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 will document one black mother and survivor's journey through the uncertainty of breast cancer in these uncertain times.

When I was diagnosed with stage II breast cancer in 2014, the world was not fighting a pandemic. The gravity of hearing the words "your tumor is malignant" is life-changing, and I cannot imagine hearing those words under the stress and isolation of the Covid-19 world.

The unknowns about Covid made me anxious to schedule my annual breast mammogram and ultrasound in June. I wondered if it would be safe to go to the hospital and how the protocol would be different. When the hospital called to confirm my appointment, I had to answer a new set of questions. 'Do you have a fever? 'Have you ever been infected with Covid-19? 'Have you ever left the state?' I was told that I would have to wear a mask upon entry, that no one would escort me, that my temperature would be checked, and that I would have to wear a face covering during the three-hour-long examination.

When I arrived for my examination, the hospital parking lot was eerily empty. An attendant stood at the main entrance and took my temperature. Once it was determined that I did not have a fever, I was asked to disinfect my hands. When I explained that I only use natural disinfectant, the attendant became visibly irritated and barked at me to use the hospital's. I explained that I am a cancer survivor and have annual cancer screenings. She finally agreed and let me take the test.

The pandemic-free mammogram waiting room is terrifying; the mammogram waiting room during Covid-19 is hell. All the women wear masks and sit in strategically placed chairs six feet apart, anxiously waiting to be called. Usually there is a lot of nervous chatter, but on this particular day there was a deafening silence; the atmosphere was cold, isolated, and even more depressing than usual.

Covid-19 made follow-up medical visits equally challenging; after a routine breast exam in June revealed suspicious calcifications, I began interviewing countless medical professionals to chart a course of action. Shortly after the biopsy revealed that I had atypical ductal hyperplasia (open in new tab), my local Florida medical professionals moved to remote care and the hospital stopped all but emergency surgery. Fortunately, I was able to schedule my first appointment with a breast surgeon in person.

The breast surgeon ordered an MRI of my breasts and genetic testing for 48 different cancers. Given my history of breast cancer, these tests were done to rule out any cancerous tumors or lesions that may have gone undetected. The genetic tests were saliva-based and could be performed at home: they were sealed according to the instructions and left with the overnight courier.

The MRI was a difficult process. Again, I was masked and alone; because of a sentinel lymph node dissection (opened with a new tab) on the left side during my breast cancer surgery in 2014, blood could only be drawn from my right arm. My veins tend to play hide and seek, and I was determined to hide this day. After several failed attempts, the nurse inserted the MRI dye through the vein in my hand. Even though I numbed the area first, the pain was tremendous. Masked, freezing cold, and uncomfortable, I closed my eyes and hoped this process would be over soon. But it did not. About an hour later, I was craving fresh air, sunshine, and a hug from my son.

I had remote consultations with two different breast reconstruction surgeons. They taught me about multiple surgeries, breast expanders, tubes, drains, pain, and the grueling process of bilateral mastectomy. I endured unspeakable physical pain, trauma, and recovery. So I felt empowered to go through with that surgery."

After another consultation with my breast surgeon, I was told that there was still time for non-emergency surgeries, including a bilateral mastectomy, which I had hoped to have as soon as possible. Hearing this, I was deflated and anxious.

Yet another appointment was scheduled with my doctor to take lab values, check my health, and discuss my plans. Sitting on the patio on a hot and sticky July evening, I was saddened that these appointments did not include a mental health check. So many instructions, so many tests, so many methodical approaches to my physical body, and yet, "Are you really well?" not a single medical examination included the question, "How are you?

If any of the doctors had asked, I would have replied, "I'm scared, frustrated, tired, and worried." I remember suffering from PTSD after chemotherapy ravaged my body, leaving me 80 pounds lifeless, and the palpable sadness I felt during and after my 2014 diagnosis and treatment began to weigh heavily on me. [My telemedicine visits continue, as does thinking about undergoing a bilateral mastectomy alone in this unforgiving Covid-19 world. For the safety of the hospital staff and the patient, visitors are not allowed to accompany the patient for any reason. It was painfully obvious that I would have to endure this major surgery without support. The simple act of a back rub, the timing of an inside joke, the caring energy that passes from my loved one's hands to mine before they are carried into the operating room, are all irreplaceable parts of the journey I must forgo.

For the first time in this process, I am questioning my decision to have a bilateral mastectomy; I don't want to have surgery until Covid-19 gives me more control. I don't want to endure the mental and emotional burden that comes with the isolation of undergoing a major surgery (and endless follow-up appointments) alone.

I will continue to use this time before the non-emergency surgery to reflect, meditate, and lean into my faith for answers, trusting that I will be guided to do what is best for my future self.