ST.She Skipped Mammograms for 4 Years — Her First One Found Aggressive Breast Cancer… And It Ended Up Saving Her Life

This is incredibly hard for me to admit, but I ignored my first mammogram for four full years after my doctor first recommended it. I brushed off the reminders, gave the usual, “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” and never actually went. Every appointment, it was the same: “Have you scheduled your mammogram yet?” Gah. So irritating, right?

I was diligent with self-exams, never felt anything unusual, and kept letting years slip by. But in June of 2016, at 44, I went to the doctor feeling “off.” My weight was fluctuating, I had hot flashes, headaches, lethargy… basically, I felt like garbage. My periods had stopped months ago, and I assumed early menopause was the culprit.

Testing began, and, of course, my doctor mentioned it again: “Sherry, get a mammogram.” I caved—partly to stop the nagging—and finally went in for my very first mammogram. Two weeks later, after a whirlwind of tests, a man I had never met sat me down and said the words that changed my life: I had breast cancer.

Wait. What? I’d never felt a lump. How could this be? It turned out to be HER2 triple-positive, already invasive, but the same man offered a glimmer of hope: “It looks like we’ve caught it early.” Early? After all those years of ignoring it? My first mammogram saved my life. I’ll say it again: my first mammogram saved my life.

After two grueling years of chemo and a full mastectomy, I thought I was finally on the road to recovery. But in January 2018, I started feeling dangerously ill. Hospital visits for pneumonia, sepsis, and a collapsed lung became frequent. Then came a new symptom: severe left shoulder pain. My doctors initially chalked it up to chemotherapy fatigue, but I became weaker and weaker.

Finally, after some blood work, my doctor sent me to the ER. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on,” she said. “Your pancreas is acting up. Go now.” Terrified, I walked into the hospital, convinced they would dismiss me. I had lost 52 pounds in just over three months, and the shoulder pain was all-consuming.

The doctor finally ordered an abdominal scan. When he returned with the images, his face was grave. “Unfortunately,” he said, “we’ve found a significant mass in your abdomen that has metastasized to your liver. We need to transfer you to another hospital. This is beyond us.” His words felt like Charlie Brown’s teacher: whomp whomp whomp. I was in shock. I looked at my husband, who avoided my gaze, and for some reason, I just asked, “Excuse me, where is the closest bathroom?” I needed space to process.

We later learned it wasn’t my breast cancer—it was a very rare gastrointestinal cancer, unrelated to the first. Two unrelated cancers at the same time. This new cancer was far more serious: stage four, with a tumor the size of a large head of lettuce pressing against my diaphragm and causing the shoulder pain. I was devastated, scared, and completely overwhelmed. Palliative care, counselors, DNR paperwork—they all felt like the end of the line.

One dark night, in the midst of a meltdown, my son Cameron quietly walked in, holding every hospital wristband I’d ever brought home. “Mom,” he said gently, “if you got through all of this,” holding up the bands, “you can get through this too.” He reminded me that if the gastrointestinal cancer had been discovered first, I might never have had that life-saving mammogram. His words gave me clarity: my breast cancer had to happen first, and it saved my life.

I am here today because of that first mammogram. After a surgery that ran from my sternum to my belly button, doctors removed the tumor, repaired my diaphragm, took part of my stomach and gallbladder, and treated the lesion in my liver. Recovery has been long, and I will be on chemo for life. Statistically, the numbers aren’t in my favor: a 55% five-year survival rate, less than 25% chance of surviving ten years, and a 50% chance my chemo will stop working before five years. I won’t lie—I am scared every single day.

I am three and a half years into this diagnosis, and I am still fighting. Many of you know me as the mama of Sherman, our 230-pound therapy dog, who we lost this past July to osteosarcoma. We miss him every day. Cancer is a dirty word, and some days the pain feels unbearable. I’ve told my husband, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” But I keep going, because of the love and strength surrounding me. I fight for my family, for my lost mom, and for every day I still get to live.

Even in the darkest hours, I have learned that you can come out the other side. There are brighter days ahead, even if they come mixed with the hard ones. I am living proof. Keep fighting.