I found myself at my bi-annual dental check-up, heart racing and palms sweating. Anxiety washed over me as I sat in the chair, every breath feeling heavier, like weights pressing down on my chest. The moment the dentist’s tool lingered on my back molar, panic surged. After a brief inspection, he casually noted, “Looks like you have a cavity. We’ll address it in a few weeks.” With that, he moved on to his next patient, leaving me in a whirlwind of emotions.
As soon as I settled into the driver’s seat of my van, tears streamed down my face. This is what medical trauma can do—it transforms minor events into overwhelming crises.
My journey through medical trauma began with a year-and-a-half of mysterious symptoms: sudden weight loss, chronic fatigue, and a sense of despair. I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes when I was teetering on the brink of death. Fast forward twelve years, I faced another traumatic ordeal—a palpable lump in my right breast that led to a breast cancer diagnosis after seeking a second opinion.
Each experience was challenging in its own right. Living with type 1 diabetes means I’m constantly managing my insulin pump and glucose monitor while counting every carbohydrate I consume. Then, at just 35 and a mother of four, I underwent a bi-lateral mastectomy.
Though I’m now considered “cancer-free,” I am far from done with either condition. Type 1 diabetes has no cure, and I rely on costly insulin to survive. My cancer journey involves numerous follow-up appointments to ensure I maintain my cancer-free status.
While I feel immense gratitude for my health, my supportive doctors, and the excellent medical insurance provided by my husband’s job, that thankfulness doesn’t erase the pain. I lost a piece of my body before I even turned forty. I’m tethered to medical devices that manage my blood sugar, locked in a perpetual state of maintenance.
I constantly grapple with fear; the thought of cancer lurking around every corner terrifies me. I’ve developed a post-cancer plan focused on a mostly vegan diet, exercise, quality sleep, supplements, and stress management. But statistics haunt me, reminding me of the risks.
During follow-up appointments, I often slip into a mental haze to shield myself from the trauma. Stripped down to a gown, I endure the probing hands of medical professionals checking my implants for any signs of recurrence.
In addition to managing my health, I wrestle with survivor’s guilt. Why did I survive when others didn’t? How did I manage to avoid chemotherapy and radiation? Hearing about new diagnoses, like that of a close friend’s sister, makes my heart ache and guilt bubble to the surface.
Anger also simmers beneath the surface. Why must women face such a brutal adversary as cancer? Why was I hit with two life-altering diseases within twelve years?
On the exterior, I appear to be a thriving mom, wife, sister, and friend. My husband and I have been married for nearly sixteen years, we have a beautiful home, and we attend a welcoming church. Even though my mastectomy was anything but easy, my reconstruction was performed by a skilled plastic surgeon in a renowned hospital. Unless you look closely, you wouldn’t even know I am a cancer survivor, aside from the faint pink scars.
However, despite my numerous “blessings,” I’m often left feeling emotionally shaken. Medical trauma is relentless; it sneaks up and robs you of peace. It preys on your doubts and tears, feeding on your guilt and feelings of inadequacy.
To my friends, family, and followers, I may appear to be a resilient breast cancer survivor, a warrior battling an autoimmune disease while living life to the fullest. Many see me as strong, but in reality, I’m fragile, confused, and utterly exhausted.
Just when I believe I’m finding my balance, a trigger sends me spiraling. One day, while running errands, I spotted a car adorned with a pink ribbon sticker that read “survivor.” Even if I’m not personally affected, I’m constantly reminded that cancer is never far away.
October is particularly difficult for me; the pink ribbons seem to be everywhere. A local café even offered breast cancer ribbon-shaped bagels! Depending on my mood, I might appreciate the acknowledgment or feel overwhelmed by post-traumatic stress.
Once you’ve experienced medical trauma, you realize that healing is not linear. Celebrating milestones like ringing a bell at a treatment facility or tucking away a brace can be uplifting. However, having faced the specter of death, you become acutely aware of how fragile life truly is. Every breath becomes a gift, and the fear, while often deceitful, is nonetheless valid.
What I went through is my reality, and I refuse to bury it or pretend to be okay. The healthiest choice is to acknowledge my past, accept my present, and understand that grief is a cyclical process, not a straight path with a destination.