Looking Back: The Signs I Didn’t Yet Understand

Looking back, I can’t help but ask myself—what symptoms were early warning signs that something more serious was going on?

In early March 2026, I began experiencing episodes of pressure in my left arm along with numbness in my fingers. However, I have cording at my surgical site and this can cause tightness. Most of the time, I can manage it with stretching on my own. This was followed by chest pressure and a constant tightness in my arm. Naturally, this raised concerns about my heart, and I went to the emergency room. My bloodwork came back normal, and the CT scan of my chest didn’t show any vascular issues.

Then came the pain in my left hip and lower back, also beginning in March. It felt like a deep ache—tender to the touch and hard to ignore. I was starting to not sleep on my left side because of the pain—even though that’s the side I’ve always slept on. Over spring break, I decided to try running to prepare, even just a little, for the upcoming track season. I ended up walking more than running. Every time I tried to pick up my pace, I felt intense pain in my hip and back. It got to the point where I could barely lift my left leg as high as my right. After about a quarter mile, I had to stop and walk, even considering calling my son, Gavin, to come pick me up.

At the time, I assumed I had pulled a muscle. I tried everything—ice, heat, ibuprofen, stretching—but nothing touched the pain. I called the MHS Health Clinic and was able to get in right away. They prescribed muscle relaxers, but those didn’t help either. The following Monday, April 6th, just after Easter, I called again. That’s when they recommended an MRI along with starting physical therapy.

I wasn’t able to get in until Friday, April 10th. That day was long—nearly three hours for the MRI, both with and without contrast. Looking back, I remember asking the technician if it usually took that long. She told me they needed to image three different areas and repeat everything with contrast. At the time, I didn’t think much of it—but I do remember the look in her eyes. There was a quiet sympathy there that now feels different in hindsight.

That same afternoon, I went to physical therapy. During the evaluation, it was clear I had reduced mobility on my left side due to the hip and back pain. The therapist also noted that my hips seemed misaligned and thought we could work on that over the coming weeks. He gave me one exercise I could do without pain, and I went into the weekend not thinking much beyond that.

Then Monday, April 13th changed everything.

I received a message to call the clinic about my MRI results. After my third block class ended, I made the call. The nurse’s voice was gentle but heavy as she said, “Unfortunately, the results show that your cancer is back.”

I felt numb. Completely in shock. How could this be happening again?

I broke down on the phone, and she cried with me. At that point, they didn’t yet know where it had originated or how far it had spread, but she assured me they had already contacted Dr. Hake and that next steps were being put into motion.

I sat there in my classroom, sobbing, unsure what to do next. Eventually, I walked down the hallway and went to a coworker’s room. When she opened the door, all I could say was, “My cancer is back.” I felt like I was going to collapse. She held me as I cried uncontrollably.

The questions flooded my mind: How is this happening? Why? Is this a new cancer, or is my breast cancer back? Where else is it in my body?

After some time, she gently said, “Let’s get you out of here.” She gathered my things, walked me out of the building, and assured me she would take care of my next class and inform the track coaches.

When I got home, I was on the phone again with a nurse, trying to process everything. My son Graysen was home sick and could tell something was wrong. When I got off the phone, I went to him, and he held me as we both cried.

I called my parents and waited to reach Andy. When he called before track practice, he said he was coming straight home.

That evening, we still went to Gavin’s home track meet—it was senior night. We walked out onto the track with him, and I held onto that moment as tightly as I could. Watching him race brought a sense of normalcy, even in the middle of everything unraveling.

After the meet, we told Andy’s parents in the parking lot. Later at home, we told Clara, who cried and held me tightly. When Gavin got home, we shared the news with him. He didn’t say anything—he just turned and walked downstairs. Later, Andy went to him and reminded him that he didn’t have to be strong right now. When Gavin came back upstairs, he wrapped his arms around me, and we both cried together.

Tuesday, I went to work. I didn’t have appointments yet, and I felt like I needed to prepare—just in case it would be my last day in the classroom for a while. Throughout the day, the calls started coming in. By then, I knew I had a PET scan scheduled for Wednesday.

I made sub plans, copies, videos—everything someone would need to just press “play.” By the end of the day, I had prepared enough for the next week and a half. After school, I gathered my math team and administration and shared the news. They were incredibly supportive, immediately stepping in to help—taking my quizzes with them to grade and telling me not to worry about school they will take care of everything. 

As they left, I hugged each of them. Then I finished a few last things, stood in my classroom, and closed the door with tears in my eyes—knowing this might be my last day there for a while.

The fear of the unknown is overwhelming. It’s hard to trust that God has a plan when your world feels like it’s been completely turned upside down. I was—and still am—angry, confused, and scared.

But I’m here.
Taking this one breath at a time.
Navigating this next chapter as it comes.