Recently, I was chatting with a friend whose mother had found a concerning lump in her breast. My friend confidently declared that if she were in the same situation, she would refuse chemotherapy, opting instead for dietary changes, increased yoga, and a wait-and-see approach. It was as if cancer were merely a minor inconvenience rather than a serious, potentially life-threatening issue.
Little did I know, three years later, I’d find myself in a similar position. At 36, I received a breast cancer diagnosis, a reality I never envisioned for myself—especially not as a mother of four with a writing career and a minivan to juggle.
I chose to keep my diagnosis under wraps initially, as I faced a significant choice: Should I go for a lumpectomy followed by radiation, or take the more radical step of a bilateral mastectomy to minimize the risk of recurrence? I wanted to shield myself from outside opinions, opting only to consult my doctor, a few cancer survivors I trusted, and my partner—the one person I leaned on the most.
Ultimately, I decided on the bilateral mastectomy. A few weeks post-surgery, once I received the clear pathology report, I felt compelled to share my experience with friends and family. I thought that by revealing my journey after the fact, I could avoid unsolicited advice and opinions. I was mistaken.
During my recovery, I was incredibly frail. Simple tasks became monumental challenges; I struggled to move my arms, get out of bed, or even shower without help. The pain was beyond what I had ever experienced. Cancer proved to be more than just a physical ordeal; the emotional and mental burden lingered long after the cancer cells were gone. I found myself having intense, sometimes angry, conversations with the universe, questioning, “Why me?”
In my darkest moments, I received immense support. Friends and family rallied to provide meals for my family week after week. I was showered with thoughtful gifts, texts, cards, and surprise visits, all of which warmed my heart. Yet, there were also those who felt compelled to weigh in, launching discussions I had no desire to engage in.
One acquaintance, trying to support my choice of mastectomy, remarked, “I would have just had them cut off too.” The mere thought was unsettling. I could barely look at my new breasts in the mirror, let alone entertain a conversation about amputating my old ones. Another person casually declared, “They’re just breasts.” It was as if the emotional significance of my situation was lost on them. Breasts symbolize femininity, nurture, and even sexuality—they are not mere body parts.
Then there were suggestions for alternative treatments—chiropractors, vegan diets, and holistic healers advertised on the radio. Oh sure, a sprinkle of CBD oil and some carrot sticks would magically erase my cancer cells, right?
Even well-meaning comments about my strength felt heavy. I didn’t want to be strong; I didn’t want to fight. I was simply faced with a choice—surgery was not a sign of strength but a necessity. I was thrust into the statistics of one in eight women diagnosed with breast cancer, a reality I never wanted to face.
As October rolled around, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I found myself inundated with pink ribbons that only served as painful reminders of my trauma. My surgery occurred at the end of August, and those ribbons haunted me everywhere I turned.
It’s important to recognize that no one is at fault for my cancer or my difficult recovery. Even now, I carry the weight of knowing I could transition from survivor to patient at any moment. While I’ve found strength in some aspects of my journey, there are still days filled with anger, sadness, and confusion.
I don’t seek others’ opinions about my breast cancer experience because I’m still processing it myself. My journey is mine to define.
So, if you encounter someone like me—whether she’s battling breast cancer or celebrating her survival—please refrain from offering unsolicited advice. Instead, affirm that you believe in her choices, support her decisions, and walk alongside her in solidarity.
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In summary, navigating a cancer diagnosis is a deeply personal journey, and it’s vital to allow individuals the space to define their experiences without unsolicited commentary. We must offer support and understanding instead of opinions.
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