I was told I had an STI. It was actually cervical cancer

Since I was uninsured, they gave me a number for my local hospital. Trying to get that biopsy appointment was a nightmare—you could only call at certain times and the hospital would only have a few appointments per day.

I’m like, Okay, I might have cancer. Maybe I can get a biopsy, or maybe not, depending on how lucky I get. I couldn’t get an appointment with the hospital, so I called every clinic within a freaking 50-mile radius to see if someone would see me.

I finally found a clinic with a doctor who examined me, rushed my biopsy, and called me with the results the same day: I had cervical cancer, specifically a cancerous mass that wasn’t picked up on previous screenings.

I was extremely stressed and scared, but I immediately went into problem-solving mode. I was like, This sucks, but just like I didn’t know how I’d pay my power bill last month, I’d figure this out. I was more concerned about the financial aspect: The doctors told me I would need to have radiation almost every single day and chemotherapy once per week for three months, and that I couldn’t work as much during that period.

Still, they assured me that they dealt with this type of cancer all the time and that I shouldn’t be too concerned. But the treatment wiped me out. I’d put my kids to bed and then literally sit in the bathtub and cry. However, I kept reminding myself that it was just three months—I could do anything for three months.

On November 8, 2016—Election Day—I went in for a follow-up. A resident sat with me in the waiting room before the doctor came in. He was somber, saying “You’re so young,” to which I responded, “Thanks, how old are you?”

Then he started to cry, telling me that the cancer had metastasised and had spread to my lungs and liver. The actual doctor finally came in, put his hand on my shoulder, and repeated the news.

He told me they’d only been scanning my abdomen and pelvis throughout treatment, so they didn’t realise the cancer had spread. I was told there wasn’t much they could do for me at that point—the doctor gave me as many as 24 months left to live and as little as 90 days if I didn’t get treatment.

I was so angry. How did my symptoms keep getting overlooked? A very nice nurse had to walk me back out to my car—I was absolutely hysterical. Who would take care of my kids? That really screwed me up, because nobody’s going to love your children the way you do.

But I had to keep trying. I had to be here for them, so my mindset quickly shifted. That night, I mass-emailed every oncologist I could find. I needed a second opinion.

Eventually, one doctor responded and offered to examine me. She said, “It doesn’t look great, but you’re 32, which makes me think you’re young enough to withstand the treatment. You’re a mom. We should try.”