they took me into the room and gave me the IV of fluids to light everything up, I thought I was going to puke. I tried so hard not to cry. I asked the women what books they were reading or movies they were watching. Anything to get my mind off of it. They showed me the galaxy that was causing problems. I cracked jokes to keep myself sane.

It felt like it took forever to get the results. Luckily, the finding are precancerous, and not yet cancerous, “But they may want another sample just in case. It’s possible they missed something.”

As soon as I got the results, I knew what I was going to do. I’m going to be getting a double mastectomy. My doctors and the nurses all agree it’s the right thing to do given my age, and family history (nine women on my mother’s side have died of breast cancer. Nine.).

I did everything I could to make it so this wouldn’t happen. I ate all of the berries and antioxidants, I worked out, I breastfed for SIX years (do you know how much teething that is?!), I ate so much kale and spinach. Yes, I got fat over the pandemic, but it was the end of the world and Ben and Jerry were great. Turns out, my doctors have all told me that my pandemic pudge didn’t cause this. Nope, this is just what crummy genes can do.

I’m going to be very open about this process. If any of you have questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. I’m not looking for anyone to tell me not to do it, because I’ve seen too many women die of breast cancer, and I’m not willing to let these cells continue to mutate into killers.

If you’ve been through this, please feel free to talk to me about it. I want to hear your stories (but not the scary ones. I have Reddit for that).

Also, I should thank everyone who has offered support and kindness. You’ve all been amazing. Thank you. I love you.
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Thank you for staying around and I look forward to sharing this with you. Well, as forward as one can look to losing body parts and avoiding cancer.