Trying to Decide

The Weight of the “What Ifs”

Even with the good MRI news, my mind was still constantly reeling. I couldn’t stop thinking about the decisions ahead of me.

Double mastectomy?
Lumpectomy?
DIEP flap reconstruction?
Implants?
What do I do?

I just wanted to make the right choice – the one that would give me the best long-term outcome and the most peace of mind. I hoped to meet with the plastic surgeons to see if I was a candidate for any of the reconstruction options and to hear what they thought about my specific case.

But I couldn’t get in.

Their office couldn’t schedule me in time, and that delay created a lot of mental anguish. It made me feel stuck – like I was trying to plan a route without a full map. I didn’t want to rush into a major surgery decision without hearing all the options from every perspective. Not having access to that information made everything feel heavier. I wanted to be informed and confident in my path forward, but instead I felt like I was walking blindfolded through a maze of life-changing decisions.

It wasn’t just about the medical facts – it was about feeling ready, and I didn’t.

Panic, Opinions, and the Power of One Voice

At some point during all the research and soul-searching, I made my first real mistake. I reached out to a friend who had gone through breast cancer the year before. I just wanted to know how she made her decision. I wanted to hear about her experience and maybe find a little clarity in her story.

But instead, the conversation spiraled.

She went on a long, emotional rant about how radiation had destroyed her. She told me it ruined her body, that it burned her, that she was left traumatized and broken. She kept repeating how horrible it was, and the longer she talked, the more terrified I became. I was already feeling confused and vulnerable, and her words pushed me into a full-blown panic. I had to get off the phone.

I didn’t need this. I wasn’t in a place where I could filter or process someone else’s trauma. I was still trying to make sense of my own.

After that call, my fear of radiation skyrocketed. I suddenly thought, “I need to do whatever it takes to avoid this.” And that only made things more confusing. I didn’t know if I could handle the recovery from a double mastectomy and reconstruction - the idea of that kind of major surgery felt overwhelming and never-ending.

The strange thing is, I had already spoken to two other friends who went through radiation, and both had said it was totally manageable. “A breeze,” one of them said. But the emotional intensity of that one phone call eclipsed everything else. Her passion, her pain - it shook me, and it stuck.

Finding My Center Again

Feeling totally spun out, I decided to reach out to the doctor who had first sent me for my mammogram - the one who’d given me such wise and grounded advice from the beginning. I sent her a long, rambling text, pouring out my fears and confusion.

Her response stopped me in my tracks.

She gently reminded me that the least amount of surgical intervention is often the best, and that trying to outrun every possible bad outcome is impossible. Every path has risks. Every choice has trade-offs. The real question is this: What can I live with? And importantly, the truth is, every day our bodies are fighting off cancer cells. All of us, all the time. I can't expect to outrun it, I have to face it.

That simple truth helped me breathe again. It helped me start to quiet the noise and come back to what mattered most - not fear, not pressure, but clarity. Slowly, I began leaning toward the lumpectomy. It felt less like giving in, and more like choosing a path I could manage, recover from, and live with.

It wasn’t the easy choice. But it felt like the right one.