Breast Cancer Awareness – In October We Wear Pink: A Daughter’s Journey Through Love, Loss, and Healing

October means something different for everyone: pumpkin patches, football games, cozy sweaters… but for me, it’s always been the month that carries both pain and purpose. It’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and while the pink ribbons and fundraisers are everywhere, for those of us who’ve lived it firsthand, the meaning runs much deeper.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to write this blog. And for weeks, I tried but couldn’t quite find the words. Then, one quiet evening at my ranch, my leg wrapped in a cast, the birds and butterflies fluttering endlessly overhead on a wonderful Oklahoma fall day, I finally found them. Maybe it was the stillness, or perhaps it was the reminder that life slows us down for a reason, but the thoughts came flooding in.

We’ve all been touched by breast cancer. Some of us up close, others from afar. Every week, it feels like I hear of someone new being diagnosed. It’s everywhere. But what we can do is pay attention, learn, and do better. Not out of fear, but out of love for the life we still have and want to continue.

My Mother’s Fight

Ten years ago this August, I lost my mom to breast cancer. She fought for seven long years, with courage, wit, and that stubborn sparkle in her eye that made everyone love her.

She was first diagnosed in her 50s, right as I was planning my wedding. She found a lump but put off treatment because she “didn’t want her dress to look bad” after the surgery her doctor recommended. That was Mom, strong, proud, and maybe a little too focused on everyone else’s happiness as well as how she looked. 

When she finally had the surgery, she chose to remove only one breast. I’ll never forget her saying, “I’m not losing both, I’ve got great boobs!” We all groaned and laughed, but that was her humor. Her diagnosis was Stage 3, and after surgery and chemotherapy, she tried to return to her normal life. We all did.

But life wasn’t done testing her. A few years later, after a heartbreaking personal loss, her cancer returned, this time Stage 4, and it had spread to her liver and lymph nodes. She had a large lump in her stomach, just under her ribcage, that she had been ignoring. She had thought perhaps it was an ulcer from stress. But that Christmas Eve, she could take the pain no more and finally called a friend to take her to the hospital. Moving forward, a local cancer doctor that she had previously worked with told her she had just three months to live. But Mom didn’t accept that. She was too tough to let a timeline define her.

That’s when we met Dr. Paniker at the Cancer Treatment Center in Tulsa. The moment he walked into the room, we felt hope again. He was calm, positive, and brilliant. Over the next four years, he tried every treatment imaginable: radiation pellets, new chemo combinations (or cocktails as he called them – she always liked that name), immunotherapy. Mom never gave up. She showed up, smiled, and fought. Every day, she had her makeup done, wig perfect, and a specifically chosen outfit for the day to go fight. She never complained. She just pressed forward. 

But eventually, her body had had enough. She grew tired, and it was time to rest. We moved her to Clarehouse, a small, peaceful hospice center in Tulsa that takes only a handful of patients during their last 30 days. She was placed in Room 10.

Packing her things that day was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Her favorite robe, her lotions, her Bible, it all went into one small bag. It took me years to unpack it. My brother, my aunt, and I spent every day there with her. My brother slept beside her in the twin bed most nights. Her little dog, Pumpkin, and my boy Rawk were constant companions at her side. 

Over those few weeks, we talked about the hard things, what color she wanted her urn to be (of course, pink), whether she preferred a burial or cremation, her favorite recipes, and even what foods and drinks she might like near her. But even then, her mind was fixed on the future, what would happen after the thirty days at Clarehouse? Would she go home? Would she be charged if she stayed longer? How would she make money?

As the days passed, she began sleeping more and talking less. Then, one quiet Sunday morning, as the sun rose and the dogs barked and stirred at our feet, my brother whispered, “Tiff, Tiff… Mom’s not breathing.” Just like that, she was gone. peacefully, gracefully. She had waited until we were all there. Her passing came exactly on day thirty of her stay at Clarehouse, as if she knew her time there had been perfectly measured.

I’ll never forget the night before she passed, when I had a moment alone with her. To finally say the things I was too embarrassed to say in front of others, or just me being a weird daughter that could never express my emotions to my family vocally, until now. I told her how much I loved her, how much she meant to me. I told her we would be okay, and she could leave if she was ready. A single tear slid down her cheek. I knew she heard me.

That moment changed me forever.

Carrying Her Lessons Forward

After losing her, I lived in fear for years. I worried that I’d follow in her footsteps.
And then, at 39, I was diagnosed with cancer myself.

It felt like déjà vu, the same sterile hospital smells, the same anxious waiting, the same uncertainty. But this time, I understood more. I realized how much my lifestyle and my mindset mattered. I wasn’t taking care of myself, I realized. I was running on stress, living off caffeine and drive-thru meals, and forgetting to breathe.

Cancer, as strange as it sounds, was my wake-up call. I changed my habits. I changed my thoughts. I learned that self-care isn’t selfish, it’s survival. And now, three years cancer-free, I can say with full confidence that I’m living better than I ever have.

God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. But He does give us moments that force us to grow.

What We Can All Do Better

There are things we can do today, right now, to reduce fear and increase prevention:

• Get checked. Schedule your annual mammogram or MRI. Don’t put it off another month.
• Know your body. Do self-exams, trust your instincts, and see a doctor when something feels off.
• Eat and live well. Stress, sugar, alcohol, and processed foods take a toll. Nourish your body, it’s your home.
• Find your people. A strong support system makes all the difference. Whether that’s family, friends, or a community group, stay connected.

Focus on healing, not fear. Speak hope. When someone’s sick, talk about their healing, not their illness. Words carry power.

Finding Strength in Faith

Every October, I think back to my mom dancing in her Halloween costumes, wig slightly askew, makeup perfect, laughing with her “frands” at the town theater party. Even when cancer dimmed her light, it never took away her joy.

That’s what I hold onto. Her laughter. Her grit. Her courage.

So, if you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your fight, keep going.
If you’ve lost someone, honor them by living your best, fullest life.
If you’ve been putting off that screening, pick up the phone and schedule it.

Because awareness isn’t just about knowing, it’s about doing.

To Dr. Paniker, thank you for giving us more time.
To the staff at Clarehouse, thank you for giving her peace.
And to my mom, thank you for teaching me strength, love, and grace through it all.

Life is precious. Let’s not waste it. 💗

With love and light,
Tiffany
Cancer Survivor – 3 Years and Counting

P.S. Though Cancer Treatment Centers of America is no longer here in Tulsa, life has a way of bringing things full circle. Today, I walk the same halls, now as a patient of Council Oak, owned and operated by the Muscogee (Creek) Nation, that my mother once did. I sit in the same offices, with equally compassionate doctors, only this time fighting a different fight. I’m forever grateful to both the Cherokee and Creek Nations for the care, support, and healing they’ve provided to my mother and me.