My name is Anita West, and I live in a rural community in southwest Oklahoma. Oklahoma hasn’t always been home, but it is the home I have grown to love after being sent here by the Army in 2006. I adore the rolling hills and the green grass along with the one small mountain I can see in the west that reminds me of Arizona, where I grew up.

I am an adoring wife of 30 years to my husband, Barry, a veteran of the United States Army and native Oklahoman. Together we have three beautiful, kind, and compassionate children Annika, Alyssa, and Andrew, and one precious granddaughter, Carter, who celebrated her first birthday in August.

I started my teaching career in 2009 as a 4th-grade teacher. After six years in elementary, I moved to middle school to teach 7th-grade English and 8th-grade reading. I spent seven years teaching middle school and in August of this year, I began teaching 9th-grade English. Each grade level has qualities that I love. I enjoy learning about new age groups and curricula and find each new experience a welcomed challenge. I was honored to be named district Teacher of the Year in 2014 as well as a recipient of the Rising Star Award for the State of Oklahoma. That same year, 2014, I earned a master’s degree in Educational Leadership in hopes of one day becoming a principal. This is my 14th year in education.

As you can see, 2014 had some highlights but those highlights collided with darkness. The pastor at my church often preaches that in life we are either standing on a mountain top, or we are in the pit of a valley. No matter where we are, it is certain in life that the opposite, in time, is our destination. We will not remain in a pit nor will we stand steady on the mountaintop. Though I don’t like to see life this way, 2014 was exactly that for me. My mountain top, of sorts, became a valley as my breast cancer diagnosis reared its ugly head. It all began with a Facebook message, a plea of sorts, by a friend who was encouraging her Facebook followers to get mammograms. Her plea was to honor a mutual friend, and educator, who was in the midst of her battle with advanced and aggressive breast cancer. It was the summer of my 40th birthday, the birthday that suggests women begin breast cancer screenings. So in honor of her request and friend, I scheduled my very first mammogram. What was supposed to be a one-and-done imaging session became one of the most frightful experiences of my life. I received “the letter” that expressed a need for follow-up images. I had been told by the radiologist technician that often people get called back and should I get this letter, not to worry. I didn’t worry and scheduled my follow-up. As I entered the room, I expressed how I had taken her “don’t worry” words to heart, and I had not worried. It was that moment when she, the technician, expressed that my case was different. I knew instantly something wasn’t right by the look in her eyes. She took additional images, reviewed them with the radiologist, and determined the need for a biopsy. The biopsy happened that August during the first week of the new school year. As I was lying on the biopsy table, tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. I sobbed and my sweet technician, Gloria, sobbed alongside me as if she had known me my whole life. She was so tender and loving and explained that though my journey would be long and hard, I would be ok. After waiting 14 very long days for biopsy results, I was diagnosed with Ductal Carcinoma. My cancer was in the form of calcifications that were spread significantly across the top of my breast which meant that a mastectomy was my only option. As I was making decisions about

one breast, I received a phone call that my other breast had multiple suspicious spots. I was told I would need a second biopsy. I was in disbelief and shock. My second biopsy was clear. What was thought to be suspicious was dense tissue and lymph nodes. However, this scare, along with being told that if I kept my healthy breast, I would require years of cancer medication along with breast screenings every six months, I made a decision to proceed with bilateral mastectomies. After many doctor visits with general surgeons, plastic surgeons, oncologists, etc., I had surgery on November 20, 2014. On that day, my cancer, along with both of my breasts were removed, and I began the reconstruction process. This process lasted several months. Finally, on May 5, 2015, my tissue expanders were replaced with implants, and my reconstruction was considered complete. It would take one more surgery, later that year, to correct a frozen shoulder that resulted from scar tissue from the previous surgeries, but for the most part, I was done and released from the care of my surgeons. To my surprise, I felt a sense of sadness and a bit scared to be released. These people had become my people, and I wasn’t sure how to continue this journey without them.

It is now eight years later and I can tell you that every single person who played a role in my journey is a big deal to me. The friends I had and the new friends I made, my family, my students and their families, people who prayed, those who showed up with meals, sent cards, sat in the quiet of the night, cared for my children, gave advice, treated me, listened, held my hand, wore pink, told me I was brave, wore a bracelet in my honor, etc. made a difference in my life. They are and will always be a part of my story – they gave me hope.

This experience changed me; I am not the same person I was before my diagnosis on that September day. Mostly, it changed me not for the good or the bad, it just changed my perspective on people and life. I am using my experience to impact others and make a difference with the time I have been given. I am more empathetic. I am more understanding that we should not shy away from opportunities to care for others and that we should acknowledge when they are facing challenges. I am more willing to be involved in causes, and more willing to share my experiences when I believe they make a difference to someone else. I have learned to be vulnerable, and I have learned that everyone has a story. I have learned to use my voice, and I have learned that scars mean we can mend.

In this cancer journey, I was a statistic, a 1 in 8, and I consider myself lucky in that respect because I didn’t have to watch a family member suffer through this disease like so many others have. Also, I do not carry the BRCA gene which has released me from the constant worry that my children will endure this journey. Not everyone is that fortunate. These are things I am grateful for along with the fact that I am a survivor. Once again, not everyone is that fortunate. So I want to say that I recognize, in great multitude, how blessed and fortunate I am, and how my journey and my story needs to be used for good. I am here today because of those who were diagnosed before me and because of the support breast cancer research has received. I am here today because doctors and scientists pour into this horrific disease. I am here today because God said it was not my time.

From my bio I want you to remember that I live a good and blessed life, but that I endured hardship just as every living individual will at some point in their life. Hardships set us back, knock us off our feet, steal our breath, and sometimes – even break us. However, people need our stories. They need to know that sometimes blessings come through raindrops and somehow and in some amount of time, we can heal to maybe not our old form but to a new version of ourselves. We need to be an anchor for those who are facing or who will face a day like my September 3 or November 20, 2014 when I didn’t know the world could right itself again. We need to spread a message of hope.

In closing, I have learned of the significance of Kintsugi, the Japanese craft of mending broken pottery with gold. This art form uses the gold (something valuable) to highlight the scars in the broken pieces, not to hide them. The broken pottery metaphorically represents the brokenness and scars of those affected by cancer. The significance is that cancer often leaves us feeling broken, but in mending our brokenness, we have an opportunity to create something more rare, beautiful, and resilient not by covering our scars but by highlighting them with our message of hope and inspiration to others.

In loving memory of Elise Dunnigan Bethel, the inspiration behind the Pink Santa Hat Movement, and in celebration of the educators I serve alongside of, my fellow pink sister survivors: Dana, Diane, Angela, Cheryl, Mary, Krystal, Marty, and most recently, Susan, I am honored and humbled to be a part of this year’s celebration of survivors. For all of these women and their caretakers, I pledge to inspire others to continue fighting.