As he told you Jacquelyne Froeber
It’s October Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
I was in the produce aisle of Winn-Dixie when an adult coughed on me. Out loud.
I froze — a ripe tomato in my hand. I felt his weight and noticed the fine spray of cough on his bright red skin.
This was no accident. I had seen that man moments earlier change direction and make a beeline for me. As I stood there boiling, I reminded myself to breathe. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time a random person saw me wearing a mask in public and coughed in my direction. But that didn’t mean I knew how to act when it happened.
In my imagination, I pick up the tomato and throw it at him. As he turns around, I tell him I have breast cancer and a weakened immune system. I see his unmasked face fall. “Metastatic breast cancer!” add. And then I scoff. Like he knows what that means.
But the moment had passed. I took the spit tomato to the counter and told them to throw it away. “You don’t want anyone taking it home,” I said.
I was diagnosed with breast cancer in December 2019. I found the lump myself and like anyone in this position, I was hoping I caught it early. My oncologist and surgeon said I did – the cancer was stage 2 and slowly growing. I was advised to have a double mastectomy to remove the tumors – and all my breast tissue – and put it behind me. Even better: I wouldn’t need chemotherapy or radiation.
Unfortunately, my bones were keeping a secret from me. Lymph nodes removed during surgery showed that the cancer was more aggressive than we thought. Follow-up tests confirmed the worst: The breast cancer had spread to my bones. There was damage to my spine and hip. I didn’t have stage 2 breast cancer. I had stage 4.
When I was told the news, I instinctively put my hands on my stomach. I felt like I had been fooled. I struggled to breathe – stunned by the betrayal coming from within my own body. And then my brain almost went into autopilot because, well, there’s not much you can do when you’re recovering from a double mastectomy and preparing for the unknown.
As of March 2020, I was still healing but moving forward with my new treatment plan which included lots of needles and pills and tests and scans for the foreseeable future. My family, especially my sister, helped me plan all the things and picked me up when I was down.
Then Covid hit and the whole world shut down.
My first thought: Who gets diagnosed with terminal cancer during a pandemic? I would laugh if it wasn’t so ridiculous. And totally terrifying. Suddenly I was quarantined, alone and on the high risk list of people to die from a virus that none of us could see and had never seen before.
The irony was that I still had to go to the hospital for treatment, which meant I could be exposed to the virus at any time.
I had begun to hold my breath as long as I could under my mask, hoping that every little bit would help against the unseen threat lurking within the very place that kept me alive.
Still hiding in public, 2024
But in October, once again, I discovered that the threat was coming from inside the house. I was diagnosed with cutaneous T-cell lymphoma on the bottom of my leg. From all places! And it was a rare type of lymphoma. My first thought: Who is being diagnosed? two cancers in a pandemic?
The lymphoma really solidified how spectacularly crappy my immune system is. My white blood cells – the ones that help fight infection – were low due to treatment, but looking back, I’ve always struggled to overcome an illness or heal from a wound. I once had poison ivy for six weeks. I didn’t want to think about what if I got Covid.
So when the restrictions were lifted and the pandemic was “over”, I continued to live my new normal as if nothing had changed. I avoided crowded areas. I wore my mask in public. And I got the vaccine as fast as I could. Even though it doesn’t completely fight the infection, every bit helps.
My life today is pretty much the same as it was at the height of the pandemic. My world travels have a mission-like precision: Mask up, get in, get out, exhale. I avoid doing things indoors as much as possible and unfortunately that means I miss out on a lot of events and opportunities. And I know there are people who think my answer is an overreaction.
I also had to learn that there is a tipping point where people will only satisfy your needs for so long — if at all. “There are just… so many of us. And so few of you,” someone told me wearily. I am very sorry to tell you that this is simply not true. About 7 million people in the United States are immunocompromised, and many of us are still trying not to get deathly ill from Covid.
So I’m still wearing my N95s. I avoid crowded indoor spaces. I watch the surges come and go. I have seen some people walk out of my life and others support me with fierce kindness. I’ve also come to know the pleasure of my own company all too well, and I have to say: If you don’t have the patience to make room for me, you’re really missing out. (I’m kind of hilarious.)
I understand that Covid is not even a thought for some anymore, but it is still a very real threat to me. Being immunocompromised, I can’t say how sick it might make me. And, I no longer trust my body to protect me because it has failed me in such spectacular fashion. So I have to do everything I can to avoid getting seriously ill — or even dying.
But there are days I wonder if perhaps I’m getting ridiculous. Maybe I should go to that indoor concert or grocery store without my mask. But then I remind myself that I’m living with two cancers and I’ve been through a pandemic. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ve come this far by trusting my instincts. I’m not going to stop now.
Do you have a real woman, real stories of your own that you want to share? Let us know.
Our real women, real stories are the authentic experiences of real life women. The views, opinions and experiences shared in these stories are not endorsed by HealthyWomen and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of HealthyWomen.
From your website articles
Related articles around the web
