Dear Emily,
A little over a year ago, you received the life-altering news of your breast cancer diagnosis. The term “life-changing” might seem clichéd, but it encapsulates the profound shift we all felt, especially you.
I owe you an apology for taking so long to write this. Writing has always been my way of processing emotions, yet since your diagnosis, I found myself at a loss for words. This journey is yours to share, not mine to narrate. You are the one living through this experience, and it’s you who embodies the true essence of what it means to face something so life-altering.
When you first confided in me about your diagnosis, my mind raced with various questions, mostly centered around the medical aspects. What stage are you in? What’s the prognosis? When does treatment start? I also thought about practicalities—what do you need? How can I support you? When can I come visit?
Yet, beneath these practical inquiries lay heavier, unspoken thoughts: How will this impact our friendship? Will our relationship change? Will I be the friend you require me to be? Most importantly, will you be OK? Like, live-a-long-and-healthy-life ok?
The hardest questions belonged to you. I was simply there to listen as you voiced them. You wondered if a second opinion was necessary (my answer: yes), whether you should opt for a double mastectomy or a single one (my answer: who knows?), and even the etiquette of sending thank-you notes for cancer gifts (my answer: you have a pass on that). Most heart-wrenching of all, you asked, “Is this really happening to me?”
It broke my heart knowing there was distance between us, despite our daily—sometimes hourly—texts. I shared your anger and confusion, asked questions in return, and sent messages filled with love, often punctuated with the frustration of “stupid cancer.” On the phone, I listened and shed tears, trying to be there for you as best as I could. Then we’d shift back to our usual banter, except now it was punctuated with terms like chemotherapy and biopsy results.
During your first round of chemo, you asked if I wanted to see your scars. “Absolutely!” I exclaimed, and we hurried into your walk-in closet. Your body bore the marks of battle, yet you radiated strength and beauty, like a superhero defying the odds. A few months later, before your final reconstruction surgery, you invited me to see how things looked. We giggled like teenagers in a restaurant bathroom, discussing size and shape, and you looked powerful and incredible.
Since your diagnosis, I’ve grappled with my own trivial concerns. Do I have the right to complain about my kids or job stress? Do you want to hear about my fashion dilemmas when, in the grand scheme of things, they seem insignificant? I sometimes felt guilty for even bringing up my own issues, wondering why you still cared about your hair and the cold caps that made you nauseous. Shouldn’t you feel beautiful enough without it? But ultimately, those were not my decisions to make. My role is to support you through this pain and hold space for your discomfort.
In the past year, I’ve learned invaluable lessons. I’ve discovered that a well-timed joke or a shared silence can offer more comfort than the often-repeated phrase, “everything happens for a reason.” I’ve grasped the difference between a port and a drain, and I’ve come to understand that beauty stems from within, shaped by personal experiences rather than societal standards.
Most importantly, I’ve learned not to shy away from questions. I should have pressed deeper, never hesitating to voice what needs to be said. Although these words come later than I would have liked, I vow to ask my questions, listen to yours, and navigate this journey with you—not for the sake of finding answers, but to show up, offer love, and bear witness to our shared experience. It is through questions that we connect, learn, and grow.
And now, I ask you one final question. It’s a question that has echoed through time, posed by countless voices in different languages: Can this experience—whatever it may be—make us stronger and transform us for the better? In essence, how can we create something beautiful out of this? Perhaps we are already creating something beautiful together.