As well as being a cancer blogger, Laura Yeager is a religious essayist and a mental health blogger. A graduate of The Writers’ Workshop at The University of Iowa, she teaches writing at Kent State University and Gotham Writers’ Workshop. Laura survived cancer twice.

Laura Yeager

Laura Yeager is a two-time breast cancer survivor. Catch up on all of 

In the year of my first breast cancer, we wanted to have a commemorative photo done. It surely was a time to remember.

We rarely write newsy Christmas letters during the holidays. I have a habit of simply buying Christmas cards and signing our names on them. I admire folks who compose long family stories, espousing a successful year of fun trips and great accomplishments such as graduations, births and new abodes.

The reason I avoid these is because I don’t have the time, and I don’t like to brag. You’d think that I, being a writer, would jump on the Christmas letter bandwagon, but I never do.

I also avoid taking family pictures against fake holiday backdrops such as fireplace mantels or Christmas trees. But in 2012, the year I lost my hair due to chemotherapy for breast cancer, I decided that we needed to give our family and friends a fitting portrait of us, to show them that I was still kicking and alive and everyone else was too. I booked a photo shoot at a local photography studio, bought a red blouse for me and red sweaters for my husband and son, and washed my wig with a special wig shampoo that I’d bought at the cancer center.

Now, about this wig. It was brown, a longish, swingy style that was parted in the middle. It looked nice on me. My mother-in-law declared that she liked it better than my real hair, the brown, thick curly hair that had fallen out. This compliment was double-sided. With it, she was saying that the wig looked good, but my real hair –- not so good. But that’s how she rolled.

Soon, the day came to go to the photography studio. My family, all dressed up in red, piled in the car and drove downtown. It was my idea to sing Christmas carols on the way. We crooned “Jingle Bells,” “Away in a Manger,” “Frosty the Snowman” and several others. My son was 7 years old at the time, so he appreciated any attention we could give to the holiday season.

My cancer had overshadowed the holiday, but not that day.

We arrived at the studio and went in. Oh my goodness, the place smelled like scented peppermint pinecones, and it was decorated with hundreds of little white lights. I liked the festive atmosphere, as it was about three weeks before Christmas. We’d get the photos taken, get them back in about a week and mail them to family and friends by Christmas.

We would present a happy, healthy group of people to our personal community. My wig would hide any sign of the effects of cancer. The blush on my pale cheeks would make me look healthy. The clothing I had chosen would hide the extra weight I’d put on due to inactivity. Yes, we were a perfect family, weren’t we?

The photographer was a hoot. She was older, around 70, with white hair swirled up in an updo in the back. She wore a turquoise pantsuit and had terrifically red fingernails. Around her neck hung a string of old-fashioned Christmas tree light bulbs, the big, plump kind: red, green, blue and yellow. They did not blink, only glowed.

“You’re here for your Christmas photo,” the photographer said.

“Yes. I have cancer, so we want it to be extra special,” I told her.

“Gotcha,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear about your illness.”

She directed us to a backdrop – a snowy field full of red and green lollipops sticking up out of the white, dusty snow. “How is this screen?”

I didn’t like it. “Do you have a simple Christmas tree?”

“Sure.” She pulled the field of holiday lollipops up and pulled down a screen with a tree on it, which I liked better.

Then she began posing us. She had me sit on the floor. My God, it was hard getting down to the ground. What in the heck did she have in mind?

“Now, bend your knees,” she said casually.

Was she a sadist? Strangely enough, I didn’t protest her strange desire to make me look ridiculous. I think it was because I was defeated by the cancer, and I didn’t have any fighting will or strength to complain.

“Now, you son, you get behind her. And Dad, you kneel down next to her.”

This had to be the most horrible photo shoot I’d ever been a part of.

And then she was off, soon behind the camera, clicking shots of us, telling us to smile.

I was so uncomfortable, but I managed to grin. My son Tommy smiled widely, and my husband Stephen did the same.

This was my Christmas cancer photo. Needless to say, we didn’t send them to everyone we knew. When we got them back, we looked at them and laughed.

And now when I want to remember my time with cancer, I pull out the photo and harken back to that strange time.

We did send one of the photos out – to my mother-in-law.

Upon receiving it, she picked up the phone and called me.

“Nice photo,” she said. “Great wig. You should wear it all the time. It’s nicer than your real hair.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

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Articles

A woman reflects on her experience with breast cancer and the decision to take a family Christmas photo during her chemotherapy treatment. Despite typically avoiding holiday traditions like Christmas letters and staged photos, she wanted to show her resilience to family and friends. The photo shoot, though awkward and uncomfortable, became a memorable moment. The resulting photo, which humorously highlighted her wig, was shared selectively, serving as a reminder of her journey through cancer and the strength she found during that challenging time.

One year, after breast cancer treatment, I decided to have a Christmas photoshoot with my family, which turned out to be a good laugh in the end.  

The Cancer Christmas Photo 

I like to refer to myself as a “breast cancer veteran.” My 20-year-old son coined the term, and I feel it’s fitting. I’ve seen things that most don’t see, but I made it out alive, and I’m so thankful that I did.

Lately this Thanksgiving, I choose to reflect on what I’m grateful for.

Snow on pine leaves, cats running quickly across the street, my neighbors, my cul-de-sac, my home, my family. My husband of 27 years has stood with me through thick and thin. When we married, someone said, “This man will never leave you, ”and he was right. Cancer procedure after cancer procedure, surgeries, chemo appointments, that time my breast incisions got infected and I was hospitalized, and my sweet husband Stephen had to wash me in the shower. He’s been so good, so giving. I am thankful for his presence and his humor, which has truly carried us through.

My son, Thomas, is also funny. In the morning when he eats breakfast, I make sure to plant myself across from him so that we can chat, and I can see what he’s thinking that day.

He’s writing a book about his adoption, and I couldn’t be prouder that he’s becoming a writer like his mother. Thomas is smart, but he is also wise. He’s been through a lot because, for the last decade, I’ve been dealing with cancer, and he’s been there watching me and giving me support as I struggled. It’s hard for a child to be part of a cancer veteran’s life. He too is a survivor, in a different way, and I love him very much.

My 93-year-old mother, whom I treasure. I look up to her for her strength as she deals with Parkinson disease. She is feisty, and she’s not going to let her malady get the best of her. She still cooks dinner for her family, holding onto her walker with one hand and a stirring spoon with the other. Our family is meeting at her house for Thanksgiving. We’re all bringing food. She and my brother Mike, who lives with her, are cooking the turkey. I’m bringing the beans; my other brother is bringing the potatoes; my husband is making the stuffing. My son is making the applesauce and the other cousins are bringing desserts. Mom, I love you, and I’m so lucky to have you.

Mike is the oldest child in our immediate family. He has always been my role model. He makes me laugh with his nonsense poems and funny imitations of our old neighbors. And he can sing like Ethel Merman. He's the top, what can I say?

Thank you, Mike, for taking care of our mom. What would we do without you? When I had to go to radiation every day for my cancer, you drove me, transported me to my treatments and waited for me in the waiting room. Killing time on your computer. Not sure what you were working on, but you used the minutes wisely. My breast was never the same after that radiation. In fact, it gave me secondary cancer, which I had to deal with five years later. But that came and went, and I’m so glad just to be alive.

Bob, my other brother, the one who calls me “Pie Hole” because I like to talk a lot. Even though you don’t say it, I know you love me, and I certainly love you. Thank you for being there when I call you for a reference for a tire man or ask you a question about anything mechanical. An engineer, you were born with the power to fix things. You’ve fixed my spirits many times over the years. When you heard I had cancer, you brought me Fruit Bars — fruit popsicles to make me feel better. Our dad used to do that, but dad is gone, and so now you do it. I love you, and I’m grateful for you.

Dad. Taken too young at 52, when I was 19, we miss you. You are watching over us. I am grateful for that, grateful for you.

Yes, I’m a cancer veteran. I’ve been through it all, and I’m here to talk about it to anyone who will listen. I guess I’m valuable, educationally speaking.

Readers, may you have a wonderful, happy holiday. May you not gorge too much. Be sure to take a walk after you eat. And pray, thanking God for your good fortune.

Snow on pine leaves, cats running quickly across the street, your neighbors, your road, your home, your family — take it all in. You are alive, a survivor, perhaps. But more importantly, a veteran.

A breast cancer survivor reflects on gratitude during Thanksgiving, emphasizing the importance of family and support systems. Her husband, son, and siblings have been instrumental in her journey, providing emotional and practical support through her cancer treatments. She admires her mother's resilience in dealing with Parkinson's disease and appreciates her brother's care for their mother. The narrative underscores the significance of familial bonds and the shared experiences of survival. The author encourages readers to cherish life's simple pleasures and to acknowledge their own resilience and survival.

 This year for Thankgiving, I reflected on how my life has been as a breast cancer veteran and how grateful I am for the support, love and care from my family.  

A Breast Cancer Veteran’s Thanksgiving Reflection 

A two-time breast cancer survivor, I’ve had many mammograms. I’ve discovered that prayer helps me through these stressful tests.

Mammograms can be unnerving. I can’t think of anyone who would disagree. Here’s what runs through my mind before, during and after a breast scan:

• “Let’s just get this procedure over with, and please, let there be no cancer.”

• “Goodness, my breast is completely flat!”

• “Oh, thank God; that feels so much better; I’m free at last.”

But there are things you can do to make the scans easier, such as take a pain reliever beforehand (aspirin, ibuprofen or acetaminophen), and pray the following prayers:

It’s that time again, time for my annual mammogram. I can’t say that I’m not nervous, but I can say that I put this procedure in your hands. From the first glance in the mirror as I donned my hospital gown, to the cold pinch of the machine’s clamps, to the day I receive the results, please guide the powers that be to an ultimate clear test result. And if cancer is found, help me deal with what comes next and give me the courage and strength to survive the disease.

I am struggling to maintain a hopeful attitude. Help me to trust in your saving energy. Whatever occurs, grant me peace of mind knowing that my doctors and nurses are all on my side and will work to my advantage no matter what.

And here’s my prayer after a clear scan:

Now it’s time to treat yourself. Have a brownie sundae or a chocolate martini, and engage in some retail therapy. A new outfit never hurt anybody, especially a cashmere sweater and nice wool pants. Put it on your debit card. You won’t regret it. Then, call your favorite friend and tell them the good news. Go out to dinner with a loved one. Spend time with your adorable, furry pets. Light a candle.

However, I do have a prayer after a suspicious scan. After all is said and done, the scan may reveal bad news. If this is the case, don’t jump to catastrophic conclusions. Many procedures must be done before you know how much to worry about; these may include an ultrasound, a biopsy and staging, etc.

My cancer was stage 2B. I endured a mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation and 10 years of Soltamox (tamoxifen). But everyone’s journey is unique. What I know to be true, again, is that prayer can calm you. Here’s a prayer for bad times with breast cancer:

Be with me on my cancer journey. I know it might be a long one, but with you traveling by my side, it will be easier. Guide the doctors and nurses in my treatments. Help my family not to worry too much. Give me your strength and will to live despite this turmoil.

In conclusion, mammograms, although potentially uncomfortable, are a vital part of a healthy existence. Be sure to get a mammogram annually. You won’t be sorry.

And don’t forget to say your prayers. Give it to God, and then rest easily in his hands.

Mammograms, while essential for breast cancer detection, can be anxiety-inducing. Personal experiences highlight the emotional journey before, during, and after the procedure, emphasizing the role of prayer in managing stress. Practical tips, such as taking pain relievers, are suggested to ease discomfort. Prayers are shared for various stages of the mammogram process, offering solace and strength. The narrative underscores the importance of annual mammograms and the power of faith in navigating potential cancer diagnoses. Celebrating clear results and coping with suspicious findings are also addressed.

Having a collection of prayers before, during and after a mammogram has helped ease my mind tremendously after having breast cancer.

My Mammogram Prayers After Breast Cancer  

I’ve never been one for pink cancer paraphernalia, but recently I was shopping at a local discount store, and I saw these beautiful glass-beaded bracelets. The beads were clear, and they had the pink cancer ribbon painted on them. I was instantly drawn to them. I picked one up and checked the price. One side of the tag said $12.99, and the other side read 99 cents. Like I stated above, this was a discount store. I knew I wanted one. In fact, I wanted all of them. I pulled the six bracelets off the hanger. One for me and five for the cancer center in our town. At that price, I could afford as many as they had. I asked a salesperson if there were more in the back. There weren’t. I paid for the bracelets, took the tag off one and put it on. It looked perfect on my wrist.

For once in my life, I wanted to tell the world that I had cancer; that I supported those with cancer and most importantly, that cancer was a huge part of my existence. I guessed I was proud that I’d survived the horror of the experience.

The best thing about the discount store was that it belonged to a chain of stores in my town and the surrounding area. I knew if this store had these bracelets, the other stores might have them too. So, I drove to the nearest sister store to see if I could find any pink glass bracelets. But I was out of luck. This second store didn’t carry them either. I decided to call the other stores instead of using up all the gas in my tank. I called the store in Kent, Ohio. Bingo! They had eight bracelets. I asked them if they’d hold them for me.

I drove up to Kent and bought the eight bracelets which, again, were only 99 cents apiece.

The next day, I could hardly wait to drop the cancer bracelets off at the cancer center. I drove over and went in, planning to make a monetary donation as well as the donation of the little glass baubles.

I was greeted sweetly by the woman at the desk.

We caught up with each other, and then I said, “I found these neat bracelets, and I wondered if you’d like them.”

“Oh, they’re adorable,” she said. “We’d love them.”

“Just don’t give them to children because they’re glass, and someone might get hurt.”

“No, I have the perfect idea for them. We’ll put them in the wig room, and people can take one along with their wig.”

One of the things that our cancer center did was fitted and supplied people for wigs for no charge.I was happy the bracelets would go to good use there.

Then, I made my monetary donation and was on my way. I felt like my time, talent and treasure had been put to good use.

It’s been a week since my trip to the cancer center. I’m still wearing the glass-beaded bracelet. Haven’t taken it off. I’m planning to wear it when I teach. I know people will ask me about it, and I plan to tell a little bit of my story when they do. I am certainly aware of cancer, and my cancer awareness bracelet will help others to be aware too.

While I’ve written about my cancer for years, I haven’t “advertised” that I had cancer in my life off the page. Now, with the purchase of this beautiful bracelet, I’m ready to do so. I see the precious jewelry as a conversation starter. Who knows where and how the knowledge will affect people?

I’m not sure, but I’m ready to begin the discussion.

I bought 14 precious cancer bracelets in a discount store to help spread awareness about cancer — something I’m ready to speak out about. 

Laura Yeager

The Cancer Christmas Photo

A Breast Cancer Veteran’s Thanksgiving Reflection

My Mammogram Prayers After Breast Cancer

How Cancer Bracelets Can Help Spread Awareness

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