As I reflect on my life over the past 20 years, I realize that while my journey as a two-time breast cancer survivor hasn’t been easy, I’m blessed to be alive to share my story.
It all started in December 2002 as my 6-year-old daughter, Deja, and I cuddled in her warm bed, lingering before we had to meet the cold morning. My hand brushed under my left breast where I felt a lump. That was abnormal for me, so I called a friend and told her about my discovery. We suspected that it was probably there because I was menstruating. But I knew my body. Something wasn’t right. I scheduled an appointment to see my gynecologist.
In January 2003, after my OB/GYN examined the lump, he declared that it was probably nothing because I was only 28 years old. Nonetheless, I was scheduled to have a breast sonogram the following month. I wasn’t overly concerned about this, so I continued with my busy lifestyle. At that time, I was co-parenting with my ex to raise Deja, running a home-based boutique public relations company, and singing with my band.
The morning of the appointment, I was tempted to cancel it, but I’m so glad that I didn’t. As the radiology technician conducted the exam, I saw the concern on her face. She flagged her findings to the doctor who then scheduled me for a biopsy 6 weeks later. Despite everything, I truly didn’t think that anything was actually going to be wrong, so I went alone to get the results.
To my dismay, the doctor said quite blandly, “I’m sorry, but you have breast cancer.” As he proceeded to explain the next steps and provided me with the pathology report, I realized that my life was about to change. Tears flowed profusely onto the pathology report. When he mentioned chemotherapy, I screamed inside that I didn’t want to lose my hair and that I would not be one of those overly zealous women screaming, “I’m a survivor.” But God had other plans for me.
After having a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, I started chemotherapy. It wasn’t an easy process, but I had so much support from my family, friends, and church members. As expected, my hair started shedding and I had it shaved. When Deja saw my new look, she sweetly said: “Mommy, you look beautiful bald, but you have to wear a wig to my school.” I chuckled but obliged.
She became my travel companion to a lot of speaking engagements when I was asked to share my testimony of being a young, black breast cancer patient. Four months after my treatment ended, I was declared cancer-free. I then became a spokesperson for the Young Survival Coalition, an international organization that focuses on women under 40 with breast cancer. All was well until 7 years later in 2010, when I developed a persistent cough.
A chest X-ray revealed that I had a blood clot and multiple tumors in my lungs. The cancer had metastasized, so I was stage IV. Despite this grim prognosis that the cancer was treatable but incurable, I didn’t cry. I had peace that passed all understanding, but it was very difficult for me to tell my loved ones that the cancer had returned. I felt like I had disappointed everyone, but they all vowed to pray for my healing.
Deja’s response gave me the inspiration that I needed as she hugged me and said emphatically: “Mom, you beat it before, you’ll do it again.” Her words of encouragement mattered then, and they still do as I press forward despite the uncertainty of this disease.
I’ve been on too many treatments to recall, but I am so grateful that because of advancements in treatment options, and mostly because of my faith walk, I am still alive to see another day.
To connect with other breast cancer survivors, join our Breast Cancer Facebook Support Group.
Photo Credit: Milko / E+ via Getty Images
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