In October 2017, I sat in disbelief as my doctor informed me the marble-shaped lump on my right breast was early-onset and not a 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 , 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 that pushed me into , Sara researched what to do for hot flashes and mood swings and alerted me to trending news articles and . “This totally sucks but you’re going to get throug.
