Kelley (November)

When I was diagnosed, I cried for days. The fear and anxiety were overwhelming. So overwhelming that I constantly thought I was on the verge of passing out. I was caught completely off guard by the diagnosis. My cancer was found on a routine mammogram. No warning, no lump, no pain - nothing. I felt great. How could I possibly have cancer? I work out. I eat healthy. I don't smoke. I rarely drink. I maintain a healthy weight - all the things. I looked online at what they say are the major risk factors for breast cancer. My one and only risk factor is that I have breasts. How ridiculous is that?

I thought for sure I was going to die, because cancer equals death, right? I kept thinking I was being punished for something. All I could ask myself was, what did I ever do to deserve this? There might have been some swear words in that statement, as it screamed over and over in my head. What did my boys ever do to deserve to lose their mom? My two older boys had already been through so much, and my youngest was too young to be motherless.

I felt completely betrayed by my own body. I had worked so hard to care for it, and what did it give me? Cancer. How could I ever trust it again? How could I trust that feeling okay meant I actually was okay? What other diseases might be lurking inside me that I just don’t know about yet? How can I trust that anything will ever be okay again?

Everyone kept saying, “It’ll be okay,” and I absolutely hated that statement. It’s already not okay. They told me I’d be fine because I was young and healthy. But being young and healthy didn’t protect me from getting cancer in the first place, so how could it help me now?

Eventually, something shifted. I don’t know where the strength came from, but early on I decided that all of this had to mean something. If my family and I had to go through this experience, no matter how it turned out, it couldn’t be for nothing. Maybe we’d learn something. Maybe it would bring us closer together. I didn’t know. I just knew it had to mean more than pain and suffering.

Along the way, I was blown away by the kindness I received. There are so many moments I could write a book about it. People brought food and gifts, sent texts, showed up, some were good friends, others barely acquaintances. It still makes me cry to think about how much people cared.

But one moment I will never forget is my youngest son’s hockey team. I found out I had cancer on a Monday. He told his team on Tuesday, and by Wednesday, they all had hot pink laces on their skates and pink tape on their sticks. The whole team, the coaches, the parents, and everyone continued to show support all season. At district playoffs, they surprised me. They had my initials on their jerseys. My son’s goalie helmet was decorated to honor me. Every spectator in the stands wore a pink ribbon. The coach even wore pink socks. They’ll forever be in my heart.

Through it all, I surprised myself the most with how open I became. I’m usually a quiet person. I keep things to myself. But when I got cancer, I became an open book. I talked about it with everyone. It makes me giggle that so many people know so much about my boobs now, my in-laws, my son’s coach, my boss, and literally hundreds of other people. It’s wild.

I also found strength in creating new habits and repeating mantras that kept me grounded. My mantra was some version of, “All I can do is focus on what’s in my control. The rest is out of my hands.” I had no control over the fact that I got cancer, no control over whether chemo and radiation worked, and no control over whether or not the cancer would return. And that lack of control really bothered me.

So, I focused on what I could control. Whether or not I gave up. My attitude. My actions. What foods I put into my body. Whether I moved my body every day. Whether I stayed connected to the people who bring me joy. Whether I saw each day as a burden or a blessing. Even a bad day means I’m still alive.

Exercise became my daily goal. It wasn’t about getting fit. It was about proving to myself that I was stronger than cancer. A day or two after my double mastectomy, my husband and I walked to the end of the block and back. The next day, two houses further. Eventually, it became a mile, then two. I started lifting light weights when I could. It didn’t matter how small the movement was; doing something was better than doing nothing. Chemo wiped me out, but I kept at it. I did whatever I was capable of that day. I didn’t want cancer to win.

Now, life feels mostly normal. I’ve finished chemo and radiation. I’m back to working full-time and trying to figure out what I want my after-cancer life to be like. I want to feel whole again. I want to stop thinking about cancer 24 hours a day, but I also don’t want to forget what I’ve learned. I want to carry the good parts of cancer forward into this new chapter.

My perspective on life has changed a lot. I’ve realized that life is too precious to waste on perfectionism and endless to-do lists. At the end of my life, hopefully when I’m over 100, I won’t be proud of a weed-free garden or a perfectly arranged home. I’ll be proud of the people I loved and the relationships I built. I want to look back and remember the adventures I had, not the times I was too afraid to step out of my comfort zone.

The mindset I want now is to ask myself each day, “What do I want to do today?” Not, “What do other people expect of me?”

Being a survivor, to me, means not letting cancer win. Cancer is a battle, not just physically, but mentally. It’s hard to keep it from clouding everything. It’s hard not to let it take your joy and your spark. It’s hard not to let fear and anger consume you. But being a survivor means I still have control over how my story goes and what it means.

Something I wish more people understood is how good it feels to connect with other survivors. There’s a shared language. I know women who won’t attend support groups or B the Light events because they don’t feel like they “fit” the mold. Some feel they didn’t go through enough treatment to count. Others want to leave it all behind. I get that. I was terrified to walk into my first B the Light event. But it turned out to be exactly what I needed.

To someone just diagnosed, I would say, breathe. Rest. Let people take care of you. Focus only on what you can control. Tell your people you love them. Look for the good in every day.