The weight of a cancer diagnosis is always heavy, but what if it strikes during a global pandemic?
For weeks, my life in the suburbs close to New York City was a mirror of many others. Stuck at home with my husband and two teenagers, we adhered to a routine of hand sanitizing and endless Zoom meetings. Our nights blended together with puzzles, board games, and Netflix binges. Then, one evening, while watching a marathon of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives, my life took a drastic turn.
As I adjusted my sports bra, my fingers brushed against something unusual. A lump. Instantly, fear washed over me. I tried to dismiss it, convincing myself it was nothing, just like how I had worried about every little cough during the pandemic. I recalled a conversation from the day before about a friend’s visit to the dentist, and how daunting it felt to seek medical help in these times. I finished the episode, brushed my teeth, and tucked my children in, trying to maintain a facade of normalcy. But when I undressed, I couldn’t resist checking again. This time, tears flowed.
By 10 PM, I sent my doctor an urgent email: “I’ve found a significant lump in my breast. My husband felt it too, and I’m terrified, especially because of the timing.” Her reply came at midnight: “I’m so sorry you’re scared. Can I see you tomorrow at 10:30? Breathe; I’m here to help.”
The next morning marked my first venture outside in weeks, my fabric mask securely in place. Each surface I touched felt monumental. I was the only patient in the office, acutely aware of the precautions taken: my doctor washed her hands meticulously, and every time she exited the room, she sanitized. After her examination, she made a call to the breast specialist, stating, “46-year-old female with a lump in left breast.” Behind my mask, it was difficult to suppress my tears. When she offered me a tissue, she ensured I took the last one from the box to maintain safety. Her words, “I wish I could give you a hug,” echoed in the sterile air, heavy with unspoken understanding.
Driving home, I scrubbed my hands with disinfecting wipes, desperate to rip off my mask and let the tears flow. If only I could push pause on my body until the pandemic passed. If only I didn’t fear that seeking help would expose me to the virus.
In a normal world, I would have returned home to process my feelings alone. But with my children home from school, I had to put on a brave face, fearing that any hint of my anxiety would further burden them.
The breast center I visited was a place I’d known for two decades, where I had taken my children for checkups. Yet, as I walked through its quiet halls, it felt eerily deserted. A police officer checked my temperature, and a nurse peppered me with questions about potential COVID-19 exposure. Only after reassuring them I had no symptoms was I allowed to proceed. The once-bustling waiting areas now sat eerily empty, chairs spaced for social distancing. I was alone, not only in the physical space but also emotionally.
When the surgeon examined the lump, he looked grave. “It appears to be something,” he stated. I expressed my gratitude for his availability amidst the pandemic, but again, I left the office to cry in the safety of my car, suffocating under my mask.
I’ve always considered myself resilient, having faced challenges throughout my life, from childhood struggles to adulthood trials like infertility and job loss. But as I awaited my biopsy results, the weight of isolation was overwhelming. The fear of a cancer diagnosis combined with the anxiety of a global pandemic was suffocating. When the call came confirming breast cancer, I had to share the news with my mother from six feet away on her porch, parting without the comfort of a hug.
The pandemic robbed me of the solace of friends and family. Instead of gathering for support, I faced long nights filled with news updates and reminders of social distancing. It was easier to feel isolated than connected.
As the virus reshaped our world, it took more than lives; it stripped away our most basic needs for human connection. The power of a smile was hidden behind masks, and the comfort of distraction from friends was replaced by solitude. Yet, amid the darkness, I sought out the silver linings: the supportive texts from loved ones, my husband’s reassuring handhold, and the joy of my children’s laughter that momentarily eased my worries.
If you’re navigating similar challenges, you might find inspiration in our other blog post here. For those considering pregnancy and home insemination, check out this invaluable resource on artificial insemination kits. You can also explore more about intrauterine insemination here.
In summary, a cancer diagnosis during a pandemic brings an added layer of complexity to an already daunting experience. The isolation and fear can feel overwhelming, but finding moments of connection and support, even in small ways, can help navigate these challenging times.