When the Doctor Says "You Have Breast Cancer"

I want to talk directly to you.

Not to your family.

Not to your doctor.

Not to the well-meaning friends who are already searching the internet on your behalf.

To you, the woman who just heard three words, "You have breast cancer," that changed the way the room felt.

What you're feeling right now, at the moment you hear those words, is not weakness.

Many women describe the moment of diagnosis as surreal.  They might remember exactly where they were sitting, what they were wearing, the exact tone of the doctor's voice says, "You have breast cancer." Your body responds as if you're in crisis because your sympathetic nervous system is built to protect you against perceived threats. It is doing its job.

You are doing yours just by breathing through this.

Fear, sadness, anger, and numbness are all normal and expected responses to an abnormal situation. You don't have to pick one and commit to it. Your feelings may change day to day or even hour to hour. That is usual, and it doesn't mean you're handling this wrong. 

There is no wrong way to feel right now. There is only your way.

Living Beyond Breast Cancer has a helpful discussion of the emotional toll of a breast cancer diagnosis. Breast Cancer Now has a very succinct list of emotional challenges and links to many helpful and supportive resources and links.

And please, please hear this next part.

Nothing could have prepared you for this diagnosis. There is nothing you did that was wrong. 

I know the mind wants to go looking for reasons. It reaches for "should haves" because fault feels like control. But this is not a punishment. It is not your failure. Millions of people with circumstances similar to yours did not get cancer. This is not a verdict on the life you've lived.

What you're feeling right now is not weakness.

I was maybe four years old when my mom, Cathy, received her second diagnoses of breast cancer. We were in New Hampshire, visiting her parents. My dad was back home. I don't remember the phone call, or whoever delivered the news, or what was said. But I do remember my mom screaming and I remember my grandfather, a man I never saw rattled, a WWII European Theater veteran, broken open in a way that frightened me, even at that very young age.

A child doesn't need to understand the words to know that something has shattered. You feel it in the room without anyone explaining it to you.

The rest of her story I came to know as I grew up and lived it.  What I came to understand, over time, was that something shifted permanently in our family in that moment in New Hampshire. A before and an after. The world as it was, and the world as it became.

What I also know is this: my mom kept going. For decades. She kept being a wife, a mom a friend, boisterous in her laughter, fierce in her love, loving a caring as a mom, entirely and always, stubbornly herself. She fought that disease across my childhood, through my adolescence, into my adulthood.

We lost her in 2015. And in the years since, I've thought often about that first moment in New Hampshire, the one I was too young to fully understand, when a doctor delivered news that would shape all of our lives. What she must have felt standing in the living room.

I started the World Change Coalition in her memory and to honor her legacy. And everything we do comes back to one question: What does a woman going through this actually need?

So let me try to share something real with you.

Many of the days ahead will be hard. They will also be survivable.

Each step can bring a new wave of uncertainty, and waiting for clarity on diagnosis, treatment planning and prognosis is often the worst part of the early journey. The not-knowing has a particular weight to it. But one thing at a time. You do not have to solve the whole thing today.

When you meet with your doctor to go over a treatment plan, bring someone with you if you can, someone who loves you and can hold onto the details when your mind goes quiet. Bring a notebook. Ask every question you have, even the ones that feel too small or too frightening. There are no wrong questions in that room.

If the fear lingers, if it moves into your sleep, into your appetite, into the way you move through your days, please reach out for support. A common theme throughout the cancer journey is getting help and support as early as possible. Ask for help and follow through on treatment plans.  Asking for help is not weakness. It is one of the bravest things you can do right now. WebMD published a very helpful and informative article.

You are not alone. I mean that literally.

My mother sat in a room, heard those words, and kept going, for more than two decades, through more than most people will ever know. The support of her family and friends was invaluable. I established the World Change Coalition because she deserved to be taken care of. Because every woman facing this deserves to be taken care of.

At World Change Coalition, we make Cathy's Jeans, women's denim with real, functional pockets, because comfort and dignity matter.  In the future we will be adding Cathy's Care Box, a curated collection of comfort items for women in treatment, named in her honor. Fifteen percent of every sale goes directly to nonprofits supporting women like you.

But more than any product, what we're really trying to say is this: We're thinking of you. We are praying for you. We're in your corner.

Thank you Mom, for all you did for me and inspiring me in so many endeavors. 

I miss you.  Love you.  Richie

— Richard Baker, Founder, World Change Coalition worldchangecoalition.net