I was 33 and working as a nurse in Maine when my life was turned upside down. I was in the third trimester of my third pregnancy when I started to feel a strange pain in my left hip. The pain became more intense as the weeks went by, but my ob-gyn told me not to worry; it was likely related to my pregnancy and the position of the baby’s head. I delivered my daughter Norah like clockwork, and the pain seemed to disappear in the hours that followed. But once the adrenaline of childbirth wore off, the pain returned—and it was getting worse. Before I left the hospital, I had developed a limp that was so pronounced the nurses labeled me a fall risk and gave me a walker. It was then I knew something was really wrong. Still, my doctor didn’t seem worried. There was no cancer anywhere on my family tree, so I was prescribed physical therapy to help me regain my prepregnancy strength and mobility.
Back at home I took it easy as much as I could, leaning on my wonderful husband, Gabe, while I healed. But I don’t like to sit around, so the second Gabe would leave, I would get up and try to move around a little. Mopping the floors was just one of the chores that I shouldn’t have been doing but did anyway. And then one day I took a step and just fell over. At that moment, the pain went from about a 3 to a 10; it was so bad I was certain I had fractured my hip. I called my primary care physician and was told to come in immediately. Every step I attempted from my car to the clinic was excruciating, so Gabe ran ahead and got a wheelchair for me. That was one of the moments when I realized, Wow, this is real. My PCP was concerned and referred me to a sports medicine doctor who was able to see me within an hour. He ordered an X-ray, pulled the image up on a big computer screen, and pointed to a cloudy, quarter-size circle on my left femur. “What's that?” I asked. He looked concerned but said, given my young age and clean family history, the likelihood of it being cancer was very low. His best guess: a bone cyst.
He ordered a bone biopsy and tried to talk me through my fears. Although cancer was very low on his list of possible “worsts,” I kept coming back to it. I had a sinking feeling in my heart.
I had to wait a week for the biopsy results. When the call came, I was in my daughter’s room, putting her down for a nap. My other two kids were home because it was a snow day and the roads were bad. It was snowing like crazy outside when the phone rang. “Your doctor wants you to come in today to review the biopsy results,” she said, telling me I should bring my husband with me.
My PCP had retired a few days earlier, so I met with a brand-new physician that morning. When she came into the room, her eyes were puffy. I knew it was bad. “We received the results of your bone biopsy today, and unfortunately, it’s not good,” she said. “It” was metastatic breast cancer.
I remember looking at my husband and seeing tears welled up in his eyes. I grabbed his hand and said to him, “It’s okay.” That’s all I could say. I didn’t cry. I was just in shock.
We knew the cancer had spread to my hip, but we had no idea where else it might be. We would have to wait for several days to see the next doctor. I couldn’t keep myself off google over the weekend—that’s when I found out my life expectancy was three years.
The following week my oncologist walked into the room and calmly took charge. She had a thick Italian accent, which for some reason made everything sound better. It was nice to be treated as though everything was normal. (In the days before, we had met with family members who all looked at me like I was inches from death.) She pulled up my PET scan and pointed to one spot on my femur. “That’s it,” she said. “And obviously there’s a tumor in your breast.” I eventually got up the nerve to ask her how long I had to live. “Heck, you could be still showing up to appointments when I retire,” she replied. I didn’t expect that optimism at all. She told me my treatment plan would include a mastectomy, chemotherapy, and radiation to kill the tumors in my left hip and breast.
I had to stop breastfeeding immediately to prep for treatment, which was both emotionally and physically hard. My daughter was four weeks old, and I had to walk around with ice packs to stop my milk from coming in. As a nurse, I started picking the medical part of my brain, asking myself, How did I possibly get this cancer? I was a vegetarian who’d never had a sip of alcohol. I exercised and didn’t have any genetic mutations. I’d had three successful pregnancies. The odds were in my favor across the board. But for me, for some reason, none of that mattered.
My experience with chemo was pretty mild, all things considered. I had bone pain, but other than that I was able to get up and walk three miles a day and take care of my kids. I did lose all of my hair. My son looked at me after I shaved off the remaining clumps and told me I looked like a rock star.
The hair loss wasn’t so traumatizing. What was traumatizing was the way people would look at me. Everyone gave me the dreaded look of pity, which would strip me of any last bits of identity that cancer had left behind, making me simply “the cancer patient.”
After the mastectomy and radiation, the pain in my hip returned. I was terrified that the cancer had progressed, but I was lucky: My next PET scan showed I was in the clear. I did have a fracture in my hip, though, so I ended up getting a full hip replacement. I also had my ovaries removed to decrease the amount of estrogen, which my cancer feeds on, in my body.
Today I’m 38 and have been in menopause for four years—but there’s no evidence of active disease in my body. I’m still on the same medications as they’re still working. In the cancer world, treatment plans are called “lines of treatment.” You have your first line, second line, third line, etc. As one stops working, you move to your “next line”; they typically get more toxic and less tolerable. I’m so fortunate to have remained on my first line of treatment going on five and half years now. My quality of life is excellent.
I’ve also had breast reconstruction on my mastectomy side, opting for a procedure called a DIEP flap which uses a patient’s tissue (versus an implant) after a tummy tuck–like procedure. Recovery was long, but I’m grateful and happy with the results.
Before all of this happened, I definitely took life and relationships for granted, big-time. Now every birthday and every holiday is worth celebrating. Every little milestone my kids reach—and the fact that I’m here to witness them—makes simple moments doubly precious. Now that I’m living with metastatic breast cancer, I’ve become very aware of how lucky I am to be here to experience all of these things.
Our kids are now 15, 12, and 5. I’ve gotten to witness milestones that, statistically speaking, I shouldn’t have been here for. My son started high school (he’s currently a sophomore) and has started dating. My oldest daughter is in seventh grade, plays soccer, and just joined a musical theater group. And my youngest, who was just weeks old when I was first diagnosed, has started kindergarten. I’m still hopeful that I’ll be here for my kids’ college graduations and perhaps with more research, beyond that.
Meanwhile, my family has traveled to Costa Rica. We explored the jungle and went snorkeling and zip-lining for the first time. My husband and I traveled to Paris and Portugal. In Paris, we saw the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, weaved around the city on scooters, and ate a ridiculous amount of pastries. In Portugal, we went kayaking in and around sea caves and walked around castles. Next month we’re off to Greece!
When I was first diagnosed, I was dependent on a wheelchair and I was in a lot of pain; I was ashamed of how debilitated I had become. When I lost my hair, I looked like a cancer patient, and I felt bad my kids were going to have to witness it. I felt like I wasn’t the strong mom that I used to be.
Today I look like everyone else. Even though cancer took a huge toll on my physical strength, I’ve become stronger mentally and emotionally and it’s given me purpose. For that, I’m proud. I’m very realistic and I know that metastatic breast cancer will likely take my life. There is no cure. But whether that’s two years or 20 years from now, every single day I will wake up feeling like it’s a birthday.
Kim Peiffer is a journalist who writes about style, health, and wellness. She taps into a broad network of doctors, scientists, and medical experts to write in-depth service articles for leading publications.
More on MBC and metastatic breast cancer treatment:
- 7 Questions to Ask Your Doctor If You’re Diagnosed With Metastatic Breast Cancer
- My Life in Pictures: Before, During, and After a Metastatic Breast Cancer Diagnosis
- How to Talk to Your Kids About Your Metastatic Breast Cancer Diagnosis
- 12 Ways to Practice Self-Care After a Metastatic Breast Cancer Diagnosis
