How My Daughter Stood Up to Breast Cancer

When my daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer at 27, we both had a picture in mind of what the side effects of treatment would look like, mostly from seeing it portrayed on television. Unfortunately, that image of the depth of impact turned out to be a pale representation of what it actually was.

People often describe people facing cancer as being brave. But brave is what you are when you don’t know what is to come, when you walk into a situation unsure of the outcome. What my child had in unmeasurable amounts was courage: the courage to walk back onto the oncology ward for the second chemotherapy infusion, and all those that followed, knowing exactly how awful it would be afterwards.

I liken it to someone telling you that in order to have a chance at survival, you have to let someone smack you in the face with a frying pan once a week. You’re not sure how it will feel, but you want to live, so you do it, and it hurts… a lot. The next time, and all the times after that, you know how it will feel, but you do it anyway.

So much courage.

Due to the risk of catching something infectious that could be life-threatening during chemo, we were avoiding crowded spaces, so the only real outings we had were to the hospital, and she was determined, despite the obvious physical changes, to look her best. She would practice painting on her eyebrows and attaching her eyelashes. She would find online videos with instructions on how to tie scarves over her bald head in funky, fun ways and come out and model them to get my opinion. Outfits were chosen with comfort and style in mind, that coordinated from head to toe so that when people watched us walk in, they saw her, not the cancer patient.

We would sit together trying to come up with food items that might appeal when we knew that nothing really would. Her determination to keep her iron levels up so she would not have to pause treatment meant researching and adding foods to the menu that would support that. I watched her choke down small pieces of steak or bites of quinoa, breathing through each effort her body made to bring it back up.

So much courage.

She struggled as treatment day got closer. She would hide in her room a little more, occupying her mind with video games and favorite television shows. The night before I would sit on the couch and she would lay her head in my lap, and I would stroke her bald scalp as we watched the latest standup specials on Netflix. Neither of us openly expressed our dread but it was there, hanging in the air as we both tucked into our separate beds, knowing it would be a sleepless night.

Then I would watch a vision walk out of her room in the morning, a look of resolve on her perfectly made-up face that said “One more step towards killing you, cancer. One more step”. She would sit in the chemo chair, joking with the staff about how she couldn’t wait for the Benadryl nap to come as they hooked the IV up to her port. She put on her ridiculous sleep mask to block out the light and headphones in her ears to dull the incessant sound of beeping in the room and I would sit beside her grateful beyond words for the respite it gave her.

We would go home and sit in her backyard chatting about anything but what her life was at that moment and then, after too short a time, I would see the darkness start to come over her as the side effects set in. She got a little quieter, a little less bright and then she’d tell me it was time, and we’d go inside so she could lay down.

She did that for twenty chemotherapy treatments. And for the thirty radiation treatments that followed. So… much… courage.

Standing up to cancer is something people getting treatment do every time they walk in the door. They are choosing to endure whatever is necessary to slay the dragon, to stay around to watch their children grow up or not leave their parents or other loved ones alone. They feel the fear and do it anyway over and over again. 

And I say… that is more than enough.

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

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