In October 2017, I was in disbelief when my doctor informed me that the marble-shaped lump on my right breast was early breast cancer and not a milk duct blocked from breastfeeding my 18-month-old son. ,Freddie. I was 37 years old. While she was scheduling biopsies and blood tests, all I could think about was the fact that I was going to be late for the Halloween parade at my 3-year-old son Max’s preschool and I couldn’t wait. I wouldn’t have time to choose. -Freddie’s costume from Target.
When I left my doctor’s office, I called my husband, Alex, who was always so helpful. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Come home and we’ll figure it out.” But I didn’t feel like everything was going to be okay, so I called my best friend, Sara. As soon as I heard his voice, I burst into tears. She immediately offered to drive over and take my two kids trick-or-treating so I could schedule follow-up appointments and consultations with surgeons. “Don’t worry. I’ll get Freddie’s costume,” she said.
A month later, while recovering from a unilateral mastectomy, Sara brought me care packages containing magazines, candy, a mastectomy pillow, and a small sign for my bedroom door that read: “I would like to be alone please. She wrote me notes telling me how strong I was and that this would all end soon. When my oncologist prescribed a 10-year course of adjuvant hormone therapy that pushed me into premature menopause, Sara researched what to do about hot flashes and mood swings and alerted me to news articles trending and celebrity interviews about menopause.
“It really sucks but you’ll get through it,” Sara said, squeezing my hand. “And the bright side is, you’ll never have to feel the rage of PMS again.” We both laughed. It wasn’t funny, but it was funny. It was a joke that only your best friend – who knew you better than anyone – could make.
We met in the fall of 2010 in Santa Fe, New Mexico. At the time, Sara was driving a silver 1989 Volkswagen Convertible. She would pick me up at my little adobe house and we would cruise with the top down, to the sounds of Fleetwood Mac. On weekends we took day trips to Lake Abiquiu to swim in the turquoise water, jump off red cliffs, and drink chilled mini Beaujolais. Over the years, she has accompanied me through all the major events of my life: my relationship with Alex, the birth of my children and the death of my mother following rapidly progressing bone cancer. Sara was proof that you can still make better friends in your late 20s, and that they will stick around through the tough times.
In October 2021, in the midst of the COVID pandemic, Sara called me with her own terrible news. She had symptoms and a biopsy revealed she had stage 3 colorectal cancer. I cried as Sara told me about her prognosis and complex treatment plan. She was trying to be as positive as usual, but her voice sounded small and distant. How was this possible? Sara and I were both healthy young women with no pre-existing health conditions. When each of us received our diagnosis, we look at in good health, and we felt in good health. We exercised regularly and ate vegetables. And yet we were both diagnosed with cancer before the age of 40. I wish our story was unique in some way, but lately it seems like more and more young people are facing a similar prognosis.
A study released by the American Cancer Society showed a grim prediction: 2024 will be the first year the United States can expect more than 2 million cases of cancer. This represents almost 5,500 new cancer diagnoses per day. While the risk of dying from cancer has steadily declined, early cancer diagnoses are increasing, in part due to better screening recommendations. Another study showed that more young people are being diagnosed with cancer at earlier ages, especially women and adults in their 30s. Many public figures, such as Olivia Munn and Shannen Doherty, speak openly about their diagnoses in an effort to raise awareness about risk assessment and screening procedures. The truth is that early diagnosis is essential to the treatment of most cancers, many of which develop silently and without overt symptoms.
I could never have imagined that we would both survive cancer and enter menopause before turning 40. In many ways, Sara and I have learned lessons about aging and friendship that sometimes take a lifetime to understand.
After Sara completed her final round of chemotherapy, she underwent a series of tests and learned that she had Lynch syndrome, a genetic disorder that puts her at greater risk for other types of cancer. . As a preventative measure and to reduce the risk of recurrence, Sara underwent a hysterectomy in August 2023. This operation pushed her into early menopause. Fifteen years ago, I could never have imagined that we would both survive cancer and go through menopause before we were 40. In many ways, Sara and I have learned lessons about aging and friendship that sometimes take a lifetime to understand. We now understand deeply that everything can change in an instant. Sometimes I think back to those summer days at Lake Abiquiu, holding hands as we jumped off the red-stained cliffs. We had no idea what awaited us. I’m grateful that we still have our friendship to hold on to whenever we feel like we’re free falling.
I don’t know how I would have gone through my own survivor journey without Sara. Although my friends and family are supportive, only Sara understands the unique challenges of living in a post-cancer world: the near-constant low-grade depression and anxiety that are very common after illness, but which no one tells you about. speak. Together, we lament our endless insurance claims and hospital bills, and the fact that being a cancer patient can feel like a full-time job. We joke that we’ve both spent the better part of the last three years on break from medical staff, insurance companies, and specialty pharmacies listening to terrible jazz music. We share advice on all things cancer, like vitamins, supplements, nutrition, and more. Not to mention postmenopausal products, like products for dry scalp and skin, hot flash remedies, and sleeping pills. We’ve even created a community for cancer survivors called Healing + Dealing: a place where people can discuss unique survivorship issues like fear of recurrence, induced menopause, family planning and fertility complications, as well as the emotional and financial costs of cancer. Although we have had very different cancer journeys, our emotional experience as cancer survivors is very similar.
In a way, I know I was lucky. My diagnosis was early and treatable. I had a great medical team, my husband and my best friend by my side, which made things a lot less scary. I just hope Sara also felt like someone was there for her and understood what she was going through. I tried to show up for her like she did for me, as an honest friend. Someone who said, “Everything will be fine, and besides, this really sucks.” I’ll pick up the costume from Target while you do what you need to do.
Sara and I talked a lot about how, after surviving cancer, everything changed. Today we live in a world of constant scans and blood tests. We are still learning to live with the uncertainty of it all. These days, when the wolf is at the door, I try not to think about the stray cancer cells multiplying in my own body, but I think about my friend, her infectious laugh and her bright smile, and I show myself as I did. would show up for her.
Cancer has also given me a deep awareness and new appreciation for how I want to live my life. It gave me the opportunity to reprioritize what is important to me. These days I try to focus on the people and activities that fill me up rather than the things that drain me. I learned that healing is a journey and not something that happens over time; I’m grateful to be on this journey with my best friend by my side. The truth is that, in many ways, we are all survivors dealing with some sort of past trauma or grief. And over the years, I’ve found comfort in the idea that we’re all in this together — looking for ways to introduce ourselves to our friends and help each other feel a little less alone.