Keena’s Story
Waking up at 37 years old, life quickly changed
What a Year
One day, you wake up—you’re 37, raising three kids, helping support a friend starting breast cancer treatment and losing her hair. And then you feel it: that lump. The one you had paid little attention to suddenly starts waking you up in the middle of the night as you roll over and bump it.
You do all the right things—you get it checked. You and your GP decide it’s worth investigating but likely nothing to worry about. You wait three weeks because the nearest breast clinic is 700 kilometers away in Perth, and you already planned a footy weekend with your husband.
The day comes, and while you’re trying not to worry—reminding yourself that you had a fibroadenoma removed from the same breast just two years earlier—something feels different this time. Everything, from the waiting room you’re placed in to the serious look on the doctor’s face during your biopsy, is different. Gone was the chatty, friendly doctor from last time. This time, everything felt cautious and serious.
That was my experience. I think I knew right then that the news wasn’t going to be good, but I had no idea how bad it would be.
The next day, my GP called me in earlier than planned and gave me the news: I had breast cancer. I was alone and in shock. I don’t think I processed much beyond those words. I arranged to come back the next day to discuss it further with my husband by my side.
Everything that happened next happened so quickly. By that afternoon, we had flights booked for Sunday and an appointment with Dr. Willsher on Monday. I remember telling my kids that night during dinner—I blurted it out, probably not the best way to handle it.
Russell asked me why I couldn’t have at least waited until after they’d finished eating. We made quick arrangements for the kids and flew to Perth.
From Stage 3 to Stage 4
The first thing Dr. Willsher told me was that, while my biopsy showed stage 3 HER2+ breast cancer, more scans were needed for a clearer picture. I didn’t want to stay in Perth, but we decided Russell would fly home while I stayed with family to complete the scans.
After a delayed flight, I was back home by Wednesday night. On Thursday morning, after sending everyone to school and work, I got the phone call. They asked if I had anyone with me for support, and when I said no, they gave me the news anyway: stage 4 cancer, with metastases to my liver, spine, and lymph nodes.
I felt like my world had imploded. I knew nothing about cancer, but stage 4 sounded bad. The words “it’s treatable” kept running through my mind, though I didn’t really understand what that meant. When Amanda, my metastatic breast care nurse, called that afternoon to answer my questions, I couldn’t comprehend why my treatment wouldn’t end. I assumed that meant I wouldn’t be around for long.
Over time, my perspective changed. I credit so much of this to Dr. Peter Willsher and Professor Arlene Chan, whose positive words about treatments, new drugs, and stories of women living decades with metastatic cancer gave me hope. I wanted so desperately to be one of those women because my family needs me.
Starting Treatment
I was grateful when Arlene took over my care after Peter explained that surgery wasn’t an option for now and I needed to start chemotherapy immediately. Amanda organized for me to begin chemo the day after I met Arlene, sparing me the mental strain of waiting.
I began 12 weeks of weekly chemotherapy and spent the first month in Perth, away from my kids. That was the hardest part. With support from PATS, I started flying weekly to Perth: blood tests, an overnight stay at Crawford Lodge, chemo, and a flight home the same night.
I managed to keep my hair until the end of that first month. As a hairdresser, I thought I wasn’t that attached to my hair—but I was wrong. Losing it was hard. Until that point, I could leave the house looking well. Once I started wearing wigs and scarves, there was no hiding anymore.
By week nine, my first scan showed the treatment was working, and the tumour in my breast had physically shrunk. Around this time, I decided to undergo genetic testing. While it wasn’t covered by Medicare, I pursued it because my maternal grandmother had passed from breast cancer in her 40s. The results showed I was a carrier of the CHEK2 mutation, which helped me decide to have a bilateral mastectomy after completing treatment.
If I could tell my newly diagnosed self that one year later I’d feel well and live a normal life, it might have taken some of the fear away. I hope sharing my story does that for someone else.
KeenaToday
Surgeries and Recovery
On October 31—Halloween—I underwent a mastectomy and reconstruction. It was more “trick” than “treat,” but I got through it, continuing to fly to Perth every three weeks for treatment just in time to start radiation in January.
Those five weeks away from my family for radiation were the hardest thing I’ve ever done. FaceTiming and Snapchatting my kids helped me push through. I’ve been a runner on and off since having my babies, and running daily—even during chemo and radiation—helped me stay sane. I also saw an exercise physiologist through Genesis Care, which boosted my mental health and positivity.
In February, I had a total hysterectomy. It wasn’t a hard decision—I’d already decided I didn’t need those parts anymore, and the needle I’d been receiving to shut down my ovaries wasn’t pleasant. My gynaecologist recommended a full hysterectomy, and I felt confident in my choice.
Later that year, I underwent two more surgeries: one to move my implants from behind the muscle to above it, due to discomfort from radiation, and another to replace the expanders with permanent implants. While my breasts will never look the same as before, I feel more comfortable and accepting of them now.
One Year On
Today, I continue to fly to Perth every three weeks, though now I can usually fly up and back in one day. My scans are stable, and I hope they stay that way for a long time.
Looking back to June 2023, I can’t believe everything that’s happened. Through it all, life has continued—family, friends, community.
If I could tell my newly diagnosed self that one year later, I’d feel well and live a normal life (with a few extra trips to Perth), it might have taken some of the fear away. I hope sharing my story does that for someone else.
Share Your Story
Are you a patient of the PBCI and would like to share your story with breast cancer as part of our Stories of Hope series on our website and Newsletter?
We love hearing our patient’s stories and sharing them with others at the very beginning of theirs. For more information on how to be involved, contact us.
