I never imagined that at the age of 40, I would hear the word "cancer" associated with my own name.
Like many women, I believed breast cancer was something that happened to other people. I had a busy life, work commitments, children to care for, research projects to complete, and countless plans for the future. Cancer was never part of that picture.
Then one day, everything changed.
The journey began when a lump in my left breast was investigated. What started which I thought might be an inflammation became a series of scans, reports, and unfamiliar medical terminology.
The ultrasound revealed a suspicious mass measuring about 15 mm in my left breast. The mammogram identified a corresponding lesion measuring approximately 25 mm. The radiologist classified it as BI-RADS 4, meaning that it was suspicious enough to require a biopsy. I still remember waiting for the biopsy results. (it's considered fast as it only took 3 days)
Anyone who has gone through this process will understand the strange feeling of living between hope and fear. Part of me wanted to believe it would be nothing serious. Another part of me was already preparing for difficult news. The pathology report confirmed what I had feared.
The diagnosis was predominantly high-grade ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), accompanied by small areas of invasive carcinoma.
Before this experience, I learned that DCIS refers to abnormal cancer cells confined within the milk ducts. It is often described as Stage 0 breast cancer because it has not yet broken through the duct walls. However, my report also contained another phrase: invasive carcinoma.
That single word changed everything. It meant that some cancer cells had already begun moving beyond the ducts into surrounding breast tissue. The invasive component was described as very small, too small to grade accurately from the biopsy sample, but it was present.
At that moment, my journey changed from dealing with a suspicious lump to confronting breast cancer. Ironically, some of the most difficult days were not after receiving the diagnosis. They were the days of waiting that followed.
Cancer teaches you that uncertainty are harder than certainty.
Every report was read repeatedly. Every sentence felt significant. Every medical term seemed to carry enormous weight.
One encouraging finding was that no enlarged axillary lymph nodes were seen on the imaging studies. While further investigations were still needed, this provided some reassurance during a time when reassurance was difficult to find.
As I moved through the diagnostic process, I began to realise something important.
Cancer does not only affect the body.
It affects the mind, the emotions, the family, and even one's sense of identity.
As a mother, my thoughts often returned to my children. I wondered about the future. I wondered how much of this journey they would understand. I wondered what memories I was still meant to create with them.
Yet alongside the fear came something unexpected.
Gratitude.
Gratitude for modern medicine.
Gratitude for doctors who took my concerns seriously.
Gratitude for family and friends.
Gratitude for another day to wake up, love, work, learn, and hope.
I do not yet know every chapter of this story. There are still treatments, decisions, and challenges ahead.
But cancer has already taught me a lesson I might otherwise have taken years to learn.
Life is not measured by the number of years we expect to have. It is measured by what we do with the day that is in front of us. Nothing seems important anymore except to be able to live on.
Today, I continue to move forward one step at a time. Not because I am fearless. But because there is no other way forward.
And even on the hardest days, hope still has a place beside uncertainty.
