The night before my January getaway to a sun-soaked tropical paradise, I felt like a child anticipating Christmas morning. This trip was monumental; it marked my first vacation away from my nine-and-a-half-month-old son. Yes, I would miss that adorable little boy, but the thought of seven nights of uninterrupted sleep was a rare gem I couldn’t pass up. I was determined to savor every moment, especially since my partner was keen on expanding our family soon, and vacations like this wouldn’t become a regular affair.
On our first evening on the idyllic island, I was excited to slip into a new sundress, hoping it would remain free from any baby-related messes. After a relaxing shower, I admired the spacious hotel bathroom with its double sinks — a true lifesaver for couples. As I slipped into my fashionable outfit, I noticed something peculiar about my right breast. The hotel’s bright lighting revealed a bumpy texture I hadn’t seen before. At the time, I dismissed it as likely just a result of weaning — my body was still adjusting after breastfeeding. I chose to enjoy my vacation without any worries.
Weeks later, back in Toronto, while indulging in a binge of Grey’s Anatomy, I examined that same area more closely. It felt foreign and hard. I knew something was off. Breast cancer didn’t run in my family, and I had always believed that breastfeeding lowered the risk of developing it. Still, I decided it was best to consult my doctor for peace of mind.
The Testing Phase
The unease in my doctor’s expression as she examined the lump spoke volumes. “Given the situation, we recommend a mammogram and a breast ultrasound. I’ll also arrange for you to see a breast surgeon,” she said, emphasizing the word “urgent.”
What was happening? With Family Day approaching, I knew scheduling these tests would be a challenge. Yet, my emotional plea about having a ten-month-old son and needing answers quickly secured me an appointment just an hour later.
The mammogram came first, and the technician was oddly impersonal, leaving me in the dark about any insights. I attempted to lighten the mood with the ultrasound technician, hoping a laugh might mean good news. She only told me to wait a few days for results.
After a commercial audition that felt laden with irony — my line asking if I would receive my full salary if I got sick — I noticed a missed call from my doctor with no voicemail. Attempting to call back proved futile since it was after hours. That night was restless, yielding only three hours of sleep.
The next day, I called the office, and the receptionist informed me that my results were in but couldn’t share them. Ten minutes later, my doctor called me at home.
“Hi Emily, I’m afraid the news isn’t good. They found numerous micro-calcifications in your right breast, which they believe indicate breast malignancy.” I struggled to breathe.
“Is there a chance they are mistaken? Tests can be wrong, right?” I asked, recalling plotlines from Grey’s.
“Unfortunately, they are 90 percent confident this is a malignancy.”
What in the world was happening? My doctor scheduled a biopsy appointment for the following Wednesday, and the wait felt unbearable. I couldn’t work, couldn’t sleep, and even my usual stress relief — exercising — was off the table. My only solace was reruns of Friends.
When my husband and I arrived at the Breast Centre an hour early, we quickly learned they were running late. After what felt like an eternity, I finally saw the doctor, who examined me with a kindness reminiscent of a younger Michael Keaton. He expressed concern over a potential secondary cancer and conducted a core needle biopsy on my breast, along with a fine needle biopsy on a node under my arm. He reassured me we’d wait for the biopsy results before proceeding with any unnecessary tests.
The Diagnosis
Sitting on the examination table as my doctor read the biopsy results provided a sliver of relief — nothing had spread and there was no node involvement. But the surgery — a double mastectomy and sentinel node biopsy — loomed ahead, and I would have to wait six excruciating weeks for that.
“You won’t find an earlier date anywhere in the city,” my surgeon assured me. The anticipation felt endless. Finally, the surgery day arrived, and I was excited to rid my body of the tumor cells. After a successful operation, I endured another two-week wait for final results, which confirmed multifocal invasive ductal carcinoma, measuring 1.2cm with no node involvement.
Two more weeks passed before I met with the oncologist and radiologist. While no radiation would be needed, they recommended shutting down my ovaries, inducing menopause and putting me on hormonal therapy due to my tumor’s high estrogen positivity.
Chemotherapy was still a question mark pending further tests. When the day came to discuss the results, I found myself in a waiting room aptly named, and after more than an hour, I met with my oncologist, who bore a striking resemblance to a young Mariel Hemingway. She revealed that my test results placed me in an intermediate category, leaving us uncertain about the efficacy of chemotherapy. Overwhelmed with exhaustion and frustration, we chose to forgo that route.
Present Day
Now, I find myself once again in a state of anticipation, reflecting on the journey ahead. Yet, when I gaze into the bright blue eyes of my 13-month-old son, hope blossoms within me. I promise to stop Googling and remind myself of the silver lining: I will be getting a new set of breasts. A lifetime of perkiness awaits me, even though thoughts of that are currently overshadowed by my transition into menopause.
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Summary
Emily Carter shares her emotional journey from becoming a mother to facing a breast cancer diagnosis. After noticing a change in her breast following the end of breastfeeding, she navigates a whirlwind of medical tests, diagnoses, and waiting periods, ultimately leading to a double mastectomy. Despite the challenges, she holds onto hope for the future, especially as she gazes into her son’s eyes.