Decades after Diagnosis: Breast Cancer Changes Families

At bedtime tonight, I was singing to my daughter, already in my own nightgown.

She interrupted, gesturing to my breasts.

“When will you get them removed?” She asked me in earnest.

I paused my song. “What?”

“These,” again, pointing to my breasts. “When do you get rid of yours? Like Gramma?”

“Oh,” I had to be careful with my words. “I’ll only get rid of them if I get breast cancer. Like Gramma.”

Some things are so normal to you, you forget you need to address them as a mom.

19 years ago this fall, I was a senior in college. I was 21 years old. And my mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. Like 91% of women who are diagnosed with breast cancer in America today, she survived.

When someone you love gets a cancer diagnosis, the world stops spinning. I remember the very moment her cancer was confirmed. It was surreal. My fit, healthy 47 year old MILF of a mother had just had a clear mammogram in July. Then, she noticed a lump in August, had it checked out at the end of October, and was diagnosed with an aggressive form of Intraductal Carcinoma in November.

If she didn’t know her own body, if she hadn’t been paying attention, if she had waited until her next mammogram– it would have been too late.

Surgeries were scheduled immediately: A lumpectomy (where just the cancer is removed from the breast) didn’t provide clear margins, so a full mastectomy came next. Lymphnodes from her armpit were removed. A port was placed into her chest for her IV chemotherapy.

Later, more surgeries: a preventative mastectomy on the other side. A preventative hysterectomy and long term oral chemotherapy as more was found out about her cancer and the risks it posed.

She hid a lot of her suffering from my sisters and I, not wanting to scare us.  I guess, now that I ‘m a mom, I might have chosen to do the same. Of course I wish I could have been there for her, but I was still just a kid myself. It was heavy and she did not want to share the weight of it with her children. I respect that.

I do remember going with her to a plastic surgeon in those early days, and how much she struggled with the decision of whether to have reconstructive surgery after losing both breasts. She initially opted for breast implants, I think mostly to make other people more comfortable. Society doesn’t embrace differences kindly. A breast-less woman is outside the norm.

As time went on and she was diagnosed with multiple Auto-Immune diseases, after over a decade and two different implant leaks, she ultimately decided to remove her implants and join the “flat chest” movement of breast cancer survivors who choose not to reconstruct.

My mother is a tall, beautiful woman. She draws attention when she walks into a room. I’ve been beside her and seen people notice her flat chest, the confusion on their faces. I want to scream, she had cancer! Stop staring! It enrages me. She fought so hard just to stay here on this earth. Can’t they realize that?

I’m grateful that she’s chosen to normalize her flat chest. Sometimes it’s still a struggle for her dressing her body; swimwear and fitted dresses can be especially difficult. She’s taught me so much about aging gracefully and embracing the inevitable changes to our bodies over a lifetime. It’s a lesson for my daughter, too. (And my son, for that matter.)

The ripple effect cancer has on a family is permanent, even when the patient survives.

I think about death, daily. It started back then. Sometimes I wonder if that’s normal, or if I’m exceptionally morbid. But I don’t view death as something to be feared. I think about it as part of life, and I think about it as something that is possible at any moment.

I try to appreciate the little things, say “I love you”, let go of anger and live in the moment. Cancer teaches these lessons to the people it touches.

I can’t say I don’t fear breast cancer for myself. Sometimes, my own breasts feel like ticking time bombs, even though genetic testing confirms my chances of developing breast cancer are as equal to someone without a family history. I have fibrocystic breasts and dense tissue. I’ve had a handful of mammograms and a few had me returning for ultrasounds, one with a needle biopsy. Because my mom was diagnosed so young, my physicians will always (understandably) have an abundance of caution when it comes to anything to do with my breast health. It’s a reminder every time I see a doctor.

There’s a twinge of guilt talking about my mom’s survival when I have many friends whose parents did not survive their cancer. I also have family and friends who did not survive their cancer, or who suffer from rare diseases with far less funding, research, treatment options and awareness than Breast Cancer.

Of all the diagnoses, Breast Cancer felt like the luckiest one to get, even way back then. It’s not taboo; there is merch; there is an awareness month.

Every October, we wear pink, we see the pink ribbons on our cup of yogurt or our can of soda. We see pink ribbons EVERYWHERE. Companies donate a portion of their sales to Susan G Komen or The American Cancer Society. We honor the women we’ve lost to breast cancer.

We’ve come so far a society, making huge strides toward a cure.

We still have further to go in making sure there are proper screenings and preventative care, and that everyone from all walks of life has access to screenings and treatment.

Early diagnosis is the best chance at survival. Get your mammograms, do your monthly self-exams. It saved my mom’s life. It could save yours, too.

*I wrote this with my mom’s full blessing, with one caveat: that I urge readers to do their monthly breast self-exams. She credits her diligence in doing hers with saving her life. So, please– start this Breast Cancer Awareness Month.