In October 2017, I sat in disbelief as my doctor informed me the marble-shaped lump on my right breast was early-onset breast cancer and not a clogged milk duct from nursing my 18-month-old son, Freddie. I was 37 years old. As she went on about scheduling biopsies and blood tests, all I could think about was how I was going to be late to the Halloween parade at my 3-year-old son Max’s nursery school, and how I wouldn’t have time to pick-up Freddie’s costume from Target.
When I left my doctor’s office, I called my husband, Alex, who was his usual practical self. “It’s going to be OK,” he said. “Come home and we’ll figure it out.” But I didn’t feel like everything was going to be OK, so I called my best friend, Sara. As soon as I heard her voice, I burst into tears. She immediately offered to drive over and take my two kids trick-or-treating so that I could schedule follow-up appointments and consultations with surgeons. “Don’t worry. I’ll get Freddie’s costume,” she said.
One month later, while recovering from a unilateral mastectomy, Sara brought me care packages with magazines, candy, a mastectomy pillow and a small sign for my bedroom door that read: “I’d like to be alone please.” She wrote me notes telling me how strong I was, and how this would all be over soon. When my oncologist prescribed me a 10-year adjuvant hormone therapy that pushed me into premature induced menopause, Sara researched what to do for hot flashes and mood swings and alerted me to trending news articles and interviews with celebrities about menopause.
“This totally sucks but you’re going to get through it,” Sara said and squeezed my hand. “And on the bright side, you’ll never have to experience PMS rage again.” We both laughed. It wasn’t funny, but it was funny. It was a joke that only your best friend — who knew you better than anyone else — could make.
We met in the fall of 2010 in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Back then Sara drove a silver ’89 Volkswagen Cabriolet. She’d pick me up at my small adobe house and we’d cruise around with the top down, blaring Fleetwood Mac. On the weekends, we’d take day trips to Abiquiu Lake to swim in the turquoise water, jump off the red cliffs and drink chilled mini Beaujolais. Over the years, she’s seen me through all my big life events: my relationship with Alex, the births of my children and my mother’s death from a fast-moving bone cancer. Sara was proof that you can still make best friends in your late 20s, and they will stick around through the hard stuff.
In October 2021, in the midst of COVID, Sara called me with her own terrible news. She’d been experiencing symptoms and a biopsy revealed she had stage 3 colorectal cancer. I cried as Sara told me about her prognosis and complex treatment plan. She was trying to be her usual positive self, but her voice sounded small and far away. How was this possible? Sara and I were both healthy young women without any preexisting health conditions. When we were each diagnosed, we looked healthy, and we felt healthy. We exercised regularly and ate vegetables. And yet, we were both diagnosed with cancer before the age of 40. I wish that our story was somehow unique, but lately it seems like more and more young people are facing a similar prognosis.
Research published by the American Cancer Society showed a dismal prediction: 2024 will be the first year the United States can expect more than 2 million cases of cancer. That’s nearly 5,500 new cancer diagnoses a day. While the risk of dying from cancer has steadily declined, early-onset cancer diagnoses are on the rise due in part to better screening recommendations. Another study showed that more young people are getting diagnosed with cancer at an earlier age, particularly women and adults in their 30s. Many public figures, like Olivia Munn and Shannen Doherty, are opening up about their diagnoses in an effort to raise awareness for risk assessment and screening procedures. The truth is, early diagnosis is critical for treating most cancers, many of which grow silently and without overt symptoms.
I never could have imagined both of us surviving cancer and going into menopause before we turned 40. In many ways, Sara and I learned lessons about aging and friendship that sometimes take a lifetime to grasp.
After Sara finished her final round of chemo, she underwent a series of tests and learned that she had Lynch syndrome, which is a genetic condition that places her at a greater risk of getting other types of cancer. As a preventative measure, and to lower risk of recurrence, Sara had a hysterectomy in August 2023. This surgery pushed her into early menopause. Fifteen years ago, I never could have imagined both of us surviving cancer and going into menopause before we turned 40. In many ways, Sara and I learned lessons about aging and friendship that sometimes take a lifetime to grasp. Now, we have a deep understanding that everything can change in an instant. Sometimes I think back to those summer days at Abiquiu Lake, holding hands as we leaped off the red-stained cliffs. We had no idea what was in store for us. I’m grateful that we still have our friendship to hold onto whenever we feel like we’re free falling.
I’m not sure how I would have gotten through my own survivor journey without Sara. While my friends and family support me, only Sara understands the unique challenges of living in a post-cancer world: the near constant low-grade depression and anxiety that is very common post-disease, but that nobody tells you about. Together, we bemoan our never-ending insurance claims and hospital bills, and how being a cancer patient can feel like a full-time job. We joke about how we’ve both spent a good portion of the last three years on hold with medical personnel, insurance companies and specialty pharmacies listening to terrible jazz music. We share tips on everything cancer related like vitamins, supplements, nutrition, etc. Not to mention postmenopausal stuff, like dry scalp and skin products, hot flash remedies and sleep aids. We even started a community for cancer survivors called Healing + Dealing: a place for people to discuss unique survivorship issues like fear of recurrence, induced menopause, family planning and fertility complications, as well as the emotional and financial costs of cancer. While we’ve had very different cancer journeys, our emotional experience as cancer survivors is very similar.
In some ways, I know that I was lucky. My diagnosis was early-onset and treatable. I had a great medical team, my husband and my best friend by my side, which made everything a lot less scary. I only hope that Sara also felt like someone was there for her and understood what she was going through. I tried to show up for her just like she did for me, as an honest friend. Someone who said, “Everything is going to be OK, and also, this totally sucks. I will pick up the costume from Target while you do what you need to do.”
Sara and I have talked a lot about how after surviving cancer, everything changed. Now, we live in a world of constant scans and blood tests. We’re still learning how to live with the uncertainty of it all. These days, when the wolf is at the door, I try not to think of errant cancer cells multiplying in my own body, but I think of my friend, her contagious laugh and her bright smile, and I show up for myself the way I would show up for her.
Cancer has also given me a deep awareness of and new appreciation for how I want to live my life. It gave me the opportunity to reprioritize what’s important to me. These days, I try to focus on the people and activities that fill me up, rather than things that drain me. I’ve learned that healing is a journey and not something that happens on a timeline; I’m thankful to be on the journey with my best friend by my side. The truth is, in many ways, we’re all survivors dealing with some kind of past trauma or heartbreak. And over the years, I’ve found solace in the idea that we’re all in it together — searching for ways to show up for our friends and helping each other feel a little less alone.