My name is Diane McCarthy Prost. I’m a 57- year-old mom of three kids, and I’ve been married to my spouse Bob for nearly 30 years. In the previous year, I received a diagnosis of cancer, commemorated my son’s wedding event, got treatment for cancer, and worked through a pandemic as a certified expert counselor.
It started when I chose my month-overdue mammogram and the outcomes returned suspicious and thick. I wasn’t fretted; this happened a few years earlier and absolutely nothing was incorrect. After a diagnostic mammogram, the radiologist advised a biopsy.
I got the call from my obstetrician-gynecologist on June17 “Diane, it’s not good. It’s cancer.”
The next few days were a whirlwind of phone calls, finding out next actions, fulfilling the oncologists on my cancer team, and trying to understand the specifics of my breast cancer: stage 1 intrusive ductal cancer, triple favorable (HER2, ER, and PR). I learned that HER2-positive indicated that it was an aggressive growth, which terrified me.
Between Bob and I, we discovered so much about breast cancer in a week that we could have provided a seminar on it!
The hardest part was informing my boys. My oldest, Brian, and youngest, Luke, were at house, while the middle one, David, was studying in Rome. Brian was getting married in 3 weeks, and it broke my heart to tell both him and Luke. I informed David when he returned house.
All three of them were strong and helpful, hugging me and telling me how much they liked me. That’s exactly what I needed. I assured Brian that nothing, and I did suggest NOTHING, would stop me from celebrating his amazing and wonderful day that we had been eagerly anticipating for so long!
And it was an incredible day! The wedding event was in Nashville, at a historic antebellum mansion. It was definitely stunning. I danced my shoes off, literally, and had the time of my life. Cancer, you did not take this day away from me!
2 days after I returned to St. Louis, I went to the medical facility to have my port set up. The extremely next day, I began the very first of 12 weekly chemotherapy infusions.
I was so blessed that I had just mild adverse effects from the chemo, and I credit that to the many people who had been praying for me. But I was exhausted like I had never experienced. It was as if somebody had tossed an extra-heavy weighted blanket on me. I wished to get up, however I simply could not.
It was truly tough losing my hair. A buddy helped me choose a wig and choose some fun hats, but I will never get over the feeling of looking at myself bald in the mirror.
My mom had died years ago from ovarian cancer. I keep in mind the rough chemo sessions, h