In an effort to find a little bit of hope and maybe even a sense of community, I went to a breast cancer support group at a local hospital. I went once. I never went back. I sat down and looked around the room. I was the youngest person there by far. Please know that I am not ageist and I truly respect people of all ages. This was just the reality. Quite a few of the women spoke about being grandmothers and having retired. I was still working full time as I needed to keep the roof over my head, have health insurance to cover treatment, and pay for the townhouse I started the purchase of before D (diagnosis) Day. This was not going well. There were also the exclamations of, “you’re so young.” And the looks of sadness and pity directed at me really struct a nerve.
I also went to this one and only support group in between having lumpectomy surgery and starting chemotherapy. I still had all of my hair. I wasn’t necessarily looking sick. But the visible age gap was quite apparent.
I was petrified when I started chemotherapy. I was very fortunate that I was only getting 4 rounds of a drug called Taxol every 3 weeks. My oncologist stated very confidently that I would do well. But he provided the caveat of, “you will lose your hair.” In addition to chemotherapy, I was also getting a year of a targeted therapy called Herceptin. The joys of a stage 1 but triple positive diagnosis. As the nurses feared that even my strong veins would not fare well through a year of infusions, an appointment was made for me to get a port in my chest. Things were going from bad to worse. I still didn’t have the fluoride trays to wear during treatment to keep from teeth and gums protected. And now I had to have another procedure. But then something happened on that first day in the cancer center.
There was a woman sitting across from me in a chair that was not the most comfortable. She exclaimed and pointed at me, “I want to sit next to the young girl over there.” And so, she moved. We started talking. I learned that her name was Pam. We spoke quite a bit. We even became friends and scheduled our chemo treatments around the same dates and times so that we wouldn’t have to be alone. Unlike “Sex and the City,” there isn’t room to have a few friends with you in treatment facilities. I even went over to her home for dinner. Her lovely housemate was an incredible vegan chef. I was certainly well fed and benefited from the delicious leftovers. I was grateful for their comradery and support.
About 2 months after I rang the bell in celebration of finishing chemotherapy, I would start radiation (in January 2024). As my diagnosis was very early stage and I was hormone positive*, my oncologist expected radiation to not exceed a month. The radiation oncologist had a very different agenda, and she created a treatment plan of 6.5 weeks. Much of her rationale involved recent studies about extended courses of therapy at lower doses (of radiation) for patients under 50 providing the greatest possible outcomes. Having to ultimately pay a few thousand dollars out of pocket and see that I was charged for weekly consultations that she and I never had once treatment started – this made me doubt her opinion and doesn’t sit well with me. Perhaps I’ll revisit that battle later.
In any case, I survived chemo. I was preparing for the next part of treatment. I was, of course, scared. Perhaps radiation doesn’t cause hair loss and nausea, but it literally burns through the skin. The doctor warned me that my affected breast might end up being noticeably perkier and considerably smaller than the other healthy one. During a bit of doom scrolling on social media, I saw many images showing the scorching effects of radiation on fair skin. Despite having lived in Southern California and now Florida, my skin was pretty pale. But I knew what I had to do. So, I made the 30-mile round trip drive for close to 2 months. Often, when encountering other patients, I would get the looks of pity and then hear, “oh, you’re so young.”
The more that I heard this, the more that I fell further into this downward spiral of hopelessness and self-pity. I was fearing that this disease was the beginning of the end. I was “younger” when I received this diagnosis. I expressed to a few friends that I felt like a ticking time bomb that one false move and watch out – she’s going to blow. My thought process was, well, if this has already happened, then I assume that my body will expire sooner. My emotional brain and sympathetic nervous system were working overtime. Growing old seemed like a great privilege that was only given to those deemed healthy enough and worthy. I, on the other hand, was like – maybe I’ve been cursed. Cue to the song, “The End” by the Doors. “This is the end, beautiful friend. The end. My one and only friend. The end.”
Maybe a bit dramatic, but it’s how I felt. The intensity of these feelings would ebb and flow. I, of course, heard the warnings of, “it takes hair forever to grow back” and “my friend had this issue where her hair never grew back,” – nothing like sharing good vibes. But my hair started growing back, and I finally was able to look at myself in the mirror again. Shaving my legs felt like such joy.
I continued to go for Herceptin infusions every 3 weeks. I would drive over to the townhouse that I was in the process of purchasing and was under construction. Despite my health situation, I was about to become a homeowner. In early May 2024, I paid the remainder of my down payment (oh, it was hefty), I closed on my home, and I moved in. I still had a port in my chest. I was not quite out of the woods yet. But I was on my way. I had an iron infusion during the summer which caused me to get a rash and major exhaustion. I did happen to see some other patients closer to my age. So, something positive came out of that appointment.
I finally rang the bell after completing my final Herceptin infusion in September 2024. I had hair on my head. I got my port out a week later. The removal of that port was a glorious day. With the sweet, there came the sour. Pam’s daughter texted me that she passed away. I also received a text that my friend James in New York City lost his battle to cancer. I planted a tree in his honor. He was very passionate about protecting the environment, so this felt fitting.
Here I am in mid-April 2026. My hair has reached my shoulders. I was recently dealing with an upper respiratory infection, and the nurse stated, “you’re a bit young for breast cancer.” The commentary continues. But this time, I responded, “I know plenty of women who were way younger than me when it happened to them.” Perhaps with time comes perspective. Maybe the many sighs, looks, and remarks were not intended to come across accompanied by Jim Morrison lyrics. I wonder if some of these people were like – yeah, this sucks and maybe a bit more when you’re younger as it’s not supposed to be that way. In our efforts to connect with others, we might not always behave in the most ideal way. And that’s okay. Maybe as I was searching for meaning and also really suffering, I took some expressions of commiseration as something that they were not.
I guess that so much is about perspective as well as perception. In my yearning to have more compassion for myself, I am seeing and experiencing things a bit differently. Life is not perfect. And neither are we human beings. But maybe part of the journey is not taking every single thing that we read and hear and see to heart. Maybe it is also about loving oneself so much that we can recognize that a lot of the noise around us is just distractions that need to be compartmentalized or even ignored. Perhaps it’s ultimately looking into one’s own heart deeply enough to know that we are okay (or even great) and will continue to be.
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