Over a year has passed since you received the diagnosis of breast cancer. The phrase “life-altering” is often thrown around in situations like this, and while it may sound cliché, it truly encapsulates what you are experiencing.
I owe you an apology for taking so long to put my thoughts into words. Writing is usually my refuge—a way to process my emotions and make sense of the chaos around us. Yet since your diagnosis, I’ve struggled to find the right words. This narrative is yours to share, and I’ve hesitated to intrude on your journey. You are the one living this reality, and it’s your story that matters most.
From the moment you received your diagnosis, your world was turned upside down, and so was the world of everyone who cares for you. We found ourselves navigating uncharted waters together. Though we’ve shared three decades of friendship and faced our share of challenges, nothing could prepare us for this.
When you first shared the possibility of cancer—and then confirmed it—my mind was flooded with questions. What stage is it? What’s the treatment plan? How can I support you? Those were the practical inquiries, but I also felt the unspoken heaviness of knowing our friendship would forever have a “before” and an “after.” Would this change us? Would I be the friend you need? Most importantly, would you emerge from this okay? Like, live-to-see-old-age okay?
The hardest questions weren’t mine but yours. You inquired about seeking a second opinion (I say yes), about whether to opt for a double or single mastectomy (I honestly don’t know), and even about gift etiquette during this difficult time—trust me, you’ve got a pass on that one! You bravely asked, “Is this really happening to me?”
Distance between us was difficult, even though we texted constantly. I stood alongside you in your frustration, shared laughter, and offered words of love—always with the understanding that “normal” conversations now included terms like chemotherapy and biopsies.
During your first chemotherapy session, you asked if I wanted to see your port. “Absolutely!” I exclaimed. We snuck into your closet, and though your body showed signs of what you were going through, you radiated strength. A few months later, before your reconstruction surgery, you asked me again if I wanted to see your progress. We dashed to a restaurant bathroom like teenagers, giggling and discussing every detail. You were no longer just a survivor; you were a warrior.
Since your diagnosis, I’ve often felt guilty about sharing my everyday struggles. Is it okay to talk about my kids or job stress? What about asking for your fashion advice, knowing it feels trivial? Does any of this truly matter? I’ve wrestled with these thoughts, questioning why you cared about your hair and the discomfort of cold caps when you were already facing so much. But ultimately, those were your battles to fight.
What I’ve learned over this past year is invaluable. Sometimes, a well-placed joke, shared silence, or even a string of expletives can provide comfort far beyond what any platitude can offer. I’ve learned about the nuances of medical terms and the different ways women define beauty. Most importantly, I now realize that I shouldn’t shy away from questions or fear their answers; they are opportunities for connection and understanding.
So, here I am, finally expressing my promise to ask my questions, listen to yours, and navigate this journey together—not to find all the answers, but to show up, offer love, and bear witness to this experience. It’s through questioning that we learn, grow, and truly live.
And now, I pose one final question—a timeless one asked by many: Can this experience, however painful, become a source of strength and transformation for us? In other words, how can we create something beautiful from this? Perhaps, we are already on that path.