The weight of cancer
In January, after a routine mammogram and ultra-sound (because dense breast club), the radiologist recommended I get a lump in each breast biopsied. Three weeks later, one turned out to be a large benign cyst. The other was cancer.
I have breast cancer.
Though hopefully by the time you are reading this I will be recovering at home from a lumpectomy that has successfully removed the tumor.
I’ve had months to think about how I wanted to write this blog, or if I wanted to write it at all. Any reticence lay not in sharing, but in giving it – my diagnosis – weight. Even now, I’m unsure how much weight I want to give it, or what it deserves.
The “C” word is terrifying, but from the outset I’ve known I would be ok. My cancer type is treatable and was caught early. My doctors don’t believe it has spread, it is slow growing, can be surgically removed, and after a course of daily radiation treatments and hormone therapy I will hopefully have this whole experience in the rearview mirror by the end of June.
As my surgeon said, “if you’re going to get cancer, this is the one you want to get.”
Well, don’t I feel lucky, I thought to myself - every syllable dripping in sarcasm
Except I do - I lost a dear friend to breast cancer after she was repeatedly misdiagnosed. I’ve known many women who had to undergo more extreme surgeries and treatments. I understand just how differently this could have gone. Which is why I keep debating how much weight I really want to give this diagnosis in my life.
Having to admit that I have cancer, while true, feels extreme. I’d rather say that my boob temporarily has a little cancer in it. I’m sure any mental health professional would see this as me trying to place the cancer as far from me as possible. Which is probably true, but also it is temporary and treatable and thank goodness!
In saying all of this, in no way do I want to undermine anyone else’s experience. I do feel like I come to this diagnosis with the incredible advantage of being familiar with the American medical system. As unnerving as this experience is, I am able to walk into my appointments with a level of understanding that I didn’t have before my daughter Adelaide was diagnosed with a rare epilepsy and ultimately neurodegenerative disorder.
I know how to look up my insurance benefits, how to schedule appointments, consult MyChart, read test results, discern when a second opinion is needed, and am fluent in medical speak. I also learned, for better or worse, how to acknowledge the difference between life-threatening vs anxiety-inducing, and life-altering vs annoying.
That said, it is still pretty shitty.
I’ve had my moments where it all just feels like a lot. Finding the doctors, scheduling the appointments, essentially putting my life on hold for months while we await test results so plans can be made, and then rearranging life for those plans. Of all the things I want to focus and spend time on, cancer isn’t one of them.
But we don’t get to choose which, when, or how many asteroids land in our path, only how we respond to them. So, I’ve decided to acknowledge that while the weight of this my cancer diagnosis will certainly leave an impression on my 2025, it’s no Armageddon.
For the record, even just typing “my cancer diagnosis” and not “this cancer diagnosis” - to own the diagnosis – was a challenge. The dissonance between the weight I want to apply to the tiny tumor hijacking my life and the reality of it is intense. I know I get to decide how heavy this feels and that its weight can change. And I know that just because it could be worse doesn’t mean that it can’t still suck. I know all of this and yet my inclination is still to minimize and disassociate. To see a dent instead of a crater.
Mostly, I just wish this lumpectomy was the end of it, but it’s more like the (hopefully) halfway point. I dislike being a patient almost as much as I despise having to be patient. In the meantime, I’m going to try to enjoy the forced rest this surgery has mandated and strictly adhere to the “no lifting anything over 5 lbs” rule for the next few weeks. I guess Miguel is going to have to take over doing the laundry and grocery shopping for a bit. Shucks.
Photo ID: A mirror selfie of Kelly in a blue hospital gown with a white wall behind her. Kelly is looking at her phone screen. Her phone case has a black and white checkered pattern.
