You could say that cancer has been the uninvited guest to a big portion of my life. It has played an overwhelming part in who I am, yet it taught me how to live my life fearlessly.

I lost my father to throat cancer when I was six. Enduring that loss taught me how to handle deep sadness. I also learned strength—how to be strong for my mother who mourned my father’s passing every day until she died in 2018. I learned that being raised by a grieving single mother was hard, and I determined that when I became a mother, I would dedicate my life to ensuring that my children would know they were more than enough to handle whatever life tossed at them.

I had no way of knowing then that I, too, would soon be handling what life had in store for me.

At age twenty-two, when I least expected it, I was told, “You have Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” I was a single mother of a two-year-old who was forced to embark with me on part two of my cancer journey. The next year and a half consisted of chemo, radiation, bad wigs and lots of explanations about what I was going through. And yes, answering questions from well-intentioned people who felt compelled to ask me what my life expectancy was. From that I learned restraint—to not say what I was thinking when thoughtless questions were asked. I developed a deep well of admiration for the people who cared for me. I learned to cherish the true relationships that are few and far between. I learned to not accept less and to ask for more.

At age thirty-seven, a lump in my left breast sent me to my doctor who referred me for a mammogram at a community medical center. You may be surprised to learn that when they suggested a biopsy following a mammogram and an ultrasound, I was annoyed and almost didn’t schedule the appointment, thinking that this was an unnecessary procedure. Looking back, there were several reasons for my reaction. In addition to my own denial, no one explained to me that the lump was suspicious for cancer, possibly in an attempt to avoid freaking out the patient. And as a younger woman who had never had a prior mammogram, I did not realize that a referral for a biopsy implies a possible malignancy; I simply thought they suggested another test because they didn't see anything with the first two tests. It was my primary care doctor who first used the word "cancer" on the phone when I called to ask if it was a waste of time to get a biopsy. He had read the report and knew it was important to be blunt with me. Two weeks later I was diagnosed with Stage II invasive ductal carcinoma. I was incredulous; I was the first person in my family to be diagnosed with cancer. As a footnote, there is very likely a cultural component to my confusion about mammograms. Even now, despite my cancer diagnosis and everything I have been through, my mom has never had a mammogram as she believes that mammograms are overprescribed.

Among those cherished few were my oncologist who was compassionate and comprehensive with my care, and most importantly, my sister Lisa, who came to every appointment with me. Poor thing, I think she suffered more side effects than I did, having to absorb all the news and be a rock for me at the same time.

I learned humility—to not be embarrassed by my diagnosis or my appearance. My mother taught me never to leave the house without brushing my hair, but what’s a young woman to do if she doesn’t have hair?!

Eventually, as my daughter and I settled into our new normal, life went on, cancer faded into the past, and I learned to live without fear and yet to be vigilant. I took a job in Chicago, and Bert went off to college in Colorado. Cancer was not going to scare me out of living the life I wanted and the one I wanted for our daughter. Over the next six years, many trips were made home for doctors’ appointments and follow up scans, not to mention an occasional check-in on Bert to make sure he knew he might still have a chance with me!

In 1998, he got that chance. The planets aligned, and I figured if I didn’t explore this relationship fully, I would never forgive myself. I wanted to have another child, and since we had such a beautiful daughter, why not have another.

Life was good; I had a great job, the love of my life and the father of my smart, beautiful daughter was by my side. And then my wish came true and another daughter was on the way!

I had a few health issues during that calm period, but NO cancer! Believe me, I checked every bump, lump, spot, cough, you name it; I checked them out. I watched for every sign. I was not scared, just diligent.

Maintaining that vigilance stopped a bullet on June 3, 2016. There it was, ductal carcinoma in situ (stage 0 breast cancer), probably the result of my radiation treatments. My proactive approach to life had paid off, and I felt like I got to call the shots! On June 28, 2016, I underwent a double mastectomy and thought to myself, “I GOT THIS!”

But exactly two months later, cancer tossed me another curve ball! Bert was diagnosed with stage IV follicular lymphoma! What were the odds of that?

I had to dig deep and dredge up all of my life’s lessons. I relied on yoga and mind-body practices. They were my saving grace. Bert’s and my entire life together had centered around my health issues, but in the blink of an eye, I went from not only being a patient, but also a caregiver. Our girls not only had a mom who was dealing with breast cancer, but now a father who was battling cancer too.

Bert and I grew together during that time. I respected the fact that although I was able to tell my cancer story, he was nowhere near ready to tell his! So as a family, we kept his cancer experience secret. Suddenly, our financial disagreements were insignificant, and the decision not to sweat the small stuff became our mantra. I saw a strength in our girls that I’m not sure we taught them, but they clearly learned and practiced with grace.

Although I hated cancer all those years for taking my father and robbing me of a more carefree, young adulthood, I was thankful for what it taught me: to live life and not fear it; that in great sadness there is strength; to face what is ahead of me and be courageous; to ask for what I want from life and not settle for less. My dad’s cancer taught me to appreciate him and our life together in a whole new way. It also taught me to be thankful for the people in the healthcare profession, because they give of themselves like no others. I learned that outer beauty comes from inside and we are all more beautiful in our broken places.

So, today I have an enhanced appreciation for being alive, an enhanced appreciation of people’s differences, and an improved knowledge that we are all more alike than different, especially when faced with cancer.

Resilience has brought me true love. Love of myself, my family, love that is lost and love that is found.

I hope that everyone takes the time to think about life’s lessons and share them. We all have a story to tell, so tell yours and lead with love!

Cyndi Tomlinson has been a business executive in retail for over twenty years and is the Founder and Executive Director of More Than Enough Foundation, as well as a proud member of CSAC. She is a wife, mother of two, and two-time cancer survivor who has learned that being diagnosed with cancer is a lifelong experience.

USC Norris Cancer Survivorship Advisory Council Blog provides a broad range of opinions which do not necessarily represent the opinion of the USC Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center. This and all information related to cancer, cancer treatment and healthcare should be discussed with your physician.