There is a strong history of breast cancer in my family, and the fact that I have dense breasts adding to my risk of developing the disease, kept me vigilant about getting a yearly mammogram screening since I turned 32. The test never showed any suspicious lesions over the last nearly 2 decades, and I’m not a carrier of the BRCA1/2 gene mutation. Still, I never became complacent about the importance of early detection and adhering to my mammogram screening schedule.
In the fall of 2024, I switched my care to a new breast center near my home, a serendipitous decision that potentially spared me in the future from being diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer. Although, just like with my earlier screenings, the mammogram found no signs of breast cancer, a couple of weeks later, I received a call from the breast center offering me a follow-up screening with magnetic resonance imaging (MRI). There was no cause for concern, the center assured me. The clinic had just initiated a new screening program for patients with a family history of breast cancer and I qualified to participate in the program.
Unsure about what to do, I consulted first with my gynecologist, who said the MRI wasn’t necessary because I’ve always had normal mammogram results, and then with my primary care physician who disagreed. She countered that the screening was warranted given my family history and dense breast tissue. I’ll always be grateful to her for that advice.
I had the MRI a few days later, and anxiously awaited the results to appear in my patient portal. What I read shocked me—and then made me angry. The report said that a mass in my left breast was invasive ductal carcinoma. Having worked for cancer nonprofits most of my career, I knew what those words meant: I had cancer.
A subsequent biopsy of the tumor found that I had grade 2, stage II, estrogen receptor-positive, progesterone receptor-positive, HER2-negative breast cancer. A fluorescence in situ hybridization (FISH) test later revised the diagnosis to HER2-positive disease.
Knowing that I had an elevated risk for breast cancer, I admonished myself for not advocating for additional screening sooner.I trusted that the mammogram alone would be accurate and sufficient. But I should have known better, and I engaged in a series of what ifs. What if I hadn’t had the MRI; would the tumor have grown large enough over the next year to be picked up on a mammogram exam, and would the cancer have been stage IV by then and too late for a cure?
After those feelings of self-recrimination ended, the fear set in and hasn’t left.
Taking Back Control
My surgical oncologist reviewed all available options with me, and I opted for a bilateral mastectomy. As the mother of two daughters, I wanted to do everything I could to be here for them for many years to come. I also wanted to move forward without constantly looking over my shoulder at cancer.
I had breast reconstruction with implants immediately following the surgery to remove my breasts, and mentally—and physically—that was a very positive outcome for me. Having cancer shatters the normalcy of your world. Being able to restore my physical appearance helped to restore some of that normalcy, and gave me back a semblance of control.
On May 31, 2026, Charaighn Sesock ran in the San Diego Marathon in celebration of cancer survivorship and in gratitude for the scientific advances that made her recovery possible.
Now, I had another hurdle to overcome. Because the FISH test reclassified my diagnosis from stage II, estrogen- and progesterone-receptor-positive, HER2-negative breast cancer to HER2-positive disease, I had to quickly find an oncologist to prescribe adjuvant chemotherapy.
I found an incredible oncologist who guided me through the next phase of treatment: 12 weeks of nab-paclitaxel in combination with trastuzumab-anns (a biosimilar to trastuzumab), followed by 9 months of trastuzumab-anns alone every 3 weeks.
I had always prided myself on my physical strength and mental agility. I’m a marathon runner, a parent, and I have a very satisfying, but high-demanding career. I’ve always been someone who can manage multiple responsibilities at once. But cancer exhausted me, and quickly became another full-time job I had to integrate into my life. I’m only now regaining my physical strength and I’m still contending with the debilitating effects of chemo brain. I’ve had to redefine what resilience means to me. It’s been a difficult journey, but I’ve learned that life isn’t just about pushing through challenges, but adapting to them as well.
Ringing the Bell
Although the cancer treatment was physically and emotionally demanding, it did its job, and I now have no evidence of disease. I’m currently receiving tamoxifen, and I’m hoping that the drug keeps me in long-term remission. But the fear of recurrence never goes away. It’s part of a new reality I’m learning to live with.
I felt immense gratitude on the day that I rang the bell celebrating the end of treatment, but achieving that milestone didn’t mean that the pieces of my life are fully put back together. I’m now coping with the next phase in my cancer journey: long-term survivorship—and the uncertainty that comes with it.
Judging Cancer’s Lasting Impact
I’ve been irrevocably changed by cancer, and that’s neither a good nor bad thing. In some respects having cancer has made me more resilient, more grateful, and more empathetic. It’s also made me more fearful, and I need time to process cancer’s effect on my life to fully judge its lasting impact.
I feel incredibly lucky and grateful to be alive. Every time I sat in the chemotherapy infusion chair, I thought about all the scientists researching effective therapies for breast cancer and the patients before me that made it possible for me to survive cancer. I carry that gratitude with me every day.
Comingled with my fear is immense hope for my future and the future of every individual who hears the words “You have cancer.”
I recently ran a marathon in celebration of cancer survivorship and to honor all those who are making it possible for us to not only survive but to thrive after cancer.
Charaighn Sesock, 52, lives in Dublin, California. She is a senior strategic communications leader in the health-care industry.
Editor’s Note: Columns in Patient’s Corner are anecdotal, based on information received from patients.
