When the Fear of Cancer Creeps Back

For the past eleven years, I’ve worn the title breast cancer survivor with quiet gratitude. Each year that passed felt like another mile marker on a long, hard journey — a reminder that God had given me more time. I celebrated birthdays, family milestones, and everyday blessings with the confidence that the darkest chapter of my life was behind me. But life has a way of surprising us and sometimes fear returns when we least expect it.

It started with a lump.

A small, hard knot just beneath the skin on my chest — nothing new, really. I’d noticed it several years ago and thought little of it at the time. It wasn’t painful, didn’t seem to grow, and after what I’d already been through, I suppose I just didn’t want to borrow trouble. But a few weeks ago, I noticed it had changed. It had grown larger, redder, and tender to the touch. That’s when the fear came rushing back.

You see, I’m a breast cancer survivor — eleven years cancer-free. I remember the day I got the “all clear” like it was yesterday. I cried, prayed, and promised myself I’d never take another sunrise for granted. For years, I’ve celebrated each milestone — five years, eight years, ten years — thinking I was safely beyond the danger zone. I’d read somewhere that the risk of recurrence drops sharply after the first decade. In my mind, that meant I was home free. Until that lump.

When I first noticed how much it had grown, I didn’t know which doctor to call. Should I go back to my oncologist or see my dermatologist? I’d been through enough medical appointments to know how easily one leads to another, and I wanted to start in the right place. So I made calls to both offices and decided whichever one returned my call first would be the one I’d see. The dermatologist won.

This morning, as I sat in the exam room waiting for the doctor, I tried to calm my nerves. The paper gown rustled every time I moved, and the sound reminded me of hospital beds and biopsy tables. The memories were all too close. When the dermatologist and her assistant came in, I apologized before they even took a look. I always do. I tell them up front that I’ve had both breasts removed — not because I’m ashamed, but because I don’t want to startle them when they first see my chest. Even now, eleven years later, I still feel the need to prepare others for what I’ve learned to live with.

The doctor examined the lump closely. “How long has it been like this?” she asked.

I told her about the years I’d had it, how recently it had begun to swell and ache. She nodded thoughtfully and reached for a small tape measure. I watched as she stretched it across the red, raised area. “It’s about two inches by four inches,” she said. I was stunned. I hadn’t realized it was that large — and the realization made my heart race.

She called it a cyst but said it was quite inflamed. She offered steroid injections to calm it down and prescribed an antibiotic. Then came the words that made my stomach drop: “Once it’s settled, we’ll schedule surgery to remove it.”

Surgery. That single word brought back a flood of memories — the sterile smell of operating rooms, the grogginess of anesthesia, the long healing afterward. But more than that, it brought back the fear. The same cold dread that had once lived in my bones — the fear that cancer had come back.

I texted my daughters afterward to let them know what was going on. They all responded with love and concern. “We’ll be praying, Mama,” one wrote. Another said, “Keep us updated, please.” None of them said the word “cancer,” but I knew they were thinking it. We all were.

Just a few days ago, I’d been talking with a friend about how many women I’d known who had breast cancer. Some had survived and thrived for years, only for the disease to return without warning. I’d said then that I couldn’t imagine going through it again. And yet, here I was, facing that same possibility.

According to the American Cancer Society, there are more than 4 million breast cancer survivors in the United States today. That’s something to celebrate — a testament to early detection and improved treatments. But the truth is, recurrence can still happen. Roughly one in five women with early-stage breast cancer will experience a recurrence, sometimes decades later. Those statistics are sobering. Still, they’re not the whole story. Because what numbers can’t measure is faith, and hope, and the human will to keep going.

As I left the dermatologist’s office, prescription in hand, I took a deep breath. The fear hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer felt as suffocating. I realized that surviving cancer doesn’t mean you stop being afraid — it means you learn to walk through the fear anyway. You remember what it was like to face your mortality, and then you remember that you survived. That reminder alone can give strength for whatever comes next.

I don’t yet know what this lump will turn out to be. Maybe it really is just an angry cyst. Maybe it’s something more. What I do know is this: I’ve faced cancer before, and if I must, I’ll face it again — but not alone. My faith, my family, and the prayers of those who love me will go before me, just like they did before.

Tonight, as I write this, I’m reminded of a verse that carried me through treatment all those years ago:

“When I am afraid, I will trust in You.” — Psalm 56:3.

Those words feel just as true today as they did then. Fear will always try to sneak back in, but faith will always meet it at the door. And that, I’ve learned, is how survivors keep surviving.

A Note to My Sisters in Pink: If you’re reading this and you’ve ever faced breast cancer — or you love someone who has — please remember: vigilance matters. Know your body. Check your scars. Report any changes, no matter how small they may seem. The average risk for a woman in the U.S. to develop breast cancer is about 1 in 8, and early detection saves lives.

Mammograms, follow-up visits, and self-exams aren’t just medical routines; they’re acts of faith and self-care. Each one says, “My life matters, and I’m not giving up.”

And if fear ever comes knocking again — as it sometimes will — remind yourself of this: you’ve already conquered one of life’s fiercest battles. You are not alone, and you are stronger than you remember.

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

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