I got the call while I was at lunch for an Australian jewellery brand. That morning, the breast clinic had called to say my results could be shared by phone; there was no need for an appointment. Of course, I thought. Why would they need me to come in when there’s no way I could have cancer?
During treatment, your body is not your own. And at the exact moment you want to retreat, everyone needs to look at you.I’m 38, have no family history of breast cancer and none of the known risk factors. After my surgeries, the nurses told me I have the resting heart rate of an athlete, and I’m vain enough to share that with you. Most days I still cannot believe I have cancer because I feel fine.
There are pillows you wear across your chest to shield you from unwanted contact after operations. Special clothing made from breathable fabric that mitigates menopausal symptoms. Ice mittens to help preserve your nerves during chemotherapy. Silk pillowcases for itchy skin and bald heads. All manner of scarves and turbans and eyebrow misting and scalp cooling to help with hair loss. Wigs, obviously.
Your mobility is limited, a part of you has literally been chopped away. There’s nothing like a growing bald spot on your head to help you understand that clothing is not trivial: it can help us bear hard days. What I wear is a way back to looking, and feeling, as I did before. Is that denial? Maybe. But I quickly ditched lounge pants and the button-up shirts; putting on a T-shirt felt like an achievement.