A little over a year ago, you received the life-altering news of your breast cancer diagnosis. While the term “life-changing” may seem overused, it truly encapsulates the profound impact this has had on both you and those who love you.
I owe you an apology for the delay in sharing my thoughts. Writing has always been my way of processing emotions and making sense of chaotic situations. Yet, since you received your diagnosis, I found myself at a loss for words. The truth is, this journey is yours to share, not mine to narrate. You are the one enduring this experience, and it is your life that has been irrevocably altered.
When you first revealed the possibility of cancer, and later confirmed it, my mind spiraled with questions. What stage are you in? What’s the prognosis? When do treatments begin? I also found myself grappling with practical concerns: What can I do to support you? How can I help? When can I visit?
Yet, amidst these inquiries, there were unspoken worries that hung heavy in the air, altering the fabric of our friendship. How will this affect us? Will I be the friend you need? And, perhaps most terrifying of all, will you come through this? Will you be OK—truly OK, like living to an old age kind of OK?
The most pressing questions were yours. You sought my thoughts on getting a second opinion (my answer: absolutely). You wondered whether to opt for a double or single mastectomy (my answer: I can’t say). You even asked about the etiquette of cancer gifts and whether a handwritten note was necessary (my answer: No rush on that). Perhaps the hardest question was one you asked yourself: Is this really happening to me?
It was heartbreaking to be so far away while you faced this battle, even though we communicated daily—sometimes hourly. I raged with you, asked questions, and sent messages filled with love or frustration, depending on the moment. Our phone calls were filled with tears, laughter, and discussions about medical terms that had become part of our new normal.
During your first chemotherapy session, you asked if I wanted to see your ports. My enthusiastic “Yes!” led us to your closet, where you revealed your body, transformed and resilient. Months later, just before your final reconstruction, we found ourselves giggling in a restaurant bathroom, comparing your new shape and size. You emerged from this battle not only unbroken but even more powerful and beautiful.
Since your diagnosis, I’ve been cautious about sharing my own mundane worries. Do I have the right to voice my frustrations about parenting or work? Should I still ask for your advice on fashion, knowing the triviality of it all in the grand scheme of things?
I wish I could say there weren’t moments filled with doubt. I found myself questioning why you cared so much about your hair and endured the cold caps despite their discomfort. But ultimately, those questions were not mine to ask. I realized my role was to support you through your struggles, to hold space for your pain, and to make your life a little easier.
This past year has taught me invaluable lessons. I’ve learned that sometimes a string of expletives or a light-hearted joke can provide more comfort than the oft-repeated phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.” I’ve familiarized myself with the medical terms that once felt foreign and understood that true beauty comes from within, shaped by both our experiences and our perceptions.
Most importantly, I’ve recognized that I shouldn’t shy away from questions or their uncertainties. Instead, I should embrace them, engaging with you in the exploration of our feelings.
As I share these thoughts, I promise to ask my questions, listen to yours, and navigate this difficult journey together. It’s not about finding all the answers, but about showing up for each other, offering love, and bearing witness to our experiences. It’s through these questions that we learn, we grow, and ultimately, we love.
And so, I pose one more question: Can this challenging experience, whatever it may be, strengthen us and lead to meaningful change? How can we transform this into something beautiful? Perhaps, in many ways, we already are.
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