Your cart is currently empty!
The Cold Season of My Breast Cancer Journey
Updated: April 22, 2021
Originally Published: June 10, 2010
As I walk down the long hallway, following the nurse who is holding my right breast in both hands, I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. She walks backward, applying pressure to the site of my third biopsy in less than a month. “I bet this isn’t how you imagined your New Year’s Eve,” she says with a sympathetic smile, a gesture I’ve become all too familiar with in this whirlwind of medical procedures and needle sticks.
Dressed in a pink cotton gown that is open in the front, I feel the loose belt hanging at my side. “Any plans for tonight?” she inquires, and we both share a knowing smile. I’ll be spending the evening on the couch, icing the biopsy site—20 minutes on, 20 minutes off.
My husband and I have developed our own shorthand over 25 years of marriage, often communicating through book and song titles. “This is the winter of our discontent,” I say as he brings me another ice pack. It becomes our mantra, a code for the chaos that is cancer.
In the midst of this absurdity, I realize that having breast cancer means putting aside all notions of modesty. I’m preparing for a double mastectomy and DIEP flap reconstruction in February, leaving me with smaller breasts and a 47-centimeter incision running from hip bone to hip bone where the surgeons have removed fat, tissue, and skin. My plastic surgeon confidently assures me that no one will ever know my breasts aren’t real. “Over time, the transplanted tissue will soften, and we can create new nipples,” he explains, pointing to the circles of skin taken from my stomach. I can’t fathom the weirdness of it all, but it’s strangely comforting.
My 13-year-old son, unaware of the intricacies of a double mastectomy, asks, “But how does it get rid of the cancer?” My heart catches as I attempt to explain the process. “Are you going to turn into a boy?” he queries innocently. The shift in our dynamic is unsettling; we both fear the same outcome—neither of us wants to lose the other. That night, as I hold him, I think to myself, this truly is the winter of our discontent.
Packages arrive daily—fruit baskets, muffins, books, cozy blankets, and hoodies. While they’re meant to comfort me, they serve as reminders of missed opportunities to support others. I confide in my husband about feeling inadequate, thinking perhaps this is my penance for not being a better friend. He counters, pointing to the stack of gifts, “You must be doing something right.”
My 74-year-old mother boards a plane from California to care for me, a journey she hasn’t made in nearly a decade. This, too, feels absurd. She brings cotton sweaters to keep me warm through one of the coldest winters I can remember. Our world shrinks to the recliner in my living room and the examination table at the doctor’s office. I worry about which of us might slip on the ice first.
The six post-operative drains become my undoing. The daily “milking” of the tubes and measuring fluids draining from my body is overwhelming. The bright pink pouches that hold the drains are a reminder of my dependence on others for simple tasks. It takes a village to help me get out of bed and dress. I obsess over having the drains removed, knowing that my path to recovery depends on it.
Two weeks post-surgery, I sit on the exam table, the pink gown open front, my husband beside me. The nurse instructs me to breathe deeply as she pulls the long tubes from my body. “Some patients ask to keep them,” she says, dropping them into a hazardous waste bag. I can’t imagine why. When I finally get home, my son wraps his arms around me, and I celebrate by taking a hot shower—alone for the first time in weeks.
In March, I receive the news that I’ve “won” the cancer lottery—no radiation or chemotherapy. Just like that, my ordeal is over. My family calls me a survivor, but I don’t feel that way. It’s too abrupt, too soon; I can’t shake the feeling that the cancer could return.
As the snow melts, signs of spring emerge, but the chill remains. My oncologist suggests a five- to ten-year course of anti-hormone therapy to prevent any rogue cancer cells. “You’re too young to do nothing,” she insists. However, the medication wreaks havoc on my body, and I find myself obsessing over the thought of hidden cancer cells lurking within me. Sitting on the exam table again, I wrap my arms around myself, the pink gown barely covering me. My oncologist’s words blur into the background as she searches for answers on her phone.
The absurdity of it all doesn’t escape me. For the first time in months, I feel lost and without a plan. I close my eyes, recalling what the nurse had said after my New Year’s biopsy: “Come spring, you’ll be a whole new person.” I turn to my husband and suggest a new title for our story, but nothing else feels right. Winter continues to shadow us into the new season, and eventually, I drop the code and start saying it as it is: cancer.
Summary
In this candid reflection on her battle with breast cancer, Jamie Taylor shares the absurdity and emotional turbulence of her journey. From unexpected moments of humor with medical staff to the challenges of recovery and the support from her family, each experience highlights the complexities of facing cancer. As she navigates the ups and downs, the theme of resilience prevails, culminating in a bittersweet acknowledgment of her status as a “survivor” while grappling with the lingering uncertainties of her health.