Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes. She is an avid photographer, freelance writer/blogger, wife, mother and grandmother.

Bonnie Annis

Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes. 

Surviving breast cancer changes the way you see your body. Every ache, every spot, every unfamiliar sensation becomes a quiet question: “Could it be coming back?” When a small lump appeared beneath my mastectomy scar, I tried to stay calm. But sometimes, even something small can awaken memories we thought we left behind.

A few months ago, I noticed a tiny bump on my chest, just beneath the faded incision line where my breasts were removed years ago. At first, it seemed harmless — the kind of thing you ignore the same way you ignore a new freckle or an itchy mosquito bite. I assumed it was just a clogged hair follicle, stubborn ingrown hair or maybe a rebellious pore staging a protest.

But as the weeks passed, the bump grew and no longer felt small or harmless. I tried to convince myself it was nothing. After surviving breast cancer and enduring mastectomies, you learn not to panic over every ache and oddity. But as a survivor, you also learn to listen closely to your body.

Eventually, the little bump became a noticeable lump, one that seemed determined to make its presence known. I picked up the phone and called my dermatologist.

The dermatologist examined the area and announced that it appeared to be a small cyst. Easy to remove. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. I nodded, but inside, something tugged at my peace. I explained my breast cancer history to her, expecting that it would shift the conversation into a more serious tone. She assured me that once the cyst was removed, they would do a biopsy to rule out anything concerning.

It felt like someone had cracked open a door I’d worked so hard to close, a door labeled Cancer.

I scheduled the removal surgery for the following week, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed a second opinion. Not just anyone’s opinion. I needed to hear it from the people who once saved my life.

After a few days of unease (and more Googling than any survivor should ever do), I called the cancer treatment center where I’d received my care. I explained everything the bump, the sudden growth, the planned removal and my rising anxiety. A nurse listened and recommended I come in for an ultrasound before any removal or biopsy was done.

Then came the reality that insurance doesn’t always agree with common sense. The cost of the ultrasound was far more than I could manage at the time. I had to decline the appointment, and in doing so, I felt like I had to decline my peace.

Was I making the right decision? Was I risking my health because of money? And how unfair is it that those two things should ever be tied together?

As the days passed, the cyst became larger, redder and downright rude. What once looked like a skin-level annoyance now felt like a tiny alien plotting its hostile takeover.

A greenish fluid with a smell so foul I wondered whether I should name it, call an exorcist, or just petition Hollywood to cast it in the next sci-fi horror film. Even while stressing over it, I couldn’t help but think: If ever there was an infection auditioning for a role, this was it.

I contacted the dermatologist’s office immediately. They asked me to send photos through their online portal. I’ll admit, it felt oddly intimate and slightly absurd photographing this oozing, mysterious creature attached to my chest. But the office responded quickly and confirmed what I had begun to suspect: an infection.

They prescribed antibiotics and hoped the infection would clear in time for the scheduled removal. I hoped so, too. Because at this point, I just wanted the alien evicted.

It’s hard to describe what it feels like to have a cyst or lump in your body after you’ve faced cancer. Even if you know it’s probably nothing, it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like a shadow creeping back into a corner you’ve tried hard to illuminate. It feels like your body whispering memories you didn’t ask to relive. And it feels like fear disguised as responsibility.

As survivors, we’re told to watch our bodies. Pay attention, report changes and keep up screenings. But no one tells us how exhausting that vigilance can be. No one tells us that sometimes, the worry itself feels like another illness. We don’t want to obsess over every bump and blemish, but we also can’t afford to ignore them.Walking that line is harder than anyone realizes.

The night before the scheduled removal, I looked at the spot in the mirror, thinking how strange it is to feel both grateful and terrified at the same time. Grateful that we have doctors, surgery, antibiotics and science. Terrified because scars don’t just mark our bodies, they mark our memories.

Breast cancer taught me that strength isn’t refusing to feel fear. Strength is learning how to walk with fear and not let it dictate every step.

So tomorrow, they will remove this little invader. They will send it to pathology. I will wait. I will pray. And I will breathe deeply, intentionally and without letting the unknown suffocate what I know to be true: I am still here. I have lived through worse. And whatever this turns out to be, I will face it the same way I faced cancer, one breath, one prayer, one step at a time.

And if it truly is just a harmless cyst with an attitude problem, I’ll happily celebrate its eviction. Maybe I’ll even name the scar it leaves behind. After all, I’ve earned every scar I wear.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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Articles

Surviving breast cancer profoundly alters one's perception of their body, with every new symptom potentially signaling a recurrence. A small lump beneath a mastectomy scar can evoke past fears, leading to anxiety and the need for medical reassurance. Despite a dermatologist's initial assessment of a cyst, the author sought a second opinion from their cancer treatment center. Financial constraints complicated access to further diagnostics, highlighting the intersection of health and cost. Ultimately, the experience underscores the emotional toll of vigilance and the resilience required to navigate post-cancer life.

Surviving breast cancer changes the way you see your body. Every ache, every spot, every unfamiliar sensation becomes a quiet question: “Could it be coming back?”

More Than a Cyst: The Fear Cancer Leaves Behind 

Where should I start? I guess I'll start with my first memory of you. I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and was on Facebook looking to join breast cancer groups. I had no idea what I was facing and needed some support. I don't remember which one I met you on, but you took the time to answer one of my posts, and not only that, you offered to come and visit me. You said you'd help me understand some of the things that I was going to be facing. I was both excited and nervous to get your response. I don't normally meet with strangers, and I was scared.

You weren't able to come until a few days after I'd had surgery. I remember when the doorbell rang I was so embarrassed. I didn't want you to see me with the Jackson Pratt drains dangling from my neck. They were so ugly, and my wounds were so raw, but you said you didn't care. You'd already been through that. You knew what they were, drainage tubes that pulled fluid and blood away from the wounds.

Within just a few minutes of talking with you, I felt completely at ease. You smiled a big smile and gave me a bear hug. It was so nice to have an instant friend, one who understood the things I couldn't say.

I wasn't sure at that time whether I would go through with reconstruction surgery as my breast surgeon advised, and I told you so. You threw your head back and laughed. You even offered to show me your “Foobs,” as you called them, fake boobs. You told me they were great and that I'd get a free tummy tuck too. You wanted me to know what they might look like if I decided to go forward with surgery. I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Though I didn't explain, I think you understood I was afraid to look at them. I was afraid seeing them would freak me out.

I don't remember how long you stayed that first visit, but the day seemed to last forever. When it was time for you to go, you promised to come back again soon. I was thankful.

Since that first meeting over 11 years ago, we've done our best to keep up, but often life gets in the way. I love it when we find time to meet for lunch. It's so nice to talk freely, sharing our hopes, fears and dreams. Those times are rare because of conflicting schedules. Thankfully, we can touch base through social media or quick texts. But after each contact, I want more. It's almost like you're a drug, and I need a fix. You're so strong in your cancer walk, and I'm still figuring things out.

One of the things I love most about you is your attitude of gratitude. You've taught me to look for things each day that I can be thankful for, and that has helped me develop a spirit of positivity.

When I look at you, dear friend, I don't see a breast cancer survivor, I see a thriver. I see a brave woman on the outside. I see a woman who is a world traveler, a person who never meets a stranger, and a person who always loves. You give so much of yourself to each who meet you.

None of us know what the future holds, but we know who holds the future. I pray that you will always be safe in your travels, that you will always know you are loved, and that you will always have the opportunity to share your story with others.

You are a blessing, and it is my honor to call you friend.

A breast cancer survivor recounts her first encounter with a supportive friend she met through an online group. This friend, also a survivor, provided comfort and guidance during a challenging time, offering personal insights and encouragement. Over the years, their friendship has grown, with shared experiences and mutual support. The survivor admires her friend's resilience and positive outlook, which has inspired her own journey. Despite life's challenges, their bond remains strong, underscoring the importance of connection and gratitude in navigating the complexities of cancer survivorship.

I never dreamed a stranger could teach me so much about cancer, life and living with gratitude but I'm so glad she did!

A Stranger Who Became a Friend

As a breast cancer survivor, I try to stay up to date on new ways to detect cancer early. When I first heard about a simple blood test called Cancerguard, I sat up a little straighter. The idea that one small blood draw could look for signs of many different cancers before symptoms even appear, it almost sounds too good to be true. If something like this had been around years ago, I can’t help but wonder how my own story might have turned out.

When most of us think about cancer screenings, we picture mammograms, colonoscopies, Pap smears or PSA tests. They’re not exactly things anyone looks forward to, but we do them because they save lives. What’s different about Cancerguard is that it isn’t focused on one area of the body, it’s designed to look for signs of many cancers at once.

The test was developed by a company called Exact Sciences and is currently available for adults between the ages of 50 and 84 who haven’t had cancer in the past three years. It’s pretty simple: a healthcare provider draws a small sample of blood, sends it off to the lab and about two weeks later the results come back. The test looks for certain DNA and protein markers that may suggest cancer could be present somewhere in the body.

But before we can get too excited, it’s important to remember this isn’t a perfect science yet. The test is still fairly new, and while it can point to possible cancer “signals,” it can’t tell you exactly where the cancer is or how advanced it might be. It’s a starting point, a nudge to look deeper if something unusual shows up.

Even so, I think about how powerful that could be. Imagine catching a cancer so early that treatment could stop it in its tracks before it spreads. That’s the kind of hope Cancerguard brings to the table.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, my world came to a screeching halt. Like so many others, I never imagined hearing those words: “You have cancer”

 I lost both of my breasts to the disease and endured treatment that took everything out of me. If a test like CancerGuard had been available back then, maybe things would have been different. Maybe it could have been caught sooner. Maybe I could have avoided surgery.

Those “maybes” still drift through my mind sometimes. But they also remind me why progress like this matters so much. It’s not just about technology — it’s about giving people a fighting chance.

As exciting as this new test sounds, there are still a few things to keep in mind. For one, a negative result doesn’t guarantee you’re cancer-free. The test can miss some cancers, just like any other medical test. On the other hand, a positive result doesn’t mean you definitely have cancer, it just means something unusual was found, and your doctor will likely order more tests or imaging to learn more.

And here’s another important point: Cancerguard isn’t meant to replace your regular screenings. You still need those mammograms, colonoscopies and other check-ups your doctor recommends. Think of this blood test as an extra layer of protection, not a replacement for what already works.

There’s also the issue of cost. Right now, the test runs around $689, and many insurance companies, including Medicare, don’t cover it yet. Hopefully, that will change over time as more research is done and it becomes a standard option.

Even with all its current limitations, I can’t help but feel hopeful. I see so many people diagnosed at later stages simply because no screening existed for their type of cancer. Cancerguard might just be the bridge we’ve been waiting for, the one that helps close that gap.

If you’re in the eligible age range and your doctor recommends it, this test could give you some peace of mind. Especially if you’ve had cancer before and are now in remission, it might offer another way to keep an eye on things.

From where I stand, as someone who’s already been through the fight, that peace of mind is worth a lot. Just knowing there’s something new out there trying to catch cancer earlier brings comfort. And who knows? Maybe one day this kind of test will become as common as a yearly blood panel.

Cancer changes how you see the world. It makes you appreciate every sunrise, every laugh, every normal day. When I read about advances like Cancerguard, my heart swells with a mix of gratitude for what’s being discovered, and longing that it had been here sooner.

But I also remind myself to stay grounded. New doesn’t always mean perfect. As much as I want to believe this test will change everything, I know that medicine takes time to catch up with hope. So, for now, I’ll keep doing my regular screenings, keep asking questions and keep cheering for the science that’s helping others find their cancer earlier than I did.

Every new advancement in cancer detection feels like a small light breaking through the darkness. Cancerguard might not be the final answer, but it’s a beautiful step in the right direction.

For someone who’s already lost much to this disease, I can’t help but feel thankful that something like this exists now. Maybe it will spare another woman from the same scars I carry. Maybe it will help a father see his grandchildren grow up. Maybe it will turn another “if only” into a “thank goodness.”

Until that day comes, I’ll keep spreading the word, sharing what I learn, and holding onto hope — because hope, after all, is still the best medicine we’ve got.

Cancerguard is a blood test developed by Exact Sciences, designed to detect multiple cancers early by identifying specific DNA and protein markers. It is available for adults aged 50-84 who haven't had cancer in the past three years. While promising, the test is not foolproof; it can miss cancers or yield false positives, necessitating further testing. It complements, rather than replaces, traditional screenings like mammograms and colonoscopies. Cost and insurance coverage remain challenges, but the test represents a hopeful advancement in early cancer detection.

As a breast cancer survivor, I try to stay up to date on new ways to detect cancer early. When I first heard about a simple blood test called Cancerguard, I sat up a little straighter. 

When One Blood Draw Could Tell More: A Look at the Cancerguard Test

When my granddaughter unwrapped her new Barbie doll, the one with a white cane and sunglasses from the Barbie disability line, her little eyes lit up. “She can see with this stick,” she said proudly, moving the doll’s cane across the table. Watching her play reminded me of how powerful dolls can be in a child’s life. Through them, children learn empathy, courage and acceptance of differences.

That simple moment got me thinking about Barbie’s creator, Ruth Handler, and how her story connects so deeply with my own. I wanted to learn more about her, so I started scouring the internet and found a lot of information.

Ruth co-founded Mattel, Inc. with her husband, Elliot, and their friend Harold Matson, back in the 1940s. On a trip to Europe, she noticed that her daughter, Barbara, preferred playing with paper dolls shaped like adults instead of baby dolls. That observation gave Ruth an idea to create a three-dimensional fashion doll that allowed girls to imagine themselves as grown women, full of dreams and possibilities. In 1959, Barbie made her debut at the American Toy Fair. Named after Ruth’s daughter, Barbie was unlike anything the world had ever seen. She was stylish, confident and independent, a true reflection of the woman who created her.

But Ruth’s story didn’t end with the invention of Barbie. In 1970, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy. After surgery, she found herself frustrated by the lack of comfortable, realistic breast prostheses. Instead of settling, she took matters into her own hands. In 1976, she founded a company called Nearly Me and designed silicone breast forms that looked and felt natural. They were revolutionary, created by a woman who truly understood what other women needed.

Ruth once said, “When I conceived Barbie, I believed it was important to a little girl’s self-esteem to play with a doll that had breasts. Now I find it even more important to give that self-esteem back to women who have lost theirs.” (Source: Jewish Women’s Archive, 

, by Susan Ware.) In her lifetime, she managed to give both little girls and grown women the gift of confidence through something as simple as a doll and as profound as compassion.

Over the years, Barbie has continued to evolve. There are now dolls of every shape, size and color. Some have prosthetic legs, wheelchairs or hearing aids. My granddaughter’s blind Barbie is part of that inclusive collection, and I love that she can play with a doll that reflects real people in the world around her. Mattel has even created bald Barbies to comfort children going through cancer treatment, helping them understand hair loss and healing.

Recently, while browsing eBay, I came across something special, a Pink Ribbon Barbie that came out in 2006. I believe it was part of a Susan G. Komen Foundation partnership. The doll wore a soft pink gown with a tiny ribbon on her chest, symbolizing breast cancer awareness. I bought her immediately. I didn’t want her just for myself, but to someday give it to my granddaughter. I wanted to help her understand what breast cancer is, and that her own grandmother went through it. Maybe one day she’ll look at that doll and realize it’s more than a collectible: it’s a reminder of survival, courage, and grace.

Still, as much as I love that Barbie, I can’t help but think there’s one missing, a Barbie that truly represents women who’ve had mastectomies. To my knowledge, Mattel hasn’t yet made a flat-chested Barbie or one with faint scars where her breasts used to be.

As a double mastectomy survivor myself, that feels personal. I had surgery in 2014. My children were grown by then, but I often think about how different it might have been if they were still small. How would I have explained my new body to them? How could I have eased their fears when they saw the long, straight scars running across my chest? If there had been a Barbie like that one without breasts, maybe with small, soft scars, I could have used her to show them that Mommy was still Mommy. I would have said, “This is what I look like now, but I’m still strong, still loving, still me.”

A doll like that could make such a difference. For children, it could replace fear with familiarity. For survivors, it would be a quiet symbol of courage and acceptance. And for families, it could start conversations about healing and hope.

Toys have quiet but lasting power. When a child sees a Barbie in a wheelchair, with a hearing aid or with prosthetic limbs, they learn that differences are simply part of life. They learn that beauty doesn’t come in one shape. So why not the same for women who’ve had mastectomies? Why not show that beauty still exists in every scar, every story, every survivor?

I like to think that Ruth Handler would agree. She was a dreamer who saw what others didn’t and made it real. She gave us Barbie to spark imagination and Nearly Me to restore confidence. A mastectomy Barbie would bring both legacies together, inspiring children to understand and women to heal.

As I watch my granddaughter play with her blind Barbie, I imagine a future where she might one day open a doll box and find a Barbie that looks like her grandmother, flat, scarred and strong. Maybe she’d call her “Survivor Barbie.” Maybe she’d see not sadness, but strength. And maybe she’d learn that true beauty doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from survival, courage, and love.

If Ruth Handler were still alive, I think she’d smile at that thought. She knew that dolls aren’t just toys; they’re reflections of who we are, who we love and who we hope to become. Someday, I hope a child will hold a mastectomy Barbie and see what I see, not loss, but life.

And maybe, just maybe, that child will understand what I’ve come to believe with all my heart that even after cancer, and even after the scars, God still paints beauty into every story. Sometimes, He just changes the shape of it.

Ruth Handler, co-founder of Mattel, created Barbie to inspire girls with a vision of adulthood filled with possibilities. Her personal battle with breast cancer led her to develop realistic breast prostheses, further empowering women. Barbie has since evolved to include diverse representations, such as dolls with disabilities, promoting inclusivity and empathy. The author, a double mastectomy survivor, advocates for a Barbie representing women with mastectomies, highlighting the potential impact on children and survivors. Such a doll could foster understanding, acceptance, and conversations about healing and resilience.

How a beloved childhood toy, a visionary inventor and one grandmother’s journey reveal the quiet strength of survival and the beauty found in every scar.

Bonnie Annis

More Than a Cyst: The Fear Cancer Leaves Behind

A Stranger Who Became a Friend

When One Blood Draw Could Tell More: A Look at the Cancerguard Test

Barbie, Breast Cancer and the Power of Dolls in Healing

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