I’m not the kind of person who runs to the doctor for every scrape and scratch, so when I started having back pain, I wasn’t going to book an appointment with a specialist. Instead, I blamed the soreness on my age—40. But then one night I was lying in bed with my husband and the pain suddenly overwhelmed me. I remember telling my husband it felt like back labor, which I was all too familiar with after having three children. I knew I wasn’t pregnant, so I was stumped. The next day I told a girlfriend about the incident, and she begged me to go straight to the emergency room. I obliged.
A head-to-toe scan found something very small in my colon, so the next step was a colonoscopy. I was convinced I was going to wake up with a room full of doctors telling me I had colon cancer. But the colonoscopy came back clear, so I was sent to a chiropractor to resolve my back pain.
Fast-forward a year: I was now 41 and had yet to get a mammogram. (Editor’s note: The American Cancer Society says women have the option to start screening for breast cancer at 40.) So on the morning of my ninth wedding anniversary, I finally went in; that night I put on a cute dress, lipstick, and heels, and went to dinner with my husband. In a matter of days I would be asked to return for an ultrasound and then a biopsy.
I tried not to worry, but I knew the biopsy results would come in while my family and I were on a trip to New York, my favorite city in the world. I remember going to breakfast with my husband, then walking around and taking a ton of pictures. These could be the last pictures of me not having cancer, I thought.
The call from my ob-gyn came later that day: I had breast cancer in my right breast, and it had spread to my right lymph node. He gave me the name of a surgeon at UCLA and encouraged me to leave NYC immediately and get back home to L.A.
When we were at the airport, on our way home, I told my husband that our children are my legacy, and he had to take good care of them and teach them to remember me. I thought I was dying that day.
My husband was a rock. I never saw him break once—until he had to call his parents and say out loud, “Eva has breast cancer.” It took him a long time to be able to say those words without crying.
I knew then that I wanted to document my experience. I wanted to make sure my kids would know me. I wanted a visual reminder of what I was about to go through. I didn’t want to forget. I didn’t want to be one of those people who goes through breast cancer and then forgets the hard times, so I decided to start filming every step of my journey for a documentary.
I was recovering from my first surgery when I got a call from my oncologist. The cancer had metastasized up and down my spine and into my liver. It was stage IV breast cancer—also known as metastatic breast cancer—which is considered terminal. I remember lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, while my husband started making calls to our friends and family members. I didn’t just have cancer; I had incurable cancer.
The next day we went back to the doctor to discuss the full results of my PET scan. I was with my mom, a friend, and my husband. The doctor asked if I wanted to be in the room when she delivered my results. I said no. I waited in the lobby as they discussed how the cancer had spread everywhere—to my liver, bones, and skull. I would soon learn that I’d need immediate surgery to put a rod in my leg because my left hip was about to break from the metastasis. I was in shock. I had just run a 5K and was a regular at Orangetheory. Now my hip was about to break?
Rounds of chemotherapy ensued, each one making me feel as if I had been hit by a truck. I had a party to celebrate the completion of every round, which gave me something to look forward to. Because I was responding well to the chemo, I got the green light to get a lumpectomy, followed by several weeks of radiation, which basically burned off the skin on my right breast. It was awful. But it was working.
Earlier this year my scans were pretty clear. I started traveling again, and I spent back-to-back weekends raising money to fund breast cancer research. Life was good. Then I got another call from my oncologist.
“I was just looking at the results of your brain scan,” she said. (I get one every six months.) “There’s a small spot on your cerebellum. This is something we’re going to have to discuss.”
I already had an appointment scheduled to get my chemotherapy infusion, which I get every three weeks and will continue to get for the rest of my life. But now we needed to talk about how the cancer had spread to my brain, and my new treatment plan, which included radiation.
I was hysterical.
I had been doing so well—and now this. What if these are the last years of my life? I wondered. How am I going to look at my kids again and tell them this? I wanted so badly to raise them. I know people who have lived with metastatic breast cancer for 18 years. I wanted to be one of those people.
After recovering from the traumatic brain episode, I got more bad news: The cancer had spread somewhere new, this time to my right lung. Although they are tiny little spots, every new discovery forces a change in my treatment plan. Because there are a limited number of treatment options and a limited amount of time each plan could potentially work, the goal is to stay with the same treatment plan for as long as possible.
Fast-forward to today, and at age 47, my MBC has been stable. I’ve had scares (new discoveries in my brain, bones, and lungs) but they’ve remained stable or dissipated with my treatment plan, which has allowed me to live the best mom life: hiking, going to yoga classes, and eating out with friends when I’m not running the kids to soccer, baseball, basketball, cross country, or football. My kids are now 9, 11, and 13. There was a time when I could only dream of being the mother of a teenager—and now, here I am.
From the outside looking in, my life might look “normal” and my disease remains invisible. That being said, I have not forgotten. I have not forgotten that I am five years into a disease that generally takes one’s life in three. I have not forgotten how lucky I am to be in the trenches with my kids and watch them grow. I am continuously reminded of my disease when I go to UCLA every three weeks and sit for two hours of infusions plus shots. I know that I could mostly ignore my disease but I have decided to become an advocate. One year ago I founded the Met Gala SCV, a fundraising gala in my hometown to raise money for MBC research. All of the proceeds from the event go to Metavivor, which funds metastatic breast cancer research and fosters support and awareness. I chaired the inaugural event along with a high school friend, Amy Steffe Lohmann, who was in remission from breast cancer. We were the best of partners and friends and, after raising more than $160,000, vowed to repeat the event annually. But just five days after our first gala, Amy was diagnosed with MBC—on October 13, 2022, which is Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day. Imagine the irony of not only the date but the fact that Amy had been fundraising to help end a disease she didn’t even know she had. Amy was mercilessly stolen by metastatic breast cancer on August 14 of this year, leaving behind two children, two golden retrievers, and countless loving family members. I had seen her just four days before and didn’t realize it would be our last time together. This is a perfect example of how things can change on a dime with MBC.
When it comes to my journey, my attitude remains positive, as it’s always been. I get to hang out with my husband and kids. There’s this beautiful slow pace about life now that I had never experienced before. It forces me to be present, and that is the ultimate gift. There’s a 100% chance that we’re all going to die, so the question is: How do you want to live?
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
