On October 16, 2018, I became the 1 out of every 8 women diagnosed with breast cancer. With virtually no history of the disease in my family (I was told my maternal great-grandmother wasn’t close enough in the family line to be considered), I was shaken but not entirely shocked, because I’d had an indication something was wrong in December 2016 when I’d discovered a small, rubbery patch of skin on the outer curve of my left breast.  


     After my initial discovery, my doctor assured me it was nothing. Two years, three mammograms and two ultrasounds also uncovered nothing but being told that I had “dense” breast tissue; however, in March 2018, my breast shrunk a whole cup size and felt as hard as a rock. Still, the mammogram that was ordered revealed nothing. 


     Finally, a new doctor took one look at my breast and promptly ordered a biopsy, and a week later, I was told that I had Invasive Lobular Carcinoma, or ILC. I sat in the office chair, willing my eyes to remain dry until I could escape to the safety of my car, and once there, I wept.


     And prayed.


     And believed that God would allow nothing to touch my life that would not be for His glory and my good. At the prompting of the Holy Spirt, I called Johnnie Nash — a woman whom I knew from church — and upon hearing my news, she admonished me to never utter the words, “I have cancer.” 


     Instead, she reminded me that I had a “diagnosis of cancer” that would have to yield to the word of God, and that she would be in prayerful agreement with me that I would be healed; in fact, I was already healed — I would just need to walk in it. She literally spoke words of life to me.


     On January 29, 2019, a day before my 56th birthday, I underwent a single mastectomy, and in what could only be described as a miracle from heaven, the 20-centimeter tumor that had infiltrated my whole breast and caused it to retract had not spread the disease to my lymph nodes. 


     “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” said Dr. Jones, my surgeon and a Christian herself. 


     Despite no spread, my oncologist strongly urged me to take chemotherapy, but I was resistant. Again, the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit confirmed the belief I held in my heart that I did not need to. I told her that while I was not dogmatically against chemo, I just didn’t believe that was the direction that I should go. 


     As a last option, she prescribed an Oncotype test that, based on the score, would determine whether chemo would be beneficial or not. A score of 25 would be the determining factor. At first, my insurance refused to pay for it, but after a peer-to-peer consultation, the insurance company relented — another miracle! My score of 16 revealed that chemotherapy would, indeed, not be needed, but radiation was strongly suggested, so I went through 25 rounds, with no burns to my skin or other ill effects.


     Today, I am thankful for my life and for the scar that is etched on the skin across my heart. I consider myself an overcomer and I share my story for the glory of the Lord, because it is truly because of His tender mercies toward me that I am still here.


“ … I went through fire and through water; But, You brought me out to rich fulfillment.” – Psalm 66:12  


Wrinthia is a  Mississippi girl who relocated to California seven years ago, Wrinthia currently teaches high-school English and is a trivia buff, a “Jeopardy” contestant wannabe, and a jazz lover.