The absurdity of the situation is not lost on me as I trail behind the nurse along the lengthy, carpeted corridor. She walks backward, gingerly supporting my right breast in her hands. As we proceed, she applies pressure to the site of my third biopsy in under a month.
“I bet you never envisioned a moment like this,” she says with a sympathetic smile—one I’ve become all too familiar with amid the chaos of advanced imaging and needle procedures that now define my daily life.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m clad in a pink hospital gown, its frayed belt dangling at my side. “Any plans for tonight?” she inquires, and we both share a knowing grin, fully aware that I’ll be spending my evening on the couch, alternating ice packs on my biopsy site: twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off.
My husband and I communicate using a shorthand of book and song titles, a language developed over twenty-five years of marriage. “This is the winter of our discontent,” I remark as he retrieves another ice pack from the freezer. In the days and weeks ahead, this phrase becomes our code for the relentless presence of cancer in our lives.
I find myself navigating through a maze of surreal scenarios. Having breast cancer means stowing away all traces of modesty, akin to packing away the bras I’ll never wear again. In February, I undergo a double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction, resulting in significantly smaller breasts and a 47-centimeter incision running from hip to hip where surgeons removed fat, tissue, and skin during a grueling 12-hour surgery. Even my nipples could not be salvaged.
My confident, Armani-suited plastic surgeon reassures me that no one will ever know my breasts aren’t natural. “With time, the transplanted tissue will soften, and after you’ve healed, we can create new nipples,” he explains, gesturing toward the skin circles taken from my abdomen and stitched where my nipples once were. The idea of having faux-real, three-dimensional tattooed nipples sitting atop my reconstructed breasts is both bewildering and fascinating. My sister wonders whether I plan to travel to Florida for the tattoos, mentioning an incredible artist she’s heard about.
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 attempt to explain how the doctors remove my breast tissue. His wide eyes ask, “Are you going to turn into a boy?” He turns away, unsettled by the conversation that blurs the line between mother and son. We share a mutual fear; neither of us wants to face the possibility of losing the other. Later, as I hold him close, I keep my thoughts to myself: this truly is the winter of our discontent.
Packages arrive daily—fruit baskets, muffins, books, DVDs, soft fleece blankets, and zip-front hoodies. I’m overwhelmed by the stack of boxes and cards on the dining room table. Though they’re meant to comfort me, these gifts remind me of the times I failed to reach out to others in need. I tell my husband I’m not a good person, that perhaps this is why I have cancer—to atone for my shortcomings. He points to the table and says, “You must be doing something right.”
My 74-year-old mother makes the journey from California to New York for the first time in nearly a decade to care for me. This, too, feels absurd, though I don’t fully recognize it then. She arrives with a suitcase filled with cotton sweaters to nurse me through one of the coldest winters I can recall. Snow, ice, and six post-operative surgical drains confine us to the recliner in my living room and the examination table in my doctor’s office. I bundle her in my cashmere sweaters and a down parka, wondering who among us will be the first to slip on ice and injure ourselves.
It’s the six post-op drains that truly unravel me. The “milking” of the tubes, the measuring of fluids seeping from my incisions into the bulb drains—it’s overwhelming. The drain belt, a kind gift from a social worker at my surgeon’s office, is a simple design of six bright pink pouches on an elastic band. It keeps the drains secure, serving as a daily reminder that I need assistance with even the simplest tasks. It takes a village to help me out of bed, shower, and get dressed. My movements feel shallow, as I’m unable to do much for myself.
My obsession with having the drains removed grows; I know that unencumbered is the only way forward. Two weeks post-surgery, ten days after returning home, I sit on the exam table, my pink gown open at the front. My husband holds my hand, his tight smile offering reassurance. The nurse instructs me to take a deep breath and cough as she removes each incredibly long tube from my body. “Some patients ask to keep them,” she mentions while disposing of them in a red hazardous waste bag. “I can’t imagine why.” At home, my son wraps his thin arms around me, sobbing into my neck. I celebrate by taking a hot shower—completely by myself.
In March, I discover I’ve won the cancer lottery. No radiation. No chemotherapy. Just like that, my ordeal comes to an abrupt end. My family calls me a survivor, but the label feels ill-suited. I don’t feel like I’ve survived; it’s all too sudden, too soon. I wrestle with the uncertainty of whether the cancer is truly gone.
As the snow and ice begin to melt, patches of green emerge in the yard, yet the air remains chilly. Like me, the magnolias and cherry blossoms struggle to bloom. My oncologist insists on a five to ten-year course of anti-hormone medications to target any rogue cancer cells. “You’re too young to do nothing,” she insists. “From this point forward, preventive care is essential.” However, the medication that “most women tolerate well” wreaks havoc on my body, and within days, my arms and legs are covered in a rapidly spreading rash.
I attempt to avoid thinking about microscopic cancer cells lurking in my body. Seated on the exam table, I wrap my arms around myself, closing the pink gown across my chest. My oncologist’s voice becomes background noise, her words falling between us as I shut them out.
I watch her scroll through images of skin rashes on her smartphone. “I’ve never seen anyone react this way,” she comments, quickly searching for a match. The absurdity of the moment doesn’t escape me. For the first time in months, I feel lost, uncertain of how to proceed. I close my eyes, recalling the nurse’s words after my New Year’s Eve biopsy, “Come spring, you’ll be a whole new person.”
I tell my husband we need a new title for our story, but nothing else seems to resonate. Winter continues to shadow us into the new season. Eventually, I drop the code and start stating the truth: fucking cancer. As I navigate this new chapter, I realize that the winter of our discontent persists.
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Summary:
In this poignant reflection, Angela Talbot recounts her journey through breast cancer, navigating absurdities and deep emotions during her treatment. From her double mastectomy to the overwhelming support from family and friends, she confronts her reality with humor and vulnerability. The narrative highlights the ongoing challenges and uncertainties of recovery, ultimately portraying the enduring shadow of cancer in her life.
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