Updated: April 22, 2021
Originally Published: June 10, 2010
As I follow the nurse down the long, carpeted hallway, the absurdity of the moment isn’t lost on me. She’s walking backward, carefully cradling my right breast in her hands. With each step, she presses down on the site of my third biopsy in less than a month. “I bet you never imagined this scenario,” she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes—more of a sympathetic grin, one I’ve grown to recognize amid the whirlwind of medical appointments and needle sticks that have become my new normal.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m dressed in a pink cotton gown that’s open at the front, its frayed belt dangling at my side. “Any plans for tonight?” she asks. We exchange a knowing smile; we both understand that my evening will consist of icing my biopsy site on the couch—20 minutes on, 20 minutes off.
My husband and I communicate in a shorthand of book and song titles. After 25 years of marriage, we’ve learned that some things don’t need elaboration. “This is the winter of our discontent,” I say as he brings me another ice pack from the freezer. In the days ahead, this phrase becomes our code for the reality of cancer.
Navigating my diagnosis feels like wandering through a maze of absurdities. Breast cancer strips away any pretense of modesty, leaving me to tuck it away like an old coat in a forgotten corner of the attic. In February, I’ll undergo a double mastectomy and DIEP flap reconstruction. The outcome leaves me with smaller breasts and a long scar running from hip bone to hip bone, where the surgeons painstakingly removed fat, tissue, and skin during a marathon 12-hour surgery. Even my nipples are casualties of this battle.
My confident, stylish plastic surgeon reassures me that no one will ever know my breasts are not real. “In time, the transplanted tissue will soften, and we can create new nipples,” he explains, gesturing to the circles of skin harvested from my abdomen. I’ll end up with tattooed faux nipples that look nearly real, and the thought is both bizarre and fascinating. My sister suggests I consider traveling to Florida for the best tattoo artist.
My 13-year-old son, unaware of what a double mastectomy entails, innocently asks, “But how does that get rid of the cancer?” My voice wavers between laughter and tears as I explain the procedure. “Are you going to turn into a boy?” he asks, wide-eyed. The conversation shifts the dynamic between us; we’re both terrified of the same outcome: losing me. Later, holding him close, I think, “This truly is the winter of our discontent.”
Packages arrive daily—fruit baskets, muffins, books, soft fleece blankets, and comfy hoodies. I’m overwhelmed by the pile of cards and gifts on the dining table, reminders of moments I didn’t reach out to comfort others. “Maybe this is why I have cancer,” I tell my husband. He points to the mountain of gifts and says, “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. This too is absurd, though it doesn’t register at the moment. She arrives with a suitcase full of cotton sweaters to nurse me through one of the coldest winters I can remember. Snow, ice, and six surgical drains confine us to the recliner in my living room and the exam table at my doctor’s office. I drape her in my cashmere sweaters, half-wondering which of us is more likely to slip on ice and get hurt.
It’s the six post-operative drains that truly wear me down. The process of “milking” the tubes and measuring the fluids draining from my body becomes overwhelming. The drain belt, a bright pink contraption sewn by a group of volunteer survivors, serves as a constant reminder of my need for help with even the simplest tasks. It truly takes a village to get me out of bed, bathed, and dressed. My movements are small and shallow; independence feels like a distant memory.
I become fixated on having the drains removed, knowing that my path to recovery lies in liberation from these constraints. Two weeks after my marathon surgery, I find myself sitting on the edge of an exam table, my pink gown open to the front. My husband holds my hand, a tight smile plastered on his face. The nurse tells me to take a deep breath and cough as she slowly pulls the long tubes from my body. “Some patients ask to keep them,” she comments, dropping the drains into a red hazardous waste bag. “I can’t imagine why.”
At home, my son hugs me tightly, tears soaking my neck. I celebrate this small victory with a hot shower—entirely alone.
In March, I receive the unexpected news: I’ve won the cancer lottery—no radiation and no chemotherapy. Just like that, my cancer journey seems to conclude as abruptly as it began. My family refers to me as a survivor, but the title feels like a poor fit. I don’t feel like I’ve truly survived; it’s too sudden, too soon. I remain skeptical that the cancer has really gone.
As snow and ice melt away, patches of green begin to emerge in the yard, yet a chill lingers in the air. Like me, the magnolias and cherry blossoms struggle to bloom. My oncologist recommends a five- to ten-year course of anti-hormone therapy to catch any rogue cancer cells. “You’re too young to do nothing,” she insists. But the medication, which is “well-tolerated by most women,” wreaks havoc on my body. Within days, an uncontrollable rash spreads across my arms and legs.
I try to avoid thinking about the invisible cancer cells that may linger within me. Sitting on the edge of the exam table, I wrap my arms around myself, pulling my gown closed. My oncologist’s words wash over me, but I can’t grasp them. I watch as she Googles images of skin rashes on her phone. “I’ve never seen anyone react like this,” she admits, scrolling quickly through pictures. The absurdity of this moment isn’t lost on me. For the first time in months, I feel adrift, without a plan for what comes next. I close my eyes and remember what the nurse told me after my New Year’s Eve biopsy: “Come spring, you’ll be a whole new person.”
I suggest to my husband that we should find a new title for our story, but nothing else seems to fit. The winter continues to shadow us as we transition into a new season. Eventually, I stop using code and begin to speak plainly: it’s just cancer. The winter of our discontent rages on, even as we look toward the light of spring.
Summary
In this deeply personal narrative, Mia Thompson takes us through her experience with breast cancer, from the absurdity of her biopsy appointments to the emotional challenges she faces with her family. As she undergoes surgery and recovery, she reflects on the gifts and support she receives, the conversations with her son, and the complex feelings surrounding her diagnosis. Ultimately, she grapples with the transition from being a patient to a survivor, navigating the lingering fears and uncertainties that come with her journey toward healing.