10/29/2026
Four years ago today, October 28, 2022, I was officially diagnosed with cancer.
It is amazing how clearly you remember certain moments in your life, especially those that change its course forever.
My story actually began around Labor Day 2022, when I caught COVID. Three weeks later, I still couldn't shake it off. I was struggling to breathe, with chest pain and pressure that wouldn't go away. At my uncle's insistence, I finally went to the ER one Saturday in late September.
The scans didn't reveal anything concerning, but my oxygen saturation was hovering between 88–92%, and my D-dimer was almost twice the upper limit of normal. I was given a short course of steroids, followed by another two-week tapered course from my physician at Mayo Clinic because my lungs were still struggling.
About a week later, I noticed a painful lump in my left breast. I initially dismissed it as an inflamed lymph node, perhaps another consequence of COVID. But it continued growing, seemingly every day. At my follow-up appointment, the nurse practitioner felt multiple masses. She thought the pain was somewhat reassuring but ordered a mammogram and ultrasound.
October 21, 2022. Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
As I arrived for my mammogram, volunteers were handing out beautiful pink roses tied with pink ribbons. I still have pictures of that rose.
Looking at my mammogram, I immediately suspected inflammatory breast cancer. The radiologist, however, seemed quite unconcerned.
"I don't have any bad news for you," he told me.
He believed it was likely benign and suggested referring me to the breast clinic, which would contact me in two to three months to discuss whether it needed to be removed.
Two to three MONTHS?!
I asked him whether he could be certain it was benign without a biopsy.
He admitted he couldn't.
So I requested one.
He seemed a little annoyed initially, but agreed to place the order. Then he looked at me properly for what felt like the first time. His expression softened, and he decided to put a rush on it.
That was Friday, October 21. My biopsy was scheduled for 8 a.m. on Monday, October 24.
The team performing the biopsy told me the mass didn't resemble any breast cancer they had seen before. It appeared heterogeneous, with a firm capsule, which they considered "reassuring."
Reassuring. That seemed to be the word of the week!
I was told results would take 48–72 hours.
Forty-eight hours passed.
Then seventy-two.
Nothing.
Having spent years working in translational cancer research and alongside cancer patients at various universities and hospitals, I knew enough to be concerned. I also knew that additional testing could delay a pathology report. My mind was already working through the possibilities.
I was preparing myself for bad news while desperately holding on to the hope that it was nothing.
That hope grew a little thinner with every passing hour.
A dear colleague and friend, herself living with metastatic cancer, showed up with a bag full of chocolates and goodies, understanding without needing to be told just how stressful that waiting period was.
My husband knew we were awaiting biopsy results, but I hadn't shared the extent of my concerns. There was little point in worrying everyone before I knew what we were dealing with.
Friday, October 28, 2022. 2:10 p.m.
I was heading to a student poster session. Before leaving my office, I checked the patient portal one last time. Nothing!
As I walked across the covered bridge connecting the buildings, I pulled out my phone and logged in again.
And there it was.
The pathology report had just appeared. I saw it before the notification even reached me.
"Follicular and diffuse large B-cell lymphoma."
Not breast cancer.
Lymphoma.
My first thought was:
Alhamdulillah. Thank God.
I finally had an explanation for what had been happening to my body.
My second thought?
WHAT?! HOW?! NO!!
I walked back into the building, went downstairs, and somehow found myself outside again. I ran into the same colleague again who could tell just by looking at me what I had just found out. I shared the news, and we sat on a bench for a few minutes to pray, talk, and process what I had just read.
The scientist in me had already taken over.
I was thinking about the pathology markers, the possible biological behavior of the tumor, the symptoms I had experienced over the preceding months, and how far the disease might have spread.
I was also worried about what the road ahead would mean for my family. My greatest concern wasn't necessarily what I would have to endure, but how much my illness and treatment might disrupt their lives.
About an hour after I had read my own diagnosis, my physician's office finally called.
The physician was clearly prepared to deliver difficult news, probably following a carefully considered script. Unfortunately, I had already read the report, identified the relevant markers, started thinking about possible treatment resistance, and was ready to discuss the next steps!
I think I momentarily threw her off.
There was a brief silence as she tried to figure out where to begin when I had already skipped through the first half of the conversation.
She told me to expect several calls, keep my phone close, and that they were working to get me to an oncologist as quickly as possible.
I reminded her that "quickly" meant "Monday at the latest", if not sooner.
As I finished the call in the parking lot, I realized my boss was standing beside his car, close enough to know something serious had happened. I wasn't ready to explain. I simply said, "Not now," and got into my car.
Before driving home, I texted a dear oncologist friend I had consulted before the biopsy. She was initially in disbelief but immediately called me.
"Don't worry. This is very much curable, even if it has spread."
Those words meant more than she probably realized.
When I got home, I wasn't sure how to tell my family.
My husband was upstairs working in his office. I sent him a simple text:
"I need you."
I also messaged my siblings and sister-in-law, asking them not to share the news or call just yet. I needed time to process, and I didn't have enough answers to handle everyone else's questions and emotions.
While waiting for my husband, I began doing what came most naturally to me.
I took out a piece of paper and started writing down the tumor's characteristics, immunohistochemical markers, and everything else I knew about the diagnosis.
I needed to understand what was happening inside my body. I needed to think through the science, identify my questions, and determine what came next.
I intentionally waited to tell my parents until I had more definitive answers about the extent of the disease and the prognosis. I knew the uncertainty would be especially difficult for them, and frankly, I didn't have the emotional energy to manage their anxiety while still processing my own.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of appointments, testing, uncertainty, and decisions.
But they were also filled with extraordinary kindness.
Friends sent flowers, chocolates, messages, and thoughtful notes. My students reached out with emails and words of encouragement. Colleagues checked in and offered support.
My former boss and colleagues at Mayo Clinic helped make sure the necessary tests were completed during that critical first week, allowing me to move forward with treatment planning and a clinical trial intended to improve my tumor's response to chemotherapy.
My husband and family carried their own fears, often far greater than the ones I allowed myself to express.
And through it all, I felt an unexpected sense of peace.
Not because I wasn't afraid. Not because I knew everything would be fine.
But because I understood enough to know what questions to ask, what the results meant, what the possibilities were, and how to advocate for myself.
My scientific training didn't make me immune to fear, uncertainty, or cancer. But it gave me something invaluable at a time when so much felt beyond my control.
"Knowledge."
And knowledge gave me a sense of control, direction, and hope.
Four years later, looking back at these pictures; the COVID test, the mammogram, the pink rose handed to me during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, the pathology notes I scribbled down, and the flowers, cards, and faces of those who stood beside me, I am reminded of just how much happened in those few weeks.
I am deeply grateful to God, to the people who loved and supported me, and to the doctors, scientists, and medical teams whose work made my treatment and recovery possible.
But I also recognize something important.
Not everyone receiving a cancer diagnosis has the advantage of a background in cancer biology, access to medical colleagues, or the confidence to question a reassuring answer that doesn't quite make sense.
Not everyone knows how to interpret a pathology report, understand treatment options, or ask for a second opinion.
And no one should need a Ph.D. in molecular biology to feel informed and empowered when facing a life-changing diagnosis.
That is one of the reasons I am so passionate about continuing the legacy of "CancerQuest, the cancer education initiative started by my biology advisor many years ago.
Through CancerQuest and Cellular Journeys, I hope to help make reliable, understandable cancer information accessible to more people, so patients and families can better understand their bodies, their diagnoses, and their treatment options.
Because I know firsthand what a difference that understanding can make.
Knowledge is power. Knowledge brings hope. And sometimes, knowledge gives us the courage to advocate for ourselves when it matters most.
Four years ago today, I learned that I had cancer.
Today, I am grateful to be here, to continue teaching, researching, learning, and helping others navigate their own journeys.
Alhamdulillah. Always. ❤️
