Connie Pombo

A two-time breast cancer survivor urges others to pause and make treatment decisions based on long-term wellbeing, not fear or medical pressure.

Thirty years ago, when I first heard the words, “You have breast cancer,” I never imagined I would still be here today to tell the story. I was just 40 years old at the time — young, full of plans and the mother of two growing boys. Now, approaching my 70th birthday, I realize I’ve lived nearly half my life with cancer. And with that time has come wisdom — hard-won, but worth sharing.

In the beginning, I was overwhelmed. There were so many decisions to make — quickly, it seemed. I wish someone had told me to pause. Breast cancer is not a medical emergency. You have time. I wish I had taken a breath and told myself, “You will survive this. You will see your sons grow into men. You will watch them graduate from high school, then college. You will dance at their weddings and hold your grandchildren in your lap.”

But I didn’t pause. In my rush, I trusted the process and followed advice that, in hindsight, wasn’t fully informed. A series of medical errors meant I never knew the actual size of my tumor. That critical piece of information got lost somewhere between appointments and assumptions. It wasn’t until after a lumpectomy and radiation that I discovered the mistake. By then, it was too late.

At the time, the medical trend was to “save the breast.” Lumpectomies were heavily promoted, and survival rates were presented as being equal to those of mastectomies. What wasn’t discussed as openly was what survival might look like twenty years down the road. The longer you live, the greater your risk of recurrence or, in my case, a second primary cancer.

I’m still surprised — shocked, really — that I let a surgeon talk me into a lumpectomy because a mastectomy would “ruin” her numbers. She was under pressure from the medical community and her peers to follow the trend — lumpectomy over mastectomy — since survival rates were said to be the same. But no one prepares you for how you’ll feel if cancer returns to that same breast, or worse, if a new primary emerges with a more aggressive personality and requires chemotherapy. No one talks about the emotional and physical toll of going through it all over again. Do you really want to face that a second time? Medical trends may shift with the years, but the consequences of your decisions stay with you for life.

Twenty-two years later, that’s exactly what happened. I was living abroad when I received the diagnosis: another tumor, this time in the same radiated breast. But this one was not a recurrence — it was a new cancer with a completely different personality. I often call it the “evil twin.”

This time, I made a different choice. I opted for a bilateral mastectomy with no reconstruction. It was the decision I wish I’d made the first time, but back then, I felt pressured and uninformed. I also chose adjuvant chemotherapy, and I did it all while navigating a foreign medical system in a Spanish-speaking country. It wasn’t easy, but it was right for me.

Now, I’m a two-time breast cancer survivor. I speak, write and advocate for others facing similar decisions. And the most important advice I give is this: You have time. Don’t let fear rush you. Don’t let anyone else’s agenda or bias dictate your path. Make the decision you will never regret. Make the one that aligns with the belief that you will live a long, vibrant life — one filled with purpose, love and unexpected blessings.

At nearly 70, I can say with confidence: I made the right decision the second time. And I have no regrets.

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Articles

A breast cancer survivor reflects on her 30-year journey, emphasizing the importance of informed decision-making and the emotional toll of treatment choices. Initially overwhelmed, she followed medical trends favoring lumpectomy over mastectomy, which led to a second primary cancer years later. This experience taught her to prioritize personal well-being over medical trends. She advocates for taking time to make decisions, resisting external pressures, and choosing a path aligned with one's long-term health and happiness. Her story underscores the lasting impact of treatment decisions and the value of patient empowerment.

After 30 years with breast cancer, I urge others to pause, reflect and choose care based on long-term wellbeing, not fear or pressure.

Breast Cancer Survivor Reflects on 30 Years, Urges Informed Decisions

My surgeon spoke in subdued tones, quoting statistics and survival rates, but I stopped listening. Fear drowned out his words. This can’t be happening to me! None of it seemed real. I was 40 years old and in the best shape of my life — yet my body still betrayed me.

The following weeks were a blur of tests, more biopsies and second opinions. At one point there were three doctors in the sterile-looking exam room — all delivering more bad news. I went from lumpectomy to double mastectomy within seconds. Laughter mingled with tears as I contemplated still more decisions.

Two weeks later, all the results were in, and I only had “half” as much cancer as they originally thought. I would just need a lumpectomy and radiation.

On the last day of treatment, which I know was a great relief to everyone on staff, I received the news I never wanted to hear — words about my survival rate.

I don’t remember walking out into the dimly lit hospital parking lot, how I drove home that evening, or how the dozen pink celebratory roses made it from the car to the kitchen table, but I faced my mortality for the first time.

To cheer me up, my husband flew me to California to visit my parents. And seven days later, in quiet desperation, my parents sent me back on a plane bound for Pennsylvania. When my husband picked me up at the Baltimore Washington Airport, his face was marred by shock and disbelief. I was in far worse shape than when he left me.

As we drove up the driveway to our home, I noticed the backyard had been perfectly landscaped. There were colorful flowerbeds where mounds of dirt had been. And in the center of the yard was a beautiful pink dogwood tree in full bloom. I pointed to the tree and asked, “What’s this?”

My husband gazed into my eyes and said, “This is our ‘tree of life.’ We’re starting a new chapter in our lives.” For the first time in weeks, I saw a glimmer of hope; it was brief, but it was there.

The next few weeks allowed me to build on that tiny glimmer, and one afternoon as I looked out at that pink dogwood tree in full bloom, I asked myself the question. What if I only had a year to live, what would I do differently? I randomly wrote down 27 things I wanted to do before I died. They included such things as taking a trip to Italy to visit friends, enrolling in a photography course, going on a cruise, writing a book and number 27: parachuting out of an airplane.

Mark picked up the list and read each one out loud. Afterward, he announced, “I’m going to help you accomplish every one of those goals and when that list is finished, we’ll write another one and another one…for the rest of your life.”

That was 27 years ago and today I’ve accomplished every one of those goals, except parachuting out of an airplane.

Since her cancer diagnosis, Connie has achieved everything on her bucket list except parachuting out of a plane. 

I’m thankful for cancer in many ways. Not that I want to relive the events of the past 27 years, but I can’t imagine my life without them. Cancer forced me to realize that life is fragile and that none of us is promised tomorrow. It allowed me to pursue the desires of my heart instead of working just for a paycheck. Cancer helped me to prioritize my life and not let opportunities pass me by.

On our 30th wedding anniversary, we celebrated with a cruise to the Bahamas and under moonlit skies, I said a silent prayer and thanked God for allowing me to experience life by facing my mortality.

Life has become a series of celebrations, big and small. But the greatest joy of all has been seeing my boys through safe passage into adulthood. They are both married with children of their own and are pursuing their passions which my experience with breast cancer taught them to do.

Now when I look in the mirror and see a “few” gray hairs covered with caramel highlights and wrinkles — I call them laugh lines — I smile back and say, “What did I do right to deserve a second chance at this gift called life?”

This post was written and submitted by a CURE reader. The article reflects the views the author and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

Cancer forced me to face my mortality — and in doing so, I crafted a bucket list and embraced the true meaning of life.  

Connie Pombo

Breast Cancer Survivor Reflects on 30 Years, Urges Informed Decisions

Cancer Allowed Me to Embrace Life

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