BayouLife’s Pink Ladies

article by Meredith McKinnie | photos by Melanie Moffett

Five local women share with BayouLife their very personal experiences with breast cancer. As breast cancer survivors, these women hope to inspire and uplift others who may be battling this disease and educate women about the importance of early detection.

Non-profit organizations, including the Susan G. Komen Organization and the American Cancer Society, are dedicated to saving lives by investing in research to prevent and cure breast cancer and improving the lives of women affected by the disease. Donations of time and financial resources can help them reach these goals. To volunteer or donate, contact Susan G. Komen of North Louisiana at 318-966-8130 or visit their website at www.komennorthlouisiana.org; and contact the Monroe chapter of the American Cancer Society at 318-398-7248 or visit their website at www.cancer.org.

Barbara Powell
Advocate For Yourself

In 2005, with no family history, Barbara Westfall Powell went in for her first routine mammogram at 40 years old. When a detected spot called for an ultrasound, Barbara knew it was cancer. Her mother Karen had benign cysts over the years, and told her not to worry, but Barbara just had a gut feeling. She did her own research, knew what a cancerous tumor looked like, and the irregular edges on the screen confirmed her suspicions. After a biopsy, the diagnosis was breast cancer. Barbara was sitting in the hairdresser’s chair when she got the call. She didn’t cry, though her hairdresser broke down. She had prayed about it and believed God gave her the peace she felt. Barbara knew what she wanted to do, double mastectomy and no reconstruction surgery. She got the confirmed diagnosis on Wednesday, saw her doctor on Thursday, and had both breasts removed on Monday.

After two pathology reports, one saying Barbara’s cancer was medullary, the contained kind, requiring less chemotherapy, and another report saying it was invasive ductal, requiring more chemo, Barbara sought another opinion. Friends of hers had been treated at MD Anderson, and so she went Houston. It was Grade 3 invasive inductal, requiring more intensive treatment, and was triple negative, more aggressive. Barbara credits her gut instinct to seek a second opinion with being alive today. Had she gone with the less aggressive treatment, the cancer might have defeated her. The doctors at MD Anderson prescribed a treatment plan, and Dr. Barron, her local oncologist, followed it. She did four months of FAC chemotherapy, a six-hour procedure, followed by Taxol once a week for 12 weeks. The second round brought flu-like symptoms. Though nauseated, her bloodwork looked good. She was still able to teach her three-year-olds at Children’s Garden Preschool, which she had co-owned for 12 years. She would go to school every morning, and leave early for treatment on Thursdays. She tried to keep life normal for her two sons, Ryan and Justin, then 15 and 13.
Her hair started coming out in clumps ten days into her treatment. Barbara’s mother-in-law cut her hair off short, and when she couldn’t hide it anymore, she allowed her sons and their friends to give her a mohawk before shaving it all off. Finding light in the darkness helped. She went alone into the bathroom and had a good cry. When she came out in a hat, her husband Quint simply said, “Let’s go get ice cream.” Normalcy at all cost was the family’s motto. One of her first outings after losing her hair was her son Justin’s game. She wore hats and didn’t like wigs, felt like she “was playing dress up.” The fans were sitting on the visitor’s side. As she walked across the field, hat on her head, feeling more exposed and more a cancer patient than ever, Quint said, “We can turn around anytime you want.” But she kept walking. When she got to the stands, all her friends were wearing pink breast cancer bracelets and stood and clapped for her bravery. It was a moment of support at a time of vulnerability. After her treatment, when her hair had grown back a mere half-inch, she went to Ryan’s baseball game, and she didn’t wear a hat in public for the first time. She noticed her son warming up, and when he glanced back, he did a double take, pulled his hand out of his mitt, and gave his mom a thumbs up.

Cancer taught Barbara how strong she is. She appreciates life more, is more aware of others’ struggles, and how much prayer works. She says, “You can’t get away from cancer.” It’s always there. You see cancer on people’s faces when they look at you. They can only see cancer. You see it in your limitations, your bald head, your husband’s and mother’s willingness to help. While she realizes she was lucky to have the support, not being able to perform her day to day routine, watching others do it for her just made her “feel sick.” Barbara sat her mom down, who was only trying to help, and said, “I need normal. If I’m having a bad day, let me tell you.” She knows it was hard for her mother to hear, and just as hard for her to say. Karen flew in her cousin Diana, a nurse, after the surgery. They went wig shopping, and Diana washed her hair when she first came home. She needed the comfort of a friend, and now she had a cousin who knew what to do. A sobering moment happened just after her diagnosis. As Barbara was trying to process it all, balance the gravity of the news and all the people it would affect, she confided in her mother. Barbara said, “Mom, it could be worse. It could be one of my kids.” After a moment, her mother replied, “It is one of my kids.” For so long, Barbara thought of herself as a wife, as a mother. She had forgotten she was still someone’s daughter.
Chemotherapy sucks at the soul. The body is depleted of energy, and fatigue takes over. For the first time in her life, Barbara fought depression. And it was scary; she had always been upbeat, and her inability to shake her feelings of despair was an unexpected burden, especially for someone who relied on optimism. Luckily, the feeling dissipated after a week with each treatment. Cancer put the reality of death in her face. She didn’t fear dying, but she couldn’t imagine leaving her boys. Barbara was a mother before she was a cancer patient. She was open with her kids from the beginning, telling them her diagnosis in the carpool lane. It helped her focus her energy on recovery, telling her kids, “This is what it is. This is what we’re going to do.” Quint helped. She and her husband laughed a lot. He learned Barbara’s cues, when she needed help and when she didn’t want it. He paid attention. The evening of her double mastectomy, one of her sons had a baseball game, and Quint was the coach. Barbara insisted he be there. Quint wondered what people would think, leaving his wife alone hours after a major surgery. Barbara didn’t care what people thought; the boys’ lives would remain the same. And Dad’s presence at the game would send the message that Mom would be okay.

Her decision to refuse reconstruction was immediate. She didn’t want more surgery. And Quint backed her decision. When you get cancer, even if you beat it, you’re always on alert for its return. She thought, “If there’s nothing on my chest, I can see it faster. I can feel it faster.” Society expects reconstruction, insisting a woman can’t feel like a woman without breasts. For Barbara, it wasn’t true. Cancer took her breasts, and she doesn’t need them anymore. She would tell her sisters in treatment, those just finding out, or those in depths of the chemotherapy chasm, “advocate for yourself.” Whether it’s a second opinion, or just more nausea medication, no one knows you like you do. Everyone handles cancer differently, and everyone is entitled to. Trust your instincts. For those supporting loved ones with cancer, express less negativity. Save the bad news for the doctors. And let people talk; just listen to them. Keep interaction as normal as possible. It’s been 13 years since Barbara fought the good fight and won. She’s a mother, a grandmother, a wife, a daughter and a cancer survivor.

Johnna Utzman
A Tale of Two Women

This is about two women who fought cancer, a mother who sacrificed her life to the disease, and a daughter who lived to tell both their stories. Johnna Utzman is alive today thanks to her mother Ruby. Watching her mother lose her battle with cancer after a three-year fight made Johnna a crusader for her own health. She was diligent about exams, went every year for her mammogram, though her cancer was self-detected. She found a spot, and the doctor put her on antibiotics for two weeks. When it didn’t subside, Johnna saw Dr. McClusky at The Green Clinic for a biopsy. Johnna’s husband Steve and her son CJ were with her when she got the news in July of 2014. “The only word they heard was ‘cancer.’” A month later, she had a bilateral mastectomy. Johnna had worked for Pine Crest Elementary School in Luna for five years as a teacher’s aid. During her eight rounds of chemo, Johnna had a front row seat to her support group. She lived right across the street from the school; she would sit on her porch when she was too ill to leave the house, and the kids would wave from the busses. Her lunch was hand-delivered by the cafeteria workers each day. They walked the plate right across the street. The children made cards for Johnna. She had an 8 a.m. – 3 p.m. reminder each weekday of how much she mattered. She missed 207 days of school that year, but she felt and witnessed their presence throughout her recovery.

Johnna admits a woman shouldn’t be defined by her hair, but she realized how much her hair mattered, the day her sister shaved it. It was one of her most emotional days, though Johnna jokes, “I had a pretty head.” Her brother-in-law had a pink hard hat made in her honor and wanted Johnna to be the first to wear it. He now brings it out every October to raise awareness of the disease. The hard hat symbolizes Johnna’s transition perfectly, as she has taken a new position with The Department of Transportation. Halfway through chemotherapy, Johnna tired of the weight of the wig, and she ventured to Walmart with Steve and CJ bare-headed. While waiting in line in the restroom, two Walmart employees burst through the door shouting, “Sir, you can’t be in here.” When she turned around and made eye contact, they left. Dealing with the side effects of chemo, Johnna was still in the stall when they returned, making jokes at her expense, mocking her appearance. When she exited the bathroom, they were still laughing. She remembers a woman nearby saying, “That woman can’t even go to the bathroom.” She asked to speak to a manager, was told one wasn’t available, so she called corporate. Her Facebook post went viral; an outpouring of support online humbled Johnna. KNOE shared her story. So many identified with her struggle and offered their support. And she did finally get an apology.

Johnna is not thankful she got cancer, but she is thankful for the people she met on her journey. In Branson, a woman met up with Johnna, said she was also going through cancer and expressed what an inspiration she was. Her son CJ was only seven years old, when she was diagnosed. He couldn’t understand the magnitude of the situation, and she chose not to tell him about the fatality risk. Her husband Steve is a quiet man, keeps his emotions internal, and unfortunately due to the financial strain, had to continue working offshore during parts of her treatment. Her sister Sherri and her family moved in with Johnna to help during chemo, while Steve was offshore. Her brother Mike, along with her circle of “chemo buddies,” would drive her to treatment. Her sister Lisa and her brother Larry took over the care of their father due to his dementia. A full circle of people rallied together when Johnna needed them. She is grateful for their support and sacrifice. Johnna later found out she had a genetic Pten mutation, Cowden syndrome. It puts one at an 85% higher risk of getting any type of cancer. After nodules were found on her thyroid, the doctors advised her to have it removed. She also had an appendectomy, followed by a hysterectomy. Johnna jokes she’s had “all the ectomies.”

Her mother Ruby was diagnosed in 2010 with metastatic breast cancer. She found a lump, but always put off going to the doctor. Eventually, they found two lumps, one Stage 3 and one Stage 4. After Ruby finished chemo and radiation, they thought she was in the clear. But she kept falling, and once threw up for 30 straight days. After five doctors couldn’t find the problem, the family insisted Ruby go for rehabilitation. A CT scan found tumors in the front and back of her head. She had two options. With surgery to prolong her life, she risked not making it off the table, or possibly becoming a vegetable. Without surgery, they gave her two months to live. The five siblings told their parents they didn’t want her to have it done, but Ruby had already decided she wanted to live the remainder of her days in peace, and turned down the surgery. She was discharged to hospice in May, and passed on July 2, 2013. While in hospice, Ruby kept asking to go home, and home was Clark County, Mississippi, in a little town called Energy. Someone bought an old RV with a bed in the back, and 35 family members loaded up to take Ruby home. Johnna remembers the trip fondly, laughing and reminiscing with her siblings and her parents. They pulled the RV into a local McDonald’s and saw pastor Willie Ray Lowe inside. When Johnna explained where they were headed, Pastor Lowe put down his biscuit, hopped on the RV, and prayed over Ruby. The tumor sat on the part of her brain that affected appetite. She ate and ate on the trip, and they let her. That evening, Johnna remembers her mother saying, “Today has been a good day.” She has a newfound respect for those words and what the journey must have meant to her mother. After Ruby’s passing, that same RV led the funeral procession. When the workers asked where to park it, Johnna insisted, “right behind the hearse.”

God got Johnna through every day, and she says she wouldn’t be here without her faith. “God knows survivors have heart, and in every heart, there’s a survivor.” Johnna journaled her entire journey. Before her passing, Ruby would say she talked with family members that had passed years prior, that she saw them on the front porch. She was referring to her childhood “dog trot” house in Mississippi, part built before The Civil War, and part after. Johnna named the Facebook page where she chronicles her journey “The Front Porch.” Releasing her feelings on the blog is Johnna’s way of talking to her mother again. She wears a shirt bearing Ruby’s name, and she is an advocate for those beat down by the fight. Johnna has a light that shines when she speaks, a testament to the darkness she’s endured. She couldn’t save her mother from cancer, but she carried Ruby’s strength into her own battle and won.

Judy Hough
Light After Cancer

Judy Hough’s “education in cancer” began before her diagnosis, working at Delhi Hospital in public and patient relations. The hospital reached out through The American Cancer Society: sponsoring events, raising money and passing out literature. After 12 years volunteering, Judy had read the pamphlets and seen the impact of cancer up close. But in her “journey of learning” after her breast cancer diagnosis, she realized she didn’t absorb the literature until it applied to her, didn’t feel the impact until it was personal. At 25, Judy had been diagnosed with fibrocystic breast disease, making cancer detection more difficult. Forty years later, she wasn’t surprised she had breast cancer, but like most, “You just hope it’s not going to happen to you.” Frustrated with upsetting her life plan, Judy quickly accepted the reality. But then she began thinking of her kids, the survival rate, and her legacy. The regrets poured in. Why didn’t she appreciate her body when it was well? Why hadn’t she just paid for that “extra” mammogram herself?

On February 24, 2014, Judy was diagnosed with Stage II Ductal Carcinoma, but then cells found in her lymph nodes bumped her to Stage 3. She didn’t cry when Dr. Marx delivered the news, but her husband, James, did. She’d had routine mammograms for years, but when she turned 60, the insurance company would only pay for one every two years. She learned that it was “more cost-effective” for women of her age group. After months of research and prayer, a double mastectomy was their choice of surgery, performed at MD Anderson, on April 11, 2014. Her treatment plan was six months of chemotherapy in Monroe, and six weeks of radiation administered at MD Anderson in Houston. Treatments started on June 7, 2014. Blood work is done one week prior to treatments to determine a white blood cell count. Patients are placed on recliners in treatments rooms, to make them as comfortable as possible, as many as five per room. During those multiple-hour treatments, Judy could feel the chemo when it hit the brain and other organs, a warm, grabbing sensation. Some patients get too ill for the treatment. Some fall asleep. Judy just visited with the other patients and used the iPad purchased by her children. Problems occured: Judy’s port during chemo became infected. She had to get IV treatments after each round to get the infection under control and took shots to bump up her white count; this meant oftentimes seeing doctors five days a week, not uncommon for cancer patients. The chemo itself was bearable, but the after-effects were worse. She learned that although chemo can save lives, it can also cause permanent damage. Because her cancer was hormone receptive, a hormone inhibitive pill must also be taken for five to ten years. Because 32 lymph nodes were removed, lymphedema is an issue for the rest of her life. Studies indicate that even after surgery, treatment and drug therapy, her chance of recurrence is still 15%….but she says, “There’s an 85% chance it doesn’t!”

Inconveniencing others bothered Judy more than being sick. She learned that she must allow others to help. She could no longer keep her two-year-old granddaughter Addison. She learned how it felt to be out of employment for the first time since age 18. She could no longer “contribute” her share of family responsibilities. James was already retired, though he still did landscaping work and took contract jobs out of town. He had to cut back during Judy’s recovery. He remains very strong and supportive. Judy knows he kept a lot to himself in the interest of her wellbeing. They prayed and discussed the options of each decision along the journey. They were blessed to have five children: Belinda, Terra, Clay, Tammy and Shane, each contributing the best and most they could. With the support of the rest of their large family and numerous friends, Judy made it through the difficult time. She kept a “thank-you journal” throughout her experience with scriptures by each entry. Judy tracked small gestures and kind words, allowed treatment professionals to sign the book. Though she lost the tangible papers in the flood of 2016, the words of support are etched on her heart.

In an effort to give back, Judy co-created GIRLS (Girls Interested in Restoring Lives Successfully) in Richland Parish with her friend Janice LaBatt, who was also going through treatment. Janice handled the finances, and Judy focused on teaching the relaxation and exercise therapy techniques. Along with six other volunteers, they raised funds, met for prayer, and created gift bags for those going through cancer. People were being diagnosed weekly, and Judy realized just how common her experience is. She learned that these new G.I.R.L.S. would share what they learned with others….and thus, the circle grows. She had bonded early with Michele and Dena, who became her new best friends during chemo; they all started treatment together. The threesome would keep each other’s minds off the procedure, and they stayed friends after. It was easier to talk to someone with the same emotional and physical pains. When Michele passed a year later, Judy was reminded again how fragile life is.

Cancer taught Judy how it really felt to hear, “You have cancer.” And no one can prepare for that news. Now she can identify with and help others. She learned everyone is susceptible, regardless of race or creed. “Cancer is not a respecter of person. Some of us just get it.” Judy had always been healthy. Cancer didn’t care. Her BRCA gene test was even negative. She thought she knew about cancer until she had it. “You can always learn more.” It affected everyone, her family and her community. It was an emotional toll on those that love her and a financial toll on her family. She depended heavily on her faith and her friends, sought out spiritual guidance. She had a 3-inch binder full of notes and cards of support. She learned how much people care.

So many helpful organizations exist for those suffering. The American Cancer Society has a phone number available 24 hours a day. The Northeast Louisiana Cancer Institute raises money to provide people with gas cards, regardless of income level, though one must apply to receive benefits. The professionals at Kitty Degree Lymphedema Therapy were instrumental in Judy’s emotional struggle. With few licensed therapists in the field, she benefited greatly from the local availability. Judy received her treatment plan at MD Anderson, and the staff at Louisiana Oncology followed the doctors’ suggestions. Local treatment is an option; doctors do work together. Impressions by Peaches is owned and operated by a wonderful cosmetologist who will help you choose a style and color of wig from hundreds she displays. Judy had always maintained her cosmetology license; her appearance is a significant part of her identity. She bought a wig immediately after receiving her treatment plan at MD Anderson; it looked just like her normal hair. James shaved her head; she wanted to avoid the emotional trauma of watching it fall out.

Overall, Judy learned healing depends on giving back. Having the focus be on her throughout her disease and her recovery, Judy was anxious to shift that focus to others. You never know when simply asking people about their day could be the only outreach they receive, at a time of vulnerability. When Judy sees people she thinks may be in treatment, sometimes God will lead her to remind them of life after cancer. The tunnel of disease can seem so absent of light; people need hope, and often it comes from a stranger. Judy is a survivor, and she reminds others they can be one, too.

Kim Glover
Life Is A Dance

Kim Glover’s cancer story is a testament to early detection. At 42, on a routine mammogram, they noticed “changes,” or calcifications. When the doctor at The Kitty Degree Breast Center said it was cancer, Kim was shocked. To her knowledge, no one in her family had suffered with cancer, and she thought she was too young. But something in her gut made her keep going for those routine checkups, and her recovery was less involved as a result. Diagnosed in August of 2008, and she had a double mastectomy in October to lower the risk of recurrence. A co-worker had suffered from breast cancer, opted for a lumpectomy, and her cancer came back. Kim’s daughters Avery and Bailey were in elementary school and middle school at the time of her diagnosis; she couldn’t risk leaving them without a mother.

The cancer was in her milk ducts. Found early, it was Stage 1, and after the mastectomy, she required no chemotherapy or radiation. Her cancer was hormone receptor positive, so she’s taken Tamoxifen for the last ten years, but otherwise her life has returned to normal, or as normal as it can be after cancer. Her decision to go with the mastectomy was made easier thanks to Dr. Frank Dellacroce. He practices at The Center for Restorative Breast Surgery in New Orleans, though he is originally from Monroe. The plastic surgeon uses the most advanced procedures, procuring fat from another part of the woman’s body to build the breasts. Kim had the mastectomy and reconstruction in the same day. This allowed for an easier shift emotionally, cutting down on the feeling of loss. They took her breasts, but she woke with a new set.

As a mother, she worried most about her girls. Avery was too young to understand the magnitude; she knew mommy was having surgery, but not the severity of the diagnosis. Bailey surprised her mother with her response. When Kim told her she had cancer, she expected Bailey to ask if she would die, but her question was, “Does that mean I’m gonna get it, too?” This was heartbreaking, seeing her child worry about her own health as a result of her mother’s struggle. But it’s also a testament to the public’s general knowledge about cancer. An eighth-grader considered the hereditary component; while hard to hear, it’s encouraging after decades of raising awareness about the disease. Kim’s BRCA gene test was negative, but her journey inspired her sisters to get mammograms. The doctors said genetically, people are most like their siblings; so the likelihood increases for sisters who share all the same genes, as opposed to just mothers and daughters. Kim calls herself a “wildflower,” the only one in her family who had it; thankfully the one family member who was proactive about her health.

One of the significant moments of healing came during Bailey’s dance recital the following spring. She danced with Linda Lavender, and was usually talkative about her upcoming performances, but was secretive about one dance in particular. When Kim went to the rehearsal, the dance began with a breast cancer ribbon backdrop, and all the performers wearing black dresses with pink ribbons. The girls danced to Melissa Etheridge’s song “Run for Life.” The lyrics read:

I run for hope
I run to feel
I run for the truth, for all that is real
I run for your mother, your sister, your wife
I run for you and me my friend
I run for life

During the line, I run for your mother, your sister, your wife,” Bailey pointed to her mom in the audience. It was a little girl’s way of dealing with her mother’s illness, taking the opportunity to say, “I love you, and we’re all behind you.” Meredith Barnes Pilcher choreographed the routine. While it made Kim cry, it was a catalyst for emotional healing. It opened the door for her daughter and her daughter’s friends to talk about cancer, express their emotion in the movements. Kids may not know what to say, but Bailey knew how to dance. And she joined her friends in dancing for her mother, acknowledging her illness and celebrating her survival. Kim is forever grateful for Meredith’s gesture, for teaching her daughter to channel her pain, frustration and confusion into something beautiful.

It’s been 10 years since Kim battled cancer. And sometimes in the rush of life, she forgets, but that checkup visit every six months is a sober reminder of what she endured, what could have happened, and the risk of its return. Kim underwent a hysterectomy three years later due to severe endometriosis, which catapulted her into menopause. The side effects were brutal. But she was still alive to endure them. She developed autoimmune problems due to fibromyalgia, common with breast cancer survivors. Overactive nerves result in flare ups and chronic pain, like severe headaches but in other parts of the body, resulting in extremely low energy levels. She is now even more proactive about her overall health, choosing organic products, particularly eggs, milk and chicken. She is more aware of the foreign substances in her food. She chooses natural body lotions and soaps with no chemicals; every little bit helps. She’s training her children to make better choices, that even small changes can make a significant difference in their quality of life.

In a time of struggle, people get to see others rise to the occasion. This was the same for Kim. Her co-workers at George Welch Elementary, where she has taught now for 29 years, lessened her physical load. Being a third grade teacher, Kim didn’t just sit a desk. Exerting herself was commonplace, and her peers stepped up, taking on recess duty and picking up the slack when Kim didn’t have the strength. “The upside to sickness is seeing how amazing people are.” Her husband Jeff remains her rock. At all the appointments, he took careful notes of everything said, a blessing when Kim couldn’t remember. He was supportive and encouraging, even when her reconstruction surgery meant out-of-pocket expenses. The cancer was concentrated in Kim’s nipples, meaning she couldn’t reuse her original ones during reconstruction. This required a second surgery many months later and more expense, and still Jeff was supportive. He wrote blogs, “before blogs were popular,” detailing Kim’s progress and keeping family and friends updated on her health. It was at this low point in life that Kim learned he really was her “true soul mate.” Her life group at First West, the Truth Seekers, flooded the Glover’s home with meals, prayed with Kim the night before her surgery. Kim always knew faith, family and friends were paramount, but her cancer battle cemented that belief. If facing her mortality has taught her anything, it’s to stress less. Life isn’t about perfection, but doing her best each day, recognizing when to let something go. If the house is not as clean or the laundry is piled up, it’s more important to see her daughters dance or play ball. Moments matter. Life matters. Cancer forced Kim to recognize how short it really is, and she’s more grateful for every day.

Reshon Ford
The Fighter

Reshon Ford is no stranger to cancer. In the last five years, she’s fought the battle four times. A mother of three children, Reshon was only 38, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, too young for a routine mammogram, despite her family history. In December of 2013, the plan was to take her children to Arkansas for Christmas. She had taken off work at Logan’s Roadhouse, where she was a top server. Reshon had been with the company since the Ruston location opened in 2011. Patrons requested to sit in “Smiley’s section.” Her nickname says a lot about her disposition, an optimism she would rely on during her treatment.

Two days before Christmas, she was lying in bed, alongside her husband of one year, when she began feeling sharp pains in her left breast. It was more than uncomfortable, disturbing her sleep. Her husband shrugged it off, telling her to go back to bed, but Reshon knew, “Something is not right.” When the pain returned a few hours later, she noticed her breast shifting from side to side and her nipple inverting. She went immediately to the hospital where the doctors and nurses performed a biopsy, mammogram and ultrasound. She had Stage 4 breast cancer, and without chemotherapy and radiation, Reshon was in jeopardy of losing her life within three months. In a state of disbelief, and left with an unimaginable diagnosis, Reshon, “put all my faith in God.” She decided, there’s “no way I’m leaving my kids.” She prayed and promised to follow God wherever he led her, as long as he walked with her step by step.

Her first chemotherapy treatment was on January 3, 2014. She ended the previous year with a bleak diagnosis, and began the new year with hope in the form of poison. Reshon called the treatments “torturous.” Her mental capacity just shut down; the body can only take so much, and it robs the brain of its ability to think clearly. She remembers her head tingling, her hands staying numb, the feeling of sharp pins in her feet. Scared, yet hopeful, she knew it was her only chance of staying alive for her children. Reshon kept reminding herself that there would be life after treatment. Three times a week, she visited Feist-Weiller Cancer Center in Shreveport. In three-hour spells, the hope would pump into her body, making her physically and mentally weaker in hopes of ultimately weakening the cancer. Reshon prayed her body would outlast the cancer cells. At home, her husband couldn’t handle her illness and left. She was alone with her children and depleted emotionally. Her parents Mable and Jesse Franklin stepped up, helping with Reshon’s four-year-old daughter, Destiny, and teenagers, Martell and Jabari. After treatments concluded in April, the doctors removed her left breast. She jokingly told her oncologist Dr. Peddi, “Take the other one, too. No one is using it now anyway.” But Dr. Peddi insisted Reshon was too young, and after another round of chemo and seven weeks of radiation, she thought she had beaten it.

Genetic testing found a family history of breast, ovarian, cervical, kidney and liver cancer on her father’s side. Her Aunt Tiny and Tiny’s daughter Dana had also suffered from breast cancer. In February of 2015, a routine checkup showed Stage 2 ovarian cancer. Enduring sharp pains, bloating, frequent trips to the bathroom and nausea, Reshon’s primary care physician discovered a spot on her cervix as well. She began to pray again, insisting, “Lord, have your way.” She had to stay strong; if she broke down, all hope would be lost, and believing she would get better gave her the best chance of defeating cancer again. After a full hysterectomy in May, all the tumors were gone. Reshon told the doctor to, “Take it all.” She thought she was out of it again. But in October of 2017, doctors found a low dose of leukemia, cancer cells in her bloodstream. Reshon was nervous about a blood transfusion, but much like chemo, the scary option is sometimes the only one. As of this past April, Reshon is cancer-free. She had five surgeries, lost one breast and 11 lymph nodes from under her arm. Cancer took pieces of her, but she’s still standing.

When the cancer kept coming back, Reshon wondered, Why me? Why do my kids have to see me in pain? But as the reality repeatedly set in, she started wondering, Why not me? She knew she had faith, couldn’t imagine enduring the process without her belief in God. She thought of her other family members, those untouched by cancer, and decided she’d rather it be her. She had the strongest arm to lean on. She could handle it. As draining as chemo is, sleeping half the day from exhaustion, losing so much time, it was the sounds of laughter from her kids that served as respite from the pain. They brought her joy when it was difficult to find a reason to smile. Her children would still be there when chemo was over. When she lost her hair and felt vulnerable and exposed, her daughter Destiny said, “Mommy, you’re still pretty. When your hair grows back, I’m going to put it in a ponytail, just like my baby dolls.”

Sitting for hours a day, with uncertain futures, suffering together, Reshon found solace in those around her. She made friends with those enduring cancer, sharing stories and testimonies, and embracing those who knew what she was going through as she was going through it. They exchanged buddy gifts once a month, inspirational little gift bags, a reminder that “we are all fighting this together.” One her last day of chemo, Reshon met Iiesha Green, who was there for her first treatment. Reshon promised to be her “Pink Sister,” and support her through her journey. They would meet for Iiesha’s doctor’s appointments and surgical procedures. Reshon made breast cancer ribbons for Iiesha and her family. The two are still best friends, more like sisters and frequently attend each other’s family functions. Meeting a friend at the beginning of her journey on Reshon’s last day of treatment brought the experience full circle, and Reshon was able to pour her gratitude into another soul who needed support.

Reshon’s oncologist Dr. Peddi is a character, always lightening the mood. She appreciated his efforts. He would say, “Reshon, you don’t look like you’re sick.” She would respond, “Well, according to your tests, I am.” Ms. Jennifer at University Health showed compassion and cared more about her patients than her paycheck. Reshon remembers how warm she was, and that she could feel her feeling for all of them. George and Keisha Nims, Reshon’s God-Sister, let her stay at their home in Bossier during the weeks of her treatments. Away from her own home and family, it was comforting to be welcomed as a part of theirs. Cancer inevitably changes people. Reshon no longer lets what people say or think bother her. She’s not living for them anymore. She knows how fragile life is, and chooses to focus on herself and her kids, those who love her. She’s a fighter, and will continue fighting, now that she knows the magnitude of her own strength.
“I didn’t let cancer defeat me. I defeated cancer.”