It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I'm feeling very aware.

It's actually the 36th Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and my first as a person who's had breast cancer. I struggle a little bit with my identity in that regard... I don't know if I've earned my pink stripes, as it were. 

I am not an example of the enduring strength of the human spirit. My experience was a walk in the park compared to what so many women have gone through. What so many are going through right now. 

But if I can be anything to anyone going forward, in October and every other month of the year, I hope I can be a testament to early detection and the fact that mammograms save lives. 

I spoke to this a bit in my Facebook post back in July, but in my first visit to my new primary care physician here in St. Louis, she talked with me about the history of cancer in my family (my maternal grandparents died of colon cancer; my mom’s sister is a breast cancer survivor), and she suggested I stay proactive. 

I’ve already had a handful of colonoscopies (handful! It makes them sound so cute!) to stay ahead of my polyp-prone colon, but that’s about it. 

“What would you think of getting an early start on your yearly mammogram?” She suggested. 

An early mammogram was possible for me because of my family history of breast cancer. I followed through because I’m an enneagram 9, and I’ll do anything to give myself that sweet, sweet peace of mind. 

But instead of the reassuringly clean bill of health I’d hoped for, I was told that my scans showed some calcifications. That I needed to come back for a more detailed mammogram. 

At that point, I clung to the likelihood that it was nothing. Oftentimes, calcifications are nothing. But my second mammogram ended with the plan to do a biopsy a few days later. 

After the biopsy, I waited — too long, excruciatingly long — maybe five days. I climbed the walls. I tried to keep Google at arm’s length. And then I got a call from the most wonderful, warm, comforting nurse. A woman who has been in the shoes of the women she supports. 

The results of my biopsy showed that I had Ductal Carcinoma In Situ — DCIS. It’s considered Stage 0 breast cancer because the cancer hasn’t left the milk ducts. 

Sometimes DCIS can chill there for years before advancing. Sometime it breeches the milk ducts quickly and spreads to the surrounding tissue. Typically, it’s treated with either a lumpectomy and radiation, or a mastectomy. 

I met with my surgeons. I talked about my options with Matt. I weighed the pros and cons of each path, as there are many. It’s a strange feeling to know that the decision is ultimately up to you.

I opted for a bilateral nipple-sparing mastectomy. It was my breast surgeon’s recommendation based on my specific cancer and youngish age, and it felt right. 

This is the thing about a mastectomy, at least in my case: It could be a grenade thrown into a goldfish bowl — but there’s also a good chance that the goldfish are actually hungry piranhas ready to eat you. You can’t know for certain before you take that drastic step, but I didn’t want to wait to find out. 

This is the part where I want to make sure I share what is true for me. I’ve learned so much about breast cancer over the past 4+ months. More than I ever expected to know. Everyone’s path is so different, depending on how early the cancer is found, the type of cancer (Estrogen Receptive, etc.) and how your unique team of doctors wants to tackle it. 

My mastectomy went well, but the experience was far from easy. The surgery was long. I woke up sobbing. The first words I heard were a whisper to someone other than me, about me. “We’ve got a cryer.” 

I wasn’t crying because I was in pain. I was crying because I was heavily sedated, and because I think the crushing reality of a whirlwind diagnosis and decision-making process had finally come home to roost. This was happening. This had happened. 

A few days later, my pathology results came back. My sentinel lymph node, which my surgeon had removed, was clear. Good! So good. But they did find a small invasive tumor outside of my milk ducts- one that hadn’t been seen before my surgery. This moved me to a Stage 1 diagnosis. That was the piranha. Thank God for the grenade. 

Going forward… 

I’ve opted for breast reconstruction, and the best route for my body is implant reconstruction. I’ve had expanders in since July 16th, which my plastic surgeon has gradually filled with air and then saline. Expanders are like… if satan wanted to get into the implant game and came up with his own prototype. They’re hard. When they’re first filled, it hurts to breathe. They are randomly painful for no good reason at all. I haven’t had a normal night’s sleep since early July. When they are out, I will not miss them. 

My second and hopefully final surgery is scheduled for next week. My surgeon will take out my expanders and put in silicone implants. I still don’t have any real feeling in my chest, but I’ll regain a more normal look and, dare I say, some squishiness. (This entire experience has been a lesson in vulnerability. Thanks for letting me says "squishiness.") 

I do not need chemo because my lymph nodes were clear and my tumor was relatively tiny. The women — friends and strangers — who have gone through or are going through chemo, all while living their lives, raising their children, loving their grandchildren, signing school forms, working, everything…. they are my heroes. 

I am, however, one month into a five-year dance with a daily pill called Tamoxifen— estrogen therapy that will hopefully help keep my ER/PR+ cancer from coming back. It’s not the greatest. It has a list of potential side effects 100 miles long, but it is a small thing to be able to live a big life.

So that is where things stand. None of this has been fun, and I have struggled lately to embrace the grief that bubbles up, even when I try to bright-side the heck out of myself. I am slowly learning that I can feel grateful for how something happened, and sad that it happened at all, all at the same time. 

But if I may come full circle… 

A mammogram saved my life. I’m not one for dramatics, but it’s simply true. I have the scars, the two red crescents, the four vampire bites where my drains were (and will be again next week), the hopeful future to prove it. 

If you’re putting yours off, go. If you need some encouragement, call me. So many people have been there for me, and if you would like me to be, I will be here for you. 

A few days after surgery, with an industrial strength compression bra
and a great mug from my co-workers.