By: Kasey Phillips, PIM Office Manager
In November 2024, I went in for my annual exam expecting another routine check – labs, pap, breast exam, etc. During the breast exam, my doctor asked me if I had ever performed a self-exam; I had not. She asked me if I had ever felt a lump or had a partner feel a lump in my breast; I had not. She grabbed my hand and placed my index finger on a spot on the outside of my right breast. I felt a small lump about the size of a tiny pea and immediately started crying.
At 39, with no history of breast cancer in my family, this was not something that was even on my radar. While my doctor explained that she thought it might just be a cyst, something in my gut told me this was much more serious.
The very next week I had a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound. The results were inconclusive and I was scheduled for a punch biopsy 48 hours later. Three days after that, with an uneasy feeling and assurances that they would release my results online as soon as they were available, I left on a 3-week trip to Europe that had been planned more than a year in advance.
On December 2nd, while sitting in my hotel room in Helsinki, Finland, I logged into the patient portal and read the words I knew were coming, “positive for breast cancer”.
Oddly, I was grateful to be abroad when the news came. The planned activities provided a nice distraction and the quiet of Finland’s polar nights gave me space to research, reflect, and exchange messages with my care team—something I could never have done in my usual whirlwind, sun-up-to-sundown travel style. I was never afraid for my life, but I did dread the path ahead. Having walked beside my mom through her own treatments for colon and lung cancer, I knew just how disruptive and consuming it could be, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
The number of quick but serious decisions that had to be made were out paced only by the number of doctors appointments: what doctors I wanted to work with, whether to do genetic testing and to what degree, what kind of surgery I wanted, whether to pursue fertility preservation, etc. I was hoping that it was caught early enough that I would just need surgery and radiation, but that turned out not to be the case when I got the final pathology back.
On December 26, the day after Christmas, I had a lumpectomy. I chose a lumpectomy over a mastectomy based on the results of the genetic testing I had which showed no cancer markers, for breast cancer or otherwise. The surgery went well; clean margins and no lymph node involvement, the best possible scenario. However, the pathology report indicated it was a grade 3 tumor (fast growing) and the mammoprint came back in the high risk for recurrence category.
The day I found out that I would need chemotherapy was more devastating than my diagnosis day. I had seen what chemo did to my mom – the fatigue, the bone pain, the nausea and so many other disturbing and long lasting side effects. I don’t know if it was better or worse having the intimate knowledge of what was to come.
I had my first of four rounds of chemotherapy on February 19, 2025. I arrived at the facility 30 minutes before my scheduled infusion and met with my cold capper, Cullen. Cold capping is a process that uses specially chilled caps worn before, during, and after chemotherapy infusions to reduce blood flow to the scalp, helping protect hair follicles and minimize hair loss. The caps must be kept at very cold temperatures and changed regularly throughout treatment sessions. Cullen thankfully took care of all the cold capping logistics which included sourcing dry ice to keep the caps on, tempering the caps to make sure I did not get frostbite, and changing the caps every 25 minutes for approximately 8-10 hours.
In addition to the ice cap, I also had to use ice mittens and booties during infusion of one of the chemo meds in order to ward off neuropathy in my hands and feet. I felt like a human popsicle! I thankfully did not have any neuropathy, but I did lose a significant amount of hair, probably 80% or more despite cold capping.
The side effects from the chemo were simultaneously better and worse than expected. The nausea was mostly controlled with lots of anti-nausea meds taken on a very strict schedule and throughout all the months of treatment, I only vomited once during a vasovagal response. The degree of bone pain after treatment was unanticipated despite the warning from my doctors; the only thing that seemed to help was walking. I would walk up and down the hallway in the middle of the night just for a little relief.
Other symptoms included: constipation and diarrhea (yes, both); heightened sense of smell; loss sense of taste, extreme food aversions, blurry vision, brain fog and inability to focus, lightheadedness, fluctuating low and high blood pressure, hair loss, and of course insurmountable fatigue.
I had chemo on Wednesdays and an auto-injected Neulasta shot (to increase white blood cell production) on Thursdays. After the shot is when I generally started feeling ill. Fridays and Saturdays would be the worst days. By Monday the intensity of the side effects would start to lessen.
I had chemo sessions three weeks apart, except for the last session which was delayed because I contracted an infection and we needed to make sure that cleared before my final treatment. The third session was the worst and the last session was the easiest.
I had my final chemo on May 7, 2025, and 4 weeks later I started radiation. I had 15 radiation treatments which required me to go in for treatment daily, M-F. My first week of radiation I was a little nauseous, but nothing like chemo. I used a Mepitel dressing to protect my skin during treatment and luckily did not have skin issues during or after treatment, other than increased sensitivity. The main symptom from radiation was extreme fatigue, the kind where you get hit with a wave of exhaustion that requires you lay down immediately no matter what time it is or where you are.
Through all of it, I have been cared for by an extraordinary team of health professionals: my surgeon, medical oncologist, radiation oncologist, integrative oncologist, and all the doctors at PIM and their referrals. It was important to me to attack the disease and pursue recovery from all angles. I sought out healing in many forms, medical interventions of course, but also acupuncture, red light therapy, neural therapy, intuitive counseling, shamanic support, lymphatic massage, careful supplementation, even “home remedies” like apple cider vinegar rinses for my itchy scalp. I experimented with nutrition when chemo made everything taste strange, leaned on anti-nausea meds, prioritized protein, and used microdoses of THC/CBD to help with bone pain and appetite. Healing became a full-time practice, one that asked me to care for my whole self, not just the cancer.
This journey has taught me so many lessons:
I realized how vital it is to have a team that sees you as a whole person. My oncologists treated my cancer, but it was my integrative practitioners who helped me manage side effects, regain strength, and feel human in the process. Acupuncture, lymphatic massage, red light therapy, supervised supplementation, etc. weren’t luxuries; they were lifelines that made treatment more bearable and recovery a bit smoother.
I also learned the importance of self-advocacy. No one will care more about your health than you do. That means doing your own research, staying on top of your chaotic appointment schedule, showing up to appointments with questions, making informed choices that feel right for your body and your life and fighting for medications and screening that you know will benefit you. It’s easy to get swept up in the medical system, but your voice matters—you are not just a patient, you are a partner in your care.
Another lesson was about time and perspective. Cancer forced me to slow down, to take life one day at a time. I am still learning to measure progress not in big milestones, but in small wins: no longer having complete aversion to a specific food, a walk around the block, a good night’s sleep, not having to take a midday nap to function, new hair sprouting, etc. Healing isn’t linear—it’s made of tiny steps forward and back, and learning to honor them all.
Finally, I learned about the power of support. My sister, my friends, my coworkers, my community—none of this would have been possible without them. The treatment toolbox gifts, the meals, the rides, the quiet presence at chemo, even the texts that didn’t require a reply—these acts sustained me. They reminded me that I wasn’t in this alone, even when I felt my weakest.
To those beginning this journey: welcome to the club and I’m sorry you’re here. It will likely be one of the hardest years of your life, but it is a year, not forever. Take it one day at a time and lean on your people, because you cannot do this alone.
And to those supporting someone with cancer: show up, and keep showing up. Don’t wait to be asked. Anticipate, act, and love in small, steady ways. A ride, a meal, a message, a listening ear—these are the things that carry us through.
I’m not yet a year out from my diagnosis, but with active treatment behind me, I’m finding space for living again, instead of just surviving. I share my story because breast cancer awareness isn’t just about pink ribbons—it’s about real lives, real bodies, and real healing. And if my journey can remind even one person to listen to their body, advocate for themselves, or show up for someone they love, then sharing it is worth it.
