Lia Romeo: Life after breast cancer can never be the same

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Life after cancer is never the same as before. Photo / Getty Images
THREE KEY FACTS
Lia Romeo is a US playwright and novelist.
OPINION
Six months ago, at the age of 42, I learned I had breast cancer.

When I first shared the news, I received a lot of support. Some people I thought I was close to
went silent (from talking to other survivors, I know this is common), but there were so many others who surprised me with their love and concern. My phone filled up with messages, my living room filled up with flowers. It was a hard time, but this support mattered.

When I was first diagnosed, I talked to a lot of survivors, and again and again they told me the most difficult part would actually come after treatment was over. I didn’t believe them; I was terrified of the surgery and the pathology results. “After treatment was over” felt like the light at the end of an impossibly dark tunnel.
But now I’m out of that tunnel, and life in the light is more challenging than I would have imagined.
Read more: New initiative to remove body reference tattoos from patients after cancer treatment.
The people who care about me now mostly seem to assume I’m fine. I mostly assume I’m fine, too; the scars on my chest have faded to thin white lines, and there are hours, if not days, where I don’t worry about whether the cancer is going to come back.
I’m sometimes able to focus on what I’ve gained from the experience: I know how strong I am now, and I’ve got better at asking for what I need. On a trail run, or at the summit of a mountain, or when lifting my 5-year-old in the air, I have moments of intense joy. My body can do these things, and that’s something I won’t ever again take for granted.
But more often, I think about what I’ve lost. I miss my unscarred body. I miss my breasts. I miss feeling like death was something I didn’t need to worry about yet. Compared to what many cancer patients endure, these are all minor losses. I’m lucky. But I’m sad, too. I’m starting to think about dating again, and the idea of putting on my shiniest self for other people feels exhausting. Sometimes I want to go on a date where we just sit in the corner of a cosy cafe and cry.
There should be a verb between “had” and “have.” I had cancer. I don’t have cancer anymore. But I will always have had cancer, and I will always be different than I was before.
To prevent recurrence, I have to take five to 10 years of tamoxifen, a medication with a long list of side effects like joint pain, insomnia and hair loss. So far I’m okay, aside from having some trouble sleeping, but the daily white pill is a reminder this could change at any time. The side effects could kick in, or the drug could fail to have its intended effect. Things are precarious. Things have always been precarious, but now I know it, and it’s a knowledge that’s not going to go away.
So here’s what I want to say: If you love someone who’s gone through cancer – or some other illness or loss or grief – check in. Even if they seem like they’re fine. Even if they really are. Check in six months later. Check in two years later. Check in on a random Tuesday, just to say, “I know this happened, and I’m sorry, and I know it’s over but maybe it also isn’t.”
I haven’t been good about this with friends and loved ones in the past; before this experience, I was as susceptible as anyone else to the myth of “moving on”. But now I know it matters. It matters when we’re going through the hardest times, and it matters when we’ve made it through the hardest times but we’re still carrying them with us. We may always be carrying them with us, and it helps to know that we’re not carrying them alone.
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