🎧 Listen to this wave

The story behind the ribbon

Pink. It is such a beautiful color. Feminine. Soft. It can be elegant. It can be strong. It can be childish. It can be girly. And it is also power. Yes — power. Because pink represents a battle that a lot of women have to fight.

October is the pink month. It is the month of the warriors. It is a month of hope and consciousness. It is when breast cancer shows its face in a cute costume — when it doesn’t look as bad as it really is. Some people walk to create awareness. Some people donate because it is the right thing to do. And others just wear pink because it is cute, or because it is good for business.

When I was going through my fight with cancer, it was a roller coaster. The kind of roller coaster that scares you the most — the one where you don’t know how it is going to end. How many turns you are going to take. How many loops, how many ups and downs you have to go through. And there is not a short moment. Every second counts. Every decision you make counts.

I started doing my mammograms when I was about 18, because of cysts. I was never scared — I was just doing it because I have to. But for some women, they don’t care about checking their breasts or doing the personal exam. They don’t even think about going for a mammogram. I think that is the reason why the pink costume is kind of important: so that women who don’t see the reality of cancer may become conscious and schedule a mammogram. And if there is cancer in your family, you should also do the genetic test — which I did. It is not time for my daughter to do it, but I keep reminding myself that as soon as she is old enough, she needs to take it.

In 2015, I was diagnosed with cancer. I remember driving to the doctor’s office thinking: what is going to happen with my baby? Who is going to take care of my mother? To be honest, I wasn’t thinking about me. I was thinking about them. So I called my husband and I told him: we need to make arrangements. Who is going to take care of the baby if something happens to us? And we established what was to happen to her if we were not here. I remember him crying with me in a parking lot. He was praying to God to save me, telling Him: I will take it, but don’t leave my daughter without her mother, because she needs her.

Time passed. I had a small surgery — a lumpectomy. Then I was on medicine for five years. Everything was good. I continued with a normal life. I wasn’t even thinking about cancer.

I remember the first awareness walk, and people just get emotional about that. For me it was like: what am I doing here? Cancer is not my friend. And I don’t need to be here to celebrate it. I understand we are grateful for the opportunity to be a survivor — and it is a way to tell other women: hey, go and have a mammogram.

After that first walk, somehow it felt good. I was saving my pink T-shirt, thinking: oh, this is the year I was diagnosed. Thank God nothing happened. I am good. I finished my five years of pills.

Then, in 2020, I lost my daughter’s father to pancreatic cancer, with metastasis in the lungs and the brain. It was a long battle. Not long — but painful. It was during COVID. After 2020 it was me taking care of my daughter. And I was two years cancer-free.

Then, in 2024, I went for my regular mammogram. By that time it was a rotation — every six months a different test: mammogram and sonogram, then the MRI, then repeat. The office manager called me. With the years we had become close, so it wasn’t a surprise to hear from her. She said: the doctor needs to see you. I said: why? She said: you know I cannot tell you. So I said: okay — I guess I have cancer. She said: I cannot say anything, but you need to come.

Right now I understand the weight of “you need to come right now.” It was not my first time.

I went over there, but this time I didn’t have anybody to call. This time I was alone — with my mom and my daughter, no significant other. I got to the office with my best smiley face, but in my brain I knew exactly what the news was. The doctor said: yes, you have cancer. We can wait and see what happens — treat it with radiation, with chemotherapy — or we can remove it. You will have to do the mastectomy.

I was quiet for a minute. And then I said: if I am going to go through this now for one, why not do it for two at the same time? He was like: what? I am really proud — because most women don’t want to go through one, and you want to do both. That is the smartest thing you can do.

I have a baby. I have a mother. If I am not here, who is going to take care of them? I don’t want to be going through this every three months. They said: okay, we can wait a little bit. I said: no. No waiting room. We need to take care of this right now.

I asked the office manager to recommend a plastic surgeon — the one she would use herself, or the one she would take her mother or her sister to. She suggested two. She called the office — and by divine sign, he was standing next to his office manager when she called. She explained I was a friend of hers and I needed to see the doctor. And he said: it is lunchtime. She can come now. I can wait for her.

He explained the different options to me. Then he asked if I had any questions, and I said: yes — how much is this going to cost me? Because on top of being sick, on top of being diagnosed with cancer, I need to be responsible for my family.

I started crying, and I told him more or less my story. Oh my God — he was an angel. He said: no, don’t worry. We are going to take care of you.

That was on a Friday. The whole weekend I was thinking about it. By Monday I called him with a thousand questions — I had a full notebook. He saw me again. He was funny. He asked: do you like empanadas? Of course I like empanadas — who doesn’t? He said: okay — so you pay me with empanadas. And don’t worry. I don’t want to see you cry.

We scheduled my surgery, and sure enough, every appointment I showed up at his office with empanadas, pastelitos, cakes, sugar for the office. I felt like I was part of that office family somehow. I am very grateful for him in my life.

I went through multiple surgeries. I ended in the ICU after the first one. It was scheduled to be twelve hours — but my plastic surgeon added a new doctor to the team, and they worked like in a synchronized ballet. One was cutting, the other one was sewing, the other one was preparing — and they just danced around my body, from my stomach, where they took the flaps for the transplant. One doctor was working on my breasts, another on my belly. Four surgeons on my body at the same time. It was eight hours.

I woke up in the cardiac ICU. The next morning a nurse brought me one of the heart pillows they give to cardiac patients — when they cough, they don’t hurt themselves. I asked her if she could give me another one, because it was comfortable to put my arms on top of that. She went and found two big pillow hearts that kept me company for the long wait I was there. Long after, they were with me in bed at home and at my friend’s house. But then I was thinking: I don’t need to celebrate cancer. So I let them go.

My mother couldn’t take care of me because of her age — and that is when I needed to learn how to let go a little bit. Somebody else needs to drive this boat. My friend took care of me. She took me to her house. My daughter was staying with the parents from school — different ones: one took her in the morning, the other picked her up at night. My aunt, who is like my second mom, came to assist me. She stayed for maybe a month or two. I needed help to go to the bathroom. I needed help to stand up. I needed help to clean my wounds — and she was always there, willing to do it without hesitation. She has always been there for me. Like a real mom. I love her so much.

Somehow I understood that somebody else was driving the boat now — the one in control. The real captain. God was driving my boat, and finally I understood that He is the one in control. So I had to release this small sense of control and allow people to help me. And when I say “allow,” it is because I was never a receiver. I am always the giver. And for the first time I had to surrender — and allow people to help me. Allow people to get closer and be kind with me, with my family. To take care of my daughter. To take care of my mother. To take care of me.

People showed up at my house with food. Even with money. Somehow God touched every person around me — people that knew me, and people that didn’t. They showed up to help. Coworkers sharing their stories. It was a touching year.

I learned gratitude from cancer. That is what I always say: what does cancer mean to you? For me, it means gratitude. Because a lot of people came to the rescue. And without these people, I don’t know if I would be able to be standing here today. I am grateful for all of them — for my doctors, for the nurses.

Oh my God, the nurses. I couldn’t move anything. My arms were so painful. My whole body was painful. And one day one of the nurses came to me and said: do you want me to brush your hair? I was in tears. At that moment, that simple act of kindness was the world for me. When you cannot move your arms, you are in absolute pain, alone in that room, and this lady comes just to brush my hair — I was crying on her chest while she was brushing my hair. That was one of the best moments of cancer. And I have a thousand stories like that.

The people at work are also very important to me. They guided me through the paperwork — which is a lot. I was able to work from home, and that is what allowed me to keep my income. A meal train was started — people showing up at my house with food, with money. It was enough to cover my bills. Another friend, with the church’s men’s group, put my name in as a mother who needs assistance — and they sent me another check that covered another month of bills.

Somehow everything was covered. Everything was done by the grace of God. He was covering me. He was protecting me.

When I look back, I think cancer was a teacher. It taught me gratitude. It taught me that I need to release control. It taught me that I need to let go and let God be — because He was providing. He was taking care of everything.

But recovery has its own mirror. After I left the hospital, I was looking at myself and seeing all these cuts in my body. I looked like Frankenstein’s wife. Cuts everywhere: my stomach, my breasts. Bruises all over because of the fat transfer. We did so many things. It was like I was put together with super glue.

I started looking in the mirror and I didn’t recognize the woman there. The breast is nothing important, people say. At least you are alive. But you have to live with the constant reminder, when you look in the mirror, that you are a survivor. No matter how you want to look at yourself — that reminder is there. And it is not a pretty one.

Somehow I started feeling comfortable, but something was obviously missing. We scheduled another surgery — the implants, another liposuction and fat graft. Painful — but my body was getting used to the pain. The recovery was easier on the outside, but not inside. Thinking about not being there for my family was more painful than the physical cuts and bruises.

This time my surgery looked a little bit better — but still not symmetrical. My right breast, the good one, was down and out of place. My nipples were removed in the first surgery. Now I have two perfect circles in place. Not bad — but not right. The recommendation was to have them tattooed. I had a consultation, but honestly, that is not for me. I decided to wait until I was comfortable with my surgery, and somehow happy with it.

We had another revision surgery, but honestly the result was about the same. You can kind of cover it with the bra — but the right one is still lower. Still no nipples. More bruises. More cuts outside. More pain inside.

Nobody understands how this makes you feel in the morning — when you shower, when you look in the mirror. You try to feel better, to ignore it, to be grateful — but the reminder is still there.

Four surgeries in about eight months. Christmas was coming and I needed to be strong for my daughter. Money was tight, and I felt lonely. Grateful — but the weight of cancer was still on my shoulders.

I shared my daughter’s Christmas list with my Christmas elves, and they ordered absolutely everything from her list. Once again, allowing people to be there for me showed me the miracle of Christmas. They were the magic of my daughter’s Christmas that year.

New year, new life. February came with the news of my mother having breast cancer too. But this time I was prepared. I knew what to do and where to go. Once again, my cancer had something else to teach me: I got it first, so I could help my mom through her process. We used the same doctors, the same hospitals. One thing was different: her cancer was aggressive, and she needed similar surgeries as mine. She needed radiation. Chemo was not an option — the damage would have been worse than the benefit. She is still taking pills and having checkups regularly. We did genetic testing — and I tested positive for BRCA. My daughter is too young to be tested.

At some point I was thinking of documenting my journey and sharing it, as many other women have done. But I didn’t want to put myself out there and expose my daughter. I took pictures almost every day. We had a farewell party for my breasts before my surgery. That was my way to be present — and trusting that cancer was leaving me.

It has been about two years after my last surgery. I learned gratitude, letting go, trust — and provision from God.

But deep inside I am still angry. Angry at being alone, at having to be strong for everyone — and somehow not feeling supported and loved the way I wanted to be. Sometimes the weight of the responsibilities is too heavy, and I am tired. I want to share my weight. But cancer is an old story — nobody wants to hear it after the first surgery.

I am still scared. I am still looking at that woman in the mirror. Somehow I feel like I became so strong and so rigid that I forgot to smile. I forgot to have fun. And I am very demanding, very strict — because I feel I need to have my daughter ready to fight the world when I am no longer here. So I push her hard to be better every day — and maybe I am pushing too hard. My stress level is too high, and I need to make another change. A deeper one — in gratitude, in love, and in trust. Because regardless of whether I am here or not, she has her own journey. And I am here to guide her and support her.

I think I need to stop getting in my own way. I think I need to stop pretending to be a strong woman. The thing is — when I am not strong and I show my weakness, when I show the real me — there is nobody to support me. Not at all. My mom — maybe because of age, maybe she is just different — she has a different way to show love. And my daughter is a teenager going through the learning process of how to be herself. Her priorities are friends right now.

I do not want to spend the rest of my life simply surviving. I want to live it.

Maybe Wave 68 is about telling the truth: behind every pink ribbon there is a real woman, with real scars, real fear, and a real heart that is still beating.

When was your last mammogram? If there is cancer in your family, have you asked about the genetic test? And when was the last time you let someone help you — really help you?

Here is what I am asking you to do. Two things.

First: know your body. Touch your breasts. Learn what is normal for you. Schedule the mammogram — do not wait, do not postpone it because you are afraid of what you might find. Fear is not a reason to skip it. Fear is the reason to go.

Second: if cancer has touched your life — as a survivor, as a daughter, as a friend — share your story. Someone out there is sitting in a waiting room right now, scared, alone, wearing her best smiley face. Your story could be the one that tells her she is not alone. Share it. Tag it. Let your wave reach her.

— TodayWaves

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