I thought I was more or less immune to breast cancer. I’m extremely flat-chested, fit, and I had little-known family history of the disease. With all my outdoor sports and adventures, I’m diligent about mole checks and skin cancer prevention… but breast cancer?! No way.

One of the only reasons I went in for screening was to honor my friend, who had end-stage breast cancer. Even then, I assumed I was too flat for a mammogram. We started with an ultrasound, then moved to a mammogram (turns out I can get one), then another mammogram, then more ultrasound.

Between the back-and-forth of appointments, my friend passed away.

I drove to her funeral, wept at her casket, and then had my own biopsy the very next day. Even then, I thought: these tests are just necessary because I’m flat and it’s hard to get a good image… then the doctor who performed my biopsy came back into the room after checking one of the samples and asked if I knew any good breast surgeons.

When my biopsy came back positive, it was a mixed bag of emotions. I was scared and anxious about the “C” word, but also relieved that my pathology report pointed to DCIS. If you’re going to have breast cancer, that’s the one you want. It’s typically contained and, most of the time, can be fully treated with surgery.

A lot of my initial emotions were tied to the recent loss of my friend. I felt deeper grief, guilt at our opposing prognoses, and overwhelming gratitude that her final act of friendship was inspiring me to get screened. I also spent a fair amount of time crying, knowing I would never be able to thank her for being the catalyst I needed. Without that push—and with a few more years before my first scan—there’s a chance my prognosis would be far less optimistic.

From that point forward, everything has felt like a blur. It’s strange how cancer can take over your life when you don’t feel any different—when the only tangible change is a test result in your patient portal. But once that result posts, you start sprinting a marathon of appointments, phone calls, and insurance hurdles.

My race course has looked something like this:

March 2–3 – My friend’s funeral
March 4 – Biopsy
March 6 – Positive pathology report
March 9 – Telehealth appointment
March 10 – Follow-up with the breast center and radiology
March 12 – Breast surgeon appointment
March 16 – MRI
March 18 – Interventional radiology
March 19 – Venogram
March 20 – Pre-surgery PT
March 24 – Pre-op labs and doctor appointment
March 30 – Surgery

I would have had even more appointments, but my doctor let us know that our best chance to remove all the cancer was to postpone any decisions about reconstruction to a later date. I was grateful to be able to kick at least one decision down the road.

In between all those dates came countless calls and emails with doctors, nurses, administrators, schedulers, and our insurance company. At the same time, we’ve been sharing the news with family and close friends—probably the hardest and most exhausting part of all.

On top of everything, I’m working. Hard. Because it feels good. It feels normal. It gives me purpose, provides a distraction, and keeps me from feeling constantly aware of breast cancer. (And because it helps offset the stack of medical bills and time away from work that’s ahead.)

Every once in a while, when I look up, I notice the little pink ribbons that are supposed to remind us to stay on top of all this. And, currently, they kinda tick me off! They look like a child’s hair bow—far too cute to represent the tears, bleeding, bruising, needles, sleepless nights, anxiety, and exhaustion of this month. If you ask me… bring out the effing war paint. Those ribbons need a rebrand.

The past month has been a battle bathed in levity. When we shared my health news with our children, my daughter's initial response was, “Does this mean you’ll be even flatter?” And then, when we asked our children how we could best support them through this journey—and offered them their choice of community support, activities, and counseling—my daughter quipped, “I’ll take cash.” Her budding comedic side has helped us all cope. And, as hard as this is, there have been so many moments when we’ve broken down—not in tears, but in laughter.

Like when I had PTSD at the dentist because their tools sound the same as a breast biopsy needle. Or when I had to lie perfectly still in an MRI, trying not to laugh while the claustrophobic pulsing transported me straight into my friend’s story about a very questionable EDM rave experience. And then there are the well-meaning friends who gather to pray for healing… and you can practically see the internal debate about where, exactly, hands are supposed to go. And honestly—have you ever stopped to wonder what actually happens to your breasts after they’re removed? (I'll let you journey down that thought train on your own.)

These are the moments and questions that have sparked hilarious retellings and raucous laughter, along with the refrain: “Breast cancer isn’t funny, but…”

Here’s the thing: breast cancer is not funny. But you can still laugh, and cry, and live your life—even when you are bruised and bloodied. You can stare down the unknowing, the waiting, and the loss of control, and not let it control you. Losing my friend is a daily reminder that you can’t always beat it, but she showed me time and time again that you can decide you’re not going to let it win.

And I am DETERMINED not to let it win. I feel fully in a Lieutenant Dan moment, riding the mast of a fishing boat in a squall, lifting my hand to the sky and shouting… “You call this a storm!” I’m not shouting at God—on the contrary, I’m shouting at the world; I cry into the wind and rain not against the heavens but because of them. 

I’m also fully aware that I am still riding the wave of adrenaline that comes with a cancer diagnosis, and I know my inevitable crash is coming—hopefully followed, once again, by a Lieutenant Dan moment of peace. (Seems like my psyche is telling me to add Forrest Gump to the post-surgery viewing queue.)

Tomorrow, March 30th, I will wake up and walk, yes walk (it's not far) to the hospital for my double mastectomy with a sentinel node biopsy on March 30. Afterwards, the plan is to focus on recovery, so I won’t be overly active online, but I will try to keep people posted with weekly health updates on my blog.

If you want to help, please stay on top of your annual screenings and encourage your loved ones to do the same. We are always grateful for the power of prayers and positive energy. My close friends have also organized a few practical support strategies, like helping out with a cleaning service and providing a few post-surgical needs—if you would like more info or want to join that team, feel free to email jpdjourney@gmail.com.

Sending preemptive gratitude for all the support and love from this network near and far. And now, excuse me as I go take ultralight backpacking to the next level ; )