Felicia Mitchell, retired from college teaching, is a poet and writer who makes her home in southwestern Virginia. She is a survivor of stage 2b HER2-positive breast cancer diagnosed in 2010. Website: 

Felicia Mitchell

Felicia Mitchell is a survivor of stage 2b HER2-positive breast cancer diagnosed in 2010. 

Catch up on all of Felicia's blogs here!

Early on, a member of my breast cancer care team explained how friends and family members may drift when we are diagnosed. Individuals have different ways of dealing with a diagnosis, acting “funny” or even detaching. It was helpful for my caregiver to share this information because it prepared me for a ripple effect of cancer. While cancer ghosting is real, a recent loss has taught me that it is more nuanced than one might think.

This recent loss filled me with regret for not trying harder to maintain a friendship, which seemed to drift at the time of the cancer diagnosis. For years, I blamed cancer for the lapse, though in retrospect that blame seems misplaced. Now, too late, I remind myself of the old adage that correlation is not causation. This loss, however, has made me think of several ways patients with cancer might reframe emotional responses to ghosting even as we recognize that it does happen.

It might be helpful, to give “ghosters” grace, to consider why they seem to abandon us when we are sick. One reason people may shy away from us revolves around their fears. People may worry that they will say the wrong thing, so they say nothing at all. There was a time when talking about cancer was taboo, and I think that taboo still lingers. With people who have trouble talking about cancer, once we are healed and have the emotional space, we can set a new model of behavior. Or, if it works for you, try it while you are in the midst of your treatment.

Another reason people pull away from somebody with a grave illness is simply the fact that they do not have the emotional range. Relationships are based on all kinds of shared moments, and joyous connections may become heavy when a challenge is introduced. If we remember that friends come and go at different times in our lives, we might wave goodbye mentally without condemning these old friends. Just as a friend might detach when moving across the country, one might detach when we move into cancer country. Assuming that a tie is cut forever, however, is not the first assumption that should come to mind when we are emotionally strained by cancer.

Yet another reason a person might ghost a connection with cancer is simple: self-survival. Pulling away from a close friend or family member may help a person to cope with their needs. I know self-survival played a role in a few strained relationships during my cancer journey. Fortunately, the need those people had to detach for a bit was trumped by their need to admit, eventually, that I needed their support. I am a patient person. It helps me to remind myself that if my friend had not passed away this year, we would have found a way back to each other.

I think there is one more reason somebody might appear to ghost us after a cancer diagnosis, with emphasis on “appear.” We ourselves may just be feeling very vulnerable and inclined to see a slight when no slight is intended. Cancer is so all-encompassing that it has the power to make a person feel self-centered. In retrospect, I believe that is what happened with my friend I am currently mourning. While I was waiting for her to check on me, I should have found a way to check on her. Sometimes people live busy and complicated lives, and we should never assume a detachment is only about us.

My suggestion is if you have been abandoned after a cancer diagnosis, or feel you have, pick up the phone or a pen, even if two years or 10 pass before you are able to. Ask if you have, in fact, been a bit of a ghoster yourself. An old friendship worth rekindling while both parties are alive is worth the extra effort.

Felicia Mitchell is a survivor of stage 2b HER2-positive breast cancer diagnosed in 2010.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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Articles

Cancer diagnoses can lead to friends and family drifting away, often due to their own fears or emotional limitations. Patients may misinterpret this as intentional abandonment, but it's often more nuanced. People may avoid discussing cancer due to lingering taboos or personal coping mechanisms. Patients should consider reaching out to reconnect, as relationships can be rekindled. Self-reflection is crucial, as patients might also unintentionally distance themselves. Understanding these dynamics can help patients navigate emotional responses and maintain important connections during their cancer journey.

While cancer patients can experience ghosting, and cancer ghosting is real, it is possible to revisit relationships to avoid putting blaming the person who appears to be slipping away. 

A Cancer Survivor Rethinks Cancer Ghosting

As Breast Cancer Awareness Month, also the anniversary of my mastectomy, arrived, I had a strange thought. What would my right breast be like now if it had not been removed? Thoughts flicker into our minds, so I let this one flit. Then I pondered why this thought was bubbling up from my subconscious mind.

When I was in tenth grade, I wrote a book report on Oscar Wilde’s “The Portrait of Dorian Gray.” Creative teenager that I was, I wrote in the voice of the portrait hidden in the attic, aging as its subject — Dorian Gray — remained youthful. This report, which I still have, is the first thing that popped into my mind when I began to feel whimsical about my missing breast.

That is because, thanks to modern medicine including chemotherapy, radiation and a monoclonal antibody, I get to age. Unlike Dorian Gray, though, I love getting old(er) by the year. The human body is a magical place to reside, especially after surviving cancer makes you value it more. I watch my skin change, my eyes, my hair, the veins in my legs. With medical monitoring, I sometimes get a peek inside the infrastructure that keeps me going. I am definitely aging.

When some women age, their breasts droop. Mine does. In fact, it has become more noticeable with age, this lone asymmetrical breast I am satisfied with. A few more times a year, however, I find myself reaching for the prosthesis-embedded mastectomy bra when I wear certain outfits. Whereas I used to wear the prosthesis maybe once a year, if that, I have worn it four times this year.

What does that fashion choice mean? Do I long for a youthful (now aging) body that has two breasts? Why do I opt for an uncomfortable few hours to look like what I might have looked like without cancer? Tending to overthink most decisions, I have learned to talk back to such questions to understand the psychological reasons underneath them.

Losing a breast is nothing in the grand scheme of things, I realize, but with my fanciful mind, it makes sense to wonder how it would have aged. For example, my right breast was smaller than my left. What would gravity have done to it? Would it ever have matched its mate? Truly, I admit, it may not be my right breast I am really thinking about. I know my mind. Deep down, I believe, I must be missing that innocence we have before cancer: the “before” days, when we trust our bodies never to falter.

Sometimes I wish I could go to sleep and wake up with the usual health challenges that come with age as well as with a body that never knew breast cancer or the side effects it has bequeathed to me. Sometimes I wonder if wearing a prosthesis is my way of pretending I never had cancer, the body I present to the world contrasting with the portrait of a woman with cancer locked away in my mental attic for a day. Cancer invites the strangest musings, right? Fortunately, I accept reality with help from my rational brain.

Breast cancer survivor Felicia Mitchell reflects on her mastectomy and the psychological impact of losing a breast. She draws parallels between her experience and Oscar Wilde's "The Portrait of Dorian Gray," appreciating the aging process despite her cancer journey. Mitchell discusses the occasional use of a prosthesis and the emotional complexities it brings, pondering whether it represents a longing for her pre-cancer self. Ultimately, she acknowledges the importance of accepting reality and valuing life post-cancer, while recognizing the unique musings cancer can provoke.

A breast cancer survivor reflects whimsically on how she might have aged with two breasts instead of one.

A Cancer Portrait Hidden in the Attic of My Mind

Welcome to a summer visit to my survivor’s yard! Many of the choices made regarding yard maintenance relate to my hopes to mitigate the risk of more cancer. 

I started paying closer attention to what goes on in this yard when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer years ago. Although opinions are mixed depending on the study, I read up on the effect of herbicides and pesticides on breast health and asked my husband not to use pesticides or herbicides ever again.

That request should have been the beginning of the end of a neatly kept lawn. Sometimes, though, a person will use pesticides or herbicides surreptitiously. After a divorce, not so much over the yard, weeds erupted with abandon. Once, when the invasive Japanese stilt weed felt overwhelming, I did seek some help. When a lawn worker arrived with herbicide, I asked him to leave. Since then, I have learned how to eradicate weeds more safely.

A more realistic goal, though, has been for me is to learn to coexist with this yard without worrying about the weeds so much. You can see here that it is possible to coexist with stilt grass, wild violets and other natural gems. The stilt grass still surrounds my house, creating a border between my yard and the woods where one gets a feel for Appalachian nature (including wild wintergreen, ghost plants and orchids), but it no longer upsets me.

While inviting you to see my yard with tolerant eyes, I admit I am learning to pull this weed out of those flower gardens by the house, especially now that I have found a method to suit up to do yard work without ending up with poison ivy. Look past it, though, to the ironweed flower volunteering by the front porch. Try to imagine the wild phlox I planted by the edge of the woods competing with the weeds that want to consume the yard. It could be worse.

Here we are on the lawn as we stroll through this yard. There is some grass in it somewhere. Since I eschew yard herbicides, these can be found: Japanese clover, Eastern wild indigo, ground ivy, American plantain, common yellow wood sorrel, stilt grass, purple crown vetch, dandelions, wild violets, white avens, Virginia Creeper and lemon balm that escaped a garden. Etcetera!

Early spring, I do not mow until dandelions go to seed as I welcome pollinators. Then I mow at the highest setting to protect blooming violets. Over the summer, I mow now and then. If I were mowing today as you walked you through the yard, you could listen to me talking to bees and butterflies. “Move, bee!” I am known to whisper. Autumn, I mulch the leaves where they fall and leave them to do what they do.

You might think the gardens edging the lawn look bland this time of year, save bright colors in pots. You will be happy to know that I am trying to bring more color next year to these patches of garden by combining both cultivars and wildflowers. Lately, late afternoon, I pick at the soil to prepare it for a fall planting of bee balm, milkweed and Joe Pye weed. You can see some of that effort over there in that patch of dirt in front of the Jerusalem artichoke plants deer have been nibbling. 

I also moved peonies out of a wildflower bed — look there where goldenrod is growing with coreopsis and sunflowers by the front steps — to the front of the yard where more sun falls. (Goldenrod is not ragweed!) Not so far from the transplanted peonies is a jungle of lilac trees, pokeweed, wild raspberries, phlox from my mother’s garden, stilt weed and more (including poison ivy). This area, which includes an American beauty berry off to the side, really is for the birds. Birds also love the berries on a greenbrier climbing my wild cherry tree.

You can see from our little visit how fortunate I am to live in a rural neighborhood where my mess of a yard can be a survivor-friendly, pollinator-friendly, bird-friendly human habitat. While it is too late for me to avoid past exposures to herbicides and pesticides, including the DDT so ubiquitous when I was a child and which might or might not have been implicated in a HER2 gene mutation perhaps associated with my mother’s exposure to it before I was born, it is not too late to avoid some toxins. Bless my weeds, every one!

The narrative explores a personal journey of transforming a yard into a cancer-conscious, eco-friendly space. Motivated by a family history of breast cancer, the author eliminates herbicides and pesticides, opting for natural weed management and embracing a diverse ecosystem. The yard becomes a haven for pollinators and birds, featuring native plants and wildflowers. The author reflects on the potential link between past pesticide exposure and cancer risk, emphasizing the importance of reducing toxin exposure. This experience underscores the value of creating a sustainable, health-conscious environment.

Many of the choices I've made regarding yard maintenance relate to my hopes to mitigate the risk of more cancer.

Welcome to a Survivor’s Yard 

I am thankful to retain so much of the child within me as I survive cancer, with changing seasons still wondrous. I love to shuffle my feet through fall leaves, marvel at birds at the feeder during a first snowfall, look for early spring ephemerals on a trail and let the summer sun and lush vegetation rejuvenate. Since cancer colored all seasons during my treatment, seasons helped to put emotional reactions to cancer into perspective.

Although a red flag was noted during a mammogram in late summer, it was not until fall that the full picture and treatment plan fell into place. Autumn, a season that symbolizes impermanence, was a good time for me to let go of a breast I had taken for granted. My first fall with cancer initiated a healing time as the season shared lessons about how to look past falling leaves and bare trees (and mastectomies) to greener days.

Winter, a time of symbolic hibernation, can take us deep into ourselves to gather emotional resources needed during hard times. Cancer, like hibernation, can bring with it an enforced rest time, even when we are working. I had to learn to accept the need to rest and hibernate a little as I tried to balance life, work, caregiving and my own treatment. Of course, I did not hibernate entirely. When I had to shovel snow from the driveway to get to treatment, I learned how strong I was as well as how to ask others to help me.

Spring, symbolizing renewal, reminds us of how nature itself is resurrection. During my cancer journey, flowers that had been dormant in the ground appeared to reward my belief in the certainty of seasons. It became easier to get outside for walks, essential to my mental health. By spring, I grew more accustomed to the routines of treatment. Because my mother’s hospice days spanned winter into spring, though, I continued to ponder life and death. When I exclaimed to my oncologist that I felt that my mother and I were mirror images, he said, “But you are going to get better.” I would, as a friend wrote to me, bloom again.

A joyful time of growth and sunny days, summer symbolizes gifts the earth can bring, from fresh and healthy vegetables to beautiful landscapes near or far. Although my summer with cancer was not easy, with radiation and continued Herceptin infusions as well as lymphedema, I found joy in knowing the cancer treatments were starting to bear symbolic fruit. Summer for those who teach or attend school also means a reprieve from routines. I cherished this respite as I enjoyed some summer fun, knowing healing was on the horizon.

The second autumn, despite the hope summer brought, was the worst time for me emotionally as the year started to weigh on me. The week after treatment ended, I sought help from a counselor to process my year. I let autumn remind me that the loss of both my mother and my old dog was part of life’s natural cycling. They had lived their long, good lives. Leaves fall, or tumors are excised, or loved ones pass away, and life (sometimes) goes on. (I say “sometimes” because many are given terminal diagnoses or pass away in fall, as is true of all seasons.) 

A lesson I have learned from thinking about the passing of the seasons is that even when life presents challenges such as juggling cancer with everyday challenges, the cycle of seasons reminds me of hope as I think of blessings fall, winter, spring and summer always bring.

Cancer survival can be deeply intertwined with the changing seasons, each offering unique lessons and perspectives. Autumn, symbolizing impermanence, helped in accepting loss and initiating healing. Winter, with its hibernation theme, taught the importance of rest and resilience. Spring, representing renewal, reinforced hope and the certainty of recovery. Summer, despite treatment challenges, symbolized growth and the fruition of healing efforts. The cyclical nature of seasons provided a framework for processing emotional reactions to cancer, reminding of life's continuity and the hope inherent in each season's blessings.

The symbolism of seasons helped me to put some challenges of my cancer journey into perspective. 

Felicia Mitchell

A Cancer Survivor Rethinks Cancer Ghosting

A Cancer Portrait Hidden in the Attic of My Mind

Welcome to a Survivor’s Yard

The Seasons of Cancer

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