More Than a Cough

When people talk about cancer and treatment, they prepare you for the big things, hair loss, fatigue, nausea, surgeries, scars. And I had all of that. But no one warned me about the cough.

Sixteen rounds of chemo. A double mastectomy, Expanders, reconstruction .The emotional toll of being diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer. I braced myself for the battle, and in many ways, I felt ready for what was coming.

What I wasn’t ready for was the thing that stayed.The cough started toward the end of my active treatment, around Christmas time. I had just finished chemo and transitioned into immunotherapy. At first, it felt simple like I was getting sick. A tickle in my throat, something you brush off. They gave me antibiotics, and I assumed it would pass,It didn’t.

That “little cough” turned into something that would follow me for the next three years and counting.What people don’t see is how something that sounds so minor can completely take over your life. It starts as a tickle, but once it triggers, it’s relentless. I cough until I can’t catch my breath. I cough until my eyes water. I cough until my body gives out and sometimes, until I throw up.

There have been moments I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Coughing uncontrollably in public. In front of coworkers. In the middle of a store. While driving on the freeway, unable to stop, coughing so hard I’ve gotten sick all over myself. I’ve had to excuse myself from conversations, meetings, moments that matter because I physically couldn’t control what my body was doing.I’ve coughed so hard in front of people that it scared them. I’ve had episodes where food comes back up hours after eating. I’ve stood there, trying to explain something that makes no sense, even to me.

That’s the part no one prepares you for the invisible side effects. The ones that don’t show up in the “before and after” photos. The ones that make you feel like you’re still fighting, long after everyone else thinks you’re done.Over the past two years, I’ve been on nearly 30 rounds of steroids. I’ve seen four ENTs , about to be five. A pulmonologist. Three gastroenterologists. I’ve had colonoscopies, endoscopies, CT scans, X-rays, EKGs, swallow studies, breathing tests, vocal cord surgery,acid reflux testing. I’ve been told I have reflux but not severe enough to treat. I’ve tried Western medicine, Eastern medicine, stress relief techniques,speech therapy,twice.And still… the cough.

There were days I felt completely defeated. I remember thinking, I beat cancer… and this is what’s taking me down?That realization reshaped everything I thought survivorship would look like. I used to think there was a clear finish line that once treatment ended, life would just go back to normal. But survivorship isn’t clean or simple. It’s complicated. It’s ongoing. It’s learning how to live in a body that’s been through something traumatic and doesn’t always respond the way you expect.

This cough became my “hidden” side effect. People don’t see it coming. They don’t understand why something so small can be so disruptive. And honestly, I don’t always know how to explain it. How do you tell someone that a tickle in your throat can turn into losing control of your body? That something as basic as breathing can suddenly feel unpredictable?But here’s the thing I’ve also learned how to live alongside it.

A dear friend once told me, “You get 15 minutes a day to be mad. To scream, cry, hate the world. But then you have to come back and be you because we need you. That stuck with me.So yes, there are still moments I break down. Moments where I’m frustrated, exhausted, over it. But I don’t stay there.

One of the things that has carried me through during cancer and now, two years later is walking. Before treatment, during treatment, and now in survivorship, I walk. Two to three miles most days. It’s where I process fear, frustration, uncertainty. When my body feels out of control, walking is the one thing that grounds me again.It reminds me: I’m still here.

And sometimes, if I’m being honest, there are moments that are almost… absurd. Like coughing so hard in the car that I have to pull over and just sit there, thinking, Is this really my life right now? Moments where all you can do is shake your head and laugh, because if you don’t, you’ll cry.

This wasn’t the side effect I planned for. It wasn’t in any brochure, any conversation, any warning. But it’s part of my story. And even with it through the frustration, the exhaustion, the unpredictability I keep choosing to show up. To find light where I can. To keep going.Because I’m here. And I’m meant to be here.Even on the days when all I can do… is breathe, cough, and keep moving forward.