I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of my situation as I follow the nurse down an endless carpeted hallway. She walks backward, gently cradling my right breast in her hands. As we proceed, she applies pressure to the site of my third biopsy in less than a month.
“I bet this isn’t how you imagined your New Year’s Eve,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s the type of sympathetic smile I’ve grown accustomed to amidst my new routine of advanced imaging and needle pokes.
Wearing a pink cotton gown that hangs open at the front, its frayed belt trailing at my side, I respond with a hint of humor. “Not exactly party attire.” We both share a knowing smile, fully aware that my evening plans involve icing my biopsy site—20 minutes on, 20 minutes off.
Communication with my husband has transformed into a shorthand of book and song titles over our 25 years together. “This is the winter of our discontent,” I remark as he brings me yet another ice pack. This phrase quickly becomes our code for confronting the harsh reality of cancer.
Navigating the maze of absurdities that accompany a breast cancer diagnosis requires me to pack away my modesty and store it alongside the bras I’ll never wear again. In February, I undergo a double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction. The result? A significant reduction in breast size and a long incision from hip bone to hip bone. My body has been torn apart and hastily stitched back together after a grueling 12-hour surgery. Even my nipples are gone.
My charismatic plastic surgeon, dressed in a sharp Armani suit, assures me that no one will be able to tell my breasts aren’t real. “With time, the transplanted tissue will soften, and we can create new nipples,” he explains, gesturing to the circles of skin taken from my abdomen, now where my nipples once were. The idea of having tattooed three-dimensional nipples on my reconstructed breasts is mind-boggling. My sister jokes about heading to Florida for the best tattoo artist.
My 13-year-old son, oblivious to the concept of a double mastectomy, asks, “But how does it get rid of the cancer?” My voice wavers between laughter and tears as I explain the surgery. “Are you going to turn into a boy?” he asks, his wide eyes betraying his confusion. As I try to explain reconstruction, an unsettling shift occurs in our relationship—both of us are grappling with the fear of losing me. Later, as I hold him close, I think to myself, this is indeed the winter of our discontent.
Packages arrive daily—fruit baskets, muffins, books, DVDs, cozy fleece blankets, and zip-up hoodies. The mountain of gifts on my dining room table is overwhelming. Though meant to offer comfort, they become reminders of times I missed reaching out to family or friends in need. I confide in my husband that I’m not a good person, perhaps this is my penance for not helping others. He counters, pointing to the table, “You must be doing something right.”
My 74-year-old mother boards a plane from California to New York for the first time in nearly a decade to care for me. It’s absurd, yet I don’t fully grasp it at the moment. She arrives with a suitcase full of cozy sweaters, nursing me through one of the coldest winters I can remember. With snow, ice, and six post-operative drains, our world shrinks to the recliner in my living room and the exam table at my doctor’s office. I wrap her in my warmest cashmere, wondering who will slip on the ice first.
The drains become my undoing. The “milking” of the tubes and measuring the fluids seeping from my incisions into the drain bulbs is a burden I cannot bear. The drain belt given to me by the social worker at my surgeon’s office—crafted by breast cancer survivors—holds the six bright pink pouches securely against my waist. This daily reminder of my fragility illustrates how much I rely on others for even the simplest tasks. Getting out of bed, bathing, dressing—everything requires help now.
I become obsessed with having the drains removed, knowing that freedom can only come without these encumbrances. Two weeks post-surgery, sitting on the edge of an exam table while wearing my pink gown, I grip my husband’s hand. The nurse instructs me to breathe deeply and cough as she pulls out the long tubes. “Some patients want to keep them,” she mentions, tossing them into a hazardous waste bag. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to keep that reminder. At home, my son wraps his arms around me, sobbing softly. I celebrate my newfound freedom with a long, hot shower—all by myself.
In March, I receive the news that I’ve hit the cancer jackpot—no radiation, no chemotherapy. Just like that, my whirlwind journey feels abruptly over. My family labels me a survivor, but the title doesn’t quite fit; it feels too sudden, too soon. I struggle with the nagging distrust that the cancer is truly gone.
As the snow and ice melt, green shoots peek through the ground, but the air remains cold. The magnolias and cherry blossoms struggle to bloom, much like me. My oncologist insists on pursuing rogue cancer cells with a five- to ten-year regimen of anti-hormone medication. “You’re young; we can’t afford to do nothing,” she states. Yet the medication that “most women tolerate very well” sends my body into chaos. Within days, a rash spreads across my arms and legs.
I try to push aside thoughts of unseen cancer cells lurking within me. Sitting on the exam table, I wrap my arms tightly around myself and pull my pink gown closed. My oncologist’s words fall between us like leaves in the wind, and I don’t try to catch them. I watch her scroll through images of skin rashes on her smartphone, exclaiming, “I’ve never seen anyone react like this.” The absurdity of it all hits me; for the first time in months, I feel directionless. I close my eyes, recalling the nurse’s words after my New Year’s biopsy: “Come spring, you’ll be a whole new person.”
I tell my husband we should find a new title for our story, but nothing resonates. Winter still shadows our transition to spring. Eventually, I stop sugarcoating and acknowledge it for what it is: cancer. East of Eden, the winter of our discontent continues to rage.
In summary, my journey through breast cancer has been a series of absurdities, profound fears, and unexpected moments of clarity. From the initial shock of my diagnosis to the complexities of surgery and recovery, each step has reshaped my understanding of illness, family, and resilience. The cold grip of winter may still linger, but the hope of spring offers a glimmer of renewal.
Keyphrase: Breast Cancer Journey
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