My breast cancer diagnosis hit like a punch to the gut in the middle of an ordinary day — sudden, taking my breath away, and impossible to ignore. The words “It’s cancer” split my life in two: before cancer, and now.
In the beginning, I felt numb. Shocked while doctors spoke calmly about MRIs, biopsies, margins, and surgery. Their voices were calm and steady, but my mind was spinning. I nodded as if I understood, but I felt like I was following directions from a Maps app, except this was a trip never wanted to take.
I was told I might experience the same stages of grief that follow the death of a loved one. I now understand. I mourned what I had lost — a part of me that had been with me for 52 years. The part that fed my children. The part that shaped my femininity. How do I grieve a piece of me that has always been there?
I stare at myself in the mirror and the scars that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Scars that will eventually become symbols of strength.
Between the drainage bulbs, surgical tape, surgeries, medications, restrictions, isolation, and masks, I found myself with a strange sense of déjà vu thinking, “Well… I survived the days of COVID quarantine; I can survive this.” (sigh) At least during COVID I could go outside, ride my bike and simply move. Now, my house walls keep me “safe” from heat exposure, driving, lifting, or doing the thousands of things I once did without thought.
Cancer stripped my life down to its foundation — family, faith, and friends. People showed up without being asked. Neighbors delivered meals and flowers. Friends sent fruit baskets, flowers, texts, and calls that made me feel a little less trapped. (I’m sure some of those delivering meals felt trapped because I purposefully stood in front of the door because I was so excited to talk to someone face-to-face.) And my CrAzY friends that send funny videos to make me laugh.
Hardship reveals the truest version of people. Cancer has taken so much from me, but it has also opened my eyes to the kindness of others, to my strength that rises even when I’m exhausted, and to the simple, profound experience of being loved.
My priorities used to revolve around schedules, deadlines, and meetings.
Now, I see that life is both bigger than I imagined and smaller than it seems. It’s a friend praying for me. A quiet moment on the deck with someone who cares. A conversation with the neighbor on the driveway. A daughter helping with everyday tasks. A son, daughter-in-law, and grandson FaceTiming as I’m wheeled into surgery. Neighbors being neighbors. Friends visiting to break up the monotony of long days. It’s my body fighting to heal - scars and all - proving that I will thrive, not just survive.
There is gratitude — not the kind printed on wall art or coffee mugs, but a fierce, grounded gratitude for everything. The deep kind of gratitude that comes from a break in the loneliness, a reassuring message while alone in a hospital room - simple reminders that I a not alone.
I am still here.
Still loved.
Still grieving what was..
And slowly becoming the “new” me.
"My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style."
Dr. Maya Angelou
I'm committed to ride in the 24th Annual Sunflowers to Roses Bike Tour on Sunday, August 2nd. I am going the extra mile by fundraising as well. Please join me in providing resources to those in the Kansas City area that are fighting & surviving their battles against Cancer. Sunflowers to Roses has been providing support to Cancer Action Kansas City for many years. Check out sunflowerstoroses.org and canceractionkc.org to learn more about these great organizations.
Join the Fight! Enjoy the Ride!