Help Me Heal, Help My Mom Rest

Hi, I’m Donna. I am terrible at asking for help. I don’t think there are enough anxiety meds in the world to make this easy but I have people, primarily my 76 year-old Mom, and my dog depending on me and I promised them I’d ask before I gave up completely. I’m in a dark place right now, physically, emotionally, and financially. And I need help to climb out.

Cancer: The Unwelcome Family Tradition

Cancer has my family on speed dial. On both sides of my family, including my Mom and Dad themselves, cancer runs strong and cruel. Mostly breast, colon, uterine, ovarian, cervical, and prostate, though I dodged that last one in the womb. Just over a month ago, I lost my 74-year-old aunt who fought cancer repeatedly from age 27. I joke with new doctors, “Don’t drink the water at our house” and it’s not terrible advice. (Point of clarification, I technically don’t have a house right now, but explaining that ruins the joke and makes them check my Prozac dosage.)

For years, I begged for early screenings because of pain, lumps, nonstop bleeding, and a list of gnarly symptoms I won’t subject you to unsolicited, dear reader. After too many precancerous polyps removed to count, I decided: If cancer’s coming for me, I’m going to make it fight first.

The Surgeries

I had a double mastectomy, multiple reconstructions, and a radical hysterectomy and oophorectomy. My mastectomy surgeon, Dr. Marla Anderson, and her PA, Dr. Nicole Kramer, were incredible—meticulous, kind, and reassuring. My hysterectomy surgeon, Dr. Karen Hsu, was the same: brilliant, honest, thorough, and supportive. They saved my life.

But my first plastic surgeon? Not so much.

The Reconstruction Disaster

While I recovered from the hysterectomy, I visited my plastic surgeon for wound care, removal of the surgical drains, and fills of the tissue expanders. I knew from the start I wanted to be flat-chested. This “early developer” had two goals: outrun cancer (AKA tiny, flat reconstructed boobies so we would find any cancer early) and run/workout/live an active life without a bra! iykyk Months of appointments and my expander to implant surgery impending, I knew for sure. Despite weeks of infection and complications, I tested the sizes and I was confident: “deflate these suckers, doc!” He tried to persuade me otherwise, told me everyone always comes back for bigger boobs. I stuck to it and we had a surgery plan with agreed upon implants that would just fill in the divots of my empty chest cavity. Or so I thought.

I woke up with D-cup implants. D-cups.

His reason?
“I thought it would look better.”

The complications were endless: infections, damaged tissue, wounds reopening, more infections, red breast syndrome, orange-peel skin. I needed hyperbaric oxygen therapy, infusions, acupuncture, IV antibiotics, wound care, physical therapy—and my sweet 70-something mom became my chauffeur, caregiver, and full-time cheerleader. I moved her in with me after colon cancer took my Dad and I promised her a restful, TCM-watching life of me doting on her. Now she was Momming like her 40-something was a toddler again (and just as emotional). This was not the life I offered her but she never once threw it back at me.

Finding the Right Surgeon

Eventually, I found Dr. Melissa Smith, a true artist who listened to me. She removed the alien implants and replaced them with the size I wanted from the start . . . while discovering the original ones had flipped completely backward. Pancaked! It’s so rare, medical journals barely document it for lack of cases to research, but the consensus is this is what happens when a surgeon leaves too much room in the chest cavity . . . as one would do if they expected the patient to come back wanting even bigger implants.

Two more surgeries later, I’m closer to feeling whole but I still need one final procedure to fix the “dog ears” (triangular skin flaps) left from the first surgeon’s work. It’s the last physical reminder of a painful chapter I want behind me.

Why This Journey Feels Even Bigger

Here’s what most people don’t know:

That’s why one of my biggest goals is to see every U.S. National Park before I go blind. It’s my bucket-list dream and my reason to keep fighting forward. 13 down 50 to go!

Why I’m Asking for Help

Medical debt has buried me. My treatments, extra surgeries, and complications were expensive and unexpected. I still need one more procedure to finish this journey. And I need to provide stability and care for my mom, who’s now facing her own health issues: PE and DVT blood clots, diverticulitis, a bowel fistula, and “something” in her colon doctors suspect is exactly what we fear but can’t fully diagnose without more testing.

I want to give her peace, not more worry.

I want to finish healing.

I want to breathe again: financially, physically, emotionally.

How You Can Help

If you’ve read this far, thank you. It means a lot that you’ve stayed with me through the long, messy, scary, sometimes absurd, very human details of this journey.

Any amount you give will go toward:

If you can’t give, sharing this with someone who might be able to means just as much.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. And thank you for giving a shot at healing: for both me and my mom.