In 2002, which I’ve named “the year from hell,” breast cancer was the least of my troubles. My story actually began in the spring of 2001, when I found a lump during one of my sporadic self-examinations. My gynecologist eased my fears by telling me that nine times out of 10 these things were not cancerous. I went for a sonogram. The radiologist said my lump should be watched, so my doctor told me to come back in a few months. I was all too eager to hide my head in the sand and put this off for a while.

    At the end of August 2001, my 80-year-old mother was in a rather nasty car accident. She did survive, but my sisters and I split our time between our households and going to see Mom in the hospital and then in the rehabilitation center. Of course, during this time any thoughts of getting back to my doctor were put on hold.

    I finally went back to the doctor on December 10, two days after my 43rd birthday. He didn’t like what he found, so more sonograms and mammograms followed. He referred me to a breast surgeon, and I had a biopsy on Valentine’s Day (I did get a dozen roses out of it!). Four days later, I got my diagnosis: I had breast cancer. And Betty Rollins was right—the first thing you do is cry.

    Mom was my first phone call. She was home by then, but still struggling to recover from her accident. I can only imagine what she must have felt upon hearing that her youngest daughter had cancer. But she was always optimistic and practical. You do what you have to do and hope for the best.

    So I had my surgery on March 4, 2002. My tumor was 3 centimeters, Stage II, and estrogen- and HER2-positive; five out of 22 lymph nodes tested positive for cancer. I began chemo in April. After every treatment and every in-between blood test, I had to call Mom and tell her I was okay.

    The day before my third chemo was my youngest daughter’s third birthday, and my mother was very amused by her conversation with her granddaughter. That was the last time I remember speaking to Mom. I’m sure I must have called her after the chemo, but I just don’t remember it. The next day, I called her to check in and the phone was answered by a policeman. Mom was gone.

    Suddenly, the cancer really didn’t matter so much. Nothing in the cancer experience compared to the loss of my mother.

    Once again we muddled through and then moved forward. I was fortunate that chemo was going well, and because I have a warped sense of humor, the baldness, the chemo brain, and all the weird side effects became sources of amusement! We settled into a routine; it was a strange way to live, but we knew it would end eventually. My mantra became “The hair will grow back. The hair will grow back.”

    On Sunday, July 28, after visiting with friends, I came home to an urgent call from my sister. Our 23-year-old nephew had been hit by a motorcycle in a freak accident and was comatose. By Monday evening my sister had made the agonizing decision to let him go. So again, just two months after Mom passed, our friends and family gathered for a funeral. And, while we missed her, my nephew’s death gave us a different perspective on losing Mom. At least she got to live a long, full life, while David’s life was cut short just as it was beginning.

    Chemo ended, radiation began (there’s nothing quite like having your ribs tickled by a Sharpie marker!), and by December, I had some peach fuzz on my head. But the powers that be had to put a cherry on top of the year for me. The week before Christmas we had to put down my 17-year-old cat. She was my first baby and my buddy before I got married. We grieved some more and the year from hell finally ended.

    Separating these events, I have to say that, while having breast cancer certainly wasn’t a walk in the park, it was tolerable. There are meds to combat nausea, vitamins to help with neuropathy, and wigs and head scarves to cover your baldness. Your hair grows back, your body heals, and you can learn and grow from the experience.

    I learned that I am truly blessed with a wonderful husband, an incredibly supportive family, and the best friends anyone could hope for. My daughters were only 3 and 7½, which made life interesting as I went through my lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation. My amazing husband, who has always been a hands-on father, stepped in. Fortunately, I was able to keep working at my desk job during most of my treatment, and the people at work were truly wonderful. I would never have wished to test my relationships this way, but it’s great to know that I really can count on the people I’ve always counted on!

    Because I was so fortunate, I felt a need to give back, so I went through training and became a volunteer with Reach to Recovery, a peer-counseling program through the American Cancer Society. I am amazed at how often the women I speak to end up inspiring me! I really do get at least as much as I give.

    I participate in yearly fundraising walks, including the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in New York City and the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk. These get me together with my sisters—and now my older daughter—for a fun afternoon.

    One of my most empowering experiences has been participating in Mary Ellen Scherl’s Mamorial project. I made a plaster cast of my involved breast, which Mary Ellen used to make a model. She has created an art exhibit of these models of breasts or chests affected by cancer, along with our stories. She is taking her exhibit all over the country to raise both funds and awareness. We are beautiful! 

    I also wear a pink ribbon every day, kind of like the big L that Penny Marshall wore on Laverne & Shirley. I talk to anyone who asks me about it and make sure they know how important those mammos and self-exams are. I hope to keep everyone aware and I welcome the questions. If I can inspire one woman to get a mammogram or ease someone’s fears of the unknown by my example, I’m happy. I want women to realize that they are strong, both in body and spirit.

    Personally, I’ve simply decided that this will never happen to me again. I have a full life, my two daughters to raise, and a husband to grow old with, and I am determined to become an eccentric old woman. I haven't made any drastic changes (although I do eat more broccoli!), but my family and I have incorporated a constant awareness and sense of purpose into our daily lives.

    Breast cancer will always be a part of my life, but not as a black cloud of doom. It is something my girls and I will always need to be aware of, but we can channel that into assisting others and doing what we can to see an end to this illness.

    Recently, my oldest sister (the one who lost her son) had a 1-centimeter lump. She had a lumpectomy and finished radiation just before Christmas. No chemo for her—yay! Now my other two sisters are keeping their fingers crossed—and, of course, they are supervigilant about their mammos and check-ups. My sister and I both tested negative for the BRCA mutations, so that’s at least one good thing in this mess.

    My family and I have seen more than our share of adversity, but we keep coming back and we’ve proved to ourselves and the world that the events in your life don’t have to rule you. You have the ability to shape them and make anything you want out of them.