My Breast Cancer Journey | Pecos River Photogra

Navigating Breast Cancer During Covid

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Breast cancer. Two words I had hoped never to hear in my lifetime. They carry a quiet dread, something many women fear but rarely talk about—unless they’ve lived through it or watched someone they love face it.

For me, the fear had always been there, tucked into the background of my life. My mother had been diagnosed in the 1980s, so I was diligent about my health—regular mammograms, biopsies, and monitoring the fibrous, benign masses in both breasts, each one “clipped” and documented.

Then came December 2019. I found a small lump, close to where one of the clips had been placed. I brushed it off at first, blaming our 140-pound bloodhound, who thinks he’s a chihuahua and steps on me nightly. I wanted to believe that explanation. But by April 2020, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I saw my doctor—and I’ll never forget the call on April 20th. She told me to come in. Now.

I broke down. I called my husband, sobbing. He picked me up and we drove to the doctor’s office in silence, tears tracing down my cheeks. When my doctor walked into the room, she looked at me and simply said, “You already know, don’t you?” I nodded.

Biopsies aren’t new to me, but they never get easier. You're awake, numb but painfully aware. The pressure, the ominous "pop" of tissue being removed—it’s haunting. And that sound? I hope I never hear it again.

So began my cancer journey, in the middle of a pandemic. Just weeks before, I’d started a new job. Now, COVID-19 had arrived in full force, and I was fighting for my life. I remember apologizing to my boss, convinced she hadn’t signed up for this. But she was incredibly supportive, allowing me to work remotely through chemotherapy. Some days, I worked until the drugs knocked me out.

May 15th, 2020 - The true cost of the virus. Waiting by myself to be taken back to have my port installed.

As they worked to determine my cancer type, we discovered the hormone replacement therapy I had been on—estrogen and progesterone—was feeding the cancer. My oncologist yanked me off these immediately, so instant menopause followed. When I mentioned my mother’s diagnosis, genetic testing was ordered. To everyone’s surprise, I tested negative for the BRCA gene. It’s rare, they said, for both a mother and daughter to have breast cancer without the gene. Leave it to me to be the exception.

Complications didn’t stop there. My liver and kidney levels soared—so much so that my oncologist feared organ failure. Thankfully, it was the hormones causing it, and stopping the medication brought my levels back to normal. But that experience taught me a hard lesson: hormone therapy isn’t just about monitoring hormone levels. Organ function must be checked too. My previous doctor hadn’t done that. I dropped her immediately.Summer came, and with it, unbearable Southwest heat. Each appointment meant screenings—temperature checks, symptom questions. Try staying under a fever threshold after walking across asphalt in 100-degree heat. More than once, we had to convince staff that we weren’t sick—just overheated.

My oncologist had given me hope about my hair. “If you make it through the first two weeks of chemo with your hair intact,” he said, “you might just keep it.” Two weeks came. I dared to hope. Then one day in the shower, it began—handfuls of hair, falling out in clumps. I cried harder than I had during any part of this ordeal. For me, losing my hair was worse than losing my breasts. I hadn’t had short hair in over two decades.

That Sunday, alone in the bathroom, I faced the mirror. With trembling hands and tears streaming, I cut it all off, until only a scraggly inch remained. My husband, sensing what had happened, said nothing. Two days later, he found the courage to shave the rest.

Chemo did not make me nauseous, but the fatigue was indescribable. It wasn’t sleepiness—it was complete depletion. I didn’t care to eat. I didn’t have the strength to lift my arms. I cried on the couch, barely able to wash a dish before collapsing again. We learned I could not venture out out the weekend after treatment when I passed out in Walmart. Thankfully, I was seated and simply slumped to the floor. My blood pressure, always low, plummeted.

There were dark days. I would be lying if I said I never thought of giving up. Some nights I cried myself to sleep, praying it would all end. But every morning, I got up, pulled on my “big girl britches,” and kept going.

And then, a moment of light during these trying times. My husband and I were checking out at the store when the cashier looked at me—headscarf on, fatigue setting in—and said, “You’re clearly going through something, and yet you’re here. I have no excuse not to get out of bed tomorrow.” That gave me strength. If I could inspire one person, it was worth it.

When I was finally cleared for the reconstruction surgery, my plastic surgeon backed out. His concern was that the radiation had compromised my tissue, increasing the risk of the implant rising through the skin. I was devastated. It meant starting over: new referrals, new approvals.

But there was a silver lining. My husband and I had already discussed concerns about implants—how they often feel unnatural, cold, and bring risks of rejection. That led me to PRMA in San Antonio. They used my own tissue—skin and fat—to rebuild my breasts. Since it’s your own body, rejection is unlikely. And, if they can reconnect nerves, partial sensation can return. Bonus: tattoos didn’t hurt.

I’m still taking medication to suppress estrogen. I take calcium supplements as well now. The road hasn’t ended, but I’ve come a long way.