The Beginning of the Fight

Let me take you back to the beginning of my journey.

I was 35, standing in the shower, shaving my armpits, when I noticed a small bump on my right side that hadn’t been there before. I kept an eye on it. Over time, it seemed to grow, and I started experiencing pain in my breast. That’s when I made an appointment with my primary care doctor.

Because of its location—so close to my breast—and the pain, she ordered a mammogram and ultrasound.

On November 7, 2017, I went in for both procedures. During the appointment, the radiologist reassured me, saying it was probably just fatty tissue, which is common. The official results confirmed that everything looked fine.

A Gut Feeling

By January, at a work event, I found myself in the bathroom with a friend, telling her the story. I remember the exact moment—I looked at her and said, “I just know something is wrong. I can feel it.”

She encouraged me to follow my gut and make another appointment with my doctor, Heather.

Weeks passed, but that nagging feeling wouldn’t go away. By the end of March, I finally went back in. By then, there were noticeable physical changes in my right breast.

Heather walked into the room, and as I explained my symptoms, I watched her face. I could tell—she knew. (Or maybe I just felt it in her expression.)

She wasted no time. “I want you to get an MRI immediately,” she said, stepping into the hallway to make calls while I got dressed.

The Moment Everything Changed

On April 4, 2018, I went in for the MRI at CDI. I’ll never forget how kind the staff was that day—small gestures of warmth that I would cling to in the coming weeks.

Jeremy and I sat in the waiting room, nervous but trying to stay lighthearted. We took a selfie and sent it to our best friends, joking around. That selfie—my last picture before cancer—would later take on a whole new meaning.

After the MRI, the doctor called us back to look at the scan.

And there it was.

A tumor.

My heart sank. I barely heard what the doctor was saying—something about the area being concerning. But I had spent enough time on Google and watched enough Grey’s Anatomy to know exactly what I was looking at.

I was scared. I was in shock.

As I walked out, the nurse handed me a single pink rose. I’ll never forget that small act of kindness.

Jeremy and I went out for pizza, pretending, for just a little while, that everything was normal. But it was all we could talk about. He was so positive, so hopeful. But I couldn’t get the image of that tumor out of my head.

Later, I lay down to take a nap, hoping to escape the thoughts racing through my mind.

Then my phone rang.

“I’m Sorry to Tell You…”

It was the doctor. His voice was calm, but the words cut through me like a blade.

“I’m sorry to tell you that it is cancer.”

I don’t know why, but my response was automatic. “Okay. Thank you.”

Why did I thank him? I have no idea. Maybe I was trying to keep it together. Maybe I was too numb to react.

The rest is a blur.

I remember Jeremy holding me, comforting me. But mostly, I remember fear—all-consuming, suffocating fear. And maybe that’s why my mind has blocked parts of that night out.

The Fight Begins

The next couple of weeks were a whirlwind—appointments, scans, biopsies, phone call after phone call, tear after tear.

Then I met Dr. Blau, my oncologist. And for the first time, I felt something other than fear. Relief.

She was brilliant. She was confident. She was my real-life superhero.

Maybe, just maybe, I was going to be okay.

By the end of April, I started chemo, And I began the fight of my life—for my life.

The takeaway here is that you know your body better than anyone. If something feels off, advocate for yourself until you get the answers you deserve. Looking back, if I had trusted my instincts, and pushed for answers sooner, my journey might have been a little easier.