I Wasn’t Supposed to Have Breast Cancer

I’m Bridgette Hempstead, and my story began, well, actually, it started 57 years ago when I was born. Thank you, Mom.

Fast-forward to age 34. I was sitting on my couch with my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter asleep beside me when the Lord spoke to me and said, “Go get a mammogram, and do it now.”

The phone was right there. I picked it up and called to make an appointment. I wasn’t really thinking about cancer, but I made the appointment.

When I went into the doctor’s office, they said, “It’s really good to see you. Let’s do a breast exam and see where we go from there.”

The doctor then gave me a laundry list of reasons why I didn’t need a mammogram. She told me, “You’re African American. It doesn’t happen in your community. Come back in 10 years.”

I looked at her and said, “The Lord spoke to me. I want a mammogram, and I want it now.”

I got that bossiness from my mom.

She gave me the mammogram, and I was diagnosed with breast cancer on my 35th birthday. There I am at 35, with a hat and plenty of sass.

I received the diagnosis that morning and called my mother. I was married at the time, and my mother said, “If the Lord warned you to get a mammogram and now you’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer, then you have work to do. Go do that work.”

Three days after my diagnosis, bandaged from surgery and everything else, I started an organization called Cierra Sisters, an African American breast cancer organization.

“Cierra” is an African word that means knowing. When you have knowledge, you have the power to fight the effects of breast cancer.

My advocacy began immediately because it needed to. All you saw were white women celebrating, saying, “I’m a cancer survivor,” and wearing pink. In 1996, there were no African American or Black faces celebrating. I wanted to make a difference.

Cierra Sisters was born because African American women are 20 to 40 percent more likely to die from breast cancer. There are many reasons for that. One is that we are told, “It’s not going to happen to you.” Or women have symptoms and doctors say, “Let’s wait and see.”

That “wait and see” can become a death sentence.

We are all going to die one day, but how about we live some life first? How about we live it to the fullest?

Cierra Sisters grew from the frustration that there was nothing available for my community. I was a Black woman with breast cancer who wanted to make a difference.

We have a training program called CEPS. In this picture is a woman who was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer. She had been told something very different by another healthcare system.

We helped her leave that system and enter one that understood triple-negative breast cancer and knew how to treat it. Her treatment plan changed completely.

When we looked at the outcomes of the doctor she had been seeing, everybody was really angry because his patients were dying very quickly.

She entered a new system, and one of our advocates and educators supported her through the process.

Cierra Sisters also does extensive outreach in the community. We hold a wellness festival and deliver 1,000 bags of lifesaving information door to door.

Why? Because members of our community do not always attend healthcare events. There are serious issues around trust.

Our volunteers went to homes and cars. They went out as families to make sure people understood what was happening and how to access healthcare.

Sometimes the barriers are so overwhelming that people don’t want to visit a doctor. They are afraid to go. Then, when they do go, the doctor says, “You’re okay,” even when they aren’t.

Which is it? Am I okay, or am I not okay? Somebody tell me the truth.

Let me tell you about Miss Bonnie. Isn’t she beautiful?

Bonnie was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Before it progressed to stage four, it had been stage three.

She lived in Alaska and came to Seattle, where she found Cierra Sisters. One of the first things I asked her was, “Did they tell you about any clinical trials available for your condition?”

She said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her doctor had never told her that clinical trials were available.

We helped her enter a clinical trial, and it was working. But the disease had progressed so far that the trial could not give her more time.

She said, “I thought I had more time.”

As an organization, we came together and made sure Bonnie was never alone. When she died, she did not die by herself.

The healthcare system had failed her in Alaska and in Seattle. She had not received adequate care.

Before Bonnie died, I picked her up from the hospital. We were going to take another sister, who desperately needed surgery, to a different hospital. Without that surgery, this other woman might have died.

Bonnie was wearing a trench coat, a hat and a scarf. I said, “I’ll take you home so you can rest.”

She said, “No. I’m a Cierra Sister. I’m riding to the hospital with you.”

She left her own hospital bed to help a woman in another hospital bed and make sure that woman’s life could continue.

Fast-forward 18 years. I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer.

The doctors had told me, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Take this medicine, and you’ll be fine.”

That wasn’t the case. The cancer had spread to my lymph nodes and liver.

The oncologist I was seeing told my daughter and me, “You only have a year to live, and you will never sing again.”

My daughter says I jumped off the table, pointed my finger at the doctor and said, “I don’t receive that in the name of Jesus.”

I don’t remember doing that. You’ll have to ask Dee Dee.

Faced with the possibility that I might die soon, my daughter and my sisters booked a trip, and we went parasailing in Jamaica.

Three days later, my daughter said, “Mom, you called and told me, ‘I’m not ready to die yet. I’ll just keep on living.’”

So I did.

That was five years ago.

Being in the trenches of this healthcare system has shown me that we are failing to respect the end of life. Sometimes we are ending lives far too early because we are unwilling to give patients of color the best possible care.

We have to make a difference.

If my cancer is now being treated as a chronic disease, then give me the treatment.

I asked the doctor I was seeing to help me enter a clinical trial. She refused.

I fired her.

Can we fire doctors? Yes, we can.

I found another doctor whom I had known through more than 20 years of outreach work. I have been treated with several different medications. I have never received IV chemotherapy or lost my hair, although I don’t have eyebrows. I painted those on today.

And I continue to sing.

Nine months after that doctor told me I would never sing again, I was invited to perform the national anthem at a Seahawks-Cowboys game in front of 90,000 people.

There is also a documentary that shows me singing at church.

This is what I say: Live your life to the fullest. Live it. And when you leave, leave with a bang.

Who is going parasailing with me?

It was amazing. My daughter said, “Mom, I thought we were just going on a boat ride in the ocean.”

Then they said, “Step into this.”

I said, “What is this?”

I stepped in and got ready to go parasailing without even realizing it. Once we were in the air, my daughter said, “Oh my God, I’m scared.”

I said, “This is amazing. What’s wrong with you?”

Go parasailing. Live your best life. Live it until the end, and when you leave, leave with a bang.

Why would I sit around dwelling on the fact that one day I’m going to leave? We are all going to leave.

But let me go when I’m ready, or when my body says it has had too much. Don’t let it happen because a doctor says, “You’re Black, so I’m going to hide treatments from you. I’m going to keep this information from you. I’m not going to let you enter a clinical trial.”

We have power.

I want you to do something. I want you to stand up.

We often hear in the Bible that tomorrow is not promised to anyone. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow. We may not wake up.

Give yourself a hug. A nice little hug.

Now let me ask you a question: Are you here today?

They say tomorrow isn’t promised, but I want to leave you with this:

Today was the tomorrow that wasn’t promised.

Live your life to the fullest, and leave with a bang