Seven Years in Remission: A Story of Resilience and Hope

Over the past 20 years of my life, I have cared for many family members, loved ones, and

individuals in need. During that time, I saw firsthand what cancer can do to a person’s life. I always thought I understood what someone was going through on their cancer journey—because I was there supporting them. But everything I learned from caring for others wasn’t enough to prepare me for what I was about to endure myself.

After giving birth to my third child, I felt a very large lump in my right breast. I didn’t think much of it at first, considering I had just had a baby and knew the body goes through many changes. Still, being cautious, I saw my doctor—who seemed very concerned—and I was immediately sent for an ultrasound. The report was alarming, and an emergency biopsy was recommended right away. I was scared and anxious. I did not expect any of this. The doctors told me it looked like it could be cancer, but we’d have to wait for the biopsy results, which could take up to a week.

Jobeth feeding her daughter Eliana during one of her cancer treatment sessions.

A week later, I received the worst news of my life: I had cancer.

In five minutes, my entire world flipped upside down. My mind raced with fears and questions, but all I could think about were my children. I am the backbone of my family, and my children are my life. My oldest son was 10, my younger son was almost 6, and my baby girl was just 5 months old. I kept thinking: Who will love and care for my children like I do? How can I take care of them while undergoing treatment?

At the same time, I was also the power of attorney and caregiver for a loved one who was undergoing her own cancer journey. She depended on me for everything—her life, care, and guidance. I was an emotional disaster. How can I be everything I need to be for everyone else? It took a few days, but I pulled myself together and began searching for more information.

After further testing, I learned I had Stage 2B, approaching Stage 3, Triple Negative Breast Cancer—an aggressive form—and I carried the BRCA1 gene, which increases my risk of developing other cancers, including ovarian cancer.

I had been through this with others, including my mom, who passed from cancer. I thought I understood it. But nothing prepared me for living it myself. I was 32 years old when I was diagnosed.

My doctor decided to start aggressive chemotherapy, as my body was still strong enough to handle it. I knew I needed to stay positive for my children. My first step was to shave my head. I didn’t want to watch my hair fall out day by day. It took a few days to convince myself, but I went to the salon and said, “Okay, let’s just do it.” I closed my eyes

and quietly cried the whole time. After it was done, I looked in the mirror for what felt like forever and told myself: This is short-term. My beautiful hair will grow back.

Next, I got my eyebrows micro bladed before starting chemo. I wanted something that still felt like me. Even if I lost all my hair and eyelashes, I’d still have my eyebrows. I was ready to take on cancer.

Soon after, I was scheduled to have my port placed for chemotherapy. It had to go on the left side because the cancer was on the right. I was prepped and sedated under “twilight anesthesia,” but I was fully awake and felt everything. During the procedure, I was told I was part of the 1% of people who don’t have the necessary vein for a port on the left side—it would have to go on the right. I panicked, hyperventilated, and must have passed out because I don’t remember anything else. When I woke up, I was in pain and had a larger incision than expected.

I was terrified because chemo was scheduled for the next day, and the port area hadn't healed yet. I knew it was going to be painful.

On my first day of chemo, I was scared out of my mind. I was on two aggressive treatments—one of them was called “The Red Devil.” The nurses had to gown up just to handle it. I kept thinking, If they need all this gear just to hold the bag, what is this doing to my body?

Starting chemo through my fresh port was incredibly painful, but I got through the first poke, and after that, I managed. I watched the red chemotherapy drug drip slowly into my IV and was petrified of what it would do to me.

A few months into chemo, I began to feel horrible. I could barely walk or breathe. I had fevers and felt like I was dying. I went to the ER multiple times, and they couldn’t figure it out. Finally, I was admitted. Tests revealed a large blood clot in the upper right chamber of my heart, in my lungs, and in my leg. It was unclear if the clot was from chemo or the port.

I was devastated.

Now, in addition to fighting cancer, I had a life-threatening blood clot that required risky surgery. I was hospitalized for six weeks on IV blood thinners. My family basically moved into the cancer unit with me at Yale. I was scared I wouldn’t make it and that I’d never see my kids again. They visited daily, even spent nights with me. I tried to stay strong and be “mom” no matter how bad I felt.

Jobeth shortly after the procedure where her port was placed.

My oncology team became like family. My oncologist found a surgeon to remove the clot. When I met him, the only thing I said was, “Please don’t let me die.” By the grace of God, the surgery was successful, and the clot was removed. After a difficult recovery, I was due to resume chemo.

I was terrified.

I had two choices: continue chemo and hope for the best—or stop and risk the cancer spreading. I chose to continue. I scheduled my chemo appointments alongside the family member I was caring for. I pushed her in a wheelchair to her treatments—even on days when I felt like I needed the wheelchair.

Helping her stay positive helped me stay strong, too.

After a long year of chemo, it was time to remove my right breast. I wasn’t strong enough for a double mastectomy and DIEP flap reconstruction (which involves using abdominal fat to reconstruct breasts). That had been the original plan. But I was too weak, so the doctors recommended just removing the right breast. I didn’t fight it. I was tired and just wanted to get it over with.

After surgery, the pathology report showed some cancer cells still remained. I would need more chemotherapy.

Recovery was hard. I was weak and felt like I couldn’t bounce back. On my second day home, I passed out and was rushed back to the hospital. I was admitted again and stayed until I felt strong enough to go home.

Then came radiation.

I was already worn down. My body didn’t take radiation well. The fatigue was unbearable, and my skin began to peel. I pushed back a lot. The only thing that kept me going was sitting in the waiting room, having deep and uplifting conversations with other patients. These were some of the most positive, beautiful souls I’ve ever met. Despite everything they were going through, they chose joy. That helped me remember what truly matters in life.

I looked forward to ringing the bell at my treatment completion ceremony, with my family cheering me on. My last radiation treatment was two days before my daughter’s first birthday. I was so drained, I didn’t know if I could make it. But I did. I rang the bell and cried. I was one step closer to becoming me again.

Later, I had my left breast removed and a full hysterectomy as a preventative measure

because I carry the BRCA1 gene. I hit a breaking point when I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I was bald, pale, with dark circles under my eyes. I had no eyelashes, barely any eyebrows, no breasts, and countless scars. My body looked like a puzzle stitched together.

I had “chemo brain,” struggled to remember things, and kept detailed calendars just to manage my life—and the life of the elderly family member was still fully dependent on me. My life didn’t stop because of cancer. I was still a mom. I was still a caregiver.

I’ll never forget when the neuropathy in my hands got so bad I couldn’t buckle my daughter’s car seat. I felt like less of a mother, unable to do basic things for my children. There were so many dark moments when I wanted to give up.

Cancer is an uphill battle. It’s emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausting. But I stayed focused on getting my life back—for my kids.

I’ve developed a deeper compassion for people battling illness, aging, surgery, or life-altering diagnoses. Cancer took so much from me—but it also helped me grow. I now understand what truly matters.

I’ve now been in remission for seven years. I am stronger today because of what I went through. My strength is my beauty—it’s not in the hair (that grows back), the makeup, the body, or even the breasts. True beauty comes from within. My mind is my strength, and it carried me through the darkest time of my life.

Today, when I look in the mirror, I see a warrior. I wear my scars proudly, and I am deeply blessed to be here to share my story.