The night before my January getaway to the warm shores of Aruba, I felt like a child on Christmas Eve. This vacation wasn’t merely a luxurious escape; it was my first trip away from my nine-and-a-half-month-old son. Yes, I knew I would miss that adorable little guy, but the promise of seven nights filled with uninterrupted sleep felt like a rare gift. I was determined to savor every moment, especially since my husband was eager for baby number two, making such trips unlikely to become an annual tradition.
On our first evening on the sun-soaked island, I was excited to slip into one of the new dresses I had packed, hopeful it would remain free from any baby-related mishaps. After a long, relaxing shower in our spacious hotel bathroom, I marveled at the double sinks (my personal marriage saviors). As I stood there putting on my one-shouldered sundress, I noticed something unusual on the right side of my chest. The hotel lighting was unforgiving and allowed for a thorough self-examination. My right breast appeared bumpy at the top, but I dismissed it as likely just plugged milk ducts since I had recently stopped breastfeeding. I pushed the thought aside, blissfully enjoying my time away from everyday worries.
However, a few weeks later back in Toronto, while revisiting my Grey’s Anatomy obsession, I examined the area of concern again. It felt unfamiliar, hard, and this time, I sensed something was wrong. Breast cancer wasn’t prevalent in my family, and I had always heard that breastfeeding lowered the risk of developing breast cancer. Still, I decided to call my doctor and scheduled an appointment for that week.
The Tests Begin
The concerned look on my doctor’s face as she examined the mass told me everything I needed to know. “In situations like this, we recommend a mammogram and a breast ultrasound. I’ll arrange for you to see a breast surgeon,” she said, emphasizing the word “urgent” on the requisition form.
What was happening? It was the Friday before Family Day, and I feared getting the tests done would be a challenge. Thankfully, my emotional plea—complete with tears and the stress of having a ten-month-old son—secured me an appointment just an hour later.
The mammogram came first, and the technician was all business, offering no insights. I attempted to lighten the mood with the ultrasound technician, thinking that if I could make her laugh, it would somehow indicate that everything was fine. She smiled, but all I got in return was, “Just give it a few days; they’ll have answers.”
Afterward, I rushed to a commercial audition for an insurance company, ironically reciting lines about getting full salary if I fell ill. Upon my return, I found a missed call from my doctor but no message. I tried to reach her, but it was after hours, so I went home, unable to relax. I barely slept that night—only three hours.
The next morning, I anxiously called my doctor’s office, only to be told by the receptionist that she had the results but couldn’t share them. Ten minutes later, my doctor called me at home.
“Hi Emily, unfortunately, the news isn’t good. They found multiple micro-calcifications in your right breast, which are indicative of a malignancy.” I struggled to breathe.
“Is there any chance they are wrong? Tests can be inaccurate sometimes?” I asked, mentally recalling the latest episode of Grey’s.
“Unfortunately, they are 90 percent sure this is some form of malignancy.”
What. The. Heck. How was this happening? My doctor informed me I had an appointment at the breast center the following Wednesday for a likely biopsy. Waiting until then felt unbearable. The next four days stretched endlessly—I couldn’t work, sleep, or even exercise, my go-to stress relief. The only comfort I found was in reruns of Friends.
On the day of the appointment, my husband and I arrived an hour early, only to find the clinic running nearly an hour behind. Once I finally got into the exam room, a resident conducted a brief examination before the doctor arrived. He was kind and resembled a young Michael Keaton. After checking the suspicious area on my breast and assessing my underarm nodes, he expressed concern and discussed possible PET and CT scans, suspecting there might be secondary cancer elsewhere. He performed a core needle biopsy on my breast and a fine needle biopsy on a node under my arm. Afterward, he decided to wait for the biopsy results and ordered an MRI before any unnecessary radiation exposure. “We’ll see you back here in a week for the results,” he said as he left.
A week? I thought I wouldn’t survive the wait. I felt nauseated and was on edge, nearly losing it over a minor mistake at the store. In a moment of desperation, I called the MRI scheduling office and jokingly offered a bottle of vodka for an earlier appointment. Miraculously, I got in at 5 p.m. instead of 9 p.m. After the MRI, I felt a fleeting sense of relief, surprisingly comforted by the noise of the machine.
The subsequent four days were torturous. I found myself Googling every symptom and pain, convinced they were all tied to cancer. My mind raced through every possible outcome. By the time of the follow-up appointment with the surgeon, I was desperate for answers—any answers.
Receiving the Diagnosis
Sitting on the tissue paper while my doctor read the biopsy results gave me a mix of relief and anxiety. It appeared there was no spread or node involvement, but confirmation would only come after surgery—a double mastectomy and sentinel node biopsy. But I had to wait six more weeks for the procedure, as both the plastic surgeon and breast surgeon needed to be available for reconstruction.
“You won’t find an earlier date in the city,” my surgeon said. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. The day of the surgery finally arrived, and I was thrilled to rid my body of the tumor cells that had invaded it. The procedure went well, but I faced another two weeks of anticipation for the final results.
The findings confirmed multifocal invasive ductal carcinoma, the largest being 1.2cm, with no node involvement. Another two-week wait followed for my appointment with the oncologist and radiologist. No radiation was needed, but they suggested shutting down my ovaries, putting me into menopause, along with hormonal therapy since my tumor was highly estrogen positive.
Chemotherapy? That required another test to determine necessity, and I waited two more weeks for those results. When I finally met with my oncologist, who resembled a young Mariel Hemingway, I learned my test results placed me in an intermediate category, making the effectiveness of chemotherapy uncertain. I cried, feeling exhausted and frustrated. We ultimately decided against chemotherapy.
Finding Hope
Now, here I am, once again waiting to understand what the future holds. Yet, as I gaze into the bright blue eyes of my 13-month-old son, I feel a sense of hope. I promise myself to stop Googling and remind myself of the silver lining—I’m getting a new set of breasts, a perk that could lead to a lifetime of confidence. Although, as I sit here anticipating my body’s transition into menopause, that thought isn’t my immediate priority.
For those on a similar journey, resources like this guide can be incredibly helpful. If you’re considering options for your family planning, check out this informative blog post as well. They can provide valuable insights. Additionally, if you’re exploring at-home insemination kits, this authority on the topic is worth a look.
In conclusion, the journey from motherhood to facing a breast cancer diagnosis has been fraught with challenges, uncertainties, and moments of hope. Yet, through it all, the love for my child fuels my determination to overcome.
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