The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
Moments after my breast cancer diagnosis, still in denial of the cancer I couldn’t imagine, a lump I couldn’t feel, the metastasis I couldn’t see, I was on google typing “Celebrities who had breast cancer” “Breast cancer blogs”
“Moms with breast cancer” “Working during breast cancer” “architects with breast cancer” “survival rate of breast cancer” “death rate of metastatic breast cancer” “how to prepare a will when you are terminally ill” “how to have the funeral you want” “how to block acquaintances from tagging you in their fakest of fake RIP posts when you die” “how to make sure your children know how much you love them after you die” “how to make a list of your assets for your loved ones” and down the rabbit hole it was, with weird tiktok cancer videos sprinklered in my suggested feed while I was inventing the cycle of my own feed.
I didn’t find much. I didn’t find much of what I was looking for.
I found out that women on tiktok do a certain dance before sitting down for their chemo dose. I found out that women share their stories on Instagram down to the minutest detail, whether it’s their diagnosis, treatment or recovery. I found out that they exercise, they follow a certain diet, and most of them want to “help” you find the right supplement. I found out that they share their vulnerable moments of fighting cancer so that you can “go fund” them. I found out that they all had a purpose to share their story, and I just couldn’t find what I was looking for. I felt lonely in this journey even when I was surrounded by family and friends who wanted to support me during this difficult time. They didn’t “understand” the severity of layered anxiety I felt, or that the lack of structure and control that scared me.
I was looking for that woman “just like me”.
An architect who couldn’t unplug from responsibilities at work until the moment she fell asleep during chemo. Those were my moments to send last few emails to make sure I crossed all my Ts and dotted all my Is before disappearing for the first 48 hours after my chemo. Those were my moments to be productive, empower my young and fairly new team with all the knowledge to carry on in my absence, taking my mind off the things that were happening around me, the nurse in hazmat suit preppping that red devil that still nauseates me five months after the chemo. A mother who could be real about her suffering with her children even as she sent them smiling selfies on chemo mornings, ugg shots on chemo chair in the afternoon and curled up in the blanket later that night. They knew I wasn’t alright, they knew I didn’t go willingly for my treatment or that I was voluntarily brave, that I had severe anxieties about the treatment, they knew I suffered from the side effects, and things were not normal anymore (or we might never go back to the pace of life before cancer). A wife who could lean on her husband for support but at the same time acknowledge the physical and mental load he is pulling, the extra roles he is playing as she steps back to support the parents, children and dog— I wanted to keep it real, I wanted to still be me.
I was not the type to dance before my chemo.
I was not the type to tune out the reality of anxiety with headphones.
I didn’t know how to make art to distract myself from the moment.
I couldn’t write anything that wasn’t dark and depressing.
I wasn’t depressed, but I wasn’t feeling my best.
I didn’t have much energy, but whatever energy I had went into doing everything I would do on a normal day before cancer treatment began.
I was looking for a different role model. And I found them.
On my mentorship call with the Design Partner, I found out that his wife just finished her treatment, and is gearing up to release her book on advanced mathematics. I found out that our CEO is a survivor, went through her treatment while she worked and parented, and rose through the ranks. I found out that one of our Studio Principals had similar experiences as mine, and she became a leader while going through her treatment. I found out that one of our other senior architects was diagnosed at a rather young age, and she was the OG survivor and thriver at our company. I found another architect on social media going through the journey, few steps ahead of me.
I didn’t feel alone anymore. I talked to all of them, talked about the treatment, talked about the physical and mental aspect of the treatment, side effects and long lasting effects. I talked to them about how it would affect my life as an architect, or in general the active lifestyle before cancer. They understood what I was going through, shared their tips and tricks, shared their stories, shared their triumphs. It filled my heart with joy to see them travel, to see them go on adventures, to see them handle stressful situations — because there was hope, hope that life would be at a “new” normal someday, and cancer wasn’t the end of all dreams and aspirations of having a purposeful career in architecture.
It’s been eleven months to diagnosis.
I had two rounds of chemo (TC and AC)
I had a lumpectomy.
I had neutropenia and sepsis.
My WBC dropped to a number where it can’t measured anymore.
I am undergoing radiation.
I have fatigue, brain fog and weight gain.
I stay active through all of this.
I interviewed for a leadership role within our company.
I successfully led my team through all this, and posted a profit.
I don’t know if I am brave, if I am positive, or whatever it is the adjective people around me used to describe me, but I know that I will not give up…
Life will go on, until it goes on.
