Fuck Cancer: The Steep Trek Up Recovery Hill

A friend’s recovery from a double mastectomy reveals the poignant, and often frustrating journey with cancer

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When I walked into the recovery room, I almost burst into tears. I’d been dutifully holding my emotions in check all day; but when my best-friend-since-I-was-seven’s first post-op words to me were “My chest hurts,” I damn near lost it. The expression on her face declaring a pain level of shocking didn’t help either. I put my hand on her forehead and did my best to smile. I said, “You did it! And you’re OK!”

Her head lolled around in wide circles attempting to define the unrecognizable noises of the heart rate monitor. It was jarring and emotional to witness her in that state.

“What time is it?” she asked with a furrowed brow. She was looking for a window to place herself in time.

“It’s late. Almost 8:00 p.m.”

“My chest really hurts.”

As someone who has never trusted doctors or hospitals or surgeries, I had a big wave to ride. I knew from the beginning of this cancer journey that it was not my place to suggest meditation and laughter therapy as viable alternatives to Ericka’s chosen treatment plan. She was already halfway through eight rounds of chemotherapy by the time I moved back home. What was done was done.

Double mastectomy surgery was her clear and definitive choice. I had made mine as well: support her needs to the best of my ability regardless of my personal opinions.

Ericka always projects a high level of control. But coming out of anesthesia, even the most capable