It’s been a year since my last post. I haven’t written—not because I lack material, but because confronting, writing, editing, and then sharing takes so much emotional and mental energy. I prided myself on being vulnerable, yet the past year has upended many of the narratives I built my identity on. Normally, I’m one to spill all the beans, but even with my love of intimacy and openness, I find myself hesitating. Then, last night, I had a dream,I often have vivid, intense emotional dreams, but this one stood out—my cancer had returned, a tumor in my brain. I didn’t panic; instead, I quietly began planning my next steps. When I woke up, the dream stayed with me, a reminder of the unpredictable realities faced by those who who live/lived with cancer. And so I realized that I needed to record this for anyone who might need to hear it—and for myself, too.
“He will not fear bad news. His heart is steadfast, trusting in Jehovah”. Psalms 112:7
Let’s get back to cancer land- shall we?
When chemotherapy ended, my mom and a few friends arranged a little drive-by to say hello and congratulate me on the accomplishment of successfully being poisoned for six months. Hurray! It was literally the day after my last infusion—I was in a daze, stuck somewhere between dream world and reality.
Eli, who had been holding a tight grip on his anxiety for months, finally cracked. As people pulled up, he started to panic. Eli, frantic, scolded me and my mom for potentially exposing me to germs. But it was just a drive-by—I sat on the porch and waved. His fear of losing control blinded him to how illogical he sounded. He lashed out at my mom, and she left.
I sat there silently, crying in my chair outside my front door—trying not to look sick, or bald, or ashamed. My friends honked, gave gifts, and showed their support. I was completely overwhelmed by all these emotions.
My close friends, Dom and Julie, understanding the fragility of both Eli and me, dutifully assisted—careful not to add more tension. I felt like a complete loser. Harmonious relationships mean everything to me, and yet the some of the most important people in my life were mad, scared, nervous, and uncomfortable. Normally, I’d go into fixing mode—making light of things, putting everyone else at ease. But I was too broken and too tired.
They left, and I went to bed.
It took a solid month to come out of that last round of chemo fog. Chemo is a trauma I have not fully unpacked, as evidence of my misty eyes just thinking about that time. The Red Devil is no joke.
Around that time, as little sprouts of hair began to grow on my head , I started preparing for surgery—the second stage of treatment—a partial mastectomy. Many might call this a lumpectomy, but since there was no longer a lump after chemo, its actual name is partial mastectomy, as my surgeon, Dr. W., explained to me. To prepare for surgery, I had an ultrasound and a mammogram scheduled to see how the tumor had held up against the chemo. I was looking forward to it because, one month into chemo, I could no longer feel my very large tumor. This would be confirmation that the last six months were worth it.
At the ultrasound, I told the tech my story, and she displayed the original image of my tumor on the screen so we could compare.Before she began, she carefully set modest expectations by reminding me that chemo shrinks tumors, so let’s see how much it has shrunk. Then, as she started the ultrasound, her tone shifted: “It’s gone!” she exclaimed, not holding back her excitement. I was thrilled too—there was no comparison between the two images. We were both giddy, witnessing how chemo had completely obliterated the cancer cells. I was instantly reminded of one of my first cancer conversations with my cousin Sandy, who explained that although fast-growing cancer sounds scary, it is more likely to be found and killed by chemo.
The tech hugged me, genuinely happy to hear the good news—a testament to how challenging her job must be, seeing bad news on her screen every day. After the scan, the radiologist reviews the images and either signs off or requests additional photos of other areas of concern. When she returned, that initial optimism was gone. I knew immediately that the doctor had seen something else. The disappointment on her face said it all, and before she spoke, I asked, “He wants to biopsy something, doesn’t he?” She nodded. There was an unusual spot on my breast that needed to be biopsied to be cautious. Strangely, I tried to comfort her. I said, “It’s okay—really. Let’s do it, let’s schedule it. It’s better to be cautious,” my voice cracking as I held back my emotion. She looked at the schedule to squeeze me in before my surgery in 10 days. She moved a few appointments around, and I would be seen in one week for a biopsy. I put on my go-to attitude: if you have a plan, you don’t have to be scared. I told my family, and we all agreed—better to be cautious; we all faked strength. But inside, I was scared. If it’s cancer, then what kind of cancer could live inside my chemo-filled body? Some kind of mutant cancer that has a taste for the Red Devil. Despite doing my best to look at the situation logically, in my heart I couldn’t imagine any result other than cancer—I’d only seen a pathology report that said cancer, well, invasive ductal carcinoma- but you get the idea.
The biopsy came. This time, I knew exactly what to expect, and I stayed focused and positive. The radiologist was kind and compassionate—so different from my first experience when he was two hours late and barely said ten words to me. I guess that’s one of the small perks of being a confirmed cancer patient—people in the medical field tend to treat you with a little more care.
This time, I also had my City of Hope patient portal, which meant I would get my results as soon as they were available. When the notification popped up, I held my breath as I opened it. Benign and fatty. What a relief.
It was a reminder that just because I had only ever seen one kind of result before didn’t mean another outcome wasn’t possible. In fact, research shows that between 75% and 80% of breast biopsies turn out to be benign. While that knowledge is reassuring, I also know that vigilance will always be a part of my life. But for now, I was grateful.
This experience taught me something bigger—sometimes, life surprises you in the best way. But even when you get the worst news, that experience can change your life in ways you never expected. I would soon learn that things I once thought were bad might actually be good, and things I assumed were good might not be what they seemed. It reminded me of the old parable of the Chinese farmer: Is it good? Is it bad? I don’t know—we’ll see.
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