By Samantha Kuhr
Ten years ago, my “normal busy” life came to a crashing halt when I heard those infamous words: “I’m afraid it’s cancer.” I was a 43-year-old mom of two very active boys, wife of 17 years, active, non-smoker, with no family history of cancer. We work hard and play hard. Perfect, right?
It turns out none of that mattered when I was unexpectedly diagnosed with stage 2, grade 1, invasive breast cancer. I had no indication that my body was being invaded and felt no lumps. In fact, I ran six miles the morning my medical team discovered two tumors and a third suspicious calcification area during my routine mammogram.
As a mother, I needed to not only process this diagnosis and manage how my body felt, but I had my young children to worry about, too. Once I had complete testing to know exactly WHAT I was dealing with AND what the path forward would be, I sat with my boys and told them mummy has cancer. I’d immediately be undergoing a sentinel lymph node biopsy, a double mastectomy, and lymph node removal. BUT here’s what that means, and I reassured them I would be okay (like I had a crystal ball or something!).
Julian’s first words were, “Are you going to die, mummy?” Seeing his little face tremble was the hardest part. It was incredibly jarring. I vacillated between shock, fear, sadness, and frustration watching my family suffer alongside me, as I tried to make sense of this out of control freight train headed towards me.
The anxiety of waiting on pins and needles for test results is now part of my new normal. I’ve experienced a marathon of tests, scans, and surgeries from a sentinel lymph node biopsy, double mastectomy, tissue expanders, PET scans, bone scans, multiple implant exchanges, and everything in between. My late-night negotiations with the universe still weigh heavily on my scarred heart. I’ve spent countless hours lying in various scanning machines (and still do), begging and praying for good news. The fact that life could be taken in an instant was never more clear to me.
Then came deciphering the doctor-speak, and I had to make choices that would ultimately determine the course of my life, as if I was picking out what knickers to wear. I was forced to become an expert in tumor markers, genomic profiling, Ki-67 levels, medical insurance, Tamoxifen side effects – it was all very overwhelming and exhausting. Yet losing focus and flinching for one moment could be the difference between living and dying.
I thought a team of doctors would tell me what to do, but I discovered that this is science and they are all “practicing” medicine. Ultimately, I had to make my own decisions about surgery and treatments. We pondered such delights as potential recurrence and survival rates versus percentage of potential side effects for chemotherapy and radiation. And as Hot Hubby pointed out, I decreased my survival rates by driving to these appointments with the crazy LA drivers out there each day!
At some point during this nightmare, my oncologist dangled the carrot: “If we reach 10 years cancer-free, your risk of recurrence drops significantly.” Well, challenge accepted! Ta-da, here I am 10 years later, still standing, and at the risk of being cautiously celebratory, I am taking a moment to do a little victory lap.
The truth is, I’ve lost count of my seemingly endless surgeries and procedures, and I’ve fought many private battles over the past 10 years. What still shocks me is how this disease came from nowhere. I had no family history, felt no lumps, ran six miles the day of my diagnosis, and had never felt more healthy. Who’d have guessed my own rogue cells were plotting a coup?
The harsh reality of cancer is that not everyone survives the fight. What’s humbling and quite evident is that my outcome wasn’t decided by medical treatments and lifestyle changes. I didn’t “fight harder” than other cancer patients. I did everything medically possible to rid my body of this disease, but ultimately I had to accept my unpredictable course of fate. And if you know me, that was the hardest part.
Cancer turned out to be my unexpected teacher, forcing me to squeeze joy out of the ordinary and to cherish my loved ones. Now, little things; the sound of rain, the smell of my morning coffee, my ability to hike up a hill, or simply laughing with my boys… all these simple pleasures now feel deeply significant.
So I’m here to remind you that cancer is sneaky, and can show up when you least expect it. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take a minute today to give yourself a quick self-check, schedule regular annual checkups, and embrace the friendly mammogram machine.
Early detection is my superhero. Remember, if something feels or looks off, get it checked. My survival is a testament to the importance of regular health screenings, a practice I value now more than ever.
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