“I See This As a Chronic Disease, Not a Death Sentence”: Michelle’s HER2+ Stage 4 Breast Cancer Story

Michelle was 41 years old, a VP in banking and finance, a competitive bodybuilder, and a mother of two boys when she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2017. In 2021, the cancer spread to her brain. Michelle’s experience with stage 4 breast cancer shows what it means to live with purpose and ferocity, even when the odds are stacked against you. Her story also carries an urgent message: atypical breast cancer symptoms, including nipple discharge and the absence of a palpable lump, can and do lead to delayed diagnosis, and that delay can cost precious time.

Interviewed by: Taylor Scheib
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

Michelle’s initial breast cancer symptom was not the lump most people are told to look for. She had blood coming from her nipple. Despite bringing it to a doctor’s attention promptly, she was dismissed twice: once when the bleeding stopped, and again after a lump appeared. By the time her diagnosis was confirmed, the cancer had already reached her lymph nodes and was stage 3. What followed was a year and a half of aggressive chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation, plus a year on the monoclonal antibody trastuzumab, before a 15-month reprieve that allowed her to fall in love, get engaged, and dare to hope that the hardest chapter was behind her.

Through it all, Michelle has reframed her situation not as a countdown, but as a chronic condition to be managed, one that demands physical movement, emotional honesty, and a deeply personal “why.” She is currently on chemotherapy, receiving infusions every three weeks, and remains committed to staying active, staying present, and using her story to give others something she needed most when she was in the hardest moments: hope.

Watch Michelle’s video and read through the edited transcript of her interview. You’ll learn more about her HER2-positive stage 4 breast cancer story.

• Atypical symptoms deserve persistent follow-up. Michelle’s breast cancer presented as nipple discharge, not a lump: a reminder that not every diagnosis follows the textbook, and patients should advocate loudly for themselves when something feels wrong, even in the absence of “classic” signs.
• Dismissal has consequences. By the time Michelle’s cancer was confirmed, it had already spread to her lymph nodes. Her experience underscores why raising awareness of unusual cancer symptoms is a patient safety issue, not just a personal frustration.
• A cancer experience can reshape relationships in unexpected and profound ways. When Michelle was given 12–18 months to live, her partner chose to walk closer, not away. They married on a beach in Old Navy and Target. That love became part of her reason to keep fighting.
• You cannot fight what you don’t acknowledge. Michelle’s focal seizures went unaddressed for months because life (divorce, COVID-19, and teenagers) made it easy to explain them away. For any patient with a prior cancer history, new neurological symptoms are worth pausing everything to investigate.
• Reframing a diagnosis changes what’s possible. Michelle’s transformation from a woman given a terminal prognosis to a woman living with a chronic, manageable condition is not just emotional, it’s strategic. Choosing to say “chronic disease” instead of “death sentence” shifted how she approached treatment, fitness, and the future.
• The financial toll of cancer is invisible to most, and that needs to change. Michelle’s concept of “the quiet cost of cancer,” encompassing lost income, caregiving costs, hotel stays, and meals, is a rallying call for systemic change and a practical reminder for patients to document every expense.

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Michelle’s Diagnosis Facts

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This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions. The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.

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My life before cancer

I have a degree in business — graduated from FSU — had two boys, and when I got diagnosed, one was nine and one was thirteen. I was a professional; I was a VP in banking and finance. Did very well. And I only say that because I didn’t do well afterwards. The whole disparity in income really impacted my whole family. My diagnosis was pretty shocking. It was very, very shocking. That was kind of my life before I got diagnosed. I was just rocking and rolling, making a good income, being a busy mom, and all at just 41 years old.

Unusual breast cancer symptoms: When it wasn’t a lump

At the time, I was competing in bodybuilding, not the big kind of bodybuilding, but a much smaller division, and did very well. Placed a lot. Did that for three years before being diagnosed. So I was in the best shape of my life.

This is kind of embarrassing to say, but I will say it anyway, because I think people need to know — and most people watching this have probably been touched by cancer and have had weird symptoms come up. I didn’t have a lump in my breast. I had blood coming from my nipple. I had breastfed both of my boys, so I had this letdown feeling — and it turns out it was blood. I went to my doctor, who said, “Yeah, we need to get that checked out. We need to do a biopsy.” He sent me to a surgeon. The surgeon said, “Well, it’s no longer bleeding. Let me know if it happens again,” and sent me on my way. No lump. I was up to date on my mammograms.

Probably a month later, I had a large lump in my breast and was sent back to him, and was dismissed again. By that point, when they finally figured it out, it had gone into my lymph nodes, and I had a huge, golf-ball-sized lump in my armpit. Those were my symptoms. I thought I was on top of it. I was in the best shape of my life. I was only 41 years old.

Being dismissed by doctors: The danger of atypical presentations

I had never had any major health issues, so I didn’t really think much of it. I thought, “Cancer? How could I have cancer? I don’t have cancer, so I shouldn’t worry about it.” Doctors kept telling me not to worry about it because I didn’t have a lump and didn’t have typical symptoms. I believed them because I had never had to advocate for myself.

I wasn’t frustrated at the time — I was actually very thankful, positive, and happy that they kept telling me not to worry, because I would lie in bed at night worrying about it. Nobody has blood coming from their nipple — it’s just bizarre. But I tried not to worry about it.

When I found out I had been dismissed so many times, I was extremely frustrated — and quite honestly, very angry, very, very angry. Because it should have been caught. But because it was unusual, I was dismissed. And those are things that I think we need to raise awareness about: unusual symptoms that people have. I think it’s better now than it was nine or ten years ago. But it’s very frustrating — even when I think about it now, I’m still frustrated.

Receiving the breast cancer diagnosis: Shock, confusion, and disbelief

It was in 2017 that I got diagnosed with breast cancer. I was shocked — just very shocked. Of course, I was shocked. But also, I was confused. How did I not meet all the normal signs and symptoms to look for? Why? When I was doing everything that I could. 

“What are you talking about?” It was just confusing to me. Just confusion. And it still kind of is. But again, cancer doesn’t discriminate.

From stage 3 breast cancer to stage 4 breast cancer with brain metastasis: Timeline and treatment

I went through the chemo that causes you to lose your hair — the hardcore chemo — and the surgeries, the radiation, everything. That was over the course of a year and a half. I went through some chemo that’s a little bit different, not as harsh — it’s trastuzumab. I was on trastuzumab for a year after that and had a fifteen-month reprieve, on nothing, and was told I had a 95% chance of it not coming back. So I just went on my merry way. I was happy it was over. It was just a part of my life that was done.

Then I started having what they call focal seizures — and I never knew what focal seizures were. Again, I did not have typical symptoms. I would rock a little bit. I would feel like I was going underwater. And I would lose control of my right arm, which was very odd. But I kept dismissing it because I thought, “I had cancer. It’s not cancer. Who gets breast cancer that goes to the brain? Especially when I was told there was a 95% chance I’d be fine.”

I got a fifteen-month reprieve, and it came back in 2021. I was diagnosed originally with breast cancer in 2017, and then diagnosed with breast cancer that had metastasized to the brain in 2021. In the last ten years, I’ve gotten a fifteen-month reprieve with absolutely no meds and no chemo. That’s it. Only fifteen months.

The path to my stage 4 breast cancer diagnosis

Once I had the seizures, I kept saying, “I feel weird. Something’s happening,” but then it would pass so fast. It was during COVID. I was in financial sales and thought I probably didn’t have a job anymore. My kids were both teenagers and becoming troublesome teenagers, especially because of COVID. And I had gotten a divorce. It was a whirlwind of things, and I didn’t have time to deal with having seizures when I didn’t even really know what they were.

My now-husband saw them when we were engaged, and he said, “I am going to take you to the Mayo Clinic, or I’m going to tell your family, if you don’t figure this thing out.” So I went to the hospital. They did a brain MRI. I was so sure there was nothing wrong with me. I thought, “Okay, worst case scenario, I’m going to have a little bit of epilepsy from all the chemo.” I didn’t even stay to meet with the doctors after the MRI. I just left because I wanted to go home. I said, “Y’all just call me.”

They called me when we were on the road. They said, “You have a—” I remember the words: “a significant tumor in your brain.” I couldn’t breathe. It was the most traumatic feeling I have ever had. I said, “What? Are you sure you’re talking about me?” And they said, “Yes, you have a significant brain tumor, and we have already gotten the surgeon involved. We’re going to do surgery right away.”

My oncologist — when your oncologist is concerned and kind of freaked out for you, you freak out too. I knew her long enough to know that she was really worried, especially since she already had the surgeon involved. I had my husband pull over on the side of the road and literally fell to my knees in the dirt. I felt like I was hyperventilating — I had never done that before, but I felt like I was. My husband is great in emergencies — and just great in general, but especially great in emergencies and traumatic experiences. He took my phone out of my hand, started talking to the surgeon, started talking to the oncologist, figured out what we were going to do, and called my mother for me. He just took over because I was just sitting there, paralyzed. I just could not believe it. Just couldn’t believe it.

A love story in the middle of a crisis

We got engaged during my fifteen-month reprieve. When we were dating, I had two teenagers who were a little hard to deal with at the time. I ended up being stage 3, by the way — I forgot to mention that. I was stage 3 when I got diagnosed with breast cancer originally.

I said to him — I almost wanted to deter him from my life, because I felt like nobody was going to want this. You might think that you want it, but you probably don’t. I told him about my teenage boys. I said, “There’s a chance my cancer could come back. I am stage 3. So if you want to be with me for the long haul — I mean, nobody’s prepared for that.” And he said, “Yes, I am.” And I thought, “Okay, we’ll see. You might just be in the moment.” I tried to deter him because I wanted him to realize what could really happen — worst-case scenario.

He asked me to marry him nine months after we met. Then I got rediagnosed while we were engaged. I said to him, “You can walk away, and I would not hold it against you at all, because I don’t know if I could do this.” They had given me twelve to eighteen months to live, and I thought, “Why would you want to marry me?” Instead of walking away, he walked closer to me and said, “I’m in it for the long haul. I will take care of you.” And he said, “Let’s get married. Let’s get married tomorrow.”

So we were in Jacksonville, Florida, and we went to the clerk of court for the State of Florida, got the license to get married, got the counseling certificate — to tell a secret, we didn’t really go to counseling, but because it was an emergency they gave it to us — and we got married on the beach with my father, my mother, my stepfather, and a notary. I wore a dress from Old Navy, and he wore pants and a belt from Target. I was just stunned — “Why does he want to marry me?” And still to this day, I’m like, “Why did he marry me?” But he did. And he’s still here, and he’s still happy. I think there are very few people like that in the world, but I was fortunate enough to find one — and still have one.

Processing a terminal diagnosis: Fear, grief, and what matters most

I asked them if it was truly me. And they said it was. I went back to the oncologist’s office and saw a picture of the tumor — it’s pretty big. My mother was there, my husband was there. My oncologist showed it to me and told me how long I had to live. I remember going into one of those family bathrooms — the kind with one door — with my mother, and I was hysterical. When I say hysterical, I mean screaming and crying, and I just could not believe it. Still to this day, I feel like I’m a little bit in denial, because I’m still here.

It’s just the most bizarre feeling. When you find that out, it’s devastating — and I mean devastating. It’s hard to describe when somebody says to you, “You’re going to die, and it’s going to happen soon.” I don’t even know how you process that. The first thing I thought of — and still think about — are my children, my mother, my husband, my father, and my stepfather. No parent should see their child die. And no child at that age should see their parent die at such a young age, at a time when they need their parents the most. They’re not grown yet, and that’s terrible.

Understanding brain metastasis: How the brain is different from other organs

It’s like a computer — but instead of building the computer from the inside out and knowing all the components, you’re looking at a brain from the outside in, because nobody built your brain. So nobody can fully understand how to fix a brain or how the brain completely works. There’s so much that they don’t know about the brain.

My symptoms, other than the focal seizures, were things you could almost dismiss. I had headaches, but I could get rid of them with Motrin. You would think a brain tumor would cause just a debilitating headache. I was in finance, and I started to not be able to do simple math. I thought it was stress. “What is wrong with me? I’m just having a moment.” And then there were times when I could do it, and other times I couldn’t.

Memory loss. And actually, now that I think about it, the biggest thing other than the focal seizures was the emotions. I could not control my emotions, and that ranged from anger to crying. Again, I dismissed it because it was during COVID, I had just gotten a divorce, and I had two teenage boys with majority custody. So to have a moment where I couldn’t do simple math — well, I’m just overwhelmed, I’ve got so much on my mind. To be emotional — well, of course I’m emotional, I’ve got all these things going on. But looking back on it, you add all those things up. All they know is that there’s a tumor and they know where it is — they know it’s causing focal seizures and headaches. That’s the only thing they absolutely know for a fact. But it’s scary to think, “Like tentacles — what else is it affecting that they don’t know and can’t fix?”

Gamma Knife radiation for my brain tumor: What the treatment was like for me

The first thing they did was send me to the neurosurgeon. He looked at me and said, “I don’t want to operate, because if I operate, we run a good risk of paralyzing you. I want to try what they call Gamma Knife radiation.” It’s surgery without cutting anything open — it’s just mega radiation to the brain.

It’s terrifying. It’s awful. You really should take a Xanax before, because they put a mask on you that looks like Jason from Friday the 13th. The only things exposed are your nostrils, so you can barely breathe through your nose. You can’t open your mouth, you can’t even open your lips, you can’t open your eyes. You feel like you’re being suffocated. And then they bolt it to the table, so when you lie down, you literally cannot move. Then you’re put into a tube for the radiation.

Xanax and I became very good friends during those times — I do not abuse Xanax, by the way. I just learned that it really is a good tool for situations like that, because without it, I would have panicked and tried to rip the thing off. So that was the immediate treatment — but that was only the first step in the treatment of all of this over the last five years.

Awake craniotomy: Brain surgery while conscious

The Gamma Knife radiation worked. That was in May of 2021. After you have radiation to the brain, scar tissue forms, and as scar tissue forms, it can continue to grow. They did brain MRIs and saw the scar tissue start to grow more and more. They kept saying, “It’s normal for it to continue to grow for a little while.” It grew for nine months — and that wasn’t the tumor itself, but the scar tissue growing. I started to get headaches again, and started to have semi-seizures. They said, “Something is going on here. We can’t afford any more swelling, so we’re going to do brain surgery” — aka a craniotomy.

And then — hearing that I was going to have not only brain surgery, a craniotomy, but an awake craniotomy. It just kept getting worse. It’s just bizarre. I had to be awake during the surgery.

They put you to sleep so they can cut through the tissue and get down to the skull — they put you in a twilight for that part. Then they wake you up when they’ve got the brain open. They woke me up a little too soon. I remember hearing the saw going through the skull and smelling it. It was like something out of a horror movie. It still makes me cringe. I smelled them opening up my skull. They said, “Oh,” and put me back out. They woke me back up and said, “Okay, say your ABCs, move your leg, move this.” And my head was bolted to a table, so I couldn’t move it.

If you watch any documentaries on craniotomies, a lot of times they use almost a spaceship-type chair — it’s so microscopic, and what they do to the brain is just incredible, trying not to paralyze you or create something permanent that will affect you for the rest of your life.

I woke up with the worst headache you could ever imagine — up to the point where the strongest pain medicine they had wouldn’t cut it completely. I woke up to my family there. It hurt to even talk. It was a very big deal. I still have issues with numbness on my right side and some weakness on my right side, but it could have been a lot worse. That was my second chapter since having the brain tumor — but one of many chapters in the whole story.

A third brain tumor and choosing to see cancer as a chronic disease

In January, I had another tumor. I had the craniotomy in October of 2023, and they found another tumor just a few months ago. But it was tiny — they just went in and zapped it with radiation, and it’s now half the size it was.

I am looking at this as a chronic disease rather than a death sentence. That’s how I have to manage it. One of the driving factors is my family — I just can’t imagine not being here for them. And I still have more to offer. People gain strength and gain hope from my story. That’s another reason I’m still here and keep pushing forward: I have a purpose. I still have a purpose here on earth. I believe that. I have to keep going, and I have to stay alive, and I’ll do anything to do that.

Living with stage 4 breast cancer: Side effects, chemo, and the new normal

I am on full-blown chemo — two chemotherapies targeted to the brain, plus trastuzumab. I get an infusion every three weeks. It’s not the kind where you lose your hair, but I have sores on my hands, sores on my feet, red hands, nausea, and fatigue. I’m not able to work. I went from making really, really good money to now being on Social Security and disability. That has definitely made a significant financial impact on the family household.

I call it “the quiet cost of cancer” — and that’s something I speak about because I do a lot of speaking to help people. I’m on a regimen called HER2CLIMB, and I will be on some form of chemo for the rest of my life. We will continue on this line until it quits working. When it quits working, they’ll go to the next line, which has a 90% chance of causing me to lose my hair. HER2CLIMB has worked for me for five years, which is a lot longer than the expected time period. I’m just trying to push through all these side effects because I really need it to keep working. Other than that little tiny spot, it has worked wonderfully. The doctors do not feel the tiny spot warrants switching to the next line of chemo, so I’m fortunate that way.

The quiet cost of cancer: Financial burden on middle-income families

There’s just not a lot of concrete solutions I can give advice on. My angle is more to raise awareness to people who haven’t been touched by cancer, or distant family members looking in from the outside. Even for tax purposes, when you go to do your income taxes, you have to have spent an exorbitant amount of money to get any tax relief, which is horrific and cruel in my opinion.

There is social work and social help that can assist cancer patients, but the unfortunate part is that even if you make good money, even if your household makes good money, it doesn’t mean you’re not going to be crippled by cancer. A lot of middle-income families become lower-income families because of this, and they don’t get any help. The hotel rooms, the mileage, the meals, the daycare, the lost income, the caregiver’s lost income from taking off work to take you to appointments — all of these things add up. The only piece of advice I can give a patient or caregiver is to make sure you keep all those receipts. Hopefully, it adds up enough for a little bit of a tax break. As far as federal and state policy, there’s just not enough done. That absolutely needs to change. People who are not in this situation need to understand it.

Fitness, mental strength, and the drive to keep living

One of the biggest messages I give to patients specifically — I come from a world of working out; I came from a world of, I’ll be honest, some vanity. Before I got diagnosed, I was doing some fitness modeling. Little did I know that it was very short-lived because I got diagnosed.

I just did a video on Instagram — I document things going on in my life at @stage4cancer — and I got a compliment the other day at the gym. This older gentleman, really sweet, said, “You are too pretty to be sick.” And I said, “That is what I want to hear.” I don’t want to look sick. I want my life to be as normal as possible, and I fight for that every day. Fortunately, I had a background in fitness, so I was used to working out. I continued to work out. And that is what the doctors tell me is a huge part of why I am still here.

A lot of people don’t realize that working out and doing cardio helps filter some of that chemo out, because sometimes the chemo will kill you before the cancer does — and people don’t think about that either. You have to be able to process that chemo and deal with the side effects, because if not, it’s just poison sitting in your body.

I still want to look pretty for my husband. When you look good, you feel good. Even when I finish this interview, I’m going to go sleep — people don’t realize that I will crawl into bed and sleep for two hours, then get up and finish my day. That will wipe me out, and I’ll be in bed by 8:30 or 9:00. I have a very compact day because I need so much sleep. But that’s the message: work out. Move, move, move. Don’t be sedentary. Don’t let yourself just slip away, because you can drown. You can drown in it — the whole life of it. You can drown.

Hope vs. dreams: A final message to cancer patients

One more thing I want to say: I just did a short video on the difference between hopes and dreams. A dream is something that may not be attainable, but that you wish and long for. A hope is something you feel is attainable.

My hope — for me and for everyone out there — is that they come up with better medicine. My dream would be for them to cure cancer. I don’t think curing cancer in my lifetime is realistic, so I call it a hope: better medicine. And my message is: What is your why? What is your why? And then I ask people: How bad do you want it? How bad do you want it? Because if you want it bad enough, you’ll do everything you can to fight it. That’s something I think cancer patients really need to think about and dig deep into.

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