A Breast Cancer Survivor’s Story

In July 2010, writer Rebecca Webber, 35, was diagnosed with breast cancer. Over the next year, she kept a journal, recounting the challenges she faced—and the small triumphs along the way. For the accompanying photos, see My Year With Breast Cancer.

 

December 20

Some might not appreciate having cancer treatment span the holidays, but I do. It’s easier to ignore that grim task when there’s mistletoe and holly everywhere. Except for making it back to New York for two chemo sessions and heading out once for Christmas shopping, I rarely leave my parents’ house.

I marvel about how infantilizing cancer has been. I’m bald like a baby. I live with my mom and dad; they give me money to buy Christmas presents. This would rankle me at any other time—I’ve supported myself completely since college—but now it doesn’t. I appreciate it, because I really feel a bit helpless.

January 21, 2011

I’m three-quarters of the way through chemotherapy, and I want to quit. I’m sick of having dead taste buds and painful fingers and toes. I can’t fasten jewelry, fold clothes, or open envelopes—it hurts too much.

I’m bald and blobby, bored and boring. I still eat nutritious food (smoothies, broccoli soup), though I’m not sure why I bother. I no longer believe that diet and healthy living can prevent cancer. Those are just stories we want to believe so we can feel safe. Now I think it’s just hopeful superstition: the way that, back in the olden days, people danced to bring rain.

It’s totally unfair. All those hours I spent at the gym. All that oatmeal.

February 2

My 36th birthday, a nice one. There’s an ice storm, and every branch and leaf is lined with crystal. I usually buy myself a small birthday present. This year I choose an eyebrow pencil. Mine have fallen out.

March 15

I’ve discovered online communities of breast cancer patients, and it’s soothing to be among comrades-in-arms. The war metaphor feels apt; we’ve been slashed, burned, and poisoned to keep our disease at bay. But I can’t summon fury toward my cancer, the way some do. It’s not as if I got food poisoning and can be mad at the street vendor who sold me a bad hot dog. It’s my own cells that have turned on me. A mechanical failure. I’m not angry at my cancer, just bewildered by it.

Tomorrow is my implant surgery. I am relatively undaunted by the prospect. All these medical procedures are almost becoming old hat.