Key takeaways:
After going through breast cancer, Maria Veres worries with each mammogram that her cancer might return.
She knows the lonely feeling that comes with getting bad health news.
But going through breast cancer forced her to build a support network and has given her a sisterhood — something she always wanted.
My Journey is a series of personal essays about what it’s like to cope with a medical condition.
I tell myself I’m not nervous, but my body knows the truth. Waiting in the ice-cold mammogram room with only a thin, flowered cape to cover me, I break into a sweat every time. What if the breast cancer is back?
I’m all by myself, yet I know I’m surrounded by love. Before every follow-up, I text a few members of my chosen family, who understand just how scary these appointments are. Whether the news is good or bad, these women will have my back.
Growing up, I longed for sisters. Going through cancer is not how I expected to find them.
‘It’s probably nothing’
My breast cancer journey started like many others: with an abnormal mammogram. The tiny gray dot on the monitor didn’t scream “cancer,” and the radiologist suspected a benign fibroadenoma. He recommended a needle biopsy, but he also offered me the option of waiting and watching. I chose to wait.
I also chose to keep the news mostly to myself. I was a private person, especially about my health. I’d had a horrible year, and I thought people must be sick of my problems. The lump was probably harmless. Why worry anyone?
When the mass didn’t magically dissolve like I had hoped, I scheduled the biopsy. The lab report didn’t indicate cancer, but it didn’t rule it out either. An MRI followed, with the same muddy outcome. And my doctors recommended a lumpectomy.
The surgery went smoothly. By then, I had looped in a few more people, but I kept my updates to them matter-of-fact and reassuring. I told them what every medical professional had told me: It was probably fine.
Deep down, I didn’t feel fine. I was scared. I couldn’t shake the feeling that all those doctors were wrong.
A call for help
The anesthesia from my lumpectomy left me physically and emotionally exhausted for days, as if someone had hit me in the head with a two-by-four. Then, I got another sucker punch by a harsh, thoughtless message from someone who didn’t know about the lumpectomy. In my vulnerable state, the unkind words shattered me.
I put out a distress call on social media, asking for prayers, good thoughts, and cute cat pictures. The post was so unlike my usual low-drama content that it alarmed everyone. Friends flooded me with dozens of cat pictures — and a few of dogs, too — along with messages, comments, and even phone calls.
For the first time, I responded honestly. (No, I was not OK.) For the first time, I let myself be held up by the love and strength of others, who cared about me more than I knew.
Sharing the burden
The surgeon called 2 days later. In a way, the news of cancer felt like a relief. At least, I finally knew what I faced.
He told me my tumor was ductal carcinoma in situ, a noninvasive cancer that hadn’t spread. The lumpectomy had removed all the cancer cells, but he recommended radiation therapy and estrogen-blocking medication to help prevent a recurrence.
I took some time to sit with the diagnosis before I shared the results with anyone. Being an introvert, I needed that space. But this time, when I was ready, I didn’t hesitate to let other people in.
Friends came with me to my follow-up appointments, messaged me often, and sent actual cards to my real mailbox. When they asked how things were going, I told them the truth. When they offered to help, I looked for ways to say yes, instead of brushing them aside.
Finding a better path (with a little help from a friend)
If I had any questions about the value of my support circle, all doubts vanished after my friend Eva and I met with the radiation specialist. Tall and white-haired, the doctor would have been handsome if not for all his frown lines. Without greeting Eva or me, he growled, “So, who’s the lucky one?”
I stared at him, dumbstruck. “Lucky?” I thought. He made several more awkward comments during our brief conversation, never cracking a smile. When he left, Eva shook her head. “He’s an odd one, isn’t he?” she asked.
On my own, I might have sucked it up and told myself that’s how doctors were. But her reaction confirmed my sense that I needed to make some changes to my care team. Not only was this crusty specialist a bad fit, but the entire, huge teaching hospital was also wrong for me. I felt like I was trundling down an assembly line, rushed into treatments and appointments with no guidance. I canceled my radiation planning session and took time to think.
Treatment on my terms
Eva and my other friends encouraged me to be proactive about my care and make choices I felt good about. I did decide to go through radiation, but I picked a smaller, friendlier treatment center.
I had 15 radiation sessions. After the appointments, friends often met me for coffee or for walks at the nearby nature center. My skin felt like it had been left under a broiler by the end of the 3-week treatment course, but my spirit was soothed by all the kindness that came my way.
Soon after I finished radiation, I got a chance to pay that kindness forward when an out-of-state colleague was diagnosed with breast cancer. I stayed in close touch with her during her treatment, and we’ve been good friends ever since. She’s one of those VIPs I text on the dreaded mammogram days.
Strength for the future
I’ve been cancer-free for more than 3 years. But, even though the risk of recurrence is low, my diagnosis will stay with me forever.
I face a slightly higher risk of rare cancers like soft tissue sarcoma, because of the radiation therapy. And I’ve experienced vaginal bleeding that could have been caused by Tamoxifen, the medication I took to block estrogen production. Some health professionals say noninvasive cancers like mine are overtreated and, in hindsight, I wonder if I made the right medical choices.
In spite of all the difficulties, I’m thankful for the gifts that have come into my life since my diagnosis. I’m more humble, more compassionate, and better able to advocate for myself as a patient. Best of all, I’ve gained a beautiful circle of sisters who support me no matter what, and I’m getting better at letting them love me.
At a point in life when many people find their social circles shrinking, my friendships are richer than ever. And I don’t take that for granted.
The future holds plenty of challenges. I may face other serious health issues; I’ll endure losses, grief, and difficult transitions. But, whatever happens, I’m certain of one thing. Next time, I won’t walk into those dark places alone.
Why trust our experts?
