A little over a year ago, I received a breast cancer diagnosis. At 37, I was a mom to three little ones—ages 8, 5, and 1—and had never felt better. I hadn’t noticed any lumps or had a gut feeling that something was wrong.
After finishing breastfeeding my youngest, I took the plunge for a long-overdue physical. My doctor, aware of my family history of breast cancer, recommended I see a breast specialist. I underwent genetic testing and was relieved to learn I was negative for all known mutations. The specialist advised annual MRI and mammogram screenings. It was during my first MRI that everything changed.
Just two days before Halloween, my surgeon delivered the devastating news: a biopsy confirmed I had cancer. Although it was initially deemed non-invasive, the area was too large for a lumpectomy, forcing me into a mastectomy—strongly recommended on both sides. I thought surviving the surgery would mean I could put this all behind me, but the thought of not being able to hold my baby for six weeks broke my heart.
On December 10, 2019, I had the surgery. Two days later, my husband and I marked our ten-year wedding anniversary in the hospital. Despite the chaos, I realized how vital it was to have someone by my side. He helped me shower, managed drains, and just held my hand during a time when self-love felt impossible.
The good news was that my lymph nodes were clear. However, I later learned from my surgeon that the cancer had actually spread to both breasts, making me Stage 1. That meant chemotherapy was now on the table. I remember sitting in the nail salon, fighting back tears after that phone call, a memory that still haunts me whenever I visit.
After consulting with several oncologists who recommended four rounds of chemotherapy, I became fixated on my hair. The thought of looking sick was unbearable. It may sound trivial, but my hair mattered to me. To combat hair loss, I decided to try cold capping, an expensive treatment not covered by insurance. The process involved wearing a freezing cap during chemotherapy, lasting around seven hours. Though my hair thinned significantly, I was relieved to still look like myself during the pandemic, allowing me to attend my kids’ activities without drawing attention to my situation.
While chemotherapy was challenging, the mental toll was even more taxing. I counted down the days until my final treatment, hanging a quote by Robert Frost, “The only way out is through,” on my bathroom mirror. The darkness of depression engulfed me, and I began taking antidepressants for relief. After treatment, I often found myself in bed, unable to envision a future where things felt normal. My kids would visit and snuggle with me, helping me through the darkest moments.
By the end of March, I completed chemotherapy, only to face the struggles of life during COVID. Questions like “Whose life is this?” and “What now?” plagued my thoughts, though they no longer consumed me as they once did.
In July, I opted for a short pixie cut, as my post-chemo hair was in poor condition. Watching it grow back has been a joy, and I eagerly await the day I can tie it into a ponytail. I promised myself I wouldn’t keep short hair for long.
Some days, it’s tough to recognize the person in the mirror. My breasts are numb, and I lack nipples—something I miss deeply. The medication I’m on puts me in menopause, which is a strange experience at my age. The doctors say I’ll likely go through menopause twice, making me feel older than I am.
I also grapple with guilt. I know how fortunate I am compared to others facing more significant battles. I should feel grateful for my three healthy kids and my supportive husband, yet some days, gratitude feels distant. I still find myself crying alone in the shower or during quiet moments in the car. Recently, during a visit to my gynecologist, I broke down when asked if there had been any changes in the past year. How could I articulate that I no longer recognized myself?
Meeting new people is challenging. My hair feels awkward, and I lack the features I used to have. I want to scream, “This isn’t me!” and wish for them to see me as I used to be.
Despite the struggles, this past year has also shown me the immense love and support surrounding me. Friends and family went above and beyond, delivering meals and helping with my kids. My children’s teachers even brought dinners after my surgery.
The best part? People didn’t send me pink ribbons or host “farewell to the tatas” parties. They understood that humor wasn’t my go-to during this dark chapter. Instead, friends took me out shopping and for drinks, which was exactly what I needed. The kindness of others truly gets you through the hardest times. I hope to pay it forward someday.
At first, I was consumed by worst-case scenarios, spending sleepless nights researching every grim possibility. I’m proud to say I’ve stopped that habit. I know I will be OK and am slowly piecing my life back together.
I remind myself that this is just a brief chapter in what I hope will be a long and healthy story. Just like everyone else, I’m putting 2020 behind me—no, thank you.
Search Queries:
- How to cope with breast cancer diagnosis
- Emotional impact of chemotherapy
- Support systems for cancer patients
- Importance of mental health during cancer treatment
- Finding joy after cancer
Summary:
Sarah Johnson shares her poignant journey from diagnosis to recovery after being unexpectedly diagnosed with breast cancer at age 37. As a mother of three, she navigates the challenges of treatment, the emotional toll of her condition, and the overwhelming support from her loved ones. Despite the hardships, Sarah finds strength in her family and the kindness of others, learning to cope with her new reality while looking forward to better days ahead.