CHAPTER 1 THIS JUST CAN’T BE HAPPENING
I felt the lump in October 2021 but waited before seeking medical attention. I simply observed it for a while, even though I knew that it had to be examined. Maybe it’s just some swollen glands, I thought. I wanted to keep an eye on it and see if it would go away. It didn’t. About a month passed before I contacted the hospital, and even then, I asked for a later appointment due to work-related meetings and major family events. Deep down, I sensed the lump would expand beyond the mere half-hour examination.
I had been going for checkups at Rigshospitalet, Copenhagen University Hospital, for almost ten years, as there were several cases of breast cancer in my family. My biological mother died of breast cancer when I was ten years old. It spread to her brain, and within a year, she was taken from us. Since then, I lived with an inner understanding that my own risk was probably higher than average. Still, I chose not to undergo genetic testing. I didn’t want numbers and percentages attached to a potential risk—it didn’t align with my way of seeing life. I was aware that I needed to be extra attentive. My follow-up program, with yearly mammograms and ultrasounds based on my family history, supportedexactly that attentiveness. It was my way of taking responsibility—in harmony with my inner understanding.
For me, the annual checkup had become a bit like going to the dentist. I had gotten used to it, but I was always relieved when the doctor said, “Everything looks fine.” When the doctor this time said, “Yes, there’s something we need to look at,” I wasn’t surprised, but I still felt a shift inside. A sense of unease. The naïve hope that my lump was just a cyst disappeared. I watched the screen during the ultrasound. The doctor showed me what she saw and explained that the lump in my breast needed further examination. They would take a biopsy right away. I don’t remember the words as much as I remember the feeling it triggered. As they disinfected my breast and placed a sterile cloth over it, my nervous system reacted. Something shifted in its nature. Tears welled up. My throat tightened. The rhythm of my breath changed. A kind nurse held my hand and calmed me while they inserted a large needle. I could feel something move inside my breast as they took the sample. Something stirred in a place that normally couldn’t be touched, while I breathed as deeply and calmly as I could. I would get the results on December 23, in person at the hospital. I knew the lump was there, so what was I supposed to think now? I wasn’t afraid. It simply had to come out. No matter what was in it, it just had to come out.
A few days later, I had an unrelated follow-up session in a process I had started some time before with a numerologist. I was considering adding a middle name and had two names I felt might suit me. I had always been somewhat hesitant about numerology and the idea of changing one’s name, but I was curious. And with this approach, I could step into a process with openness and curiosity. That morning, I was to explore some names through a deep guided meditation. At the end of the session, with the final name, I felt a clear, strong spiritual presence. The kind I usually experience when my biological mother is in the same room with me: moved, warm, touched. That presence can also be other souls, angels, guides, or a divine energy by my side. This time, the presence came with a very bright light. Tears ran down my cheeks. Since I felt that presence as the last name was explored, it was concluded that this was the name I resonated with most. But deep down, I knew it was something else. I knew it was because I had opened up so much that they were able to reach me that morning. They wanted to show me they were by my side, supporting me. I knew it had nothing to do with the name.
After this experience, I went on to attend the funeral of my oldest friend’s father. I hadn’t told her about the lump. I didn’t want to worry her—not at that point. My experience that morning with the numerologist remained with me in the church, in a warm way. Because of COVID, no one hugged each other. That felt especially difficult in such a vulnerable setting. I was touched by his death. He had, like his daughter, been a part of my entire life. I’m always moved in church. A funeral is sad and beautiful at the same time—a reflection of love, loss, and longing. It was a beautiful ceremony, and there was a loving atmosphere at the reception afterward. It became a warm and gentle goodbye. As I drove home, I realized how special the day had been and just how emotionally charged the entire week had felt: loving, overwhelming, intense, and slightly unreal—all at once.
I had chosen to work from home during the week leading up to Christmas because of the rising number of COVID cases. Officially, I did so mostly out of consideration for my elderly parents—my father and my “new mother,” who has been with him since I was 11 and whom I now call “Mom.” Still, I also sensed the need to be mindful of my own health, as I didn’t want to risk getting infected before receiving my biopsy results. Our large family lunch the day after Christmas was also canceled because of COVID. Everyone agreed. But I also felt a sense of relief. I felt a need for space around me.
Our family’s summer house has always been a place that heals the soul, so I borrowed the summer house over Christmas break and felt grateful to have that place—I knew I could find peace and simply be whatever I needed to be there. I made room for the possibility of going into hibernation for a while. I didn’t make any plans for New Year’s either. I had a feeling I’d be better off not having any commitments. I wasn’t walking around feeling sad, but I can now see how, over time, I had been making decisions and choices that pointed toward what my body and inner self already knew. Looking back, I quietly put many things on hold. I was being guided to take care of myself and made choices that created calm around me. I created space to receive the message.
The days drew closer to the hospital appointment for the biopsy result. There were a few cozy pre-Christmas gatherings in the days leading up to it, but everything happened at a calm pace—not least because COVID was still a concern, and no one wanted to get infected just before Christmas. That suited me just fine. Only three friends and my sister knew about my lump. I had asked my sister to come with me to the consultation. It’s always comforting to have someone with you at a meeting like that—no matter what is said.
The night before my appointment, I prepared myself at home. Right after the biopsy, a description of what they had observed—including the size of the lump—was uploaded to the online health portal. I wanted to have that description fresh in my mind, because I had already decided that it had to come out. That was absolutely clear to me. I was going to fight for that, no matter what they said. I logged into the health portal, and immediately a pop-up appeared on the screen: “Please note that you may be shown new health information, which may be difficult to interpret or may cause concern. Consider whether you want to proceed.” Could there be a result there now? I hadn’t thought of that. I was just going to check how big the lump was. I understood, of course, that it was likely—maybe—the result I was supposed to receive the next morning. It was late in the evening. I was sitting alone on my sofa at home. I had no doubt: I clicked “OK.” I opened it. I read it. The next words—I didn’t just think them. I said them out loud: “This just can’t be happening.” I heard myself repeat it: “This just can’t be happening.” And then the tears came.
I didn’t need a dictionary to understand what was written. This wasn’t a harmless lump. There was cancer in my body. And there I sat. How was I supposed to react to that? Yes, the tears came, but then I went on a hunt on Google for all the words in the report that I didn’t fully understand. There were many Latin terms, and my searches took me in all sorts of directions. So many words that even Google couldn’t explain clearly. Conflicting conclusions. It was all completely overwhelming. Way too much. And at some point, I realized I had to let it go. Right now. Because I had already understood the essence of it. The main conclusion. Just after midnight, I wrote in a note: “Malignant cancerous tumor. Aggressive. Early stage.” I didn’t need to write anything more than that. What was I supposed to do? Call someone? Prepare my sister? I felt that I needed to let it settle within me first. I decided it was best to wait until the next morning to tell my sister. If I told her now, she would just be upset and have a hundred questions. I waited.
And then Andrea Elisabeth Rudolph popped into my mind. I followed her on Instagram and had been following her cancer journey as well. I admired her openness and approach. I went to her profile and looked back through her story. That evening, Andrea took my hand, and I found a sense of comfort, pain, and calm in what I saw and read. I already knew that a journey awaited me. My preparation—on several levels—for the meeting the next day had already begun. My sister would come by at 9 a.m., so we could walk together to the hospital, which was close to my apartment. I would tell her the next morning. Before we entered the hospital.
My sister was waiting on the street. I went down to meet her. We hugged and walked toward the hospital. She had a lot to tell me, so I couldn’t find the right moment to tell her what I knew. The right moment didn’t exist. We were getting closer. I managed to say that I had brought a notebook and that I might want her to help take notes, as I didn’t think I could manage it myself. I knew a difficult conversation awaited. I told her that I had seen the results. That there was a malignant tumor in my breast. Early stage, but aggressive. It was intense. I pulled the rug out from under her five minutes before we entered the hospital. I still remember exactly where we were. It was overwhelming to do, to experience, and to put into words for someone else for the first time. She heard it for the first time. I said it out loud for the first time. It felt unreal, absurd, surreal. We hugged. We cried. We looked at each other. And then we walked up to the meeting.
The consultation was with the most wonderful surgeon, Niels. I’m so grateful that it was him who had to deliver the news. He said I didn’t seem that surprised, and I told him I had seen the report the night before. We had a good conversation. He was amazing, both in his rhetoric and in his empathy. It was emotional. I ended up recording the conversation, so no one had to focus on taking notes. We could just be present. Thoughts, questions, and astonishment flew around the room. A new world began to open—a world of chemotherapy, surgery, and a six-month course of treatment that was already starting to take shape. I was to begin chemotherapy right after the New Year. Before that, various tests awaited: X-rays, scans, blood tests, and meetings. A high-speed train had just come by, and I had been swept onboard. No one had asked if I wanted to come. I hadn’t had time to pack my belongings. I was pulled aboard. And so was my sister.
I was allowed to take off my face mask, as the tears and runny nose made it a little difficult. I was sitting on the examination table, about to be examined further. My tears kept falling. At one point, Niels asked if it was okay for him to take off his transparent face shield. I nodded yes. He did, and then he leaned his forehead gently against mine. “It’s going to be okay.” The most beautiful moment—one I was, and still am, deeply grateful for. It was during this meeting that I asked, for the first and only time, about my chances. I knew I wasn’t going to die, and yet, I found myself asking the question. Words that simply formed on my lips. I felt that I had to ask. Instead of resting in my safe harbor, I stepped out of my inner wisdom and into the outer world, which was now unfolding a plan for me. A plan to make me well.
The meeting was emotionally intense—the whole day was. Afterward, my sister and I went back to my place for coffee. We talked about everything. That’s when I shared what I had experienced when I first found the lump.
We drifted through waves of emotion, sometimes crying, sometimes just being. Considering I had just been told that I would start chemotherapy two weeks later, that I would lose my hair within a month, and that I would be in treatment for six months before surgery and radiation, I couldn’t—and didn’t want to—keep it to myself. But I did need a few days before sharing the news with others. I didn’t want my family to know anything before Christmas Eve. I was going to celebrate Christmas with part of the family, and I wasn’t ready to bring this news into that space. I needed to keep it a little longer, just for myself. The secrecy was a lot to ask of my sister. She was “allowed” to share it with a close friend, but she agreed to keep it between us for now. We each had plans that evening, on the 23rd. That was fine, but it also felt strange to part ways that day.
I had planned to spend the evening with some dear friends, where we would decorate their Christmas tree with their two little boys, whom I’m godmother to. My friend already knew that I was supposed to receive my results that day, so I chose to call and tell her beforehand. It was hard to put into words—mostly because I was still processing so much new information inside me. I remember feeling grateful for how gracefully she received it. That evening brought a little space to breathe. When I was running around playing tag with the boys and got a bit out of breath, I wondered whether I would be able to do the same next year. Of course, the news was with me—with us—quietly present. But we didn’t talk about it until the children had gone to bed. Everything still felt a bit unreal. I was still in shock from the brutal violation that had happened that day. To me. To my life.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, I drove up to the summer house, where I knew I could find peace and quiet. The sea caressed my soul and my thoughts. That day, I was set to celebrate Christmas Eve with two of my brothers, their families, and my parents. There had been illness in the family the year before. A heartfelt toast was made in honor of having made it through—that we could all celebrate Christmas together. It was a moving moment, and we all raised our glasses in gratitude. Inside me, my heart screamed, because in just a few days, I would have to take a bite out of that joy and break the peace. I soaked in their love and presence. We laughed, opened gifts, and had a cozy evening. But the moment I got to my car, I broke down. All the tears I had held back. All the love pounding in my heart. All that was. I drove back to the summer house and spent the night there. In my inner landscape, there were both big waves and a feeling of deep calm.
On Christmas Day, I tried to create an overview. Only my sister and three friends knew about the situation. A plan began to take shape, a sequence for when and how I would share what was happening with me. I wanted to tell my parents first, then my siblings, then the rest of the family, my friends, and finally my workplace. I wouldn’t be returning to my job after the New Year. I stepped back from everything. My job now was Anne Inc.—full-time.
After Christmas, my sister came with me to visit our parents. I had arranged for us to stop by because I had something I wanted to share with them. My dad had told my mom that it couldn’t be anything bad, because I had been so happy and in such good spirits on Christmas Eve. And I had been. I had soaked in all the joyful, loving energy. We hadn’t been sitting long before I spoke. There was no reason for small talk. “A tumor has been found in my right breast. It’s malignant, and that’s why I’ll be starting chemotherapy right after the New Year. The goal is to shrink it or dissolve it completely before surgery. After that, they expect I’ll need radiation.” A bomb. Silence. Tears. I held my father’s hand. My sister held my mother’s hand. “Everything will be okay. It was found early. I know this touches on ghosts and history in this family.” I looked my father deeply in the eyes. “This is my story. I’m not going to die from this.” I was now 48. A year older than my biological mother was when she died. That realization stirred emotions, memories, and thoughts that still lived within us. Traumas that sometimes rose to the surface. My parents took the news so gracefully. Made it easier for me. I could feel that. This was the hardest thing I had ever had to say to them—and in their later years, no less, when all I wished for them was good news, flowers along the path, and stars in the sky. They asked a few questions. I told them I had been shown by angels, and that I knew everything would be okay. I gave them a small Buddha figure inside a snow globe with silver glitter and told them that if they ever felt overwhelmed by fearful thoughts, they should just shake it, look into the glitter, and hear my voice saying, “Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay.”
The day before, Pernille Aalund had posted something beautiful on Facebook that spoke so precisely to how I was feeling right then. The opening lines especially struck me: “Life can hit us. Like a stone through a window—by accident, by coincidence, or as a deliberate act. You stand there, frozen, as the glass shatters and the sound spreads through the room you once called your own, but which has now suddenly been invaded.” Yes, that’s exactly how it felt. I could feel myself standing completely still as the glass shattered around me. I shared her words with my parents that day. We were all moved by them. They helped on a day when words were otherwise hard to find.
We didn’t stay long. My heart was about to explode. My tears were ready to burst. My brother and aunt were due to arrive shortly, so it felt okay to leave. My parents would be held. And I couldn’t be the one to do it. I was falling apart. I had just broken their hearts. I went back to the summer house to collect myself. Later that same day, I called another family member and told them, but the rest had to receive the news by email. I didn’t have the strength to reach out to all of them. I had drafted the message the day before, and now I was sending it off, one version for my parents and siblings and another for the rest of the family.
The next day, I called my oldest friend, the one who had just lost her father. We’d known each other our whole lives. She had gotten COVID, so I couldn’t stop by to see her. I had to tell her over the phone. That was hard. After that, I sent an email to my close friends. On the last working day before New Year, I called my boss. Normally, I would have wished for a bit more time before sharing the news outside of family and close friends, but I didn’t have that luxury. After the New Year, there would be MRI scans, another biopsy, blood tests, more consultations, X-rays, and the first chemo treatment. I had to act now. I had prepared a written handover of all active clients and projects. It’s a difficult message to receive without a prelude, but he too received the news in the most wonderful way. He said he would call if anything came up, but otherwise I could just let go of it all. That was a relief. Today, I can’t quite understand how I managed to pull myself together to share all those messages and write a business handover in just a few days, when I recall the state I was in. I was without a doubt driven by a survival mechanism. Meanwhile, I researched my illness. The kind of tumor that was growing in me. What did it mean? What were its symptoms, and what were the side effects of the treatment? There was so much I didn’t know. So much I couldn’t know yet. But I needed to do something. To prepare. Or, as I see it now, I needed to control what I could. Because what was happening felt like a violent attack on the life I had known. The high-speed train was moving full speed ahead—with no intention of slowing down.
As my insight deepened, an opportunity to take action also emerged. So, I started shopping to prepare for the most obvious side effects. Everything from salty licorice, protein powder, and vomit bags to saliva- producing tablets, special toothpaste, and remedies for various digestive issues. There were endless lists of all the side effects one might experience during chemotherapy, but no one really knew what would happen until it hit. Well, except for the hair. That, I knew. And I also knew that I didn’t want a wig. I had a feeling I’d be a “beanie girl.” I quickly became familiar with all the shops selling hats and turbans for the involuntarily bald, and I bought beanies in various colors and styles. Most of them I ended up never using, but in that moment, it felt good to be prepared. To do something.
I celebrated New Year’s Eve with my sister, who had created the most beautiful setting for our evening. Delicious food, festive decorations, cocktails, good wine, party horns, and poppers. We had so much fun—dancing, laughing, and getting drunk. At one point, I was literally hanging from the exposed beams in the ceiling, laughing so hard my stomach hurt. It felt incredibly freeing. On the edge of a year that would bring so much I couldn’t even begin to imagine, understand, or know, we had a night where we simply had fun. More fun than I had had in a long time. It was just so lovely, healthy, and full of fantastic energy. I made a post with a picture of us on social media—#imgonnabeatthis. It was the first time I hinted to the outside world that I was sick. And even today, it’s still hard for me. To use the word “sick.” When, at that time, I didn’t feel sick at all.
