At the time of my diagnosis, in late February 2002, I was 41 years old and living in Blue Lake in Humboldt County, California. In hindsight I realize I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with this anywhere else. I had gone in for my first mammogram because I had been told throughout my 30s that that’s what you do when you reach 40. Within a week of my mammogram I received a letter from the radiology clinic that said they suspected DCIS. Having no idea what that meant, I looked it up on the internet: ductal carcinoma in situ. I still wasn’t sure what it meant, but I knew the word carcinoma didn’t sound good. I scheduled an appointment right away with my favorite physician’s assistant at the local women’s clinic. I had no health insurance and was nervous about what all this might mean for my health and my finances.

    As soon as the physician read my results she scheduled an appointment for me with a doctor at the local hospital, and she signed me up with the California Department of Public Health’s Cancer Detection Programs. I am very grateful for this program, which saved me financially, and for the women who work there. They were all very helpful and compassionate through this difficult time.

    I met with the hospital doctor, who told me he would have to schedule another appointment with me once he had had a chance to see my X-rays. When the day came that I had to revisit his office, my good friend wanted to accompany me, but I said no—I was sure everything would be fine. It wasn’t. When the doctor told me that I had Grade III DCIS breast cancer in my left breast, I was so stunned that as he talked about my options, I didn’t hear a thing. My brain was stuck on the words he had just said, and although I was nodding at his suggestions, I was not really hearing them.

    After about 15 minutes I started crying and asked him if he was sure about these results. I was doubting that he even had the right X-rays. He handed me a box of tissues and said that yes, he was certain. I asked him if I should get a second opinion. He said, “You certainly have that option,” but since the results had also been reviewed by a pathologist at Stanford University, they were certain of the diagnosis.

    I walked out of his office in a daze and headed down the hallway to find a pay phone to call my mom. I felt like I was walking through an abandoned hospital, the hallway empty except for the phone. I couldn’t hear the voices or see the faces of the people passing by. When my mother answered the phone, I said, “Mom, I hope you’re sitting down because I have some news to tell you. I’ve just been told I have breast cancer.” She immediately started crying. I clung tightly to the phone receiver and cried with her. Once our tears subsided, I was able to tell her my options:

Option 1: Test my lymph glands to make sure the cancer had not traveled into the rest of my body and have a lumpectomy to try to remove the section of cancerous tissue. My lymph gland test came back negative, which was a huge relief, but my lumpectomy did not clear the margins.

Option 2: Stop surgery with the lumpectomy and have radiation treatment. This option came with a risk of the cancer returning.

Option 3: Have a mastectomy, reducing all risk in that breast, with no chemo or radiation treatments.

    I didn’t need a lot of time to make my decision. I felt that the fact that my lymph glands were negative was the best news I could have asked for. I didn’t want to take any risks. There was also something about the word radiation; I didn’t want my body to undergo that treatment. So I chose to get the cancer out of my body and I had my left breast removed on May 22, 2002.

    This sudden bomb that was dropped on my health was so much to deal with. I couldn’t comprehend why this was happening to me. I had been healthy my whole life, never even breaking a bone. My family lived 12 hours away and my live-in girlfriend was handling it the best way she knew how. I contacted a wonderful local support agency, the Humboldt Community Breast Health Project. I bawled my eyes out to complete strangers, breast cancer survivors who reached out to me over the phone and reassured that me there was life after breast cancer surgery.

    I met a woman through the support agency who had had a double mastectomy and two implants. She wanted to share her experience with me, to help me decide whether an implant would be right for me. As I drove to her house along a narrow, windy road, the sun was shining and the warm air was scented by the beautiful smell of the forest. I thought about how much I love Humboldt County and the people who live here. I started laughing to myself, thinking, “Who would have ever thought I would be driving to a strange woman’s house so she could show me her breast?”

    I did have an implant put in during the mastectomy but I was so active afterward that the tissue surrounding it never healed and my body started leaking fluid. My plastic surgeon said, “Lee, you are the first patient I’ve ever seen this happen to. You are too young and active and you don’t follow doctor’s orders very well, so I have to take this out.” I have to say I was relieved. I hadn’t really liked the implant; it felt foreign in my body. But it did help me with the initial shock of losing a breast. I had always been complimented on my cleavage and I hadn’t wanted to lose that. I hadn’t wanted to lose how my breasts made me feel sexy!

    Throughout this rollercoaster experience, I slowly realized how powerless I and all the family and friends who loved and supported me were to change my situation. Once the implant was out, I felt better and decided I needed to work on acceptance. Life had thrown me a major curve ball and I needed to accept it! I was going to have to live with one breast and that was all there was to it.

    Along the way I asked myself over and over again, “How did I get this?” Was it the environment? My diet and weight? The fact that I had never had children? I could not find the answer, no matter how hard I tried. I met women who were vegetarians, women who were skinny, women who had had children, and they had gotten breast cancer. All my questions canceled each other out. I just had to resign myself to the fact that this was a part of my life.

    For the longest time I could not look down or look at my body in the mirror. But my process of acceptance began making me feel thankful I was still on the planet with all the people, places, and things that I loved. I’m missing a boob—so what? It’s just a boob. I didn’t use it much, like I do my hands or my legs. My inner voice told me that there are a lot of things in life more precious than cleavage.

    In accepting this as part of my life I have come to appreciate and value myself. I find I’m a lot more outspoken and I don’t hold back much anymore. I want to tell people how I really feel about situations. I try to keep stress at a minimum and do whatever it takes to alleviate it. I cannot hold grudges or stay mad at anyone, and I find myself apologizing almost immediately when I’m responsible for a matter. I hug as often as possible, I laugh more than ever, and I sleep like a baby.

    I love myself more and more and one way I chose to show this to myself was to take up lap swimming. I thought it would be a bit scary because I would have to wear a bathing suit with one boob and get dressed in the locker room in front of other women. But my fears disappeared almost entirely as I rewarded by body with this exercise. I have grown to love it, and I pride myself on saying that I have been doing it now for two and a half years, four days a week. It gives me confidence and makes me feel sexy. I can now look at my missing breast and rub the scar. Nice muscle has developed there from swimming. I call it my masculine side.

    I received so much support through this ordeal. Doctors and volunteers from the agency were truly caring and compassionate. One awesome woman from the agency made fleece socks for every woman who was having breast cancer surgery so their feet wouldn’t be cold in the recovery room. I had many friends and, of course, my mom and the rest of my family by my side during this time in my life. They gave me strength and optimism. They pointed out all I had to be thankful for, and although I could see the fear and worry in their eyes, I knew one thing for certain: I was thankful it was me dealing with this and none of them.

    In September 2006, I had my first mammogram on my right breast. My plastic surgeon had reduced this breast and biopsied the tissue he removed. The results had been negative and he had assured me it was a large enough sample that I wouldn’t need a mammogram for two years. Well, that day had arrived and I was a nervous wreck. I was pleading with the universe: Please don’t make me go through this all over again. The clinic was very happy to tell me that my results were negative. “Phew!” was all I could say as I hustled to the pool to swim.