Learning to Live With Cancer
My Journey with Breast Cancer So Far
Amanda staring straight to camera. Her hair is down and she is wearing a light pink suit with a white tank top underneath. Her hands are in front, holding onto her suit jacket. She is standing in front of a tall white building with large windows. Photography by Amanda Crommett
Amanda Quick was 29 years old when she received her breast cancer diagnosis. While unexpected, she shares her story, coping mechanisms, and lessons on gratitude.
My Story
My journey began with a swollen lymph node in my left armpit that continued to get bigger. I tried to keep a positive mindset to quiet my fears: It's nothing. You're fine. You're just run down and tired. You worry too much. You're supposed to wait 6-8 weeks after the covid vaccine.
"I want you to get a mammogram… just in case," my doctor said. "It's probably nothing to worry about, but it will give you peace of mind."
"Okay, definitely, Let's get it scheduled," I replied. I like precautions. In fact, I love preventative measures -- partially because I feel I can control a situation before it becomes too unmanageable.
As I walked to the imaging center, I was in a chipper mood and had a spring to my step. I didn't have a lump in my breast - at least not one that I could feel. I had just returned from Cape Cod with a friend and was looking to enjoy the last few weeks of summer. I'd heard that mammograms were painful, but it was quick -- two clear plates cupped my left breast for imaging, and whew, I was done, or so I thought. The radiologist had requested to see me after my mammogram.
"Can you stay for a quick sonogram?" The doctor asked. An alarm bell started to blare in my head. Had they seen something? Why did they require so many follow-ups?
"Sure," I gulped with a sinking feeling in my gut. The team escorted me to another room where I had a sonogram. I saw an irregular-shaped dark spot on the screen at the same time the radiologist's eyes slightly widened (hmm, maybe I imagined it). This couldn't be good. Right? However, two other physicians had done a physical breast exam and hadn't found anything. I had checked myself, feeling only dense breast tissue but no lump.
Fast forward to a week later. I'd had a biopsy, additional blood test, and now, I was making myself crazy and attempting to distract myself with books, memes, and Netflix until receiving all the diagnostics results. I'd checked the MyChart page too many times to count, and my heart palpitated each time my phone buzzed, thinking that my fate was about to be delivered when it was just a telemarketer or FaceTime from a parent or friend.
'There is no easy way to say this, but you have metastatic breast cancer***," the doctor said. "The good news is that you're hormone-positive/HER2- and it's treatable.
I shut my eyes and inhaled, hoping this was a bad dream. Then, all the bottled-up emotions came out as I burst out crying. I wanted to scream! I didn't know what hormone positive and HER2 negative meant, but I was angry, devastated, scared, hurt, and confused. What was I going to do? Why me? I’m a good person and raised to be kind, treat others with respect, and do the right thing even when others are not so nice. I regularly exercised and ate plenty of salads, vegetables, minimal meats, and drank lots of water. I was someone who didn't miss a yearly physical (except during COVID), did self-breast exams at home, and made appointments with the slightest bump, lump, or pain that lasted more than two weeks.
Changes, Coping, and Conviction in Faith
I was thinking about the concept of time the other day and realized that I now separate time into two categories: BC (before breast cancer) and LWC (Living with cancer).
Looking at me, it is unlikely that you would even know that I had cancer from the outside. I now understand that people with hypertension, lupus, diabetes, crohn’s disease, cystic fibrosis, and other chronic diseases have two things in common: we all have sick organs on the inside, which are typically "invisible" on the outside, and presently there's no cure, but we find remarkable ways to cope and thrive on living our lives each day.
I started my "targeted' drug treatment (pharmaceutical pills), non-chemo, in September. My doctors warned me that the GI side effects could be severe; I thankfully only experienced fatigue and nausea for a few days. I quickly got back to feeling 99.9% and engaged in routine activities -- working, reading, walking in the park with friends, riding on my Peloton a few times a week, and eating an occasional gluten-free pasta dinner (my favorite food), a weekly caffeine or sugar treat.
While my appearance hasn't changed, the mental, emotional, and initial psychological effects are unseen. When I started this journey, my sister reminded me that the biggest battle would be between my two ears. It's been easy to stay positive when I'm busy tapping away on my computer, out-and-about in the city, reading a daily devotional or novel, or having a conversation with family and friends. It's times like these when I feel "normal" and forget about LWC. However, the negative thoughts creep in when I'm alone, flooding my mind with questions such as How do I stay optimistic about beating cancer when there is no cure? How long will my treatment continue to be effective? Will I have enough time to accomplish some of my dreams? How do I view "it" as a chronic illness versus a fatal death sentence? I recognize and have taken comfort from the reminders of friends and family to be kind to myself, that crying can be the best emotional release, being unwavering in my faith, and being grateful for each day.
Gratitude, Education, Reflection & Moving Forward
After my diagnosis, the first thing I did was a plethora of research. I wanted to educate myself as much as possible about how treatment, care, exercise, and food would impact my outcome. Of course, I'm not a doctor, but these are the things that have helped me so far:
Amanda smiling straight to camera. Her hair is down and she is wearing a light pink suit jacket with a white tank top underneath. Her arms are crossed in front of her. She is standing on the street in front of a blurred background of brick buildings. Photography by Amanda Crommett
Working with excellent medical care and professionals (doctors, nurses, nutritionist, etc.)
Obtaining more than one oncologist's opinion and understanding of treatment protocol
Finding new mentors and support groups of other young women who are experiencing similar circumstances
Transitioning to a plant-based diet and cutting out alcohol while limiting caffeine and sugar (cancer loves sugar)
Increasing exercise to 4-5 times a week
Learning more about my family medical history
Meditating in the mornings or evenings
Letting go of certain attitudes about my BC body (or past identities) and, in general, being more vulnerable
Enjoying the moment, but also coming up with 2-3 things to look forward to in the future (my therapist calls this 'future planning')
In reflecting on my journey so far, I've concluded everything comes back to gratitude. Yet, even with my new reality, I try to remind myself that I'm lucky: I woke up today, I still have my senses, I can walk, I have an amazing family and support system of friends, managers, coworkers, healthcare team, and I live in a city with some of the best research and treatment in the world.
The best advice that I've gotten so far is that "your life now is like a snow globe." Yes, my life has been completely shaken up and feels chaotic at times, but eventually, the dust will settle. Things won't look exactly as they did 'BC' - I'll meet new people, explore passions I had pushed to the back burner, and find renewed purpose.
The script of my life has had a significant plot twist, but I'm rising to the occasion and ready for my next act.
***Metastatic breast cancer (MBC) is defined as breast cancer that has metastasized or spread to other organs in the body. Metastases from breast cancer may be found in lymph nodes in the armpit, or they can travel anywhere.