Cancer Called, But I’ve Got Grandsons to Help Raise

I know a woman who would tell you that breast cancer was a gift.

It became a wake-up call, pushing her toward the changes she needed to enhance her life.

She started walking at least 30 minutes, sometimes an hour, in nature. She made sure her diet was filled with organic fruits and vegetables, free of pesticides and antibiotics. She drank pure, clean water that made her feel nourished and alive.

She found time to meditate, to pray, but the biggest change was that she learned to play again.

She tried new recipes, developed a simple but deeply meaningful art practice—art that wasn’t meant to be shared, seen, or sold. It was just for her, a way to be present and connected to herself.

She became a better listener.

When she felt hurt or affected by others she knew exactly who to talk to and what to do to take care of herself, she didn’t react; she just listened with patience and kindness.

She smiled more often.

She started to really look people in the eyes when they spoke, enjoying hearing about their lives instead of rushing to share about her own.

She reconnected with the God of her childhood, holding onto her faith through doctor visits, surgeries, medications, and support groups.

And with time, she used her experience to help other women starting down the same path she had traveled.

The biggest change, though, was how her life shifted from feeling flat and mundane to being full of color and gratitude for every moment.

You might wonder who this woman is. How do I know her?

She’s me, someday, but not today.

Today, I’m still processing the shock of being diagnosed with ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS) after a routine mammogram—no symptoms, no lumps, just tiny calcifications spotted by an intuitive radiologist.

I’m grateful for the early detection, just like the commercials say.

But when my doctor called me on a Friday night to tell me I had stage 0 breast cancer, I didn’t feel grateful.

I looked down at my phone, at the wallpaper picture of my two grandsons, Henry and Wesley, and I started to cry.

My first thought wasn’t, "Great, early detection!" It was, "I’m not going to see them grow up."

And the tears just flowed.

I know I’ll get back to that woman I envision—stronger, more present, full of life.

But right now, I’m just letting myself feel it all while staying grounded in facts.

Big love,

Lynn