It started with a tiny lump I found in my left breast during a self-exam in March 2021. I brushed it off at first—“Probably just a cyst,” I told myself. I was busy with a big client project, my son’s college applications, and caring for my 78-year-old mom. But when the lump didn’t go away after a month, my husband, Mark, insisted I see a doctor. That’s when my world stopped.
The mammogram and ultrasound led to a biopsy, and a week later, I sat in a cold exam room as my primary care doctor said the words: “It’s cancer—stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma.” I don’t remember much after that—just Mark holding my hand, and the doctor talking about “next steps” that sounded like a foreign language. All I could think was: Will I be here to see my son graduate? Will Mark have to raise him alone?
The First Step: Finding a Team That Listened
I met with two oncologists before I found Dr. Rachel Kim at Hope Medical’s Breast Care Center. The first two rushed through treatment options, throwing terms like “lumpectomy” and “chemotherapy” around without asking how I felt. But Dr. Kim did something different: She turned off her computer, looked me in the eye, and said, “Let’s start with you. What scares you most?”
That question changed everything. I told her I was terrified of losing my hair (silly, I know, but as a designer, my appearance felt tied to my identity) and that I couldn’t miss my son’s senior year of high school. She nodded, took notes, and then walked me through a personalized plan that addressed both fears:
- A lumpectomy first, to remove the tumor and surrounding tissue (instead of a full mastectomy, which would have a longer recovery).
- Four rounds of neoadjuvant chemotherapy to shrink any remaining cancer cells—scheduled around my son’s football games and graduation.
- A cold cap therapy program to minimize hair loss (something the other doctors never mentioned).
She also introduced me to a patient navigator, Lisa, who became my lifeline. Lisa helped me schedule appointments, fill out insurance forms, and even found a support group for women my age going through breast cancer. Before my first chemo session, she dropped off a care package: a soft blanket, lip balm (chemo dries out your skin), and a journal “to write down the hard days—and the good ones.”
The Hardest Months: Chemo and the Power of Small Wins
My first chemo session was in June 2021. I sat in a recliner for four hours, hooked up to an IV, while Mark read me passages from my favorite book. The nurse, Maria, brought me ginger ale to settle my stomach and joked about how we’d “beat this thing together.” But the side effects hit hard two days later: nausea so bad I couldn’t keep water down, fatigue that made even walking to the couch feel like a marathon, and a metallic taste in my mouth that ruined my favorite foods (even chocolate—my go-to comfort).
But there were small wins, too:
- After my second chemo session, the cold cap worked—my hair thinned, but I didn’t lose it all. I cried when I looked in the mirror and still saw me.
- My son, Jake, skipped a friend’s party to stay home with me, making me toast and tea when I was too sick to eat. He even dyed a streak of his hair pink (my favorite color) to “match my brave.”
- Dr. Kim called me at home one night when I texted Lisa about persistent headaches. She talked me through relaxation techniques and adjusted my medication—no “call back in the morning” runaround.
By September, my scans showed the cancer had shrunk by 80%. Dr. Kim hugged me when she gave me the news, and I realized for the first time: I might actually beat this.
Surgery and Recovery: Learning to Trust My Body Again
My lumpectomy was in October 2021, and it went smoothly. The surgery took two hours, and when I woke up, Mark was by my side, holding a photo of Jake’s football team (they’d won their game that day). The recovery was painful—lifting my arm even a little hurt—but the physical therapist, Mike, made it manageable. He taught me gentle exercises to regain mobility, and we laughed about how I’d “outwork him” by the end of therapy.
A month later, the pathology report came back: No cancer cells were found in the surrounding tissue or lymph nodes. I was in remission. I screamed, I cried, and I called every person who’d supported me—Dr. Kim, Lisa, Maria, my support group, my family. That night, Mark cooked my favorite meal (lasagna) and Jake played his guitar for me. It was the first time in months I felt like my old self.
Life After Cancer: Gratitude and New Purpose
Today, two years later, I’m still in remission. I go for follow-up scans every six months, and each time, Dr. Kim smiles and says, “You’re doing great.” But cancer changed me—not just physically (I have a small scar on my breast, which I now see as a “war wound”), but emotionally.
I quit my high-stress design job and started a freelance business focused on creating graphics for cancer nonprofits. I also volunteer with Hope Medical’s patient support group, sharing my story with women who are just starting their journey. I tell them: It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to cry. But don’t let fear stop you from asking for help—there are people who want to walk with you.
Last month, I watched Jake graduate from college. As he walked across the stage, he looked right at me and mouthed, “I love you, Mom.” In that moment, I thought back to that cold exam room in 2021, and how I’d feared I’d never see that day.
Hope Medical didn’t just treat my cancer. They treated me—the woman who loved her son, who loved her work, who loved life. They gave me back the future I’d thought was lost. And for that, I will be forever grateful.
If you’re facing a cancer diagnosis, know this: You are not alone. And there is hope—even when it feels like there isn’t.
