I was on a phone call in September 2024 the first time I noticed some moisture on my chest. I thought it was weird but figured maybe I just didn’t dry off enough after my shower. Over the next few days, it kept happening: little spots on my bra that seemed like discharge from one of my ducts. The liquid ranged from clear to cloudy to bloody. The blood was what really freaked me out.
As one does I ran to the internet, which told me that bloody discharge from a single duct could be a sign of breast cancer. But I tried to keep in mind that I was only 29. Maybe it was something else—I have PCOS, so my hormones are a mess, and at the time I also had COVID, which I came down with after an especially fun weekend at a music festival with friends. (I asked the internet if COVID could cause bloody nipple discharge; it was inconclusive.)
I knew I needed to see my family doctor, but in Nova Scotia, Canada, where I live, the health system is overwhelmed, leading to long delays. The earliest appointment available was in late October, so I booked it. While I waited I kept noticing more bloody discharge and kept searching for answers online. My anxiety was getting worse, so when my mom had an appointment with our doctor a couple of weeks before mine, I crashed it.
Realizing how worried I was, our doctor moved up my appointment and filled out the forms I needed to see a specialist at the breast-health clinic in my city. Still, he kept telling me I was young, this was likely nothing, and we would be laughing about it at our next appointment. Even if he was just trying to calm my anxiety, I felt annoyed and a bit angry he was brushing off my concerns.
As I waited to hear from the breast clinic, I kept spiraling and going down Google rabbit holes. I couldn’t stop thinking, This is something.
Playing the waiting and self-advocating game
A few weeks later, I still hadn’t heard from the breast clinic, so I followed up. Turns out the staff never received my referral. I couldn’t help but feel like no one was taking my situation seriously. I thought, I’m not too young. Something is wrong. Let’s get this moving. Finally, I got an appointment with a specialist scheduled for mid-December, which meant another month and a half of waiting.
In the meantime life went on. I was working on establishing my own company, having left a toxic job a few months earlier. I had just taken over running a local community-building group, Halifax Gals and Pals, with a few of my friends. I was hosting events for the Taylor Swift fan group I run, Atlantic Canada Swifties, with my best friend, Sarah. I was getting ready for the Eras Tour in Toronto. Everything seemed mostly normal, aside from my lingering symptoms and nagging intuition that something was off with my body.
When I finally got into the breast-health clinic, they started with an ultrasound. The imaging revealed some thickening in my breast tissue, which can indicate anything from an infection or cyst to (rarely) cancer. Then I got a mammogram, which also showed changes in the breast tissue, but they still couldn’t tell what was causing my symptoms. I left with no real answers but was told they still didn’t think it was cancer but would refer me to a surgical team just to make sure.
A few months passed, and I heard nothing about the referral. I followed up with my doctor and was told my appointment with the surgeon was set for the end of April 2025.