My name is NICOLE DRAYTON. I’m a proud Trinidadian, a daughter, a sister, a friend—and now, a breast cancer survivor.
This is a continuation of my story—the day I stepped into the gayelle—not with a stick in my hand, but with courage in my heart—ready to fight for my life.
I must be honest: while I am a fighter, chemotherapy often leaves me feeling weary, and it has taken me some time to gather the strength to put my experiences into words. But today, I am here, in truth, to share my journey—the fear, the pain, the small victories, and the moments of unexpected grace. This is my story, not just of survival, but of resilience, hope, and unwavering faith.
Fast forward to the days after March 11—my double mastectomy, with no reconstruction. I was learning how to navigate life without breasts, something I had carried with me since I was eight years old. I refused reconstruction because, in my heart, I knew I could live a normal life once I healed. The thought of more surgeries to “look normal” felt traumatic. I wanted this to be a one-time event—to heal and move forward, without prolonging the pain.
In the meantime, my clothes hung loosely on me, empty where my breasts had been. With my inverted triangle shape—broad shoulders and narrow hips—I joked to myself that my figure now resembled Winnie the Pooh, but we work with what God gave us.
The first days after surgery were painful. My chest felt tight, as if I had a terrible chest cold. Bandages wrapped my upper torso, and two drains collected fluids from my surgical area. Moving was necessary but calculated—each step measured, each bathroom trip deliberate. I woke early to watch the sunrise, doing breathing exercises, and wore T-shirts to help stimulate healing under my right arm.
I am eternally grateful for my mother, who stayed with me, cared for me, and listened when I needed to talk. Living alone, it’s usually just me and George, my noisy kitchen lizard, but my Bagatelle neighbours, including Ms Pam and her family, checked in frequently. Their kindness carried me through those first days.
Friday, March 28, was when the pain of healing truly hit. It felt like razor blades digging into my right underarm as my body adjusted to this new version of me. My chest itched under the bandages, while menopausal hot flashes surged. I was miserable.
Eventually, the bandages and drains came off. At my follow-up at St James Clinic, I saw my chest for the first time. I was relieved to see the healing progressing well—but my surgical results weren’t ready yet, and I would have to return in three weeks. That’s when worry crept in. In my mind, I had removed my breasts—shouldn’t that have been it?
Those three weeks flew by, but the news that awaited me was devastating. During my surgery, four lymph nodes under my right arm had been removed—and three of them were cancerous. The surgical team needed to return to operate under my right arm.
Shock.
Tears.
Fear.
Another surgery loomed. I took a deep breath, prayed, and surrendered to God. The weeks leading up to the surgery blurred together. I spent a weekend in South with my sister/friend Natalie Yearwood, trying to relax, returning home numb yet hopeful. I prayed: Thy will be done.
Monday, May 26, at 6:30 am, my ex Neil drove me to St James Medical. My nerves were frayed, my blood pressure a worry. My sister/friend Anna-Lisa greeted me at 7 am, chatting about my long eyelash strips. I barely listened—I was too focused on the day ahead. At 9:30 am, I was prepped, and by 1 pm, my name was called for surgery. I give thanks for the surgical team who made sure I was okay, always. There was even a moment of levity when I realised my left eyelash had disappeared—laughter amidst fear.
Another drain was placed, this time just one on my right side, and the healing began again.
Six weeks later, the report came. Eighteen lymph nodes were removed, and 12 were cancerous. In total, 22 lymph nodes had been removed. Chemotherapy was next. Because of this second surgery, I now have to protect my right arm from Lymphedema, a condition caused by a compromised lymphatic system. I am right-handed.
Shock, again. Not the news I had expected. Low moments came. I prayed, I hoped, I accepted. I had already faced a slight stroke, bad knees, a total hysterectomy, high blood pressure, and anaemia. And now this. Yet I asked again: What is the test in this testimony? Thy will be done.
Before starting chemotherapy, I needed a few tests to ensure my body could handle the treatment. On Friday, July 11, at 9:10 am, I had my echocardiogram at Port-of-Spain General Hospital. I felt my heart beating beneath the cold gel, wincing in pain as the pressure touched my healing chest. I watched my heart on the screen, fingers crossed, hoping it was strong enough for the battles ahead.
I have faced much in my life, yet here I am, still standing. Still praying. Still believing. Still asking, What is the test in this testimony? Thy will be done.
