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It was a warm summer’s night in June when her life was changed forever.

She was a well-known psychologist, heading a graduate school of psychology. She had a massive network of friends and colleagues. She lived an active and healthy life. None of that mattered when she was diagnosed with cancer.

They’d been monitoring the lump since last May. It had prompted some concern in the initial checkup, but early scans showed nothing of concern. They’d still kept an eye on things, but every test came up clear. Until they didn’t.

She received the news during a short stay at her aunt’s house. She’d been expecting a quick call, a simple confirmation of what everyone had been expecting for the last six months. Instead, she was diagnosed with cancer.

She’d heard the stories. Thoughts of death and chemotherapy raced through her head, and fear crowded out everything else. She didn’t even know if she’d live, and even if she did, she knew the next few months would be hell on earth. She cried until her body had no more tears left to shed.

She’d tell her aunt and uncle in what amounted to an awkward and stilted few words of encouragement, and then she’d leave for home. The next few days were spent coming to terms with the cancer and telling her close friends. It was hard, but the support she got made it easier. From there, testing began in earnest. She would be ferried from hospital to hospital in a barrage of tests that left her dizzy, each place more barren and unwelcoming than the last. The doctors themselves hardly helped that feeling. They were detached and emotionally unavailable, leaving her loose and floundering. Though she sought support from her friends, they couldn’t exactly follow her to each appointment, and the sheer number of them meant she had less and less time to herself. Even through all the tests and appointments, she was left uninformed about what the disease actually meant for her; instead, she was given a generic pamphlet and sent on her way.

Luckily for her, it seemed like the cancer hadn’t spread very far. She’d only need some surgical intervention and some monitoring, and then she would be relatively fine. A plethora of options were laid out in front of her. She could go with radiotherapy, or chemotherapy; she could just have the lump removed, which meant the least amount of surgery, but also the most amount of follow-up, or she could go further, and get a mastectomy instead. The doctors didn’t really recommend the last one so much, since she’d need implants, of course, and those aren’t quite as good as the real thing, are they?

But she was tired. Despite their advice, she decided on a double mastectomy. She wanted to be done with this. She wanted her life back.

And so the surgery was set. As the weeks passed, and the day of reckoning approached, the tests and bidaily appointments held strong. She had scarcely any time for friends, and her family wasn’t exactly present for any of this anyways. She had some support groups and a counselor, but even still, the stress rode high.

And before she knew it, the day had come. It felt like it had snuck up on her. She wasn’t ready. All the way through the artificially lit halls and sterile corridors, worry and fear dominated her heart and mind. Not a word of encouragement was uttered as she was laid down for surgery, and put under the knife for what felt like it could be the very last time.

She woke up feeling like hell. She was at a friend’s house. She barely remembered getting there, and she had a feeling she’d barely remember this, too. Every part of her body screamed at her, complaining of a hundred different problems. Her skull rang like a church bell at noon, and her body ached like she’d been hit by a train. Each second felt like an hour.

And still, the days passed.

Her friends came to see her. Some showed up more than others, and some helped her more through the pain, but she appreciated each one, nonetheless. Throughout it all, her counselor’s words echoed in her head: “Don’t expect everyone to show up the way you want. Everyone shows up differently; just appreciate what they bring to the table.”

She was brought back to reality by her doctors. Convalescing though she was, she still had biweekly appointments. Twice a week, she was escorted through those sterile halls, left unanchored and flailing and unseen.

She had more hell left to walk through. She had another surgery on the way, after all. The worst pain of the whole ordeal, her doctors said, was the loss of her breasts. It needed to be rectified. If she didn’t get implants, she’d hardly feel like a woman anymore. So, four weeks after her mastectomy, she would go under the knife again to undo the worst effects of the cancer.

I mean, she had to, right? The worst moment of the last two months was waking up after her surgery, looking down, and seeing nothing there. It was removing those bandages and seeing a bare chest. It was that fundamental lacking. Right?

Honestly?

Honestly, she really didn’t care. She was done with the whole ordeal. Her biggest concern after surgery was going back to that hospital, back to the uncaring doctors and barren rooms. Her first thought upon taking off those bandages wasn’t dismay, or anger, but a vague confusion. Wasn’t this supposed to feel worse? Wasn’t she supposed to be more upset at this?

As the deadline grew closer, she thought about it. She talked with friends and doctors. Though the doctors all seemed to push for the surgery, her friends took her side. She made her decision.

A week before she was due for her second surgery, she canceled. She’d gone through enough pain from the mastectomy; she wasn’t going to subject herself to more in service of another’s image of what she should be. The plastic surgeons were upset, of course; they insisted she’d regret it. But she’d gone through enough over the past few months. She was ready to move on.

From that point on, her recovery was smoother. Her friends all showed up, each helping out in their own ways; even her sister came down to lend a hand. Given another month, she was able to move back into her own house and get moving again. And while she still had to attend the occasional appointment for physical therapy or scar management, she was, for the most part, cancer free.

It all began with a biopsy gone wrong; a bolt from the blue. The worst thing that could’ve happened to her, did; and yet, she made it through. She’s okay.

She knows both the cold, uncaring machine that is modern medicine, and she knows the truly wonderful thing it could be. She’s seen the worst she’ll face. Now she’ll make that fate better for those who follow.

She had resolved to make a difference in the world as she settled down for bed. Once more, on a warm summer’s night, her life was changed forever; this time, by her own force of will.