Everyone knew long before we were willing to admit it to ourselves, which feels like the opening scene of any solid, cheesy made‑for‑TV movie. Most people assume we were high school sweethearts—because of course we were. But we weren’t. What we were, instead, were partners in crime. “Yes” friends. When my then‑strict parents loosened their grip just enough to let me out of their crosshairs, I was either flying down a gravel back road or hovering dangerously close to a Thursday‑night bonfire, always with my now‑husband somewhere within my line of sight.
Through our twenties, we lived separate lives that somehow stayed tethered. I moved through North Carolina, Texas, and Tennessee, with generous stretches of time spent in Wisconsin, Arizona, and Massachusetts. Meanwhile, he was building a career as a wildlife biologist, living in the quiet, remote corners of Nevada, Minnesota, Montana, and Nebraska. And then, without knowing it, we both moved back to our home state of Oklahoma—just two weeks apart.
Not long after, everything shifted. We crossed the line, fell deeply in love, planned an elopement, and then stared at two unmistakable pink lines on a pregnancy test. It was everything we had hoped for. Everything we wanted.
Monday, July 22, 2019
9:00 a.m.
I waddled—truly waddled—through the hospital halls, dragging an overpacked bag “just in case.” I muttered every curse word I could think of because somewhere deep down, I knew this was my last chance to be angry. Anger wouldn’t have a place in what was coming. Not if I wanted to survive. Not if I wanted to win. That’s never been who I was, so it wasn’t who I was going to become.
Thursday, July 18
3:30 p.m.
At my 38‑week OB appointment, I sat quietly while the familiar lump in my breast lingered in the back of my mind. I’d been told it was fibrous, something to watch, a normal change in a new mama’s body preparing to breastfeed. But I knew better. I felt it in my bones.
As the PA started to leave, I pulled off my black peplum top—the only shirt still willing to stretch over my very pregnant body—and asked her to feel the lump. The look on her face said everything before she ever spoke.
Friday, July 19
10:00 a.m.
I met Dr. Frame, the kindest man. My best friend came with me for strength as I shared my family history. My dad died of colon cancer when I was six. Yes, I’d had multiple colonoscopies. I stayed on top of it. My grandpa had recently passed from cancer, and we’d learned just before his death that he carried the BRCA1 gene mutation. I was heavily pregnant at his funeral. Still, there was no history of breast cancer. None. Zero.
Dr. Frame performed an ultrasound and a biopsy. I spit into a tube for genetic testing. Looking back, I realize his calm, unreadable expression—on a day when I was 38 weeks pregnant and wildly hopeful—was the greatest kindness he could offer before the weekend arrived.
Saturday, July 20
I spent the weekend cleaning every corner of the house. The nursery still needed organizing, but my baby was firmly wedged somewhere near my lungs, showing no interest in an exit plan. And for that, I was grateful. I thought I had weeks. Time to prepare.
Monday, July 22, 2019
8:00 a.m.
My husband stayed home that morning. You know—just in case.
I posted in a Facebook group of friends and creative peers, sharing my biggest dream: to write a book.
8:04 a.m.
Dr. Frame called and opened with, “Kiddo.” And I knew. I don’t remember much after the word cancer. Tears came fast and hard, my eyes turning into fountains.
I crawled into bed, gasping between sobs, while my husband, Damon, wrapped me in his arms and whispered, “Just cry. Just cry.”
9:30 a.m.
We drove toward Tulsa, where my OB was ready to meet us and make a plan. That drive gave me exactly one hour to call the people who needed to hear it from me before the news spread on its own. If you have a big family, you understand.
Then my phone rang. My sweet OB asked if I was ready to have a baby.
I wasn’t. But I said “yes” anyway. An emergency C‑section followed.
2:04 p.m.
Elsie James Taylor entered the world roughly six hours after I learned I had breast cancer. I have never been more grateful that I insisted on waiting to find out her gender. We needed that surprise. And she was—she is—perfect.
While lying on the operating table, my nurse anesthetist, Elliot, gently swept my hair from my face as I cried. No one prepares you for the moment when your husband and brand‑new baby are ushered out so doctors can put you back together.
So there, under bright lights, I said the words out loud for the first time: “I have breast cancer.”
Elliot answered softly, “I know. And we have you.”
Tuesday, July 23
My surgeon visited our hospital room for our first official meeting. He carefully explained what the biopsy showed and what the next week of testing would reveal now that Elsie was safely outside my body. He knew my mind was spinning, so he left detailed notes.
Mammogram. PET scan. Ultrasound. MUGA heart scan. MRI.
We later learned that what we thought was one tumor was actually three.
Triple Negative Breast Carcinoma.
BRCA1 positive.
Stage III.
No lymph node involvement.
Twenty weeks of chemotherapy.
A double mastectomy.
Six weeks of radiation.
Reconstruction.
I learned my diagnosis on the exact day I was meant to—when I gave birth to my daughter. I wasn’t forced to choose between her life and mine. I believe the tumor was there before Elsie ever was, but I needed to bring her into the world first.
The truth is, this baby saved my life. She gave me the courage to say, “Feel this.”
Friday, November 15, 2019
10:00 a.m.
Today, I receive my eighth chemotherapy treatment. I have eight more to go. I’ll spend the day with my favorite nurse, Andrea. My baby will spend the day with my best friend, Stephanie. And my quiet, steady husband will sit nearby, coloring in his wildlife coloring book while Benadryl lulls me into a nap.
All I know is this: it isn’t fair. Cancer is never fair. It doesn’t care about age, income, location, race, or occupation. It simply does its job of being the absolute worst.
As an unknowing BRCA1 mutation carrier, my risk was high. It was in the cards.
Now, it’s in the cards to leave my body. Because I have a lot of living left to do—and a precious baby to love, and rock, and teach everything I can.
So if you take anything from this, let it be this:
We don’t wait.
We don’t wait and see.
We get answers.
Every single time.
