My middle name is Ilse, after my grandmother who sold her belongings for diamonds that she hid in the soles of her shoes when she left Nazi Germany with my father and his baby brother. She had breast cancer. Died before I was born.
My tumor was on the side of my left breast. I wanted everyone to touch it. I kept offering as a teaching moment. “This is what cancer feels like,” I’d say.
The tumor was two centimeters. Peanut-sized. My daughters were once peanuts and now one has a boyfriend and the other has blue hair. This tumor won’t get a driver’s permit because it’s gone now. As is the other one they found after they opened me up and removed all my breast tissue.
I learned about the cancer one month before my first novel came out and scheduled my double mastectomy for the week after the launch. People asked me what the book was about. “Secret keeping,” I’d respond.
People keep telling me it’s not fair. But it is common, and so why not me? One in eight women gets breast cancer. It’s not even that interesting to have it. Everyone seems to have breast cancer or has a sister, mother, or close friend with breast cancer.
After my diagnosis, my family took me to Sonoma for the weekend where we played games, soaked in a hot tub, and drank gin and tonics. When we played Celebrity and my mother got Kristin Wiig, she looked at me in horror. Because, you know, wig.
The surgery took six hours. When my surgeon visited me in the recovery room, she shared that each of my breasts weighed the exact same, a first for her. For a moment, the strange delight of this trivial news overshadowed the pain and pressure I felt with each inhale.
The moderator of my support group put it bluntly: A double mastectomy is a trauma. And your brain might respond as such. My dreams have been frightening. The other night I was running through a city in painful high heels, desperately thirsty, grabbing at glasses of water that kept breaking in my hands.
Last month, I started chemotherapy. Earlier this week, the hair on my head started coming out in clumps. Yesterday it covered the shower floor like a shag carpet. I had underestimated how awful this would feel and sobbed into my husband’s chest. Later that day, I sat in a salon chair as my hairdresser ran the clippers over my scalp. She complimented me on the shape of my head and refused to take my money.
Due to the aggressive nature of my cancers (plural), I am having 16 infusions of chemotherapy. This is what I’m doing this year. I am also swimming, planning a B’not Mitzvah, and watching The O.A. And when I am not suffering from a kind of nausea I can only describe as absurd, I am writing a new novel. This one is about a woman whose life may or may not be a figment of her imagination.
Sending so much love and support across the miles, Rebecca. We’re all looking forward to celebrating the regrowth of your trademark beautiful shag carpet to your apparently beautifully shaped head. Xoxo, the East Coast Browns & Goldfarbs
Rebecca, I wish you an excellent recovery and return to full health. I love how you write – your blog and your novel which I really enjoyed. Good luck with writing your current one. Sending you love and strength from Ireland,
Maeve
(Breast cancer survivor and recent signer-upper)
Thank you Maeve. And while I hate that word cancer, I love the word survivor. I wish you continued good health!
More extraordinary writing from Rebecca Handler, to whom I send a bucketload of love.
You are more proof that Women’s strength is amazing! I’m thankful for you, praying for you, and thankful that you have one of those amazing Andrade husbands.
The Andrade Caregivers Network is truly amazing.
I appreciate you, love you 4evah, and evah, and evah. Having a nicely shaped head is a good thing.
Wishing you Refua Shlema and keeping you in my thoughts and prayers!
Sending love to you Rebecca. Lots of love.
You are amazing. x
Thank you for writing and sharing about your cancer. Fight it bravely.
Dearest Rebecca … talk about highs and lows! So very sorry to hear this latest news and thank you for sharing. Sending much love for the journey ahead.
Xxxx
You are brave. You are strong. You are real….lovely and beloved. 1 in 8 is a big number and yet, not all of those 1 in 8 women might be able to share as authentically as you. Thanks for letting us share in the pain and the awfulness of it. I’m truly sorry for all that comes with this terrible disease. Big hugs and prayers up for you. ?❤️
You are an incredible writer.
Love and hugs to you! ?
Rebecca,
Thank you for sharing this sadly not so unique news in your uniquely beautiful way. Sending big hugs and brave vibes from Perth.
M
Real strong love from this friend. That is all. You rock. Please let me carry one small part of this with you. ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
Sending you love and strength for your recovery journey. Love your writing. Always your friend.
Bek, you are an amazing woman, filled with so much love and strength! Sending you a bouquet of love and positive vibes! XOXOXO
Stay strong and keep laughing. This is such a difficult and terrifying ordeal, but there’s no one better prepared to beat cancer than you are!
Your novel is great, and I have just discovered your blog. As expected, you write with such a gut punch and intimate, well-chosen detail. Thank you.
Cancer may be common but a beautifully shaped head is rare. ?
Thank you for taking care of me that evening xoxo
You are loved. You are human. And, yes, you are brave to share your experience with such authentic, gut-wrenching honesty. And, you have a lot of positive energy flowing around you. xoxoxo
Rebecca-
You, without breasts and without hair, are still you. Funny, observant, big-hearted, with talent to burn.
I wish your treatments were all behind you. You deserve every ounce of love and support.
XO
Mandy
Rebecca, I have only discovered your writing this week (I am a Perthian, and was curious as to how this American author came to know my city so intimately) . May I thank you for your thought-provoking and surprising, wonderful novel? And may I wish you all the very best for your recovery.
Yes you may and I graciously accept! Thank you. I tried to pay tribute to a city I love so much.
I love your writing… ready for your next novel! And, can’t wait to chat with you on our podcast, caregiverwellnessretreat.com soon!
looking forward to it!
Extraordinary and brave. I’m so glad to know you, even just a little bit. In an attempt to find your phone number, I found you, here.
Sending you love and light and big furry hug from Stoady.
Tamara Schwab
Thank you Tamara xo Pop by sometime. I keep looking for you on walks but no luck lately!
Sending love.
(And my prostate which was surgically removed due to an aggressive tumor in February 2021 …. That diagnosis sure puts things in perspective with a JOLT …. ).
Hi Art- so sorry to hear you’ve also gone through something similar. Hope you are doing well now.