Approximately 1 in 8 American women (open in new tab) will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. Each Monday during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, we chronicle one black mother and survivor's journey through the uncertainty of breast cancer in these uncertain times.

In June, an annual mammogram and subsequent biopsy revealed atypical ductal hyperplasia in my right breast. My Covid-19-filled summer consisted of virtual medical appointments and isolated days visiting the hospital for medical tests. Non-urgent surgeries were put on hold due to the pandemic, and I waited over three months for my local Florida hospital to reopen. Once the hospital began accepting patients like me, I was confirmed for a partial mastectomy

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The breast oncology surgeon informed me that my outpatient surgery was scheduled for September 25, the 17th anniversary of my grandmother's passing. On the day of my surgery, I woke up and felt my grandmother's presence. Her loving energy enveloped me, reminding me that I was held and protected.

It was surreal to be dropped off at the hospital before sunrise, get out of the car, put on a mask, and go inside alone. I walked in with my cell phone, driver's license, and insurance card. I was greeted by the friendly inpatient staff and shown to where I would meet my pre-op team. The nurse, Jennifer, was an angel in scrubs. We laughed, we talked, we laughed. Our sons are the same age, so we chatted a lot about virtual school woes, 14-year-old boys, our shared love of travel, and cancer. Her sister is a breast cancer survivor, so she knew with tenderness and awe how to handle my scarred upper body.

After connecting my IV, taking my vitals, and answering questions about my medical history, I was scheduled for another mammogram. More images were needed to pinpoint the exact area to be operated on. A trio of two nurses and a radiology technician were with me. One of the nurses asked me if I remembered the name of the team that performed the biopsy. I could not recall the name of the main nurse, but I do remember her rubbing my back and holding my hand as I flinched in pain. I looked at the new nurse as I watched the river of tears roll down my cheeks. She gave me a tissue and let me purge the emotions I wasn't ready to undergo in the cold, sterile mammography room.

When I returned to Jennifer's nurse, somehow she knew there had been a shift change. Perhaps it was my red eyes, my unconvincing smile, my distant gaze. She gently adjusted my blanket, placed a small pouch of aromatherapy on my chest, turned off the lights, and let me rest until it was time to be taken to the operating room.

When I awoke, there was a new smiling nurse there to tell me all was well. I was discharged later that day and welcomed home. My aunt, my caregiver, was waiting for me with fresh flowers, brand new pajamas, and a feast of sautéed kale, grilled fish, and homemade peach cobbler. I sat with my aunt, uncle, and son for an hour, belly laughing, and after a hearty meal, I had enough energy to calm down and recover.

The treatment went well, my mood was uplifting after the surgery, and a week later I went to see my breast oncology surgeon, who told me that I needed to have my breast removed. He told me that the pathology results came back from the removed tissue: cancer had been found.

There was no room for me to cry. I could not process her words. This was not supposed to happen. Cancer is in my past. I am a survivor. All I remember is saying, "How is this possible? 0]

A few days later I was able to digest what she had said. The pathology results showed that I have stage 0 ductal carcinoma of the breast. The cancer has not invaded and is staying in the ducts. This was definitely not the news I was hoping for, but I know it could have been much worse. I am grateful for early detection, health insurance, a reliable medical team, and the resources and support to continue the fight.

By the end of the year I will have a bilateral mastectomy. The complete removal of breast tissue will bring me the most peace of mind. I was able to meet in person with my oncologist, reconstructive surgeon, and breast oncology surgeon, and they all agreed that chemotherapy is not necessary. Radiotherapy would only be necessary if malignant cells were found in the post-mastectomy histology.

Given the weight of this unexpected news, my breast surgeon recommended that I see the hospital's oncology psychologist. It was reassuring that someone on my medical team finally realized that I should have a mental health checkup.

I am hopeful that by the time of my mastectomy, the hospital will allow me to visit. This surgery requires an overnight stay in the hospital and a longer and more painful recovery. If I have to go through the surgery alone, I know I can do it. The warm-up wasn't too bad.

This latest part of my journey reminded me that you can't beat cancer. You have to deal with the diagnosis, process it, and then figure out what to do with the debris. My life after this news feels more deliberate, yet freer. More deliberate, more careful. More joyful, more bittersweet.

The upcoming double mastectomy will add to the scars I already have from lumpectomy, partial mastectomy, port-a-cath (a device inserted to draw blood and receive treatment), and radiation, and nothing is deeper than a scar that one cannot see. However, as with any scar, over time the emotional scars become less noticeable. I choose to think of every scar as a testament to life, courage, and resilience.

I assemble the pieces of my wounded heart into a beautiful mosaic. Each piece reminds me of a reservoir of infinite strength that continues to replenish, sustain, and mold me.

There are many wonderful souls touched by breast cancer. Let's honor them - and us - by getting a mammogram every year. Set aside one day each month when you feel a lump or abnormality and get it checked. Listen to your inner voice. If you suspect something, don't rest until you know the diagnosis is accurate. Early detection truly saves lives.

I am pushing forward with optimism. I focus all my energy on healing, health, gratitude, and joy. I am eternally grateful that life, with its twists and turns, surprises and disappointments, continues to give me second chances.