People keep asking me how I'm doing.
The honest answer?
I think my brain decided that if I was going to survive this, it wasn't going to let me feel everything.
So I kept moving.
I kept working.
I started building this blog, The Journey I Never Asked For, because I wanted a place to document what was happening—not only for myself, but maybe someday for another woman who finds herself walking this same road.
I kept working on my business, Alluring Tranquility.
I kept scheduling vendor shows.
Life, somehow, just...continued.
More Tests. More Questions.
On July 1, I had my breast MRI.
The MRI confirmed what we already knew about the cancer in my right breast, but it also found something new.
There was a suspicious area deep within my left breast, tucked back close to my chest wall.
There was also a lymph node in my chest that appeared slightly enlarged.
Those two findings meant more waiting.
More testing.
More uncertainty.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I also met with a genetic counselor. Because cancer has affected both sides of my family, we decided to move forward with genetic testing for hereditary cancers, including breast, colon, and certain brain cancers.
One more appointment.
Two or three more tubes of blood.
One more answer to wait for.
By the time July 8 rolled around, I met with my breast surgeon.
We talked about surgery.
I told him I was leaning toward a double mastectomy, even if the spot in my left breast turned out not to be cancer.
After everything I'd learned, my thinking hadn't changed.
I wanted to do everything I reasonably could to keep cancer from becoming a recurring chapter in my life.
My surgeon agreed that the new area was suspicious enough that he also believed it was likely cancer.
The biopsy was scheduled for the very next day.
Biopsy Number Two
On July 9, I found myself back in the imaging center.
Another mammogram.
Another biopsy.
Another waiting room.
This biopsy felt different from the first.
The doctor performing it was different, too—a tiny, soft-spoken woman who looked even smaller standing next to my 5'7" frame.
As she inserted the biopsy needle, I immediately noticed how much pressure she had to use.
It honestly felt like she was pushing with everything she had.
She explained that because the suspicious area was so far back near my chest wall, she actually had to push through muscle to reach it.
Five tissue samples later...
Another Q-Clip placed.
Another mammogram to make sure it was exactly where it belonged.
Another adorable pink ice pack.
And once again, I was sent on my way.
At this point, pink ice packs were becoming the unofficial souvenir of my cancer journey.
The Appointment That Broke Me
The following day, I met with the plastic surgeon.
Until that appointment, I thought I had made peace with a double mastectomy.
We talked about reconstruction.
I knew one thing for certain—I didn't want implants.
If reconstruction was possible using my own tissue, that's what I wanted.
Because I'm diabetic, we also discussed how important my A1C would be in determining what reconstruction options would be safest.
Then she opened a page on her computer, a page of links of photographs.
Every woman in those photos had consented to sharing her results to help future patients understand what reconstruction could look like.
The first procedure she showed me was called the Goldilocks reconstruction.
It was the option she recommended for me.
I looked at the picture.
And suddenly...
My survivor brain disappeared.
For the first time since I found the lump back in May...
I cried.
Not a few tears.
Not watery eyes.
I cried.
Real tears.
The kind you can't stop.
The kind that come from somewhere so deep you didn't even know they were waiting.
All of a sudden, this wasn't about removing cancer.
It was about losing a part of myself.
She gently explained that if I chose a lumpectomy instead, radiation would almost certainly be part of my treatment, and while reconstruction would still be possible later, radiation could make it much more complicated.
I heard her.
But emotionally...
I was done.
There wasn't room in my brain for one more decision that day.
They took me into another room to photograph me from the neck down for surgical planning.
Yet another moment where cancer quietly steals something you never expected to lose—your privacy, your dignity, your sense that your body belongs only to you.
The Ugly Cry
When the appointment ended, I waited for Kevin while he finished physical therapy from his total knee replacement.
I sat alone in the waiting room.
And I ugly cried.
The kind where you can't catch your breath.
The kind where you don't care who's watching because you're simply too exhausted to stop.
Afterward, we met my best friend, Linda, for breakfast and coffee.
I cried there, too.
Hard.
Because suddenly I wasn't thinking about cancer.
I was thinking about losing my femininity.
Would I ever have cleavage again?
Would tank tops ever fit the same?
Would I feel comfortable in a swimsuit?
Would my husband still look at me the same way?
Those fears felt enormous.
Not because Kevin has ever made me question how much he loves me...
But because sometimes the hardest critic we face is the one staring back at us in the mirror.
The drive home was filled with me talking.
Talking through every fear that popped into my head while Kevin listened.
When we finally got home, we curled up together in bed.
Little by little, I started to calm down.
Then, naturally...
I opened Amazon.
Apparently, retail therapy looks a little different when you're preparing for cancer surgery.
Pillows.
Drain holders.
Recovery shirts.
Anything that made me feel like I was somehow preparing for what was coming.
Two Phone Calls
Around three that afternoon, my phone rang.
It was the imaging center.
The nurse confirmed what my surgeon and I had both expected.
The biopsy from my left breast was positive.
It was also invasive ductal carcinoma.
Oddly enough...
That phone call didn't hit me very hard.
I'd already spent the day crying over what cancer might take from me.
The diagnosis itself hadn't really changed anything.
Then, about an hour later...
The phone rang again.
This time it was my patient coordinator.
She explained that my oncologist wanted me to have a PET scan before my upcoming appointment.
Because of the suspicious lymph node and the findings from my second biopsy, they wanted a clearer picture of exactly what was happening inside my body and whether there was any evidence that the cancer had spread beyond my breasts.
She also explained that one part of my pathology—the HER2 result—was inconclusive and had been sent out for additional testing, which could take up to two weeks.
Depending on those results and everything else they learned, my stage could potentially change.
I listened.
I cried again.
She reassured me that lymph node involvement alone would not automatically mean Stage 4. Stage 4 refers to cancer that has spread to distant organs, and the PET scan was being ordered to help answer that question.
Then she said something that has become her trademark phrase in my world.
"At this time, we're not that worried about this."
I needed to hear those words.
Before we hung up, she told me she'd managed to get my PET scan scheduled for Wednesday morning July 15 at 7:45.
She quickly started reviewing all the strange instructions I'd need to follow beforehand.
After I hung up...
Before we hung up, she explained how the PET scan results would work. The scan would be read the same day, and as soon as the radiologist finalized the report, it would be posted to my patient portal. That meant I could see the results almost immediately if I chose to log in. She told me I had a choice: I could read them on my own as soon as they were available, or I could wait, and she would call me as soon as she had reviewed everything so we could go over the results together.
Now, if you know me at all, you know patience has never exactly been one of my greatest strengths. The idea that those results could be sitting there, just one click away, feels almost impossible to ignore. But I also knew myself well enough to realize that reading a report filled with medical terminology without someone there to explain it could send my mind racing to the worst possible conclusions.
Yet another decision.
Another choice I never imagined having to make.
Cancer has a funny way of turning even something as simple as checking your email into one of the hardest decisions you'll face.
I cried again.
Harder than I had cried all day, if you can imagine.
And considering the day I'd had, that's saying something.
Cancer had finally caught up with me.
Not because I'd received another diagnosis.
Not because another biopsy was positive.
But because, for the first time, I realized this journey had become bigger than one lump.
Bigger than one breast.
Bigger than one surgery.
Now we were asking a question no one ever wants to hear:
Has it spread?
And that was a question only time—and one more scan—could answer.
Until next time... keep finding joy in the ordinary, hope in the hard days, and strength you didn't know you had.
Thanks for walking this journey with me.
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