Recently I participated in Walktober, the Wellesley Athletic Department’s annual exercise challenge. Via an app that converts all kinds of exercise into steps, participants compete individually and in groups to earn leaves on their virtual tree. Winning a colored leaf each day doesn’t sound like much of an incentive, but it works: after exercising seven days a week for more than a month, I had a tree full of fiery foliage, visual proof that I’d improved since last year’s challenge.
On the last day of Walktober, I drove up to the top of Beachwood Canyon and walked up the fire road leading to the Hollywood Sign. Tourist gridlock had kept me away for years, and I was last there for a French TV interview in 2015. This time I arrived too late to make it to the Sign and back before dark, but I walked the lower part of the road at Magic Hour, stopping to take photos of the Sign and the sprawling city. It was a beautiful day: warm, sunny, and clear enough to see Catalina.
Later that night, my doctor called to tell me I had breast cancer. I’d recently had two rounds of mammograms, an ultrasound and biopsies, but still I’d hoped for the best. After getting the news, I quickly booked a surgery date and embarked on a frantic round of pre-op tests. All of this happened within a month-long exterior home renovation, so when I wasn’t being poked with needles and fighting traffic I was trapped inside my house. I had surgery last Monday, after which there was no Thanksgiving but a huge sense relief.
Since the beginning of the pandemic, I’ve lost four friends to cancer. One died three weeks after her diagnosis without telling me. Another who lived in New York told me only during my next visit, months later. I now understand why they kept their cancer a secret: the comments. Here’s a sample from three friends I’ve told, all women:
—“That’s easily fixed”
—“Diet is so important”
—“I hope you had a painless Thanksgiving!”
An old friend who knew both my diagnosis and surgery date sent a fundraising plea with a handwritten note that made no mention of my cancer. The envelope, also written in her hand, was mailed the day of my surgery. As she lives only two miles from the hospital where the operation took place, she undoubtably posted the letter nearby, quite possibly as tumors were being dug from my breast.
After a week of painkillers, ice packs and bandages, I returned to my doctor’s office. According to the latest lab tests, my unwanted visitor remains within me like a tiny malignant houseguest. Further eradication will be necessary but not until I’ve healed, so in the meantime I’ll celebrate Christmas and New Year’s. I’ll also be writing about film, Japan and other subjects that interest me. Cancer isn’t one of them, I promise.
Your candidness feels brave as well as succinct in your delivery. That's not easy to do on a sensitive subject, so I applaud your courage. The accompanying photo suits the piece so well too.