“It really hurts to have sex,” I told my doctor. “Like, a lot.”
I was sitting in a hospital gown on the exam table at my family practitioner’s office in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It was the same table where I’d sat through both of my pregnancies and where, three years earlier, I’d been diagnosed with breast cancer.
“I’m so sorry,” my doctor said. “I know how it feels to go through menopause. Especially since you went through it overnight.”
She was the one who diagnosed me with cancer. I’d found a small lump on my right breast and called her office immediately. Our appointment fell on Halloween 2017, and she was dressed up as Snow White, wearing full face paint and a black wig.
“You are one of the lucky ones,” she said, as I sat on the table and cried. “You don’t need chemotherapy, and you’re going to be okay.” My doctor was right — I was lucky. I’d caught it early, and with breast cancer, early detection is everything.
