More Than a Cyst: The Fear Cancer Leaves Behind

Surviving breast cancer changes the way you see your body. Every ache, every spot, every unfamiliar sensation becomes a quiet question: “Could it be coming back?” When a small lump appeared beneath my mastectomy scar, I tried to stay calm. But sometimes, even something small can awaken memories we thought we left behind.

A few months ago, I noticed a tiny bump on my chest, just beneath the faded incision line where my breasts were removed years ago. At first, it seemed harmless — the kind of thing you ignore the same way you ignore a new freckle or an itchy mosquito bite. I assumed it was just a clogged hair follicle, stubborn ingrown hair or maybe a rebellious pore staging a protest.

But as the weeks passed, the bump grew and no longer felt small or harmless. I tried to convince myself it was nothing. After surviving breast cancer and enduring mastectomies, you learn not to panic over every ache and oddity. But as a survivor, you also learn to listen closely to your body.

Eventually, the little bump became a noticeable lump, one that seemed determined to make its presence known. I picked up the phone and called my dermatologist.

The dermatologist examined the area and announced that it appeared to be a small cyst. Easy to remove. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. I nodded, but inside, something tugged at my peace. I explained my breast cancer history to her, expecting that it would shift the conversation into a more serious tone. She assured me that once the cyst was removed, they would do a biopsy to rule out anything concerning.

A biopsy. My least favorite word.

It felt like someone had cracked open a door I’d worked so hard to close, a door labeled Cancer.

I scheduled the removal surgery for the following week, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed a second opinion. Not just anyone’s opinion. I needed to hear it from the people who once saved my life.

After a few days of unease (and more Googling than any survivor should ever do), I called the cancer treatment center where I’d received my care. I explained everything the bump, the sudden growth, the planned removal and my rising anxiety. A nurse listened and recommended I come in for an ultrasound before any removal or biopsy was done.

Finally, a plan that made sense.

Then came the reality that insurance doesn’t always agree with common sense. The cost of the ultrasound was far more than I could manage at the time. I had to decline the appointment, and in doing so, I felt like I had to decline my peace.

Was I making the right decision? Was I risking my health because of money? And how unfair is it that those two things should ever be tied together?

As the days passed, the cyst became larger, redder and downright rude. What once looked like a skin-level annoyance now felt like a tiny alien plotting its hostile takeover.

And then it began to ooze.

A greenish fluid with a smell so foul I wondered whether I should name it, call an exorcist, or just petition Hollywood to cast it in the next sci-fi horror film. Even while stressing over it, I couldn’t help but think: If ever there was an infection auditioning for a role, this was it.

I contacted the dermatologist’s office immediately. They asked me to send photos through their online portal. I’ll admit, it felt oddly intimate and slightly absurd photographing this oozing, mysterious creature attached to my chest. But the office responded quickly and confirmed what I had begun to suspect: an infection.

They prescribed antibiotics and hoped the infection would clear in time for the scheduled removal. I hoped so, too. Because at this point, I just wanted the alien evicted.

It’s hard to describe what it feels like to have a cyst or lump in your body after you’ve faced cancer. Even if you know it’s probably nothing, it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like a shadow creeping back into a corner you’ve tried hard to illuminate. It feels like your body whispering memories you didn’t ask to relive. And it feels like fear disguised as responsibility.

As survivors, we’re told to watch our bodies. Pay attention, report changes and keep up screenings. But no one tells us how exhausting that vigilance can be. No one tells us that sometimes, the worry itself feels like another illness. We don’t want to obsess over every bump and blemish, but we also can’t afford to ignore them.Walking that line is harder than anyone realizes.

The night before the scheduled removal, I looked at the spot in the mirror, thinking how strange it is to feel both grateful and terrified at the same time. Grateful that we have doctors, surgery, antibiotics and science. Terrified because scars don’t just mark our bodies, they mark our memories.

Breast cancer taught me that strength isn’t refusing to feel fear. Strength is learning how to walk with fear and not let it dictate every step.

So tomorrow, they will remove this little invader. They will send it to pathology. I will wait. I will pray. And I will breathe deeply, intentionally and without letting the unknown suffocate what I know to be true: I am still here. I have lived through worse. And whatever this turns out to be, I will face it the same way I faced cancer, one breath, one prayer, one step at a time.

And if it truly is just a harmless cyst with an attitude problem, I’ll happily celebrate its eviction. Maybe I’ll even name the scar it leaves behind. After all, I’ve earned every scar I wear.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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