In the fall of 2005 I found a lump in my left breast. I was not at all scared. This was the second time I had felt a lump. I had gone through the fear the first time around, and I had the biopsy, and it had been benign. I was told that benign lumps are very common in young women. So, when I felt this second lump, I assumed I once again had nothing to worry about. I went in for an exam and discussed it with my doctor. She, too, did not seem concerned. After all, I was only 26, perfectly healthy, and had no family history of breast cancer. It wasn’t until I felt a new lump under my left arm that I decided to schedule an excisional biopsy — “just to be safe.”
On November 29, 2005 I went in for my biopsy. To be honest, on this day my only “major” concern was the fact that I was going to have a new scar. It was scars – not cancer – that I discussed with my doctor with tears in my eyes just before the surgery began.
Then, on the morning of November 30, I woke up to a phone call from my doctor’s assistant requesting that I come in early for the results of my biopsy. I thought this odd, knowing that this particular doctor is typically booked months in advance. How and why was I to be seen early?
My doctor did not hesitate with her words when she came into the exam room. She simply shut the door, turned, looked at me and said, “Allison, we got the results from your biopsy back, and we found a little bit of cancer in there.” I stared at her blankly, confused. I felt the hot tears instantly spill down my cheeks, but I could not make sense of her words. Cancer was a foreign concept to me at that point. I knew it only as something bad that happened to “other people;” I had no experience with it in my own life. I had no framework with which to understand my diagnosis. I went through the motions of listening to the medical talk to follow, but all I understood was the fear pulsating through my body.
I floated through those first few days, supported by the energy and love from my family and friends. I had a full week’s worth of appointments to go to: tests to be done and specialists to be met. My doctor had given me a schedule as I left her office: My new life, handed to me on a piece of paper. It all seemed surreal, incomprehensible. On December 9, 2005 – less than a week after my diagnosis – I began aggressive chemotherapy. On Christmas Day I lost my hair. On February 16, 2006 I had my last chemotherapy session, and on March 14th I had a complete bi-lateral mastectomy. Those are the dates that stick out to me. The ones I have no choice but to remember. The rest of the days are a blur. My once jammed packed, full of life days had become a continuum of doctors’ appointments. This was a time in my life when most of my friends were planning their futures and preparing for marriage and children. Instead, I was coming to terms with loss: my hair, my breasts, and the girl I had been.
Somehow during those months following my diagnosis, in the midst of all the fear and uncertainty that surrounded me, I saw a light in the distance. The light was dim and flickering, but it was there. I knew that if I could focus on this light – this hope – that eventually, one day the light would grow brighter and I would grow stronger. I began to focus on turning that light into a flame – I vowed to make it strong enough and bright enough to one day share with others.
I embarked on a journey of activism: speaking with local groups, engaging in fundraising, and sharing my story anywhere I could. So far, I have been featured on a local news segment, a television commercial, in several newspaper articles, a published book (Kris Carr’s Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips, 2007), and a national magazine (Glamour, October, 2006). I wish to expose the unique, rarely-voiced circumstances of young women who are diagnosed with breast cancer. I have been blessed with many opportunities to do so. I am constantly encouraged by the feedback I receive and the many women who reach out to me and thank me for providing inspiration. I have found that this unexpected road is bringing me to a place of purpose.
While my experience with breast cancer has shaped me in innumerable ways, I was especially affected by the degree to which the communication process influenced my healing. During treatment I began to recognize the profound effect of the support of my family, friends, and doctors on my state of mind, and hence my ability to heal. I also began to notice a common disconnect in conventional medicine between the mind and the body that I was now longing to address. With this in mind, I chose to pursue a Master’s degree in Health Communication (which I received in May 2010), and I have decided to share my knowledge and passion through the creation of The Rack Pack.
My cancer journey has undoubtedly delivered me many burdens, yet I still feel blessed. The opportunities I have been afforded since my diagnosis, the incredible generosity of others, and my renewed passion for life are proof enough to me that difficult experiences can and do have a silver lining. At times, I do mourn the loss of my naiveté, and I miss the beauty of simply never feeling vulnerable to disease, but I am learning to embrace the new woman that cancer has led me to become. Now, I see my scars and I laugh thinking about how concerned I was to have such a small one when this all began. The scars run once along each of my breasts, once under my left arm, and once across my 26th year. But, I do not view these scars with shame or regret or even sadness because I am so proud of what they symbolize to me. They are my strength, my courage, and my power. They are the love, the support, and the bravery of my family and friends and of the many, many other lives that have been impacted by cancer. They symbolize the sacrifices we have made, the journeys that we have traveled, and the future of change that, together, we will create.
