Ten years ago, I thought I was going to die.
In October 2014, after months of ignoring a lump on my breast—one I had casually dismissed as a mosquito bite—I finally went to my doctor, requesting a prescription for a mammogram. He refused. “You’re too young,” he said. I was 35. “It’s probably nothing. Insurance won’t cover it anyway,” he added, leaving me to pay out of pocket. I agreed and went home, not overly concerned.
But when I spoke to my mother about it, she refused to accept the doctor’s nonchalance. “Go back,” she urged. “Get the mammogram. It doesn’t matter what he says.” Her worry weighed on me, and although I was busy with work and felt healthier than ever, I decided to go back—if only to ease her mind. The doctor finally relented and gave me the prescription.
Within a week, my world flipped upside down. A mammogram, followed by an ultrasound, then an MRI, and finally a biopsy. On October 31st, 2014, at 2 p.m., my phone rang. I’ll never forget those words: “I’m so sorry. You have breast cancer.” The rest was a blur. I was at work, and shock gripped. My husband picked up the kids from Pre-K and we cancelled our annual Halloween party.
In my mind, cancer wasn’t for women my age. I was strong, young, and healthy. How could this be happening?
The following weeks were a whirlwind of reflection, research, and endless tears. My family and I sought multiple opinions, hoping to wake up from this nightmare. All the doctors had the same recommendation: the cancer was caught early. A double mastectomy would be the best course of action, and I could then move on with my life. The surgery was scheduled for Thanksgiving week, and by Christmas, I thought the worst was behind me.
But just when I began to breathe again, the new year brought devastating news. My oncologist called. The tumor had been more aggressive than they initially thought, and chemo was now a necessity to prevent recurrence. I felt deflated.
Within a week, I began chemotherapy. The next week, I lost my hair.
For six months, I endured grueling treatments. I tried to stay positive for my children and family. Each chemo session was a battle, but I made it through. The following year, I underwent multiple reconstructive surgeries. The following year, my husband encouraged me to find a way to turn my story into something positive that could help other families. I decided to author two children’s books as a way to heal and to help families have open conversations about cancer with their children. Writing the books became my therapy.
Now, a decade later, I look back on that time with a mix of pain and gratitude.
I’ll never forget the blood on my gown after my biopsy. I’ll never forget where I stood when I heard those life-altering words. I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face when she saw me after my diagnosis or the feel of my children’s small hands on my lump as they tried to understand. The agony of chemo, the sight of my hair falling out, the nights spent in pain—I will carry those memories forever.
But I will also never forget the incredible support I received. The nurses who offered hope when I had none. My friends celebrated my last chemo with a party in red. My family, who were there through every step. And I will always cherish the pride in my daughter’s eyes at my book signings.
Then, two years ago, cancer struck my family again. My husband, Richard, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Once again, the specter of death loomed. But this time, we knew what to do. We acted quickly. Our girls initially thought it was a cruel joke, but soon they understood. Chemo would bring good days and bad days. We rallied as a family, just as they had done for me eight years earlier. Richard’s strength became our strength, and as a couple, we have emerged stronger than ever.
Today, I am more intentional about how I spend my time and with whom I spend it. My children are more empathetic, knowing that life’s struggles are unavoidable, but surmountable. And they know to get their mammograms at 25—ten years earlier than my diagnosis, as recommended.
Here are my takeaways:
• Take care of yourself. Don’t procrastinate.
• Be your own advocate. No one will fight harder for your health than you.
• Do your research and have open conversations with your doctor about every option.
• Own your journey. Believe in your ability to emerge stronger from the fight.
As I reflect on the past 10 years, I find peace and gratitude—not for the pain, but for the lessons, the love, and the strength I’ve gained along the way.
