In May of 2003, at the age of 26, I went in for my routine “Well Woman” exam. My doctor found a small lump about the size of a lima bean in my left breast--neither one of us thought much of it. She just wanted to watch it for any changes, but figured it was just part of my cycle. Three weeks later, I began having shooting pains right where that lump was. Everyone kept telling me, “Pain is a good thing. It can’t be cancer because cancer is the silent killer.” I decided to make an appointment with my doctor anyway. When I went back in, my doctor did another examination. She became a little worried when she realized that it had grown a centimeter in 3 weeks. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but she still wanted me to go and have a sonogram to check it out. She tried to get me in the next day, but they didn’t have any appointments. So, I waited the weekend and went the next Monday. The technician who did my sonogram said it wasn’t anything serious because all my margins were clear. Which means that it didn’t have any finger-like growths like cancer. The doctors still wanted me to see a breast surgeon. So, later that week, I went to see a surgeon. My surgeon was very sweet and soft spoken. She assured us that it wasn’t cancerous, but she still wanted to take it out. I set up my surgery for July 3rd. When we left the surgeon’s office, my husband of two and half years sighed with relief. He felt better knowing that my surgeon didn’t think the lump was anything big. I, on the other hand, didn’t have the same feeling. I felt that something more was wrong. A few days before my surgery, I called my dad. He knew I didn’t have a good feeling about this lump. I could tell that it was becoming larger by the minute. My dad realized that I needed my mom here for the surgery. My husband, as good and sweet as he is, didn’t know how difficult it could be caring for someone after surgery. My mom arrived on July 2nd. The morning of July 3rd, my mom and my husband accompanied me to the hospital. It was just a day surgery and I would be home by early afternoon. At this point in my life, I seemed to be overly blessed with boobs. Before they rolled me back into the operating room, my surgeon came in to check on me. I told her that if she had to take a lot out of my left boob, that she should feel free to even up the right one. She laughed and said we could talk about that kind of surgery another time. After my lumpectomy, I didn’t feel too bad. I even felt good enough that on July 4th, all three of us spent the evening outside watching fireworks. My mom left on Monday, July 7th to go back to North Carolina. I was supposed to here from my surgeon about the pathology report on my lump. I didn’t hear from her, but I wasn’t worried because I had an appointment to see her on the 9th for a post- surgery check up. Anyways, no news seemed like good news to me!!!!! On July 8th, I had a lady friend of mine call me. She was a year out in her survival of breast cancer. We had the same doctors and she wanted to go with me to my post surgery check up. I told her that there wasn’t any need for that because I was just having my incision checked. Against my protest, she said she would meet me at the doctor’s office. On July 9th, I went in for my appointment. Like my friend promised, she met me there. She waited outside while my doctor checked my incision. When she was done with the check up, she asked me to get dressed because my pathology report was a little complicated. My fears had been confirmed. I put on my clothes and went out into the waiting room to see if my friend would come in with me. I was hoping she could translate any medical terminology that was foreign to me. My sweet, little surgeon sat down on the stool in front of me. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and out of her mouth came those words that every woman fears to hear. The lump she had removed ended up being two and half inches in diameter. When she opened me up and looked at the mass, she got a sick feeling all over. Even before she sent the lump to pathology, she knew something was really wrong. She proceeded to tell me that my lump was malignant. I HAD CANCER!!!!!! Holy cow, I was really glad my surviving friend was there to hold my hand. My surgeon proceeded to tell me that my cancer was on the fast track. I like to say it was on speed. After I caught my breath and let the dreaded “C” word soak in for a minute, I knew I had some immediate questions. My first question was, “Okay. So, now what are my options?” My options were: she could go in and remove more of the tissue surrounding the lump, a single mastectomy or a bilateral mastectomy. I knew in my gut that I needed to have both breasts removed. When I realized this was my decision, I felt a little more at peace. I looked at my surgeon and said, “So, does this mean I get to pick my boob size now?” We all laughed, but we new this was going to be a long hard road. As soon as I walked out the door of the office, I called my husband. Through my tears he was able to decipher that I had cancer. His immediate response was disbelief and devastation. I could hear him holding back his tears in his voice. He said he was leaving work and to meet me at his dad’s house around the corner. I called my mom next, but didn’t get an answer. It was surreal that she had just left 2 days ago and now this was happening. I called my dad and delivered the bad news. As luck would have it, my sister was planning on moving back to Texas that next weekend. When I finally got a hold of my mom, she had already heard the news from my dad. She said she and my sister were jumping in their cars and would be there the next day. So, my sister ended up moving back to Texas a few days earlier than she thought. But the real irony of this whole situation was that two weeks earlier, my 23-year-old sister had treated herself to a breast enlargement (she hadn’t been blessed in the boob department). So, within the month of July, she got boobs and I was having mine removed. Isn’t it funny how life works? Later the next day my mom and sister arrived and my dad flew in that weekend. Starting the day after I was diagnosed, I was scheduled for marathon doctor appointments. Two days after my family arrived, we were set to have a sit down discussion with my surgeon. I told them that I was going to opt to have both my breasts removed, but some of them seemed to have some reservations. Anyways, three weeks after I heard the “C” word come out of my surgeon’s mouth, I was scheduled to have the bilateral mastectomy. The morning of my surgery, it was like a party at the hospital. Most of my friends and family appeared in the pre-op room to show their support for me. It was really a great feeling to know how many people cared about me. I kept cracking boob jokes, but nobody thought they were funny but me. As they were wheeling me off to the operating room, my husband leaned down with tears streaming down his face, kissed me and told me he loved me. That was the first time I’ve seen him cry through this whole ordeal. I don’t remember much about the next three days that I spent in the hospital. My mom and dad say that I spent many night keeping them awake singing any song I could think of. However, I don’t remember any of this. Two weeks after my surgery, I began the first of eight chemotherapy treatments. I am a teacher at a wonderful “family first” school. The teachers at my school gave me a huge surprise hat party the weekend before I was going to shave my head. I decided to have a little control over my situation by shaving my hair off before it could fall out. I had a whole lot of naturally curly hair, I just didn’t realize how much until my husband started shaving my head. In May before my lump was discovered, my husband and I made a life changing decision. He was going to join the Army. He joined in May of 2003 and qualified for the Special Forces, but he wasn’t set to leave until the end of December. It’s funny how God works. That means my husband would be around for all my chemos, except the very last one. As for my dad, one month after my major surgery, he went in for brain surgery---my poor mother. His surgeons later realized that they had not gotten the whole tumor out. He was scheduled to have 18 rounds of radiation in one day in December. My mom needs a vacation. My husband left for basic training on December 29, 2003. I was having my last chemo treatment the 6th of January. My aunt (my mom’s sister) had been diagnosed with breast cancer 10 years earlier. She knew my husband was going to be gone, so she made the trip from Virginia to Texas to celebrate my last treatment with me. Now, I knew going through chemotherapy would be tough, but I had no idea how tough. Everyone thinks that you lose weight during chemo treatments, well, that doesn’t ring true for EVERYBODY! I gained about 20 pounds before my husband left in December. Well, after my last treatment, things got really bad. I had an allergic reaction to the chemo drugs. My whole body, including my face swelled up until I wasn’t recognizable. I had a rash the color of cherries on my face and blisters underneath my eyes. After three rounds of steroids to try and treat the bad reaction, I had gained another 15 pounds. Two weeks after my last treatment, I woke up one Saturday morning and realized I couldn’t move. My joints and my back hurt so badly I had to have my sister help me to the bathroom. My sweet sister had spent three weeks taking care of me and at this point she was so stressed about my condition we called more troops in---my mom. My mom drove down from North Carolina. I was on so much pain medication that I didn’t even realize she was at my house until a week after she arrived. Apparently, the day my mom arrived my sister decided she was just going to move in permanently. My husband was gone and I was living in our house with just our two dogs. I obviously was struggling with this last treatment, so she decided to help me out. During the time my mom was here, I could barely move. She did her best to get me out of the house at least once a day. My body was in so much pain, that anywhere we went, I had to be pushed around in a wheel chair. When my mom left after her two week stay, I was still having a hard time moving around. I continued to get better everyday. Now, almost 5 years later, I have a beautiful one year old and I'm living everyday to it's fullest