One year ago this week I parted ways with my uterus, along with nine+ fibroids, two ovarian cysts, and a whole lot of pesky scar tissue. I have not missed any of it: A near lifetime of horrendous periods, being told my debilitating pain was “normal”, and struggling to find a healthcare provider who took me seriously. It was worth the ten weeks of recovery and a summer without swimming.

But then.

About eight weeks after my surgery, I was scheduled for a follow-up mammogram. My yearly mammogram in January showed something they wanted to keep an eye on, which sometimes happens as I am also blessed with dense breast tissue. Yay, me. I didn’t really want to spend the day at the clinic, getting the required mammogram followed inevitably by an ultrasound because it is way better at screening dense breasts. I didn’t want to go. But I did. Hours later, the technician finally released me and said to wait for the doctor to review my results. I was already late for work and asked if they could just follow up with a phone call/letter (generally the protocol if everything looks normal), and she said no, you really need to talk to the doctor.

Warning sign number one.

I waited, irritated. Went into the consultation room where they told me the original area they were watching looked the same, but there was a new spot which warranted a follow-up biopsy. I didn’t really look at the screen, didn’t really want to know anything at that point, just when do I need to come back here and waste another morning?

The day after my ten week hysterectomy recovery mark, I went in for the biopsy. We have these days at work called One and Done, where students can go through the entire process of admission and registration in one day. They are exhausting days but they start at 10 and I figured I could squeeze the appointment in and not miss any more work (I used up all my sick leave after the surgery). So off I went, telling myself it was no big deal. There’s no history of cancer in my family. My mom’s had a few breast biopsies and her results were always benign.

During the procedure, the doctor tried to make small talk and asked about my kids. They had just left for the World Scout Jamboree in South Korea. Everything was fine so far, (everything would quickly stop being fine) but I missed them. I remember the doctor saying it would be a “slight pinch” as they injected the lidocaine. I remember saying, “slight pinch???” incredulously, followed by the doctor giving me more lidocaine. I remember the horrendous sound the instrument makes as it snips and extracts tissue. I remember looking at the ultrasound screen and worrying slightly that the thing they were sampling looked like an alien blob, not the cute little round cysts I usually see.

Warning sign number two.

Within the next forty-eight hours, my world went to shit. The boys arrived at camp and began to live the nightmare that was the World Scout Jamboree. My youngest tested positive for covid and was sent into isolation in some undisclosed location – we lost almost all contact with him. The testing clinic told me I would get results by the end of the week; my gynecologist called the next night and left a message to call as soon as I could.

Warning sign number three.

It was a Wednesday night. I was still at work and had gone to the bathroom to fuss at my bandages. Breast biopsies are painful and cause terrible bruising. When I got back to my desk and checked my voicemail, I tried not to panic. I called her back, but the office was closed for the day. I had a therapy appointment right after work and unloaded all of my anxiety – about the test results, my boys, the complete lack of control I had over everything.

The next morning, a little past 8 am, the phone call came. I think in that moment I already knew what she would say, but if there were any remaining slivers of hope, they disappeared the minute I heard my doctor’s voice.

Sandi. I have some bad news. You have breast cancer.

I sat down. Tried to take notes. Tried to process her words. Did you have your ovaries removed during the hysterectomy? she asked. No, I wanted to go through menopause naturally. Well, they may need to come out.

Is it weird I remember that detail more than anything else she said? Maybe. Ironic? Oh yeah. Not because I ended up going back in to remove them (I tested negative for gene mutations and for all of the hormone receptors – so ovaries got to stay), but because the chemotherapy I would soon endure rendered them completely useless. In a single year I would lose – in one way or another – all of the textbook parts that made me female. And coming to terms with that has not been easy. (Pro tip: don’t ever tell someone going through chemotherapy that it’s, “just hair” or joke that a breast cancer patient gets a “free boob job”. Just don’t.)

I am now four months out from chemotherapy and three months out from surgery. Today I had a follow up with my plastic surgeon, tomorrow with my surgical oncologist, and next week with my medical oncologist. It has been a journey, one that is never truly over. When I look back on this past year I’m not entirely sure how I made it through. On our wipe-off calendar by the garage door I wrote, “One day at a time ❤” because that was all I could handle. I started a private blog during treatment to update family and friends. It is raw, unfiltered, and it kept me afloat. During the initial stages of my diagnosis I also finished my fourth novel, which releases this summer. Writing always brings me peace, and I hope someday I can use it to help others.

Final thoughts as my hysterversary approaches: don’t neglect your health. Ever. Take care of your body and listen for the warning signs. Be proactive and don’t give up if you feel like no one is taking you seriously. Life knocks you off balance sometimes, but what matters is that you get up and keep moving forward. Be kind. You never know what someone is going through, and it truly does make a difference. ❤