My Vie en Rose: A Breast Cancer Journey

Tag: BreastCancerAwareness

  • My Battle with Breast Cancer: From Diagnosis to Hope

    It has been about 10 months since my breast cancer diagnosis. In that time, I’ve gone through several surgeries, about six months of chemo, and now I’m in the middle of 30 rounds of radiation.

    My body has been through a lot. It’s been damaged, changed, stitched back together, and in some ways, rebuilt. Parts of me have died—and I have felt it happening. There’s no way to go through something like this without knowing exactly what it’s taking from you.

    I am doing all of this for one reason: to stay alive.

    But I’ve also come to understand that treatment isn’t the finish line. Ringing the bell will be a milestone, not the end of the journey. After this, there will be ongoing scans, checkups, and a level of monitoring that most people never have to think about. It’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

    I feel optimistic that I will stay healthy. I truly do. But I also know life won’t go back to what it was before. There will be a new normal.

    What’s hard to explain is that cancer survivors don’t just “go back” to their old lives. Physically, things are different. Mentally, things are different. When you’ve gone through something like this—when you’ve felt your body break down and fought to keep going—it changes you in ways that don’t just fade with time.

    Even knowing all of this, I’m still not entirely sure how I will handle what comes next. There’s strength in what I’ve made it through, but there’s also uncertainty in what life looks like after. I think both can exist at the same time.

    What I do know is this: I’ve made it this far. And whatever this next version of life looks like, I’ll find a way to meet it.

  • Surviving Chemo: Battling Exhaustion and Pain

    Hi all! It’s been a while since my last post. It turns out A/C chemo was much harder on me than I expected. I knew to anticipate fatigue, but what I experienced was a completely different level of tired.

    The first round didn’t seem too bad at first. I even went by myself, thinking that since I wasn’t being given Benadryl, I’d be fine to drive home. That turned out to be overly optimistic. During the 17-minute drive, I started to fall asleep. I made it home safely, but once I got inside, I was so tired I nearly fell asleep standing up. I made it onto the couch just in time to avoid face-planting into the coffee table.

    After that, I retired from solo trips. I talked with Mark’s mom, and we arranged for her to take me to the next treatment. Mark took me to the third, and my friend Danielle brought me to the fourth and final infusion. It became pretty clear I needed backup.

    With each round, the exhaustion stacked up. By the third infusion, I was sleeping 18–20 hours a day and only up in short windows. By the second infusion, I was already starting to feel my worst. They say chemo kills cancer cells, but it also affects healthy cells—and I could feel that more and more with each treatment. To be completely honest, I could feel myself dying a little each time. If I hadn’t been so tired, I think I would have been more scared.

    Then came the bone pain. At times, it felt like certain bones were actually broken. I’d wake up trying to figure out what I had done in my sleep, which felt very on brand for this stage of life. Then I’d remember: chemo and the white blood cell shots.

    Those shots boost your cell count by stimulating your bone marrow, which can cause it to expand and lead to pretty intense pain. Mine was likely mild compared to what it can be, but it still got my full attention.

    There were also side effects I was fortunate to avoid—no significant nausea, no fingernails or toenails falling off, and I kept the small amount of peach fuzz that had grown back before A/C chemo. So far, there are also no signs of heart damage. Mouth sores were minimal. I didn’t realize I had them until I tried chips and salsa—a quick and effective reality check. I’m continuing with chemo-induced menopause, which means my already unpredictable internal thermostat is about to get even less reliable this summer. Managing the hot flashes has been a bit of trial and error with medication.

    With each passing day, I’m one step closer to being healthy—and closer to finding my new normal. I really hope I never have to go through anything like this again.

    If there’s one thing I’m taking from all of this, it’s that I’m stronger than I realized. And I’m holding onto that. I’ll keep showing up, keep pushing forward, and keep being strong in every part of my life.

  • From Long Locks to Baby Bald to Peach Fuzz and Back Again

    My hair loss has come in stages. So many cancer patients advised me to cut my hair short ahead of time so the actual hair loss would be less traumatic. At the time, my hair was past my shoulders. I found a cute picture online of a punky long pixie cut and booked an appointment at a very bougie salon in the nearest city.

    I brought the picture with me and explained that I’d been diagnosed with cancer, was about to start chemo, and there was a very real chance I’d lose my hair. When I left the salon, I was… not happy. At all. It was less punk and more “something I might be getting in about 50 years.”

    So we went home, and Mark fixed it for me. Eventually, I took his hair trimmers to my own head, cutting off more and more each time. When my hair started thinning rapidly, I grabbed a razor and shaved it all off.

    Big no-no, by the way. Razor cuts can cause folliculitis—in other words, infected hair follicles. I already have cancer; I’m not looking to collect bonus medical problems.

    After that, I just let it grow in. Slowly. Painfully slowly. For weeks, it was nothing but spotty peach fuzz on the top of my head. The back and sides? Smooth as a baby’s tush. Eventually, the top started growing actual hair that sticks straight up, with thick peach fuzz filling in the sides and back. It was about 3 months’ time to get to this point.

    And it’s coming in white.

    Still, it’s so nice to have hair on my head again.

    Unfortunately, it’s very common to lose every single hair on your head—and body—during AC chemo. What really chaps my ass is that I’m almost done with chemo. I’ve got about seven weeks left. But I’ll most likely lose my hair again in three to four weeks.

    So I’ll be nearly finished with chemo… and then I’ll be bald. AGAIN.

    Son of a B!

    And with my luck, I won’t even lose it evenly. No, I’ll just lose the hair on the top of my head and end up looking like a medieval monk who lost a bar fight.

    FANTASTIC!

    All joking aside, I’m still optimistic. This is hard and it’s exhausting, but I’m not done yet. I’ll keep showing up, keep fighting, and keep pushing my way through this—one day, one treatment, and one very questionable haircut at a time.

  • Coping with Chemo Anxiety into My Next Treatment

    Anxiety before chemo is completely normal—especially when it’s your first treatment. You hear all the horror stories before you’re even diagnosed, and somehow those stories stick like glitter. No matter how hard you try, they’re impossible to shake at first.

    Before my very first chemo infusion, I was terrified. I was walking into a world of unknowns with nothing but a pamphlet and blind optimism. My doctors explained the possible side effects, but since every body reacts differently, I had no clue how my body would respond. Was I going to feel fine? Was I going to feel awful? Was I about to discover a brand-new allergy? (Spoiler alert: yes.)

    Surprisingly, my first round of chemo wasn’t terrible. I did have the start of an anaphylactic reaction, but my nurses—absolute ninjas in scrubs—handled it before things got scary. After that, it was just some annoying allergic reactions. Chemo has a way of teaching you fun new facts about yourself, like how you’re apparently very sensitive to medications you’ve never thought twice about before.

    That first infusion was Taxol, which I was promptly taken off after Day One: The Adventure. The rest of my treatments switched to Paclitaxel, which my body tolerated much better.

    Today, I started the chemo I’ve been dreading the most: AC chemo. I actually slept well the night before (thank you, nightly sinus meds), but anxiety still found me first thing in the morning. All those memories from my very first infusion came rushing back—the fear of starting something new and not knowing how the day would go.

    When my doctor offered me a low dose of Lorazepam, I pretended to think about it for roughly five seconds before enthusiastically saying, “YES, PLEASE.” And honestly? Huge help. It may not be for everyone, but for me, it took the edge off enough to breathe.

    AC chemo is more aggressive than my previous treatment and can really put your body through the wringer. The list of common side effects includes extreme fatigue, significant hair loss, nausea and vomiting, mouth sores, and low blood cell counts—just a casual checklist of things no one wants.

    Thankfully, there are plenty of medications to help manage nausea, so for now I’m cautiously optimistic. That said… OH MY GOSH, I really hope I don’t throw up!!!

    A few months ago, I talked to my dentist about chemo and my fear of mouth sores. He’s worked with cancer patients for years and told me the key is avoiding dry mouth. Still, because I hate mouth pain with a passion, I asked my doctor for backup. Enter Nystatin: a magical little mouth swish that I would now like to nominate for sainthood.

    Low white blood cell counts with AC chemo get some help from a white blood cell shot the day after treatment. I’m also doing my part by focusing on protein, vitamin B12, zinc, and vitamin C. Sleep shouldn’t be an issue—I could nap competitively lately—and I’m hoping to manage some light exercise if the fatigue allows.

    Another goal? Staying on top of hygiene, no matter how tired I get. I genuinely believe the zombie apocalypse could happen, and I’d still be washing my hands, brushing my teeth, and washing my produce. Once you see a dude sneeze into their hands and then play eenie, meenie, miney, moe with the apples, you never skip produce washing again. If you do… honestly, we can’t be friends.

    I’m now nine hours past my first AC chemo infusion. I immediately took a five-hour nap, with a brief lunch intermission. Even though I’m still at the very beginning of this phase, I already feel like the next infusion will go better—hopefully with less shaking and a calmer heart rate.

    It’s one more treatment crossed off the list, and one step closer to the finish line.

  • Supporting Cancer Patients in Public: We Can Do Better

    My voice has changed since cancer.

    I find myself sticking up for myself more. Before, if someone made a rude or brash comment, I would usually brush it off and keep moving. Since my diagnosis—and especially since my surgeries—I have a much harder time holding my tongue. And honestly? I’m completely okay with that.

    I don’t think people really see cancer patients out in the wild. It’s like once you hear the word “cancer,” you imagine someone confined to a hospital bed, not standing next to you comparing pasta sauces. People seem to walk around with cancer blinders on, which might explain the surprising lack of manners. So consider this a brief public service announcement on exactly how not to approach a cancer patient.

    One day, I was out grocery shopping shortly after having surgery to place my chemo port. The actual port was hidden under my shirt, but the catheter they run up your neck into your vein was visible and very red. A stranger decided it was their moment to shine and loudly informed me that I was “too old to be getting hickeys.”

    Without missing a beat, I told them I would much rather have a hickey than a chemo port in my chest—and then I pulled down my collar to show them. Not my proudest moment, and definitely not something I should have had to explain in the produce aisle.

    The second incident was less rude and more… oblivious, but it still stung. Again, grocery store (because of course). By this point, I had lost all my hair and was wearing a slouchy beanie. A gentleman walked up to me, opened with a cheerful “Hey man,” and launched into a question. When I turned around, I politely let him know I was not, in fact, a man—and gently pointed to my chest for clarification. Cancer: redefining awkward social interactions one aisle at a time.

    The hardest thing, though, is the constant grief I get for wearing a mask in public. I know masks are controversial. Everyone has opinions. Everyone is apparently an epidemiologist now. But here’s what some people forget: there are seniors worried about getting sick with anything. And there are people like me—immunocompromised, in active cancer treatment—who still have to go out and buy groceries, who would very much like to avoid catching something that could land us in the hospital.

    It might seem pointless or silly to you. You might think it’s political, fear-based, or a sign someone is being “controlled by the man.” But here’s the thing—you’re not the one dealing with a serious illness. You’re not the one whose immune system is barely clocking in for its shift.

    I’ll be honest—if this post sounds a little angry, it’s because I am. Not at one person, but at how out of hand this has all gotten. At how comfortable people feel commenting on strangers’ bodies, health choices, and medical realities without knowing a single thing about them.

    So instead of commenting on someone’s body, their mask, or their appearance, maybe try something radical: compassion. Empathy. Or, at the very least, minding your own business.

    You have no idea what someone is carrying—under their clothes, under their hat, or inside their body. And someday, you might be the one just trying to get through a grocery run without having to explain your medical history to a stranger. When that day comes, I hope the world treats you more gently than it often treats cancer patients.

  • Talking to Kids About Illness: A Personal Journey

    Talking to Kids About Illness: A Personal Journey

    Now, I don’t have kids of my own, but as many of you know, I have two nieces who are my entire world.

    One is far too young to understand what’s going on with me. She just knows that Naenae is sick, looks a little different, and comes over wearing a different wig each visit. My oldest niece, though, is old enough to somewhat understand the situation. Her parents have sat her down and explained everything, but this weekend was the first time since my diagnosis that she stayed overnight at my house and truly saw what daily life looks like for me now.

    I’m currently between infusions, so I’ve been able to catch up on sleep, and the fatigue has eased a bit. She didn’t see me at my absolute lowest, in the thick of chemo exhaustion—but she did see, for the first time, that Naenae is truly bald, takes a lot of pills twice a day, and has hot flashes constantly. Still, I think she also saw that in so many ways, I’m the same Naenae I’ve always been.

    We were able to goof around and try on my wigs, which turned into an absolute comedy. She named every single one. Apparently, one of my wigs is a “Karen” (which I didn’t notice until she pointed it out—LOL). I also have a Chelsea, a Tiffany, and a dark brown one I bought to change things up that she very confidently named Edna Mode (The Incredibles). I can’t get over how creative and hilarious she is.

    Throughout the visit, she was her normal, kind, sweet self. I think a lot of kids might point out a bald head or feel uncomfortable. And while I know it must have been strange for her to see her aunt bald when she’s only ever known me with hair, she never made it awkward. Not that I expected her to be mean—she’s just not that way—but I do look very different than I have the past 11 years of her life. She really is my best little buddy.

    We did sit down and talk about what I’m going through—the medicine, the chemo, how it changes my mind and body, and the side effects. Even though they’ve been relatively mild, they’re the reason I haven’t been able to do sleepovers for about seven months. Most importantly, I made sure she knew that even though I’m on this journey, I am going to come out the other side healthy. I told her I fully plan to be around for at least a few more decades—to have fun and, of course, lovingly torment her in true Auntie Naenae fashion.

    Even though I have one of the best nieces ever, I was still dreading this conversation. But I can’t lie to or keep things from my best little buddy. She deserved to hear it directly from me—why things have been different, why Naenae hasn’t been the same lately. Seeing how well she handled it was such a relief. And when she looked at me, I could tell that when I said I’m going to be okay, she believed me.

    I also told her that if she ever hears upsetting stories from classmates or sees something scary in a movie or TV show that is cancer related, she needs to remember that everyone’s situation is different. She knows she can call or text me anytime if she feels scared or upset.

    I don’t think she truly realizes—no matter how often I tell her—just how much she means to me. Yes, I absolutely ran away when she picked up a garter snake, but I would step in front of a bullet for her without hesitation. She changed my life over a decade ago.

    I will fight through this for myself, for Mark, for my parents, and for everyone in my family—but mostly for her. She was my first niece, and I honestly don’t think I’d be the person I am today without my little best buddy in my life.

  • Understanding Chemotherapy Side Effects: My Experience

    This chapter of my life has been defined by vigilance—listening closely to my body, protecting my health, and navigating a constant undercurrent of fear.

    I can’t go out and do many things, and there are many things I’m afraid to do—especially anything that involves people who could get me sick. Do I sound like a hypochondriac? Yes. But it’s warranted.

    With my immune system weakened and fighting even harder than usual, every pain and ache has to be reported to my cancer care team so they can assess it, sort for urgency, and prepare next steps for diagnosis. For months, I had a persistent sensation that something was caught in my throat, making it painful to swallow. My team prescribed medication in case it was chemo-related sores or thrush. When that didn’t help, I was referred to an ENT.

    And when I say I was referred, I know what that really meant: get evaluated for throat cancer.

    Thankfully, that was ruled out. Instead, it turned out to be sinus drainage irritating my vocal cords from above, combined with acid reflux—something chemo makes worse—irritating them from below. A true team effort – just not the kind you want.

    My knees ache even after short walks, and I get random muscle pains that come and go. These symptoms are actually pretty common with chemotherapy, which is comforting in a “great, I’m officially textbook” kind of way. More unsettling is the neuropathy: pain that feels like my veins are filled with menthol, while other areas feel intensely hot, like a heating pad pressed directly against my skin on high. That may not sound so bad, but when it’s something you’ve never felt before, it can be scary – especially when your brain’s default setting is now assume the worst, then verify.

    This side effect is new for my care team, which didn’t surprise me too much. Many of the symptoms and reactions I’ve had so far haven’t been typical. Recently, these hot-and-cold neuropathy sensations have turned into persistent headaches. They aren’t really painful—just ongoing and annoying. But since I’ve been dealing with them for about two months, I now have a head MRI scheduled to rule out anything concerning. I’m not overly worried, but it will be a relief to eliminate the more serious possibilities, instead of letting my mind run wild at 2 a.m.

    And then there are the hot flashes.

    Oh boy. What a bitch!

    One minute you’re sitting there, minding your own business, feeling relatively human. The next, it’s like your internal thermostat has been hijacked by a feral toddler who just discovered the HELL setting and refuses to let go. Comfortable warmth becomes a myth. A fairy tale. A thing that happens to other people.

    You are no longer a person—you are a human microwave, cooking from the inside out. Your organs are sautéing. Your soul is sweating.

    You take a cold shower, convinced this will fix things. Minutes later, you look like you ran a marathon in a sauna while wearing a snowsuit. The heat radiates off you so aggressively that people within a three-foot radius start questioning their own body temperature.

    Then, without warning, your body realizes it has wildly overreacted.

    The crazy toddler slams the dial straight to ARCTIC TUNDRA. You are suddenly drenched, shivering, and desperately hunting for the sweater you ripped off moments earlier—the same sweater you were fully prepared to light on fire out of spite. You stand there, wet and shaking, wondering how one body can experience every climate on Earth in under five minutes.

    Every year, from Halloween through Christmas, I’m prone to sinus infections. Normally they’re annoying but manageable. When you have cancer, however, even a mild sinus infection is enough to postpone chemo until you’re better. It feels like living inside one long anxiety attack. You’re trying to avoid people, monitor symptoms, and not catch anything, all while worrying that a stuffy nose might derail your entire treatment timeline.

    Despite everything, I finished my first round of chemotherapy today—four weeks later than expected.

    I understand why it worked out this way, and I deeply respect my incredible cancer care team for prioritizing my safety. Still, it’s hard not to feel disappointed when you don’t move through treatment by the date you had envisioned.

    As my triage nurse reminded me, “Peace of mind makes a huge difference too.”

    I’m learning that getting through this safely matters more than getting through it quickly. This isn’t how I planned it, but it’s where I am – and for now, that has to be enough.

  • Balancing Sugar Intake During Cancer Treatment

    I’ve been watching videos from influencers and reading cancer related articles lately, and so many of them are loud, frightening, and incredibly dramatic. If you—or someone you love—is navigating a cancer journey, this kind of content can turn every meal into an anxiety attack. Suddenly you’re questioning everything:

    “Is this fruit too sweet?”
    “Should I feel guilty about eating toast with jelly?”

    Let’s all take a deep breath and look at the bigger picture: how can we gently support our bodies?

    The idea that “sugar feeds cancer” is one of those concepts that’s been blown way out of proportion. Yes, cancer cells use glucose (sugar) for energy—but so does every other cell in your body. Your brain needs glucose to think. Your heart needs it to beat.

    When we receive a cancer diagnosis, it’s easy to become hyper-focused on “starving” the cancer by cutting out every carbohydrate and every gram of sugar. Unfortunately, that often ends up starving us—of the energy we need to stay strong through treatment and recovery. Perfection isn’t the goal. Balance is. A steady blood sugar level helps the body feel calmer, stronger, and more capable of healing.

    The real issue isn’t sugar itself—it’s the environment created by a diet high in refined and added sugars. When we consume a lot of processed sweets, the body releases more insulin. Persistently high insulin levels can act like Miracle-Gro for some cancer cells. Over time, excess added sugar can also contribute to increased body fat, hormone changes, and inflammation.

    What I’ve taken away from all of this is the importance of limiting added sugars, not eliminating sugar altogether. It’s about choosing “slow” sugars—like whole grains, vegetables, and fruits—over “fast” sugars like candy, soda, and white bread.

    Instead of spending so much energy thinking about what you can’t eat, shift your focus to what you can add to your plate to help your body defend itself:

    Brightly colored fruits and vegetables
    Spinach, broccoli, carrots, berries, citrus, and peppers are packed with antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals that support healthy cells and overall resilience.

    The beauty of fiber
    Steel-cut or rolled oats, lentils, and beans act like a slow-release energy pill. Fiber helps prevent blood sugar spikes and crashes, supports digestion, and nourishes a healthy gut. I’ve even opened my boyfriend’s eyes to the wonders of fiber—and I don’t think he’s looking back anytime soon.

    Our friends, the anti-inflammatories
    Life is stressful enough without added inflammation—and cancer thrives in inflammatory environments. Small dietary swaps can make a big difference: use olive oil instead of butter, add fresh ginger to tea, sprinkle ground flaxseed on breakfast or salads, and include omega-3–rich foods when possible.

    A resilient diet doesn’t have to be restrictive. Food is more than fuel or medicine—it’s comfort and connection. If you’re going through treatment and the only thing that sounds good—or stays down—is a big bowl of mashed potatoes or a milkshake, that’s okay. One meal does not define your health.

    The bigger picture matters most: a pattern that’s mostly whole foods, with room for flexibility and enjoyment—without guilt. Aim to fill about two-thirds of your plate with vegetables, add lean protein, and choose whole grains when you can. And when you can’t, don’t beat yourself up.

    Focus on changing the “soil” of your body—making it a place where healthy cells can thrive.

    Disclaimer: This post is for informational purposes only. Everybody is different, and you should always consult your oncologist or healthcare team for guidance tailored specifically to you.

  • Understanding Breast Cancer: Key Terms Explained

    During my diagnosis and treatment, I have encountered many terms and phrases that were unfamiliar to me and required a quick lookup. To make things easier for others navigating a breast cancer diagnosis, I wanted to compile a list of common breast cancer terms and define them in a clear, easy-to-understand way. If there are any additional words or phrases, you’d like me to include, please feel free to let me know.

    Benign
    A tumor that is not cancerous and does not spread.

    BRCA
    Short for BReast CAncer gene mutation. BRCA1 and BRCA2 mutations increase a person’s risk of developing breast and other cancers.

    Biopsy
    A procedure where a small sample of tissue, cells, or fluid is removed and tested to determine if cancer is present.

    Chemotherapy
    A cancer treatment that uses drugs to kill cancer cells or slow their growth. Because it travels through the bloodstream, it affects the whole body. Chemo can be given through an IV or as pills—both are equally effective.

    Chemo Brain
    A term used to describe memory issues, brain fog, or trouble concentrating that can happen during or after chemotherapy.

    Dense Breasts
    Breasts with more fibrous and glandular tissue than fat. Dense tissue can increase breast cancer risk and make mammograms harder to read.

    Docetaxel
    A chemotherapy drug in the taxane family used to treat several cancers, including breast cancer. It works by stopping cancer cells from dividing.

    Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS)
    A non-invasive breast cancer where abnormal cells are found only inside the milk ducts. DCIS is considered Stage 0 breast cancer.

    Grade
    A measure of how abnormal cancer cells look under a microscope.

    • Grade 1 (Low): Slow growing
    • Grade 2 (Intermediate): Moderate growth
    • Grade 3 (High): Fast-growing and more likely to spread

    Herceptin (Trastuzumab)
    A targeted therapy drug used to treat HER2-positive breast cancer.

    HER2
    A protein that helps breast cells grow.

    • HER2-positive / HER2-low: Higher-than-normal levels that can cause faster cancer growth; treated with targeted therapy
    • HER2-negative: Normal levels; targeted HER2 therapies are not effective

    Hormonal Therapy
    Treatment that blocks estrogen or progesterone, hormones that can fuel some breast cancers. Not effective for triple-negative breast cancer.

    In Situ
    Latin for “in its original place.” Cancer that has not spread.

    Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC)
    A rare, aggressive form of breast cancer that affects the skin and lymph vessels of the breast. Often diagnosed at Stage 3.

    Infusion
    Medication delivered slowly into the body through a vein, commonly used for chemotherapy and targeted therapies.

    Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC)
    The most common type of breast cancer. Cancer begins in the milk ducts and spreads into surrounding breast tissue.

    Invasive Lobular Cancer (ILC)
    Cancer that begins in the milk-producing lobules and can spread to nearby tissue and beyond.

    Lobular Carcinoma In Situ (LCIS)
    Not cancer, but a condition that increases future breast cancer risk. Often monitored closely and sometimes treated with hormone therapy.

    Lumpectomy
    Surgery that removes the tumor and a small margin of surrounding tissue while preserving most of the breast.

    Lymphedema
    Swelling caused by damage to the lymph system, often affecting the arm, breast, or chest after lymph node removal.

    Malignant
    Cancerous and capable of spreading.

    Mammogram
    An X-ray of the breast used to detect cancer.

    • Screening mammogram: Routine check with no symptoms
    • Diagnostic mammogram: More detailed imaging when something looks suspicious

    Mastectomy
    Surgical removal of one or both breasts. There are several types, including total, skin-sparing, nipple-sparing, and bilateral mastectomy.

    Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC)
    Stage 4 breast cancer, meaning the cancer has spread to other parts of the body. While not curable, it is treatable.

    Oncotype DX
    A lab test that helps predict the chance of breast cancer recurrence and whether chemotherapy will be beneficial.

    Palliative Care
    Specialized care focused on relieving symptoms and improving quality of life, alongside active cancer treatment.

    PET Scan
    An imaging test that uses a tracer to help detect cancer spread throughout the body.

    Preventative (Prophylactic) Mastectomy
    Removal of one or both breasts to reduce cancer risk, often chosen by people with BRCA mutations.

    Prognosis
    A doctor’s estimate of how a disease may progress and respond to treatment.

    Radiation
    Treatment that uses high-energy rays to kill cancer cells in a specific area of the body.

    Reconstruction
    Surgery to rebuild the breast after mastectomy using implants or the patient’s own tissue.

    Recurrence
    Cancer that returns after treatment.

    • Local: Same breast
    • Regional: Nearby lymph nodes
    • Distant: Spread to other organs (Stage 4)

    Red Devil
    Nickname for the chemotherapy drug doxorubicin, named for its red color and strong side effects.

    Stage
    Describes how large the cancer is and how far it has spread (Stages 0–4).

    Tamoxifen
    A hormone therapy drug taken for several years to reduce the risk of breast cancer recurrence.

    Targeted Therapy
    Treatment that attacks specific proteins on cancer cells to stop their growth.

    Thriver
    A term often used by people living with metastatic breast cancer to describe living fully with the disease.

    Triple-Negative Breast Cancer (TNBC)
    Breast cancer that lacks estrogen, progesterone, and HER2 receptors. Hormone therapy is ineffective; chemotherapy is the main treatment.

    Tumor
    A mass of abnormal cells that can be benign or malignant.

    Ultrasound
    An imaging test that uses sound waves to evaluate suspicious areas in the breast.

  • Empower Yourself in Cancer Care: The Importance of Advocacy

    When dealing with any health issue, it is critical to advocate for yourself.

    In my experience with Stage 2 breast cancer, the majority of people I’ve encountered—from the front desk staff to the physicians at my medical center—have been warm, compassionate, knowledgeable, and deeply empathetic. That said, every system has its bad apples. Occasionally, you will encounter professionals who simply don’t meet those standards. In those moments, it’s essential to know what you need, to know when to say “no,” and to take action by clearly communicating your expectations to your medical team.

    My current care team is incredible. I truly love them all. My surgeon is exceptional, my plastic surgeon is phenomenal, and the nurses are attentive, compassionate, and thorough. My reconstruction is still settling and will take about a year to fully heal, but my scarring is minimal and even my chemo port is barely noticeable. Most importantly, my oncologist is on top of everything. She actively manages my chemotherapy side effects, listens when I need to vent, and understands how cancer impacts every aspect of daily life. She is present, responsive, and supportive in every way.

    That was not always my experience.

    Before finding my current oncologist, I worked with one who left me feeling confused, devastated and unheard. During appointments, she wouldn’t sit down and explain things in simple terms. Instead, she would read paperwork to me word for word—documents I already had—without offering context or explanation. I often left her office knowing less about my cancer than when I walked in. In fact, I didn’t even know the stage or grade of my cancer until I met my new oncologist. That is completely unacceptable!

    The final straw was how my chemotherapy options were presented. When patients are sick—especially when they are fighting cancer—bedside manner and empathy are not optional. Words matter. When discussing treatment options, the focus should be on survival rate, not fear. There is a significant difference between saying, “This treatment gives you a 70% survival rate,” versus “You have a 30% chance of dying.” While mathematically similar, emotionally they are worlds apart.

    If you’ve never had cancer, this may seem like a small distinction. But when you are already fighting for your life, communication matters. The words we hear should communicate hope and clarity—not fear.

    For me, that was enough to say, “No more,” and request a new oncologist. If your doctors don’t make you feel informed, supported, and comfortable, you have the right to speak up and ask for a different provider or care team member.

    Educate yourself. Write down symptoms, questions, and concerns before appointments. The cancer experience can be overwhelming, and it’s easy to forget details in the moment. Consider bringing a trusted friend or family member to take notes and provide support. Ask your doctors to simplify explanations when needed. Ask questions about tests, scans, medications, supplements, and upcoming procedures. This is your life—and there are never too many questions to ask.

    If something doesn’t feel right, you have every right to ask for a second opinion. Know your type of cancer, your stage, and your grade.

    Ask for help. This journey is long and difficult, and no one should have to walk it alone. Cancer takes an emotional toll, and support groups or therapy can be invaluable parts of your care.

    One thing I notice often at the cancer center is how many seniors attend appointments alone. I know it’s not always possible to be there, but if you can, please check in on them. See if they need help, support, or someone to advocate on their behalf when they cannot.

    Advocating for yourself does not mean being confrontational or aggressive. It means finding a medical team that aligns with your emotional and physical needs—one that gives you the best possible chance to navigate this journey with confidence, dignity, and hope.

    We are strong! We are Warriors!