A little over a year ago, I received a breast cancer diagnosis at 37 years old while being a mom to three young children, aged 8, 5, and 1. I had no inkling that anything was wrong; in fact, I had never felt better.
After finishing breastfeeding my youngest, I decided it was time for a long-overdue physical exam. My doctor recommended that I see a breast specialist due to my strong family history of breast cancer. I underwent genetic testing and was relieved to learn that I tested negative for all known mutations. The specialist advised annual MRIs and mammograms. It was during my first MRI that everything changed.
Two days before Halloween, my surgeon delivered the devastating news: a biopsy confirmed that I had cancer, but it was non-invasive—at least, that’s what we thought at the time. The tumor was too large for a lumpectomy, and I was advised to have a mastectomy, preferably on both sides. I thought once I got through the surgery, I could put this all behind me. The thought of not being able to lift or hold my baby for six weeks was heartbreaking.
I underwent surgery on December 10, 2019. Just two days later, my husband and I marked our 10-year wedding anniversary in the hospital. Despite the challenges, I realized how crucial it was to have a supportive partner. He was there for me during the tough moments, helping with daily tasks and holding my hand when I needed it most.
The good news was that my lymph nodes were clear. However, my surgeon called with more unsettling news while I was getting a pedicure: the cancer had spread to both breasts, and I was now classified as Stage 1 because it had spread beyond the milk ducts. Chemotherapy was now on the table. That call still lingers in my mind whenever I visit that nail salon.
After consulting with several oncologists who recommended four rounds of chemotherapy, I became fixated on my hair. The prospect of appearing sick was daunting. I decided to try “cold capping,” a costly procedure not covered by insurance that involved wearing a freezing cap during chemotherapy sessions. My hair thinned considerably, but I managed to maintain a semblance of normalcy throughout the pandemic, allowing me to attend my kids’ events without feeling unrecognizable.
While the chemotherapy was grueling, the mental struggle was even more challenging. I counted down the days to my last treatment, hanging a dry erase board in my bathroom with a quote from Robert Frost: “The only way out is through.” I battled overwhelming depression, and in the days following chemotherapy, I often found myself in bed, unable to visualize a future where things felt normal. My children’s visits and snuggles kept me going during the darkest moments.
Chemotherapy concluded at the end of March, coinciding with the onset of COVID-19. I felt lost and questioned my identity. Over time, these thoughts have become less frequent. In July, I decided to cut my hair into a short pixie style, as the remaining strands post-chemo were in poor shape. I am excited for the day I can pull my hair back into a ponytail again.
Some days, the reflection staring back at me feels foreign. My body has changed significantly; I don’t have the same breasts or the same physical sensations. The medication I’m on has thrust me into early menopause, leaving me feeling older than my 38 years. While I know I have much to be grateful for, including my three healthy children and loving husband, guilt often seeps in. Why is it so challenging to feel thankful at times?
I still find myself shedding tears unexpectedly—whether in the shower or while driving alone. Recently, I broke down at my gynecologist’s office when asked if I had experienced any changes in the past year. How could I articulate that I don’t feel like myself anymore? I am grappling with my physical changes, my emotions, and the reality of my journey.
Meeting new people has become daunting; my hair is awkward, my eyebrows are thin, and my eyelashes are sparse. I long to shout, “This isn’t who I am!” I wish for others to see me as I remember myself.
Despite the tough times, I have been enveloped in kindness and support from friends, family, and neighbors. They went above and beyond to check in, provide meals, and help with my children. I appreciated that they didn’t bombard me with pink ribbons or throw me a “farewell to my breasts” party; instead, they understood that humor wasn’t what I needed. My friends took me out for shopping and drinks, which was exactly the distraction I craved. This experience has taught me the immense power of kindness during trying times. I hope to pay it forward someday.
In the beginning, I found myself obsessively researching worst-case scenarios and reading through distressing online groups. Now, I’m proud to say I’ve moved past that phase and am focusing on healing. I’m beginning to piece my life back together.
I remind myself that this challenging chapter is just a small part of what I hope will be a long, fulfilling life. Like everyone else, this chaotic year is something I’ll attribute to 2020—no thank you.
For more insights and personal stories, check out this related blog post. If you’re looking for more information about fertility and home insemination, consider visiting Make A Mom. For excellent resources on pregnancy, you might also want to check out NHS IVF.
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Summary:
In this deeply personal account, Emily Harper shares her journey from a breast cancer diagnosis to navigating treatment and the emotional upheaval that followed. She reflects on the support from loved ones, the challenges of coping with physical changes, and the importance of kindness during difficult times. Ultimately, she underscores resilience and the hope for a brighter future despite the hardships faced.
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