I found myself in the dentist’s chair, gripped by an overwhelming sense of dread. My heart raced, my breath quickened, and my stomach turned into knots. All I could think about was escaping to the comfort of my car.
The moment the dentist lingered too long on my back molar, I felt a wave of panic wash over me. He frowned, poked around, and then casually declared, “You’ve got a cavity. We’ll sort that out soon.” He flashed a smile and left the room, moving on to his next patient, while I struggled to hold it together.
As soon as I was settled in my minivan, tears streamed down my face. This is what medical trauma does; it turns everyday situations into emotional landmines.
My history of trauma is two-fold. The first blow came when I battled severe symptoms for eighteen months, only to be diagnosed with type 1 diabetes—an autoimmune disease that nearly took my life. Fast forward twelve years, and I discovered a lump in my breast. After a mammogram and an ultrasound, the radiologist suggested I return in six months. Trusting my instincts, I sought a second opinion—only to receive a breast cancer diagnosis.
Each experience was challenging in its own right. Living with type 1 diabetes means I’m constantly managing my insulin pump and glucose monitor, counting every carbohydrate. After my breast cancer diagnosis, I underwent a bilateral mastectomy at just 35, all while being a mother of four.
Neither of these conditions has a cure. I rely on insulin to survive, which is incredibly costly. Although I’m labeled as “cancer-free,” my follow-up appointments remind me that my journey is far from over.
While I feel immense gratitude for my health, my excellent medical team, and my husband’s job that provides great insurance, this thankfulness doesn’t erase the emotional scars. Losing a breast before turning forty is a heavy burden. I’m tethered to medical devices just to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
Fear of cancer lurks around every corner. I’ve crafted a post-cancer plan that includes a mostly vegan diet, regular exercise, sufficient sleep, and stress management strategies. Yet, the statistics haunt me. Each follow-up appointment is a reminder of what I’ve been through. I often find myself zoning out mentally, trying to shield myself from the emotional weight of the experience.
In those moments, I’m stripped down to a gown, and medical professionals examine my implants for any signs of recurrence. In addition to the daily grind of managing my health, I carry survivor’s guilt. Why did I get to survive with just surgery, while others endure chemotherapy and radiation? When I hear about new diagnoses—like the sister of a dear friend—my heart sinks, heavy with guilt for my second chance at life.
And then there’s the anger. Why must women face cancer at all? Why did I have to endure two diseases within twelve years?
Outwardly, I might seem fine. I’m a busy mom, wife, daughter, and friend. My husband and I have been married for nearly sixteen years, and we lead a happy life in a lovely home. Despite the challenges of a mastectomy, I had reconstructive surgery that was expertly done, leaving me with only faint scars.
Even with all these “blessings,” I’m a whirlwind of emotions. Medical trauma is a thief—it creeps in and steals your peace. It feeds on your doubts, tears, guilt, and feelings of inadequacy.
To my friends and family, I’m a warrior, an overcomer—a breast cancer survivor who also navigates life with an autoimmune disease. But the reality is, I often feel fragile, confused, and utterly exhausted. Just when I think I’m making progress, a simple trigger sends me spiraling back. For instance, one day, I saw a car with a pink ribbon sticker that read “survivor” and it hit me like a ton of bricks.
October is particularly tough because of the omnipresent pink ribbons. A local café even sold breast cancer ribbon-shaped bagels! Depending on my mood, I might feel a sense of camaraderie or an overwhelming wave of post-traumatic stress.
Having faced medical trauma means you’re never truly done with it. Celebrating milestones, like ringing a bell at a treatment facility or tucking away old medical equipment, feels good. But when you’ve danced with death, you become acutely aware of life’s fragility. Each breath becomes a gift, and while fear can be deceitful, it remains a very real emotion.
What I experienced is my reality, and it’s important for me to acknowledge it rather than bury it. Accepting the past and present is crucial, and I remind myself that grief isn’t a straight path but rather a cycle that I must navigate.
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Summary
Surviving breast cancer is an ongoing battle that brings emotional turmoil and challenges. Despite being labeled cancer-free, the scars of medical trauma remain, and survivor’s guilt complicates the journey. Acknowledging these feelings is essential for healing.
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