Just over a year ago, I received a breast cancer diagnosis at the age of 37, while being a mom to three young children aged 8, 5, and 1. I had no warning signs or symptoms—no lumps or gut feelings that anything was amiss. In fact, I was feeling the best I’d felt in a long time.
After finishing breastfeeding my youngest, I decided it was time for a long-overdue check-up. My doctor advised that I see a breast specialist, given my family’s strong history of breast cancer. I underwent genetic testing and was relieved to learn that I was negative for all known genetic markers. The specialist recommended annual MRIs and mammograms. My first MRI, however, shattered my sense of normalcy.
Two days before Halloween, my surgeon called to deliver the news: a biopsy confirmed that I had cancer, which was initially thought to be non-invasive. Unfortunately, the extent of it meant I couldn’t have a lumpectomy; a mastectomy was necessary, and it was highly recommended to remove both breasts. I convinced myself that if I could just endure the surgery, I would never have to think about this again. The thought of not being able to hold my baby for six weeks was heartbreaking.
On December 10, 2019, I underwent surgery. Two days later, we celebrated our 10-year wedding anniversary in the hospital. Despite our life together and three children, it was in those moments that I truly appreciated having a partner. He supported me through everything—from showering to managing drains and dressings—showing love when I struggled to love myself.
The good news was that my lymph nodes were clear, but I had to wait for the final pathology report. When my surgeon called me while I was getting a pedicure to share the news that the cancer was present in both breasts and I was technically Stage 1, I felt the weight of the world crash down. I now qualified for chemotherapy. I remember sitting in that nail salon, fighting tears, and wondering if that emotional connection would ever fade.
After consulting with several oncologists, who all recommended four rounds of chemotherapy, I found myself increasingly worried about my hair. The thought of looking unwell was unbearable. I had always valued my hair, and the idea of losing it was devastating. I opted for “cold capping,” a costly procedure not covered by insurance that involved wearing a freezing helmet during chemo sessions. While my hair thinned, I managed to retain enough that I could still appear like myself, which mattered immensely as we navigated the pandemic.
Though chemotherapy was challenging, the biggest battle was mental. I counted down the days to my final treatment and kept a dry erase board with a Robert Frost quote, “The only way out is through.” The depression felt all-consuming, and I started taking antidepressants that helped dull the pain. I spent days in bed, unable to envision a normal future. My children would come to visit and snuggle, and it was their love that carried me through my darkest moments.
By the end of March, my chemotherapy treatment concluded, but the world was in chaos due to COVID-19. I felt lost, grappling with questions about my identity and future. These thoughts still occasionally haunt me, but they’re no longer constant.
In July, I decided to cut my hair into a pixie style, as the remaining strands post-chemo were in terrible condition. I eagerly await the day I can put my hair in a ponytail again—mark my words, I will never sport short hair again!
Some days, looking in the mirror is tough. My breasts are numb, and I don’t have nipples. I miss the comfort of my old body, which nourished my three babies. The medication I’m on for the next 5-10 years has thrown me into menopause. At 38, I often don’t feel my age. Doctors warn I may experience menopause twice.
I also wrestle with guilt, recognizing how fortunate I am compared to others facing more severe battles. I know I should feel grateful for my healthy children and loving husband, but some days, gratitude eludes me.
I still find myself crying unexpectedly—whether in the shower or alone in the car. Recently, at my gynecologist’s office, I broke down when asked about changes over the past year. I struggled to articulate that I no longer feel like myself, wrestling with a strange body and complex emotions—a narrative I never wanted.
Meeting new people poses its own challenges. My hair feels awkward, my eyebrows are thin, and my eyelashes sparse. I long to scream, “This isn’t really me!” I wish for them to see the person I remember.
Despite the hardships, this past year has revealed the immense love and kindness surrounding me. Friends, family, and neighbors went above and beyond—bringing meals and helping with my children. My kids’ teachers even sent dinners after my surgery.
What I appreciated most was that no one sent me pink ribbons or organized a “farewell to the tatas” party. Everyone understood that I wasn’t in a place for humor. Instead, my friends took me shopping and out for drinks, which felt perfect. The kindness of others is what truly helps you navigate life’s toughest times, and I hope to pay it forward someday.
In the early days of my diagnosis, I spent sleepless nights researching worst-case scenarios, immersing myself in grim Facebook groups. I’m proud to say I’ve moved past that phase. I’m beginning to believe I’ll be okay, slowly piecing my life back together.
As I remind myself, this is just a brief chapter in what I hope will be a long and healthy life. Like many, I’m chalking this tumultuous year up to 2020. No, thank you.
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Summary:
A mother of three, Laura Thompson, shares her unexpected breast cancer diagnosis at age 37 and the emotional and physical challenges that followed. Despite facing a mastectomy and chemotherapy, she highlights the support of her family and friends, her struggle with identity, and the importance of kindness during tough times. As she reflects on her journey, she emphasizes resilience and the hope for a healthier future.
Keyphrase: breast cancer journey
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