Where My Cancer Journey Began: A Story of Resilience, Faith, Love, and Hope
On April 4, 2014, I received the dreaded—though not entirely unexpected—diagnosis: HER2 Triple Positive Breast Cancer, Stage III. I had discovered a large lump about a month earlier, but dismissed it, assuming it was just another one of the lumps I often felt after my monthly cycle—something that would disappear as it always had before.
After a whirlwind of tests—a biopsy, PET scan, and MRI—the reality set in. Within days, I underwent a procedure to have a port installed for the treatments my doctor immediately prescribed. It felt as though my world had been turned upside down. Suddenly, my days were filled with endless appointments: doctor’s visits, imaging centers, and lab work became my new routine.
It was the 14th day after my first cancer treatment when I woke up feeling off—hungry but not really, irritated and restless, as if my body was trying to tell me something I couldn’t understand. When I looked down, bruises covered my legs, deep purples and blues with no explanation. The day before, I had started losing my hair—strands falling in the shower, and that morning, my pillow was covered in hair. The physical changes were undeniable, but nothing prepared me for what came next.
I told my husband, “I don’t feel good. I need to eat something. I need to go to the bathroom.” As I stood at the sink, cold sweat broke out across my skin. I called to him, “I think you need to take me to the emergency room.” Before he could respond, a thick, dark blood began pouring out of me, covering the bathroom floor. I collapsed, and within minutes, paramedics were rushing me to the hospital.
In the ambulance, a paramedic started an IV while my husband followed behind, his worry etched on his face. At the emergency room, the nurses worked swiftly, though the place was crowded and chaotic. I spent the night there, and by morning, doctors told me I was bleeding internally. A team of specialists scrambled to find the source. Tests, colonoscopies, endoscopies—all failed to pinpoint the exact cause. Blood transfusions became a daily necessity, but the bleeding continued relentlessly. Twice, I was rushed back to emergency care, doctors trying to find and stop the bleeding. Each time I lost blood, I felt as if I was losing my life, passing out only to awaken in the operating room again.
The ICU became my home for days. Thick, odious-smelling blood filled the bedpan, and the cycle of transfusions and bleeding repeated. I can’t remember everything from those nights—only fragments of fear, exhaustion, and the constant presence of my medical team fighting alongside me. Nurses and doctors worked tirelessly, but the bleeding would not stop.
Amidst the physical turmoil, my spirit was lifted by my church family. Their prayers were constant, a comforting chorus that surrounded me. Friends came to visit, singing hymns that filled my hospital room with peace. One night, a close friend sang softly, her voice so beautiful that even the nurses paused outside to listen. Another friend sang the lyrics of my cancer anthem, “Blessing,” bringing joy and hope through the language of faith and love. My conversations with nurses often turned to the Lord, sharing the saving grace of Jesus Christ. I felt no fear of dying—only a quiet urgency to share my faith with those caring for me.
One nurse, a friend from Sunday School, became a beacon of comfort. She was assigned to be the head nurse who would take care of me for a couple of nights. When I received a blood transfusion, it was her gentle hand and familiar presence that steadied me.
After days of relentless bleeding, a surgeon from City of Hope was called in. Despite working through the night, he could not find the exact source of the bleeding. Instead, he stapled my vena cava to slow the blood flow, buying me precious time to say goodbye if needed. His honesty was both sobering and comforting; I felt the weight of my situation but also the care and determination of my medical team.
Then, by what I can only call a miracle, the bleeding stopped. I was moved from the ICU to a regular room and, after a couple of days, released home. My doctors warned me that no major surgery could be done soon without risking my life.
But the journey was far from over. Just days later, I was back in the hospital with a dangerously low white blood cell count and a fever that would not break. My immune system was compromised, and isolation became my reality—no visitors allowed except my husband, and all medical personnel could only come in fully covered. A nurse suggested Tylenol IV, a treatment I didn’t know existed, but it broke my fever and gave me hope. I stayed a week, fighting infection with the help of my medical team and the prayers of my church.
A nurse who cared for me during my immune system crisis became invaluable. She quickly became a close friend and advocate, especially during my frequent emergency visits. Thanks to her, special precautions were always arranged in advance to protect me from infection—a small but crucial reassurance during such a vulnerable period.
My husband’s steadfast love and support were my anchor through it all. Though I could sense his quiet fear, he always tried to appear strong for my sake, caring for me with unwavering devotion. He was my greatest reason to keep fighting—I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him alone. We couldn’t have children, so we only have each other.
Then, in June 2014, after much prayer and seeking God’s direction, my husband and I made a bold decision. Despite my oncologist’s insistence on a mastectomy, I knew my body could not handle major surgery after the bleeding crisis. We traveled to Arizona for alternative treatment—an expensive path we could barely afford. Yet, once again, God provided through the American Cancer Society, which helped us stay free of charge.
In Arizona, I discovered integrated medicine. I learned that healing was about more than surgery or chemotherapy—it was about nurturing the whole person. Nutrition, environment, air, water, and spirit all played a role. The tumor shrank, and I underwent a lumpectomy combined with radiation during surgery. Then came six weeks of daily targeted tomo radiation, ending in September of 2014.—Breast Cancer Awareness Month—a fitting milestone.
Driving home, I felt empowered and transformed. I had been given knowledge and hope to fight cancer differently, holistically, and with faith.
This was just the opening chapter of my cancer journey—a year marked by hardship and uncertainty, but also by unexpected blessings, hope, and profound love. Along the way, I learned that cancer tests not only the body, but also the spirit, faith, and the bonds of community. My story is far from over. As time goes on, I continue to witness resilience and grace, standing as a testament to God’s steadfast faithfulness through it all.
