Going into my double mastectomy, I didn’t think I would need radiation.
My breast surgeon told me they would test the lymph nodes on my left side, the cancer side, and let me know after surgery.
The day of my nine-hour surgery, she told my boyfriend something I had been praying to hear: I was cancer free. But that’s not the full story.
A few days later, while I was home recovering, drains in both sides of my body, on more medication than I could even keep track of, my phone rang.
The pathology report had come back. One lymph node was positive. I remember thinking, that doesn’t make sense.
But I wasn’t in a place to question it. I was still trying to sit up without pain. So I did what I had been doing all along:
I trusted my medical team, and trusted God. My friend was with me that day.
She took care of me while everyone else was at work, the kind of person who shows up fully and doesn’t leave when things get hard. A little bit of a mother hen in the best way.
We heard the news together. And honestly, my response was simple: “Okay”. Not because I understood it. But because I could only handle one thing at a time. Recovery from surgery took about four weeks. Being home that long was both peaceful and hard.
I wasn’t used to slowing down like that. No schedule. No normal routine. Just healing.
At my follow-up appointment, my plastic surgeon, who I trust completely, said something that stopped me: “You need to make sure you get the right radiologist.”
Then he said: “You only get one chance to get it right.”
That changed everything. Because “getting it right” meant this:
Driving 90 miles each way. Every day. For a 15-minute appointment. For six weeks.
My friend and I went to breakfast after that appointment. We prayed over our food. I was overwhelmed. She was too.
Not because I didn’t believe I could do it, but because I didn’t expect to still be here. I had already gone through chemotherapy. I thought surgery was the end of it.
But cancer has a way of rewriting your expectations.
The next day, I made a decision. I was going to meet with a radiologist closer to home. I had heard good things.
They had just installed a brand new machine.
And something in me knew, this needed to feel right.
There was a six-week wait after surgery before I could even begin radiation.
And during that time, I thought about that one lymph node more than I wanted to. But again… I trusted.
Radiation lasted six weeks. Twenty-eight rounds. Every single day. All while starting a new job.
And here’s the part that surprised me, radiation didn’t feel like much at first.
It was quick. Almost uneventful. Until it wasn’t.
The side effects didn’t really show up until the last few sessions. My skin turned red. Burned.
Even now, there’s still a faint tan line where the permanent markers were placed. I used cream every day.
I sat in my hot tub, because it made me feel better, not knowing until the very end that it wasn’t recommended.
But when you’re in it, you do what helps.
There were two things that stayed with me through all of this.
The first was what my plastic surgeon said.
Because radiation can affect reconstruction, especially with flap surgery, and the radiated side can shrink.
That’s why it mattered so much to “get it right.”
And the second? The radiologist I chose, the one I trusted…
He’s the one who told me:
“You are Cancer Free”!!!
Full circle. Not the way I expected. But somehow exactly the way it unfolded.
