This wasn’t the kind of adventure I ever planned to write about.
But here we are.
Forty-two days ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The big “C”—the one that’s always quietly lived in the back of my mind, filed under things I really hope never happen.
Sixteen days before that, I found something. Not quite a lump, not quite nothing. Somewhere in between. I told myself it was probably a benign cyst—been down that road before.
But this road?
This one was different.
This one felt a lot more like driving through Michigan in the spring—just when you think you’re cruising, you hit a pothole you didn’t see coming. And then another. And then somehow…five more in a row.
Ultrasounds. Biopsies. Compression mammograms—the full experience.
And then the results came in.
Two tumors. Invasive lobular carcinoma. Grade 2.
I saw it first in my patient portal—which is truly a wild way to receive life-changing news. I remember looking at the word “invasive” and immediately telling Garrin, that sounds bad.
Within an hour, Sharon—the nurse navigator—called. Calm, steady, the exact energy I needed in that moment. She explained that “invasive” meant the cancer had moved outside the milk glands into surrounding breast tissue. Grade 2 meant moderate growth—middle of the road.
Stage 1.
Not the news you want. But not the worst version of it either.
She got things moving quickly—scheduled the breast clinic, worked on insurance approvals for an MRI, and walked me through what she expected would be next: likely a lumpectomy, radiation…unless I wanted to take a more aggressive route.
That decision sat with me.
Because here’s the thing—I don’t do great with medical stuff. Routine doctor visits? Already stressful. Tests, procedures, waiting for results? My personal nightmare. My brain is very talented at jumping straight to worst-case scenarios.
So the question became: what’s worse?
The bigger, scarier surgery now…or the possibility of this coming back later?
Meanwhile, I was getting a crash course in breast cancer. Learning that a lumpectomy with radiation had the same survival rates as a mastectomy. That was reassuring. Grounding.
So I made my decision.
Lumpectomy.
It felt like the right road.
A week later, Garrin and I sat in the breast clinic with the full team—the surgeon, the radiologist, the oncologist. They were aligned. Positive prognosis. Lumpectomy, four weeks of radiation, antihormonal therapy.
Manageable.
Even better—the radiologist had treated my mom the year before. Familiar face. That felt like a small but meaningful sign that maybe…this road was going to smooth out.
And then came the MRI.
I went into it thinking this was just a precaution. A quick check. Not another pothole.
But this one?
This was the kind that sneaks up on you and makes your whole car jolt.
They found a third mass.
One that hadn’t shown up on the ultrasound or mammogram.
Suddenly, the plan shifted.
Another ultrasound. Another biopsy. And if they couldn’t find it that way—an MRI-guided biopsy. If it was cancer…we were looking at a mastectomy.
The surgeon told me she thought it was benign. She said it more than once. I held onto that. Probably a little tighter than I should have.
Hope does that.
The ultrasound was scheduled for the next day—Friday. Thankfully, they were able to find it, which meant we could biopsy it right then. No extra waiting, no additional procedures.
Just the results.
Which came Tuesday.
And that pothole?
Yeah…that one did some damage.
It was cancer.
And just like that, the destination changed.
A lumpectomy was no longer on the table.
Now we were talking about a mastectomy.
During those five days of waiting, there was one thing I became very clear on. If I had to go down this road—if surgery was happening—I was choosing a double mastectomy.
For once, it felt like something I could control.
The idea of doing all of this and then worrying about the other side later? Another pothole waiting to happen. And I’ve officially had my fill of those.
So if this road was going to be rebuilt, I wanted it done right. Smooth. Solid. No surprises lurking just ahead.
The surgery is on the map now.
And while this isn’t the path I would have chosen, it’s the one in front of me.
So I’m driving it—potholes and all.
