October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
It is also my birthday month.
This year, those two things feel more connected than ever, because as I sit here writing this, six years after hearing the word cancer, I have a drain coming from my chest from yet another surgery related to the choices I made when I was first diagnosed.
So I thought it was time to tell my story.
My breast cancer story began in June 2020, right in the middle of COVID.
My husband and I were wrestling around on the couch one evening, just being silly, when suddenly my left breast felt sore—almost like I had a bruise.
We stopped horsing around, and I started feeling around, trying to figure out why it hurt.
And then I thought I felt something.
It was tiny.
Nothing like what I imagined a breast cancer lump would feel like. I had silicone breast implants that I'd gotten years earlier, so I wasn't even sure what I was feeling. My husband couldn't feel anything at all.
But he insisted I go to the doctor.
Thank God he did.
The next day, I made an appointment. My doctor examined me and confirmed that there was, in fact, a small lump. He sent me to another doctor, and a biopsy was ordered.
Then came the phone call.
My husband and I were outside at the pole barn with the cattle when the doctor called with the results.
She said it so matter-of-factly that for a moment, I don't think my mind could even process what I was hearing.
Cancer.
Cancer?
My father had died from lung cancer. My brothers had died from cancer.
I couldn't have cancer.
But I did.
I had ER-positive, PR-positive, HER2-negative invasive ductal carcinoma in my left breast. The tumor was 1.2 centimeters and growing.
I broke.
For a while, it felt as though my life was ending and there wasn't a single thing I could do to stop it.
And this was 2020.
COVID had changed everything. Faces were hidden behind masks. Doctor visits felt different. Hospitals felt different. Everything already felt frightening and uncertain, and now I had breast cancer on top of it.
But while I was falling apart, the people who loved me started moving.
We didn't have traditional health insurance. We were members of Christian Healthcare Ministries, and at that point we didn't know exactly how everything would work. We believed we might have to pay enormous medical bills upfront ourselves.
I will never forget the fear in my husband's eyes. He tried to be strong for me, but I saw it. He was scared too.
And then he was faced with something I know wasn't easy for him. Part of him wanted to stay right there beside me, but we didn't know how much this was going to cost or what the months ahead would bring. Someone had to make sure we could pay for whatever treatment I needed.
So he went to work.
He worked as much as he possibly could, not because work mattered more than being with me, but because taking care of me meant doing the one thing that required him to leave me when I think all he really wanted to do was stay.
Looking back, I understand that was part of how he fought cancer with me. While I was going to appointments and trying to process what was happening to my body, he carried a fear of his own and did everything he could to make sure money would never stand between me and the care I needed.
My daughter went with me to appointments.
My pastor began to pray.
My daughter prayed.
My family prayed.
And eventually, something began changing inside me.
I began to pray differently too.
I began claiming my healing.
And three words seemed to settle deep into my soul:
MY GOD REIGNS.
Those words gave me courage when I didn't have any of my own.
After discussing my options, I chose a lumpectomy. I was told the surgery could be performed with my implants in place and that everything should be fine.
But there was another part of that decision that I don't think fully registered with me at the time.
Because I chose a lumpectomy, radiation would follow.
I knew that.
What I didn't truly understand was what radiation could mean for a breast that already had an implant in it—or how years later, I might still be dealing with its effects.
First came surgery.
I remember going into that hospital during COVID and never really seeing anyone's face. Everyone was behind a mask. I was surrounded by people, yet I felt incredibly alone and scared.
The morning of surgery, I received injections of radioactive tracer near my nipple so the surgeon could identify and evaluate the sentinel lymph nodes.
I will never forget those injections.
They hurt.
A lot.
Then came the surgery.
And when I woke up, my husband was there. His warm smile lifted my spirits.
We made it through.
Christian Healthcare Ministries ultimately covered my eligible medical expenses, which was an incredible blessing to us during an already overwhelming time.
Then radiation began.
Four weeks.
Every day.
I watched my breast change. My skin changed. My scar became dark. There were days when I looked at myself and felt ugly.
But I was alive.
And I kept reminding myself of something:
Every battle leaves scars. Mine were proof that I was a warrior.
But finishing radiation didn't mean I was finished with treatment.
Because my cancer was hormone-receptor positive, I began taking letrozole, a medication that lowers estrogen in the body to help reduce the risk of the cancer returning.
I took it for five years.
Five years.
I knew why I was taking it, and I was grateful there was something I could do to help protect myself from a recurrence. But those five years were hard on my body in ways I wasn't prepared for.
I hurt.
My joints hurt. My body ached. Some days I felt like I was a hundred years old. It was as though my body was aging faster than I could keep up with it.
There is something strange about surviving cancer and then taking a medication intended to help keep you alive while, at the same time, feeling so much older in your own body.
But I kept taking it.
Year after year.
Until finally, I had completed my five years.
And then something wonderful happened.
Within a few months of stopping letrozole, I began to recognize myself again.
My body started feeling like my body again. The aches began to ease. Moving became easier. I didn't feel a hundred years old anymore.
I began to feel like me.
That was another part of breast cancer I hadn't understood when this journey began. Treatment isn't always just the surgery or the radiation. Sometimes it follows you home. Sometimes it becomes a pill you swallow every day for years. Sometimes surviving means doing something difficult today because you hope it gives you more tomorrows.
Life moved forward.
And the years passed.
But radiation had left its mark.
Over time, my left breast became harder and harder. Capsular contracture developed around the implant. The breast tightened, the implant was pushed upward, and eventually I was living with pain every day.
Six years after my cancer diagnosis, I finally decided it was time to have surgery again.
The plan was to replace the implants and repair the damage. Because the left breast had previously been radiated, my surgeon planned to use a dermal graft to help support the tissue and hopefully reduce the chance of severe capsular contracture happening again.
I went into surgery expecting her to find the contracture.
She did.
What I didn't expect was what she found on the other side.
Both of my implants were ruptured.
Not just the implant on the radiated side.
Both.
So the surgery became more extensive than expected. My surgeon repaired and rebuilt the implant pockets and replaced the implants.
And now, as I write this, I am recovering.
There is still a tube coming from my chest, draining fluid from the surgery. Today I go back to my doctor, hoping she tells me that drain can finally come out.
And as October begins.
Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
My birthday month.
Six years ago, I heard the word cancer and thought maybe I wouldn't have many birthdays left.
Today, I look at birthdays differently.
Growing older isn't something I dread.
Growing older is a privilege.
There are things I would do differently if I could go back to that frightened woman standing at the pole barn in June 2020.
I would ask more questions.
I would research more.
I would ask specifically about the long-term effects radiation could have on an augmented breast. I would ask about every reconstruction option available to me—not just what would get me through cancer at that moment, but what those decisions might mean five, ten, or twenty years down the road.
I don't say that because the decisions I made were wrong. I made the best decisions I could with the information I understood at the time.
But I know more now.
And if telling my story makes one woman ask one more question, schedule the appointment she's been putting off, investigate a tiny lump that doesn't seem like much, or advocate a little harder for herself, then perhaps another purpose can come from my scars.
Because mine didn't begin with a dramatic lump.
It began with what felt like a bruise while my husband and I were wrestling on the couch.
Something tiny.
Something my husband couldn't even feel.
Something I could have ignored.
I didn't.
And I'm here.
My faith carried me through some of the most frightening days of my life. My family carried me when I couldn't carry myself. My husband stood beside me and worked to make sure money wasn't the reason I couldn't get the care I needed.
And God met me in the middle of all of it.
The fear.
The masks.
The surgery.
The radiation.
The five years of letrozole.
The scars.
The pain.
And now, six years later, another surgery and another scar.
I am still here.
So this October, when you see the pink ribbons, remember that behind every one of them is a real woman with a real story.
This one is mine.
I am a wife.
I am a mother.
I am a grandmother.
I am a woman of faith.
I am a breast cancer survivor.
And this October, I will celebrate another birthday.
Scars and all.
My God still reigns.