Breast Cancer What I Found in the Shower The Day I Discovered the Lump
From finding a lump in the shower to a breast cancer diagnosis, this is a raw chronicle of one month spent fighting fear.
1. The Undeniable Reality: Discovery in the Shower
In August 2022, while showering, my hand brushed against the upper part of my left breast. I instinctively tried to dismiss the sensation, but what my fingertips felt was unmistakable: a hard mass, about the size of half a checker piece.
It was entirely different from the soft, movable fibroadenoma I’d had removed before. This one was fixed, its edges distinct, anchored deep within my body as if it had taken root. I touched it again and again.
My heart began racing with inexplicable anxiety, forcing me to stand motionless with the shower turned off. I looked in the mirror, yet my body showed no outward change.
I was the same me, but that foreign sensation existed there as an undeniable reality. That night, sleep was impossible. I lay staring at the ceiling, endlessly repeating the thought, “What is this?” until 3 AM.
2. The Isolation of Silence and the Hunt for an Appointment
The next morning, I told no one—not my mother, not my closest friends. Perhaps speaking it out loud would have made the fear too concrete.
Alone, I trembled as I typed “breast surgery clinic” into my phone.
I called a nearby hospital, but the kind staff member delivered the unwelcome news:
“We’re fully booked until mid-next month.”
Next month. I couldn’t wait weeks consumed by this anxiety.
I immediately began calling clinics in Songpa, Gangnam, and Seocho.
I didn’t care if it took hours to travel; I needed the fastest appointment.
Finally, a clinic in Songpa offered, “Can you come this Friday?” I booked it without hesitation, finally allowing myself to breathe properly again.
3. Sharing the Fear: “It’s Probably Just a Cyst”
The next day, I carefully approached my husband.
“I’m going to the hospital tomorrow. Will you come with me?”
When I told him it was for breast surgery because I’d felt something, his expression froze momentarily, though he quickly masked it with his usual, reassuring voice: “It’s probably just a cyst. I’ll come with you.”
We desperately believed that it would be benign, that it would be nothing.
In the car and in the waiting room, we tried not to worry, repeating “It’ll be fine” like a desperate spell.
4. The Weight of Confirmation in the Ultrasound Room
The examination began. As I lay on the cold table, the cold gel and the pressure of the probe felt unfamiliar.
At first, I was calm, expecting the doctor to say, “It’s nothing to worry about.”
But something changed. The doctor’s expression gradually darkened, and the probe repeatedly scanned the same area.
The air grew heavy.
I lay still, looking at the ceiling, and instinctively knew: “Oh… this is real. I have cancer.”
The doctor confirmed his suspicion, his voice heavy with the weight I was unprepared to bear: “I suspect cancer. This is urgent.
I’ll write a referral letter and try to get you an appointment at a major hospital as quickly as possible, like Asan Medical Center or Seoul National University Hospital.”
5. “They Say… I Have Cancer”
My husband was waiting outside.
Hope still lingered in his eyes.
When I opened the door, I looked straight at him and answered his unspoken question briefly: “They say… I have cancer.” I will never forget his face—his mouth slightly open, his eyes wavering, silently absorbing the shock.
He squeezed my hand and whispered, “…Let’s go home.”
The ride was quiet. We held it in, staring blankly at the passing scenery.
People were living ordinary days; the world kept turning. Only we had stopped.
6. The Collapse: Why Me?
At home, seeking a moment alone, my phone rang. A neighbor, curious about my hospital visit.
“What did they say? Nothing serious, right?”
Her cheerful voice made me want to give a bright answer, but what came out was different: “They say… I have cancer.”
The long, heavy silence that followed confirmed the reality I could no longer deny.
After hanging up, I collapsed. Like someone whose entire world had crumbled, I sobbed and wailed, crying like a child.
“Why me? What did I do wrong? What’s going to happen now?”
I had to pour out the sadness, fear, and sense of injustice before I crumbled completely.
7. The Resolve: “I Have to Live”
After crying until I was relieved, my mind cleared.
One thought emerged sharply: “I have to live. I really have to live.”
I couldn’t just collapse; I had to fight.
week later, the biopsy confirmed it was cancer.
The hospital scheduled the earliest available appointment at Seoul National University Hospital—a month away.
Having to wait another month for treatment felt overwhelming, but I made a decision: I wouldn’t let that month be consumed by anxiety.
I would build up my strength.
8. Walking into Resilience: 10,000 Steps
I put on my sneakers every morning. My goal was 10,000 steps a day.
The walking was hard, but it allowed me to think less.
When I focused on moving my feet—the sensation of the asphalt, the wind, the sunlight—the word “cancer” moved further away.
By the time sweat soaked my clothes, I felt a small sense of accomplishment: “I walked 10,000 steps today.
I was alive.” That month of walking prepared me, building the physical strength and mental resolve—”I can do this”—that sustained me through the difficult chemotherapy to come.
9. Ready for the Fight: The Treatment Begins
A month later, I sat in the examination room at Seoul National University Hospital, ready.
I didn’t cry. The doctor confirmed the diagnosis: “You have two tumors… totaling 3cm in size, and there’s metastasis to the axillary lymph nodes. We’ll proceed with neoadjuvant chemotherapy first.” I nodded, resolving quietly: “Okay, let’s begin. I just need to get treatment, that’s all. And I will definitely return to my normal life.”
10. A Message to the Person Who Just Found the Lump
I’m writing this for you, who is trying to reassure yourself as you feel that strange sensation.
It’s okay to panic and search alone at night. I did that too.
Don’t wait: If the local hospital is booked, drive further to the quickest appointment. Anxiety grows the longer you wait.
Go with someone: You’ll need someone to share those heavy words when you walk out and say, “They say I have cancer.”
Collapse and cry: It’s okay to fall apart. Cry all you need to. That release is the beginning of healing.
Then, stand up and walk: While you wait, move your body. Walk 10,000 steps every day. Build your strength; it will be a tremendous help during treatment.
I am now three years into recovery.
The lump changed my life, but I overcame it. If you are starting this journey now: It’s scary, but you can begin. You can stand up again. One step at a time, one day at a time. If you walk that way, you will write your own story of survival.