The irony of the situation is not lost on me as I trail behind the nurse down the long, carpeted corridor. She walks backward, gently holding my right breast in both hands while applying pressure to the site of my third biopsy in under a month.
“I bet you never expected anything like this,” she says with a tight smile—a smile that conveys sympathy, one I’ve learned to recognize during this chaotic journey filled with advanced imaging and needle pokes that have become my new normal.
On New Year’s Eve, I find myself clad in a pink cotton gown, open in the front, its frayed belt dangling at my side. “Any plans for tonight?” she asks, and we both share a laugh, fully aware that my evening will be spent on the couch, icing my biopsy site—20 minutes on, 20 minutes off.
My husband and I communicate in a shorthand of book titles and song lyrics, a language shaped by 25 years of marriage. “This is the winter of our discontent,” I say as he retrieves another ice pack from the freezer. This phrase becomes our mantra in the days ahead, a secret code for the weight of cancer in our lives.
Navigating the labyrinth of absurdity that is breast cancer feels surreal. It strips away all sense of modesty, leaving it in a box tucked away in the attic, right next to the bras I’ll never wear again. My double mastectomy and DIEP flap reconstruction are scheduled for February, leaving me with significantly smaller breasts and a lengthy incision from hip to hip. The surgeons removed fat, tissue, and skin, tearing my body apart and stitching it back together over a grueling 12-hour surgery. Even my nipples couldn’t be preserved.
My confident, Armani-suited plastic surgeon assures me that no one will ever know my breasts are not real. “In time, the transplanted tissue will soften, and we can create new nipples,” he explains, pointing to the circles of skin harvested from my abdomen and sewn into place. I’ll have faux-real nipples, perfectly tattooed on my reconstructed breasts. The thought is both bewildering and fascinating. My sister asks if I’m considering going to Florida for the tattoos, mentioning a renowned artist she’s heard about.
My 13-year-old son, unfamiliar with the concept of a double mastectomy, asks, “But how does it get rid of the cancer?” My voice falters between laughter and tears as I attempt to explain how the doctors remove breast tissue. “Are you going to turn into a boy?” he inquires, his eyes wide with confusion. I can sense the shift in our dynamic—the balance of mother and son, protector and protected, feels fragile. We both grapple with the same fear: the possibility of my death. As I hold him later, I think to myself, this truly is the winter of our discontent.
Packages arrive daily, filled with fruit baskets, muffins, books, DVDs, cozy fleece blankets, and zip-front hoodies. I’m overwhelmed by the stack of gifts on the dining room table. Intended to comfort me, these tokens remind me of moments when I could have reached out to others in need. “I’m not a good person,” I tell my husband. “Maybe I deserve this cancer as atonement.” He gestures to the pile and says, “You must be doing something right.”
My 74-year-old mother boards a plane from California and arrives in New York for the first time in nearly a decade, ready to care for me. At that moment, I find it absurd, but I don’t recognize its significance. She brings a suitcase full of warm sweaters to nurse me through one of the coldest winters I can remember. Snow, ice, and six post-operative surgical drains confine us to the recliner in my living room and the exam table in my doctor’s office. I wrap her in cashmere sweaters and a down parka, wondering who will slip on ice first.
The six drains become my breaking point. “Milking” the tubes and measuring the fluids that seep from my incisions into the drain bulbs feels like too much. The drain belt I wear—a creation from volunteers who are breast cancer survivors—consists of six bright pink pouches on an elastic band. Its design is simple yet effective, anchoring my recovery to this moment in time. It serves as a daily reminder of my dependence on others for even the simplest tasks. It takes a village to help me out of bed, bathe, and dress. My movements are restricted; I can hardly do anything for myself.
I fixate on the thought of getting the drains removed, knowing that true progress lies in being unencumbered. Two weeks post-surgery, ten days after returning home from the hospital, I sit on the edge of the exam table, my pink gown open in the front. My husband holds my hand, a forced smile on his face. The nurse instructs me to take a deep breath and cough as she removes each long strand of tubing from my body. “Some patients ask to keep them,” she mentions, dropping each drain into a red hazardous waste bag. “I can’t imagine why.”
At home, my son wraps his thin arms around me and cries into my neck. I celebrate this small victory by taking a hot shower—entirely by myself.
In March, I learn I’ve hit the cancer lottery: no radiation, no chemotherapy. Just like that, my tumultuous encounter with cancer seems to end abruptly. My family calls me a survivor, but the title feels ill-fitting. I don’t feel like I’ve truly survived; it’s all too sudden, too soon. I don’t trust that the cancer is truly gone.
As the snow and ice thaw, patches of green emerge in my yard, yet the air remains chilly. Like me, the magnolias and cherry blossoms struggle to bloom. My oncologist insists on a five- to ten-year course of anti-hormone medication to eliminate any rogue cancer cells. “You’re too young to do nothing,” she asserts. “It’s all about preventive care from here on out.” However, the drug that “most women tolerate very well” wreaks havoc on my body, leaving me with a rapidly spreading rash.
I try to ignore the unsettling thought of microscopic cancer cells weaving through healthy tissue. Sitting on the exam table, I wrap my arms around myself, pulling the pink gown closed across my chest. My oncologist speaks, but her words seem to drift between us, and I don’t bother to grasp them.
I watch her search for images of skin rashes on her smartphone. “I’ve never seen anyone react like this,” she says, scrolling quickly for a match. The absurdity of this situation does not escape me. For the first time in months, I find myself without a clear plan for moving forward. Closing my eyes, I recall what the nurse told me after my New Year’s Eve biopsy: “Come spring, you’ll be a whole new person.”
I suggest to my husband that we need a different title for our story, but nothing else seems to resonate. Winter lingers as we transition into a new season. Eventually, I stop using euphemisms and simply speak the truth: fucking cancer. East of Eden, the winter of our discontent continues to rage on.
This journey reflects the complexities of navigating health challenges while also maintaining familial relationships and personal identity. For those interested in home insemination, exploring resources at Kindbody or considering products like the Cryobaby Home Intracervical Insemination Syringe Kit Combo at MakeAMom can be helpful. Authorities such as Intracervical Insemination also provide valuable insights into reproductive health.