When I first noticed the lump on my bikini line, my instincts told me that something wasn’t right, so I promptly made a doctor’s appointment. I was in college at the time, so the campus health center was the place to go.
Shortly after I graduated, I accompanied my mother to her routine mammogram screening. On display in the technician’s space was a mold of a breast with an example of a malignant lump. The malignant lump was described as “firm,” “slow growing,” “painless.” After getting the diagnosis, I met with a medical oncologist who laid out my treatment options. I could go for immediate treatment, which would entail removing a chain of lymph nodes and some fatty tissue, along with whatever else was needed depending on whether or not the cancer had spread, followed by harsh systemic immunotherapy which would require me to put off my plans for grad school as I’d be too sick to attend; or I could choose to watch and wait.
I sought opinions from several doctors and specialists. The outlook was grim. At one point I was told it would be a miracle if I survived another five years.