Ann Bancroft is a breast cancer survivor who lives in California.

Ann Bancroft

When an expensive chocolatier sent email advertisements of breast-shaped chocolates, Ann was reminded that people mean well. 

An elegant, expensive chocolatier in my hometown just sent me an email advertising a special offering for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It’s a pink box filled with sixteen domed pink candies, each with a dot — brown, white or yellow — centered on top. Like a box of breasts, all nestled in pink. Ten percent of the profits from these $48 boxes of candy will go to a local breast cancer awareness organization.

The cake-filled chocolates are bound to be scrumptious, as every bite I’ve tasted from these artisans has been. And certainly, local organizations that support patients with breast cancer deserve all the funding they can get.

“Oh, how nice,” a friend said, as I described it to her. “Wish I’d known to send it to you.”

I held back the snarky comments I’d been about to make about boob candies because she, too, meant well. Still, I’m glad she didn’t send the box.

October, the month when I was born and my favorite time of year, brings with it a complex set of emotions. One is gratitude, for having survived breast cancer twice. Another is a kind of PTSD — where awful treatment memories seep out from the compartment in my brain where they’re most often locked away. It doesn’t help that every trip to a grocery store winds up with a clerk cheerily asking if I’d like to “donate to breast cancer” (no, I think darkly, I wouldn’t give breast cancer a dime). But I add a couple of dollars to the till, hoping it will go toward research.

I need no reminders, pink or boob-like, to be aware of this disease. But there they are throughout October — all the pink ribbons. The pink packaging on everything from paper goods to dog food. The walks for the cure, the articles and the ads. Because I, too, mean well and want to support my fellow survivors, I’ve been part of all of these at one time or another. (I wrote a whole chapter of my novel, “Almost Family,” on this, and here I am writing about pink stuff again when I could be out taking a walk).

I do hope that, like Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving, Breast Cancer Awareness observances don’t start creeping ahead into September. I guess the confectioner sent out its pink box ad so that people could order before October arrived. I hope that’s the case. Regardless, I’m going to focus on the turning of the leaves and marking another birthday, healthy. Happy October!

This story was written and submitted by Ann Bancroft. The article reflects the views of Bancroft and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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Just like how Christmas decorations creep into November before Thanksgiving, I hope Pinktober does not creep into September. 

It’s October and Yes, We’re Aware

You’ve just been diagnosed, and “cancer” seems to be the wallpaper of every room you enter. Treatments, discussions, opinions, and decisions are overwheming. On top of all that is the frightening thought, 

“Cancer has taken me over.. this is now my life.”

 After all, it is on your mind 24/7, and everyone you see asks you about it. It’s the first thing you think about on waking and it’s the thought you struggle against when it’s time to sleep.

Of course it’s overwhelming, but let me assure you, this intense time of coming to grips with your diagnosis will not last forever, As frightening as it may be, it will pass. At some point, you will be finished with treatment and you may think, 

“now that I’m not being treated, will it come back soon?” 

These fears are normal, so don’t beat yourself up, but be assured that they, too, will subside. As you rebuild strength and appreciation for daily little miracles — connection with others, the beauty of nature —there will come a time when you’ll go to bed with the amazing realization: 

“I haven’t even thought about cancer today.”

 You’ll have been too busy living all day to spend your precious energy on worry and fear..

Gather around you people who bring you love and joy, who don’t let their own fears or discomfort bring you down. Some friends or loved ones will disappoint; they don’t mean to, but rather than wishing they’d change, focus on relationships that nurture.

You are free to say “no” to things you don’t really want to do, and to say “yes” to paths you may not have considered. Take this as a gift,

Take also as a gift the flexibility that cancer demands. Make plans to socialize or have new experiences — absolutely, it’s always good to have something to look forward to, so don’t let cancer stop you from making those plans. But if your body isn’t cooperative that day, know it is perfectly OK to cancel or postpone, let it go, and appreciate a quiet day at home. Many other opportunities will appear.

Know that sometimes a headache is just a headache, congestion is just a cold, and aches and pains may simply mean you’ve overexerted. Inform your doctor if symptoms persist, but don’t assume the worst.

Cancer may slow you down for a while, but in the process, it may also prepare you to take new directions in life. This is another gift.

You will find joy in unexpected places. Who knew that you could laugh with another patient in an infusion center, or come to delight in an oncology appointment because your doctor is someone you’ve grown to love?

As hard as it may be to grasp right now, know that cancer is not you. It is not your whole life and you don’t need to let it overtake your every waking thought. Fearing what may happen tomorrow robs you of enjoying today. Please be kind to yourself. Acknowledge your fears and uncertainties, and cut yourself slack for having them, but then gently put them aside so you can enjoy as many moments as possible in the day before you. All any of us can be certain of is this moment in this day we are living. And whether or not this moment is joyful or sad, it, too, will pass.

I’m telling you this from the future. It’s been fifteen years since my diagnosis, and they’ve been full of wonderful experiences I could not have imagined on that first terrifying day. Although older, I’m in better shape, more relaxed and happier than I was the day before cancer entered my life. I’ve traveled far and wide, written a novel, deepened relationships with family and longtime friends and made new friends along the way. I’ve learned to love myself better, as I now look back and love you.

This post was written and submitted by a CURE reader. The article reflects the views the author and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

Looking back, here’s what I would tell myself shortly after being diagnosed with cancer. 

An Open Letter to My Newly Diagnosed Self

Just as people become attached to their therapists, it must be common for patients with cancer to grow to love the oncologists we hate that we ever had to see.

Like many patients, I was unhappy with my first oncologist, for reasons having nothing to do with his competence. I just…didn’t like him. I’ve known several patients who’ve “fired” their first oncologist, saying the doctor’s bedside manner wasn’t up to snuff, the staff wasn’t friendly enough or it just didn’t feel right.

The real reason, I believe, is that we don’t want to be in an oncologist’s office at all. We definitely do not want to hear what they need to tell us about really and truly having cancer. Choosing a different doctor gives us a sense of being in charge of a situation we did not choose.

Regardless of my reasoning for leaving that first oncologist, I’m so grateful I wound up in the office of the second, Dr. Delphine Ong.

On my initial visit, I found her thorough, patient and willing to take enough time to explain everything to both me and my worried husband. She was straightforward and no-nonsense — not in the least condescending or falsely upbeat. She offered the barest minimum of small talk, but I was comforted by her air of competence and dedication to explaining my specific situation in depth.

I was raised the daughter of an Army doctor, trained to “suck it up” and minimize ailments, to suspect that any symptom not involving actual bone sticking through skin is probably “in your head.”

Cancer, though, is completely different. As I healed from two surgeries, months of chemo and radiation, fear of recurrence settled in. I developed symptoms. There was the persistent cough (lung metastases?), rib pain (spread to the bone?), that one weird headache (the brain?). Each time, I waited, then became worried enough to make an appointment with Dr. Ong.

“This is probably nothing,” I’d begin.

She’d level her gaze at me, and say, “My job is to determine if it’s something or not. Your job,” she’d add, matter-of-fact, “is simply to report. OK? You don’t have to worry about determining what it means.”

What a relief. My ailments may in fact have been psychologically generated, but that was OK. She understood. She ordered the tests that revealed nothing seriously amiss and, eventually, all symptoms disappeared.

After a few years, my conversations with Dr. Ong took on a new, lighthearted ease. The hormonal medication side effects were annoying but manageable. I was fit, enjoying retirement and genuinely happy to see her every four-to-six months.

Still thorough and concerned, she’d palpate my breasts and under my arms, but we’d also chat about family, books and the news. Instead of fearing our regular appointments, I grew to look forward to them as I would having coffee with an old friend.

Ten years as her patient seemed to fly by, and one day I “graduated” from oncology. It was time to leave Dr. Ong and let my family practitioner handle routine medical care. My hug and thank-yous to Dr. Ong didn’t feel like enough. As happy as I was to quit taking pills and put cancer completely out of my mind, I felt bereft at losing this relationship. Who would I ever trust this much? With whom would I share this odd sort of intimacy, rekindled just once or twice a year?

My care became like any other woman’s, with routine annual mammograms. That awful cancer experience receded in my mind until, 13 years after my first diagnosis, a new tumor was discovered near my lumpectomy scar.

I’d require chemo, again, and this time, a mastectomy. What a shock. The only good news was my reunion with Dr. Ong. Whatever was ahead, at least I’d have the confidence and comfort of being under her care.

“I am very sorry to see you here,” she said, looking almost angry that my cancer had returned.

“I’m sorry to be here, too,” I said. “But it’s really great seeing you!” And I meant it.

We met during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, and above her mask I could see the stress in her eyes. The hospital was jammed. Her patients were particularly vulnerable, and even more of them than usual would not survive. As comforting as she’d been to me, I wished I could give her relief.

About that time, a dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer, and I referred her to Dr. Ong. After their first appointment my friend sheepishly told me that she didn’t think she’d go with my recommendation.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I need someone a little more touchy-feely.”

I urged her to go back at least once. “Nobody likes the oncologist they see first,” I said.

Over the next three years my friend has thanked me over and over for that persistence. “I 

And now it’s come time for Dr. Ong to take her well-deserved retirement. When I told her how grateful I was for her getting me through, she held both my hands and said, her eyes serious, “It’s my job.” No hero worship, please.

Then I realized the burden it must be when patients credit her for their survival — what if they hadn’t survived?Nonetheless, we offer our thanks, and wish her serenity in the knowledge that she’s held so many of us up, and so very well.

This post was written and submitted by Ann Bancroft. The article reflects the views of Ann Bancroft and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

I wish I didn’t need to see an oncologist at all, but am thankful that the one I had was amazing. 

Ann Bancroft

It’s October and Yes, We’re Aware

An Open Letter to My Newly Diagnosed Self

I Wish I Didn’t Need an Oncologist at All, But I’m Thankful for the One I Had

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