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For a brief moment, even when I felt the lump, I still had a moment of thinking, There's no way this is that kind of lump. There's just no way that this could be happening to me. No way that this is cancer. But then one second later I thought, Well . . . why isn't it cancer and why couldn't it be happening to me?

When I thought about it that way, there was actually no reason it wouldn't be cancer, no logic behind why I would be exempt. I think what I meant was: I didn't want it to be me; this simply wasn't ever in my future plans. This was meant to be the highest point of my life, and cancer couldn't get in the way of that. Except that it absolutely could, and maybe it would.

I tried to make a list of all the millions of things it could be. A blocked milk duct? People definitely get those. Sure, it had been years since I had breastfed a baby, but maybe it was residual. That felt like a stretch. Maybe it was something totally benign—a cyst? My mind was racing in the shower, going over every possibility I could think of. And then it just hit me like a ton of bricks. There wasn't another possibility. It was a lump. It was the kind of lump that people are talking about when they say, "I found a lump." This was the lump.

I didn't rule out the possibility of it still being something else, but it was undeniably a lump—a very large lump or potentially even two lumps. I was scared to even get out of the shower and confront this reality.

As I had just turned forty only three weeks earlier, I was due for my first mammogram. I was going to have to start thinking about my breast health. It all started to click in my brain that I needed to call the doctor immediately.

By the time I stepped out of the shower and dried off, I was shaking, trying to unlock my mobile phone so I could call my gynecologist. Part of me was speechless, thinking, I can't believe I'm about to say these words.

The receptionist picked up. "Hello, office of [someone I will not name]," she said.

"Hi, this is Clea Shearer," I said, the way I had so many times before. "I need to schedule my well-woman appointment, but I also need to schedule my first mammogram. I am pretty sure I just found a lump...."

My words hung dry in my throat; I was still in disbelief that they needed to come out of my mouth. I found a lump. Meanwhile, my mind had no problem screaming, This is an emergency!

This was very different from calling the doctor for an annual appointment, a checkup or wellness exam. If you say that you have something wrong right now, they tend to prioritize your situation because it's urgent. I wasn't asking to do something preventive. I needed care right now. But that didn't even seem to matter in this case.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said, "but there are no appointments available on the books with the doctor. We're completely booked through April, and the May books aren't open yet, so we can't put you on the schedule at this time. Try back sometime next month to see if the May calendar is open."

"You're telling me you can't even schedule me for May?" I said. "It's February. There's no appointment currently available and no appointment that you're able to book even after that?"

"That's correct," she said.

"How is this allowed in health care? I am telling you I have something potentially cancerous in my body and you're not able to fit me in?" I was truly shocked and outraged. "I can't even get a mammogram?"

"No, unfortunately not."

I was still scared, but now I was also livid. How in the world was it possible that I was not able to get an appointment? There I was, telling this receptionist that I'd found a lump in my breast.

Doesn't "I feel a lump" set off a breast cancer bat signal of some sort? Surely someone would be able to see me to get this sorted out. Why on earth wouldn't they escalate this beyond what appointments they had available?

Inaction on their part would normally trigger a response of, Well, I suppose I'll just have to wait for a mammogram. I guess I'll just have to make an appointment whenever I'm able to get an appointment. No one loves going to the doctor, so when they tell you they can fit you in months later, you just take it and are semi-grateful you can put it off for a while. Sometimes I call the dentist and they say nothing's available until whatever faraway date. I silently say thank you and then tell them I'll be there. But this time, my gut was telling me—screaming at me—that I had to fight this one out.

I could postpone getting it looked at, but I just knew that I had already waited too long. Alternatively, I could find a way to get seen and not take no for an answer.

I am so, so grateful that I listened to my instincts and didn't take the complacent option for once. That I didn't sit back and say, Well, I guess I just have to wait awhile. What's a few months? I decided instead of waiting to possibly get an appointment in May, I would be relentless until I exhausted all my options.

Within minutes, I called my excellent primary care physician, Dr. Kurtz, at Vanderbilt Health, in a panic. And to my relief, she responded the way I hoped she would: "As soon as you're back in Nashville, we're going to get you in for a mammogram and an ultrasound. We need to get this checked immediately."

I was so thankful to have someone in my corner. Of course, I was scared for these tests and what they might confirm, but I realized knowing was better than not, and I went ahead and scheduled the appointments. Thank goodness my doctor heard me, listened to me, and activated all channels to make it happen.

Dr. Kurtz was the first person I told about my lump (with the exception of the receptionist at the other doctor's office), but the next phone call was going to be much harder. How on earth could I tell my husband something this major over the phone? I didn't give myself time to consider the question, because with every second that passed, I felt like I was keeping a secret from him. I also didn't give myself enough time to consider how I was going to approach this conversation, and once John answered the phone, I came in hot in full panic mode. John is very levelheaded and calm, so he reminded me that just because I had felt something didn't mean it was definitely cancer. We would let the scans speak for themselves and try not to get ahead of ourselves.

After New York, Joanna and I were scheduled to be in Houston to meet with one of our retailers at a huge conference. The dates were set in stone, so I planned my mammogram and ultrasound appointment in Nashville for the following week. While we were at the hotel in Houston, I asked Joanna to feel my breast. I needed her gut reaction. I wanted to know if she was thinking the same thing I was thinking.

My lump was large enough to feel through my shirt; I didn't even need to pull it up. She looked up at me and said, "Okay, I definitely feel what you're talking about, but that does not mean that it's cancer. It's definitely something, but it's not necessarily cancer. It could be a million other things." She paused. "I'm glad you're getting this checked out, though, because I think you need to."

"Okay," I said, "that's right."

In some ways I felt validated that I wasn't being overdramatic. In other ways I thought, Well, here we go. In that moment, I just knew. I didn't even need medical confirmation; I was just certain as we left Houston to return to Nashville: I have breast cancer.

From CANCER IS COMPLICATED by Clea Shearer, to be published on September 23, 2025 by The Open Field, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2025 by Clea Shearer.

Audio excerpted courtesy of Penguin Random House Audio from CANCER IS COMPLICATED by Clea Shearer, read by Clea Shearer and Maria Shriver. © 2025 Clea Shearer, ℗ 2025 Penguin Random House, LLC. All rights reserved.