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Even before the mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy, I knew I had cancer. Somehow, I just knew it. But that didn't make it any less shocking when I got the diagnosis that I share with one in eight women and one in 1,000 men: breast cancer. I’ve been half-expecting the news since learning 10 years ago that I’m high-risk, so I’ve had plenty of time to think about how the news might feel.
Here’s what I’ve decided:
1. My mother’s generation would lower their voices to a whisper when they said the word “cancer.” As a child, I remember the fear I felt when I heard that whisper, a nameless dread that spread through me. That approach cloaks the diagnosis in secrecy and shame and gives the disease more power than it already has. Cancer’s too big a burden to hide.
So, I'm going to talk openly about my diagnosis with anyone and everyone in my orbit. And when I say openly, I mean openly. As in, on Tuesday, I walked into my longtime yoga studio and announced to my fellow yogis, “I’ve got f***ing breast cancer!”
I not only got an immediate flurry of hugs and pledges of support, but also an outpouring of women saying, “Oh, me too,” and “Yup, been there,” followed by extremely practical advice and explanations of what I should expect. The support felt great. But perhaps more importantly, each time someone in that room said the word “cancer” in a normal tone of voice, it made the diagnosis feel that much less mysterious, which translates to much less frightening.
I’m not suggesting any of us should walk into a board meeting or restaurant and lead off with personal medical news. But I am suggesting that, in spaces where you are known and comfortable, you open a door to sharing an experience that many of us will have and probably all of us will be connected to. Seeing and appreciating the number of people who are on or have already walked this path makes it far less lonely. And hey. None of us chose this. Can we please lose the quiet shame?
2. I’m going to share information about my experiences for those who will follow in my footsteps, because we don’t know what we don’t know, and maybe I can avert some suffering. For instance, no one, including my doctors, told me that a breast biopsy hurts. I mean, why wouldn’t it? Biopsies remove living tissue you’re currently using! The procedure isn’t the end of the world and does include numbing lidocaine injections, and its impact is temporary. But if you're okay taking painkillers, I'd urge you to self-advocate for a sedative. If you’re not, you’ll get through the procedure. But maybe plan to take the afternoon off if you can, and let a friend bring you a bowl of soup.
3. I’m going to accept help. Why are we so ashamed or reluctant to say yes to offers of help? I know that if a friend or family member were having surgery, I'd genuinely want to bring them a meal or walk their dog or throw their laundry into the dryer. I’d want to do whatever would show my support and let the person rest. I’m going to trust that my friends and family feel the same way about me, and I'm going to accept their support as the gentle hug I believe they intend it to be.
And you know what? I’m going to proactively ask for help, too. I’m not sure why that’s such a challenge for so many of us. Does seeking support show vulnerability? Weakness? Are we conditioned to be afraid of imposing?
All of the above and more.
In recent instances, I have asked for help (“Hey, can you pick me up after this procedure?” “Can you sit in on my appointment and take notes on what the doctor says?”). Friends and family have been uniformly grateful for my requests. By asking, I have given them concrete methods for easing me through a tough time. By asking, I’ve shown that I trust them enough to lean on them.
And one more thing: I hope that by asking for their help, they’ll know that if they ask for mine, I’ll deliver. No judgment, no shaming, no drama. Just caring.
Have any of you had cancer? Let us know in the comments below.
Alexandra Bowman
Follow Article Topics: Health
