As I follow the nurse down the long, carpeted hallway, I can’t help but feel the absurdity of the situation. She walks backwards, gently cradling my right breast, applying pressure to the site of my third biopsy in less than a month. “I bet you never imagined anything like this,” she says, giving a sympathetic smile that I have come to recognize amid the chaos of advanced imaging and needle sticks that now define my life.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and I am draped in a pink cotton gown that is open at the front, its frayed belt dangling loosely. “Any plans for tonight?” she asks. We both smile, fully aware that my evening will be spent icing my biopsy site—20 minutes on, 20 minutes off.
My husband and I have developed a shorthand over our 25 years of marriage, often communicating through book and song titles. “This is the winter of our discontent,” I say as he retrieves another ice pack from the freezer. This phrase soon becomes our code for cancer, a way to express the gravity of our situation without saying the word.
The experience of having breast cancer has stripped away my modesty, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. In February, I undergo a double mastectomy and DIEP flap reconstruction, resulting in significantly smaller breasts and a long incision traversing my abdomen, where surgeons have removed tissue and skin. My nipples, too, could not be saved.
My skilled plastic surgeon, dressed in an Armani suit, reassures me that no one will discern my breasts aren’t natural. “In time, the transplanted tissue will soften, and we can create new nipples,” he explains, gesturing to the skin harvested from my abdomen. The thought of having tattooed, three-dimensional nipples on top of my reconstructed breasts is both bewildering and fascinating. My sister even suggests heading to Florida for the best tattoo artist known for such work.
My 13-year-old son is unfamiliar with the concept of a double mastectomy. “But how does it get rid of the cancer?” he asks, his eyes wide with confusion. My voice falters between tears and laughter as I explain the procedure, and he wonders if I will turn into a boy. The conversation shifts our dynamic, revealing an unspoken fear that we both share: the possibility of my death. As we embrace later, I refrain from voicing my thoughts—we are undeniably in the winter of our discontent.
Packages arrive daily, filled with fruit baskets, muffins, books, DVDs, and cozy blankets. I am overwhelmed by the kindness, but these gifts serve as reminders of times when I failed to reach out to others. I express to my husband that I feel like a bad person, perhaps deserving of this cancer as a form of atonement. He counters by pointing to the table, suggesting I must be doing something right.
My 74-year-old mother boards a flight from California to New York, her first trip in nearly a decade, to care for me. This is also absurd in its own way. She arrives with an array of cotton sweaters to nurse me through one of the coldest winters I can recall, as snow and ice confine us to the recliner and my doctor’s exam table. I wrap her in my warmest sweaters, contemplating who will be the first to slip and fall.
The six post-operative drains become my greatest challenge. The process of “milking” the tubes and measuring the fluid is overwhelming. The drain belt I wear, crafted by breast cancer survivors, is adorned with six bright pink pouches and serves as a constant reminder of my dependency on others. I am keenly aware that recovery requires the support of those around me.
I eagerly anticipate the removal of the drains, knowing that liberation from them is essential for my forward momentum. Two weeks post-surgery, I sit on an exam table, my gown open. My husband holds my hand, attempting to mask his anxiety with a tight smile. The nurse instructs me to breathe deeply as she begins to remove the long tubes. “Some patients ask to keep them,” she remarks, dropping the drains into a hazardous waste bag. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to keep such reminders. Later, my son embraces me tightly, sobbing into my neck, and I celebrate by taking a hot shower—finally, on my own.
In March, I receive the news that I’ve “won the cancer lottery”—no radiation or chemotherapy required. Yet, it feels too sudden, too surreal. My family heralds me as a survivor, but the title feels ill-fitting. I don’t trust that the cancer is truly gone.
As the snow melts and green begins to peek through, the chill remains. Like me, the magnolias and cherry blossoms struggle to bloom. My oncologist recommends a five- to ten-year regimen of anti-hormone medication to catch any rogue cancer cells. “You’re too young to do nothing,” she insists, emphasizing the importance of preventive care. However, the medication causes a severe rash to spread across my arms and legs.
I try to ignore the unsettling thought of microscopic cancer cells lingering within me. Sitting on the exam table, I wrap myself in my arms, pulling the pink cotton gown tighter across my chest. The oncologist’s words seem to drift away as she searches for skin rashes on her phone, expressing disbelief at my reaction. The absurdity of the moment hits me; for the first time, I find myself at a loss for how to proceed. I close my eyes, recalling what the nurse had told me: “Come spring, you’ll be a whole new person.”
I suggest to my husband that we need a new title for our story, but nothing else seems to capture our experience. Winter seems to linger as we step into a new season. Eventually, I drop the euphemism and begin calling it what it is: fucking cancer. The winter of our discontent continues to loom.
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In summary, my journey through breast cancer has been a challenging and transformative experience, marked by absurdity, vulnerability, and the depths of human connection. From navigating diagnoses to the complexities of treatment, each moment has layered new meanings onto my life.
Keyphrase: breast cancer journey
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