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When your life changes in an instant, there’s no warning—just a moment that splits time into before and after. For me, NICOLE DRAYTON, it happened in a bathroom on a quiet Sunday morning. This is my journey through breast cancer, which I am sharing in parts: raw, unfiltered, and rooted in faith. It’s not just a story about diagnosis—it’s about strength, fear, isolation, small miracles, and the power of community.
“What the a.. is this?!”
That was my introduction to cancer.
It was Sunday, November 10, 2024. I was in my friend Natalie Yearwood’s bathroom when I saw it—this lump, boldly poking its head out from my right breast. I stared at it in disbelief. I touched it, feeling it gently massaging the area. It didn’t hurt. But I knew.
Still stunned, I stepped into the shower, then came out and called out to Natalie. She’s a licenced massage therapist. I needed her to see it. The concern flashed across her face before she tried to mask it in her voice.
“It could be a benign lump,” she said softly, her fingers gently brushing the area as she prayed for me.
Just the day before, we had wrapped up a hectic two-day event for San Fernando Week. I had stayed with Natalie all week. One event was an art exhibition for southern artists, the other was a fashion and music showcase on Friday. And now, on the very Sunday I was heading back to work at Guardian Media, this discovery had shaken everything.
I had a shift that day—Assistant Photo Editor. It was a 45-minute drive from South to North, but it felt like forever. There was complete silence as I was being driven home, one hand occasionally brushing my chest, tears falling, a storm quietly raging in my head. I kept praying. I was also menopausal, and the shadow of cancer now loomed.
The second person I told was my friend and colleague Anna-Lisa Paul. It was during my lunch break. I don’t even know how I found the words, but they came, shaky and tear-filled.
I wiped my face, pulled myself together, and went back to work. Grateful for the distraction. But every now and then, my fingers would graze my chest, and the cold dread would rush back in.
My shift ended around 10.30 pm. I was now heading back to my home in Bagatelle, Diego Martin. I walked through the door, sat on my bed, and broke down again.
My phone rang. It was Natalie. Checking in on me. We talked. I cried. Then Anna-Lisa called. More tears.
That night, after the calls, I laid on my bed and sobbed—deeper than I ever had. It was the first time the weight of it all settled on my chest, heavier than the lump itself. I played Psalm 34 by The Brooklyn Tabernacle on YouTube and tried to gather my thoughts, to chart my next move. I needed medical help.
Being single, the silence in the room got louder. Questions tumbled around in my head, meeting answers that weren’t really answers. Just me and my faith. Because in the end, it would be me making the choices. Me fighting the battle. Me carrying the weight.
On Wednesday, November 13—my day off—I went to the Diego Martin Health Centre. It was a walk-in day. I explained why I was there, hoping for help. But instead, I got a dismissive response from a staff member who told me I should pay privately for a mammogram—it would be faster that way.
I left in tears. All I wanted was help.
I believe in public healthcare. I had a hysterectomy three years ago at Mt Hope Women’s Hospital and healed beautifully. But now, I was met with coldness. I went home, pressed play on Hillsong United’s Oceans and Maverick City’s My Life Is in Your Hands—and let the music carry my emotions.
The next day at work, I confided in my Managing Editor, Kaymar Jordan. She embraced me as I spoke, then immediately called Robert Dumas—president of the Cancer Society. He told her I would need a doctor’s referral letter from a public institution before they could assist.
So I waited. I prayed. I went back to the health centre the next Wednesday. This time, I met a young doctor. I explained everything, preparing myself for another rejection. But he didn’t hesitate. “Let me give you a referral letter,” he said.
That was God.
I left that health centre practically skipping, referral in hand, praising God. That letter—that moment of kindness and action—was the miracle I needed.
I called the Cancer Society. They told me to come in on Monday, December 9, at 10 am, to see a doctor.
That was the beginning of my journey. I was told I needed a biopsy.
It was done the very next day—December 10—and I was asked to return 13 days later.
On December 23, the results confirmed what I had feared.
The words no one ever wants to hear: it was cancer.
To be continued
English (US) ·