If the fight against breast cancer were a sport, I think—despite the word “fight”—it wouldn’t resemble boxing at all. It would be much closer to a pentathlon.

Boxing, and similar combat sports, rely largely on a specific kind of physical strength, along with technique and speed. A pentathlon, on the other hand, demands that competitors move through completely different disciplines, each requiring its own kind of strength, skill, and pace—alongside endurance, flexibility, and a vast, ever-adapting skill set. Everything has to be summoned at once if you want a chance at winning.

And of course, I don’t mean to diminish boxing or boxers in any way—far from it. There were moments when I would have gladly borrowed a bit of that skill set along the way, especially when someone irritated or upset me unnecessarily.

But during the constant switching and planning of treatments, it truly felt as though I had to perform at a high level in multiple sports at the same time—for a prize that happened to be my life. A prize for which, unfortunately, I also lost the illusion of any real guarantee.

If I wanted to stretch the metaphor even further, I might call it pentathlon × Russian roulette…

But let’s leave the drama for now and return to the sport itself—to the next discipline I had to face: surgery.

Even though my treatment plan began with chemotherapy, the planning for surgery started right at diagnosis. In my case, the original plan was a lumpectomy—a surgery that removes only the tumour rather than all breast tissue. For that to be possible, the tumour has to be small enough relative to the size of the breast, so it can be safely removed with clear margins—meaning no cancer cells are left at the edges.

My tumour wasn’t small enough for that initially, but there was hope that chemotherapy treatment might shrink it enough to make the smaller surgery possible. That was one of the reasons for the chosen sequence.

When you know there is something inside you that doesn’t belong there, the instinct is simple: you want it out—immediately. I felt exactly the same. I would have preferred to start with surgery right away, even if it meant a more extensive procedure. But the MDT—the multidisciplinary team of oncologist, surgeon, and radiologist—convinced me that starting with chemotherapy was the safest.

As my imaging results and biopsies came in, and as I read more about the different surgical options, I began to question, however, whether I really wanted the smaller operation.

First, the word “lobular” appeared—a type of cancer that isn’t just a single solid mass, but can also have a more diffuse, web-like pattern. In my case, it wasn’t only one or the other—it had elements of both. And that diffuse component doesn’t always show clearly on imaging.

The scans themselves weren’t entirely consistent either—something suspicious on one would be invisible on another. Altogether, it created a sense of uncertainty about what was truly there in my breast—or even in both breasts.

Given that I already tend toward health anxiety, I started to feel that even if the tumour were successfully removed with a lumpectomy, I would live with constant fear—of recurrence, of hidden disease, of something being missed. And that would inevitably affect my quality of life.

There were also practical concerns. The original plan wouldn’t have left my breasts symmetrical. There was a chance of needing further surgeries if clear margins weren’t achieved. And the risk of local recurrence was somewhat higher.

Meanwhile, in the background, my own personal “research marathon” was in full swing. I read articles, watched videos, joined breast cancer support groups on social media. I even contacted an organisation that arranged phone calls with local survivors who had undergone these surgeries. I immersed myself completely. I needed to be certain I wouldn’t regret whatever decision I made. After all this was the body I needed to exist in for my entire future, my life, and the quality of it. And that mattered greatly.

Gradually, I realised that—for me—a double mastectomy felt like the most reassuring option, even knowing that overall survival rates are similar between the two approaches.

The MDT initially disagreed. They advocated for the less extensive surgery. They were understandably hesitant to operate on a breast that showed no disease. They were concerned about the increased risks of a larger operation, potential complications, and possible delays in further treatment. Their approach was to proceed step by step, doing only what was strictly necessary.

But every time I imagined myself after a lumpectomy, I felt only anxiety. A deep, instinctive no. I knew that—even if it wasn’t the most “medically conservative” choice—I had to make the decision that would give me the most peace of mind.

Due to the difference in views, I was referred for a second opinion at a specialist cancer hospital. There, they listened carefully to my reasoning and made sure I fully understood the risks. But they didn’t argue with me. They understood my position.

And finally, the decision was made: a double mastectomy with implant reconstruction.

Still, in the background, there was a lingering unease. I had pushed for a decision that my local team hadn’t fully supported. So alongside facing a major surgery—with zero prior surgical experience and significant health anxiety—I also carried the added fear that if something went wrong, it would be seen as my mistake. That people would think, “we told you so.” That I would have to live with the consequences of having chosen this path.

And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to change my mind. Not even when those closest to me gently tried to steer me toward the less risky option.

Stubbornness? Maybe, partly.
But more than that, I feel I had no real alternative. This was the decision that made sense to me—both rationally and emotionally. It aligned with how well I know myself. And somewhere deep down, instinct—perhaps even something more spiritual—was guiding me in that direction. To go against it would have felt like betraying myself.

By the time I reached this point, I was already exhausted on every level—The chemotherapy has taken its toll on my body. Mentally and emotionally, I felt like I had already completed a marathon. A research marathon, an emotional rollercoaster, a debate tournament…

And yet, the hardest part was still ahead: the actual procedure.

That’s why I say: not boxing.
Pentathlon.

Or perhaps… pentathlon to the power of ten.