LaTonya Davis is a 51-year-old woman living in Miami. In 2016, she was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer, a type of breast cancer that is often more aggressive and difficult to treat. It means that tumor doesn’t carry the three most common types of receptors that lead to breast cancer: estrogen, progesterone and the HER-2/neu gene. Triple-negative breast cancer is more likely to be diagnosed in African American women, and the five-year survival rate is lower than that of other forms of breast cancer.
This is her story, as told to Deanna Pai and edited for length and clarity.
In May 2016, I lost my only sister to metastatic breast cancer. We had lost our mother to metastatic breast cancer when we were both in graduate school. My mom’s death was hard—I still can’t believe that I have to live without my mother—but the only thing that made it more bearable was the fact that I still had my sister.
My sister’s initial diagnosis was triple-negative. She had a lumpectomy, had chemo infusions and radiation treatments. But she was in remission for only a year and month because the cancer had metastasized to her lung. One day, she called to tell me that a technician had punctured her lung during a procedure. When I got that call, I thought, You know what? I’ve got to go be with my sister. She was a widow and had an 11-year-old son, who I’m now raising.
Because of everything I had going on, I didn’t get my annual mammogram until the week before Thanksgiving that year. I wasn’t necessarily worried, but I just always had that fear because I had dense breast tissue. I always watched the technicians after they do the mammogram to see if I can see a facial expression—since legally, they’re not going to tell you anything.
I could kind of see that something was different this time. But I was like, Okay, maybe it’s just my nerves, because everything is heightened because of my sister’s death. Normally, I would have the test and then they would send me on my way. But this particular day, I had to sit a little longer, and they told me they wanted to do another test.
My doctor came in and said, “I see something that looks like a little cyst. I’m sure it’s nothing. We could wait two weeks to see if it goes away or we can go ahead and do a biopsy today.” With everything that I had just gone through with my sister, I was like, “Today.” I could not even fathom that this would be happening to me.
I got the call from her a few days later, and she gave me the news that it was actually cancer. From that day forward, my world was struck once again. I told only my close friends, because it was right before Thanksgiving and the last thing I wanted was to have my friends and my family—especially my nephew—worry. I’m always the one that’s the tough cookie, the one that can make sh-t happen. If there’s a problem, it’s like, “LaTonya’s going to fix it,” you know? I’m tough.
I just didn’t want to ruin my nephew’s Christmas. I still haven’t fully grieved my sister’s death because from the day that I was diagnosed, I thought, I really have to be strong for my nephew so that he won’t be afraid that I’m going to leave him too. And I didn’t want to burden anyone by saying: “Not only do you guys not have to get over the fact that my sister’s gone, but guess what? I’ve got the same diagnosis.” So I didn’t tell anyone except my close family and friends. Weeks after my original diagnosis, my oncologist confirmed it was triple-negative breast cancer.
I told my friends on a conference call, because they’re scattered all over the country, and explained what was going to happen with the surgeries and chemo. I can still hear my best friend’s wailing. I can’t get that sound out of my head. These were the same women who had just rallied and come to Orlando to be with me when I buried my sister. Some of them were there in my sister’s final days, so they know what happens. I knew they were probably thinking, Oh my God, she’s going to die.
In January, I had a double mastectomy. I announced it to the world on Facebook and Instagram when I was getting ready to go into surgery. People were just in shock. They couldn’t believe it. I told my nephew a few days before just so he had time to process it. All he wanted to know was that I was going to be okay.
After my double mastectomy, I had chemo. My friends and sorority sisters took turns flying in to take care of me. For almost every chemo session, one of them flew in to be at chemo with me—but my nephew was upset because they would never let him come into the chemo suite.
My oncology surgeon, Dr. Manuel Torres-Salichs, worked hand in hand with my reconstructive surgeon, Dr. Jaime Flores, to put in expanders during the surgery. Going through that process is like having an elephant standing on your chest. But once I got the Mentor implants, I really started feeling like myself. I absolutely love them. Some of my friends say, “You always have the boobs out.” I live in Miami! It’s hot! So I’m always showing cleavage. Sometimes I forget that they aren’t mine—until they feel cold when it’s hot out or vice versa. They have definitely played a big role in my feeling like myself.
My nephew, who’s a teenager now, is a typical boy. Whenever I hug him, he’s like, “Why you got those things on me?” He’s so funny. We have such a special bond. I was always the aunt who spoiled him, and I would tell my sister, “Well, he can stay up late with me” when I would go home to Orlando. Now I’m like, I’ve got to reverse all this sh-t that I’ve put in place.
The one thing that I’m so grateful for is that my sister didn’t know that I had cancer. I think about this literally every day. Can you imagine if I had found out I had breast cancer when my sister was still living—and she knew that? As far as I know, it could have been there, and it probably was. But I held her hand and told her, “Londa (my sister’s name was Yolonda) it’s okay. You can go rest. I will take good care of [your son] Jayden.” I’m just grateful that she was able to leave this earth knowing that I would take care of him.
