Through­out Oc­to­ber, WE Life & Cul­ture will share the sto­ries of breast can­cer sur­vivors, pa­tients, care­givers and oth­ers on the front­line of the fight against the dis­ease. Through their ex­pe­ri­ences, we hope to raise aware­ness, en­cour­age ear­ly de­tec­tion and re­mind our read­ers of the im­por­tance of sup­port, strength and hope.

Shas­tri Boodan

One morn­ing in 2019, Fern Hamil­ton Mc Con­ney woke up and ex­am­ined her­self and dis­cov­ered a firm lump in her breast.

She was con­cerned.

But she thought it was noth­ing se­ri­ous.

So she car­ried on with her life.

Months lat­er, while strand­ed overnight at Pi­ar­co In­ter­na­tion­al Air­port, a chance en­counter with an old school col­league would force Fern to con­front what she had been try­ing not to think about.

Her for­mer school­mate was a nurse in an on­col­o­gy unit.

Fern told her what had hap­pened- an un­usu­al, brown­ish dis­charge and her self-ex­am­i­na­tion. The nurse lis­tened — and urged her to get it checked.

That con­ver­sa­tion would be­come one of the most im­por­tant mo­ments in Fern’s life.

The 43-year-old moth­er of three, from Belle Gar­den, To­ba­go, even­tu­al­ly went to the Pink Room in To­ba­go, where she un­der­went blood­work, imag­ing and fur­ther tests. Then came the di­ag­no­sis. In­va­sive breast can­cer.

“I was in shock and dis­be­lief.”

Those words still car­ry the weight of that mo­ment.

Fern had known some­thing was wrong. But know­ing some­thing and hear­ing a doc­tor con­firm that you have can­cer are two very dif­fer­ent things.

At first, she did not even tell her hus­band.

She went to work that same mid-morn­ing and tried to func­tion nor­mal­ly, al­most as though noth­ing had changed.

But every­thing had changed.

Be­hind the nor­mal rou­tine of work and every­day life was a woman sud­den­ly con­fronting fear, un­cer­tain­ty and the pos­si­bil­i­ty that the fu­ture she had imag­ined for her­self and her fam­i­ly might no longer be guar­an­teed.

Even­tu­al­ly, she told her hus­band. To­geth­er, they de­cid­ed to seek a sec­ond opin­ion. With­in two days, they trav­elled to New York in the Unit­ed States. The di­ag­no­sis was con­firmed.

That was when the re­al­i­ty tru­ly hit her. It was al­so the on­ly time dur­ing the or­deal that Fern cried.

What fol­lowed would be­come one of the hard­est chap­ters of her life: chemother­a­py, ra­di­a­tion, med­ical ap­point­ments, ex­am­i­na­tions, ex­haus­tion, the loss of her hair and the loss of her strength.

There were days when the phys­i­cal de­mands of treat­ment were over­whelm­ing and the emo­tion­al bur­den was just as heavy.

Yet Fern was not fight­ing on­ly for her­self. She was a wife, a moth­er of three, a daugh­ter, a friend, a mem­ber of a church fam­i­ly and she was go­ing through treat­ment.

She knew that the peo­ple who loved her were al­so liv­ing through their own fear.

“Can­cer did not af­fect on­ly me; it af­fect­ed my en­tire fam­i­ly.”

Her hus­band stood be­side her.

So did friends, nurs­es, mem­bers of her church fam­i­ly and oth­ers who of­fered en­cour­age­ment through­out the jour­ney.

For Fern, their sup­port be­came part of the treat­ment in its own way. Can­cer, she said, taught the fam­i­ly not to take life—or one an­oth­er—for grant­ed.

Her med­ical jour­ney be­gan in To­ba­go, but even­tu­al­ly took her over­seas. She trav­elled to New York for a sec­ond opin­ion and lat­er to Mary­land.

Her ex­pe­ri­ence gave her a deep­er ap­pre­ci­a­tion of the im­por­tance of screen­ing, ear­ly di­ag­no­sis, treat­ment, spe­cial­ist care and con­tin­ued fol­low-up.

But while doc­tors and med­ical pro­fes­sion­als were help­ing her fight the dis­ease, Fern was draw­ing strength from an­oth­er source, her faith, which was not some­thing she dis­cov­ered af­ter can­cer.

It was some­thing she car­ried with her in­to the bat­tle.

Through­out the di­ag­no­sis and treat­ment, she be­lieved God was with her and would sus­tain her re­gard­less of what she faced.

One par­tic­u­lar ex­pe­ri­ence in Mary­land re­mains deeply etched in her mem­o­ry.

Fern trav­elled there and at­tend­ed her par­ents’ church, where Evan­ge­list Thomp­son prayed for her and anoint­ed her.

She re­ceived the prayer in faith.

Days lat­er, when she re­turned for a scan, she said she re­ceived news that left both her and the doc­tors sur­prised.

The can­cer­ous cells had shrunk and were no longer de­tectable on the scan.

For Fern, there was no ques­tion about how she in­ter­pret­ed the mo­ment.

It strength­ened her faith.

She be­lieved God was work­ing in her sit­u­a­tion.

“I give God the glo­ry for bring­ing me through.”

The Bible verse that re­mained close to her heart through­out the or­deal was Psalm 46:5:

“God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her.”

Even­tu­al­ly, af­ter treat­ment and fol­low-up care, Fern was dis­charged with a clean bill of health.

Then came an­oth­er piece of pa­per she had been long­ing to re­ceive — a let­ter stat­ing that she was fit to re­turn to work.

It was more than per­mis­sion to go back to her job.

For Fern, it rep­re­sent­ed a re­turn to life.

Af­ter the di­ag­no­sis, the treat­ment, the fear, the ex­haus­tion, the prayers and the un­cer­tain­ty, she had been giv­en an­oth­er op­por­tu­ni­ty. She went home a dif­fer­ent woman. Stronger. More ground­ed. And deeply grate­ful.

To­day, Fern works as a cor­po­rate com­mu­ni­ca­tions co­or­di­na­tor.

And sev­en years af­ter her di­ag­no­sis, she re­mains in re­mis­sion.

She con­tin­ues to take her health se­ri­ous­ly, un­der­go­ing reg­u­lar scans and blood tests as part of her on­go­ing med­ical fol­low-up.

But while can­cer re­mains a chap­ter in her life sto­ry, Fern re­fus­es to al­low it to be­come the whole sto­ry.

“Can­cer changed my per­spec­tive on life. The things that once seemed im­por­tant no longer car­ry the same weight. Life it­self has be­come more pre­cious. Fam­i­ly means more. Faith means more. Each new day means more.”

She does not for­get what she en­dured.

But she does not al­low the ex­pe­ri­ence to de­fine her neg­a­tive­ly.

In­stead, she sees her­self as a woman who was giv­en an­oth­er op­por­tu­ni­ty — to live, to love, to serve God and to en­cour­age oth­ers.

That is why she has cho­sen to tell her sto­ry.

She knows there are women who may be fright­ened by a change in their bod­ies.

Women who may dis­cov­er a lump and de­cide to wait.

Women who may no­tice an un­usu­al dis­charge and con­vince them­selves that it is noth­ing.

Fern un­der­stands that fear.

She lived it.

Her mes­sage now is di­rect.

Do not ig­nore your body.

Per­form breast self-ex­am­i­na­tions.

At­tend rec­om­mend­ed screen­ings and mam­mo­grams.

And if some­thing does not feel nor­mal, seek med­ical at­ten­tion.

Fern knows she de­layed get­ting checked.

“I ini­tial­ly de­layed seek­ing med­ical at­ten­tion, and look­ing back, I re­alise how im­por­tant it is not to al­low fear to make us pro­cras­ti­nate.”

The les­son, she be­lieves, is sim­ple.

Fear may tell you to wait. But ear­ly de­tec­tion gives you a chance to act.