All reconstruction on my left breast was erased. The bottom pole of skin—gone. I had to start over with a new expander, placed by the new plastic surgeon who finally listened. Then came the radiation consult. I did my homework—again—and my answer remained firm: Absolutely not. Too many side effects. Too much risk to my quality of life and NO GUARANTEE OF A CURE, 50-50 AT BEST. HELL NO. My new PCP, in a different medical group, pushed me to get a medical oncologist. I did, the second oncologist walked in, labeled me Stage IV on the spot, and coldly demanded I start chemo, radiation and hormone-blocking drugs. Her tone? Dismissive and aggressive.
I said no. Loud and clear. Then came the relentless calls from her office, trying to schedule nuclear scans I never agreed to. I ignored every one. She didn’t break me either. They only sharpened my resolve. This body is mine. So is this fight. And I’m still standing.