Lucky used to mean scoring the last pastry at a trendy new bakery—but after our writer was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 40, everything changed.
Softly toasted buttery brioche with fluffy eggs, avocado, and a smoky sriracha mayo. I don’t even particularly like a smoky sauce, but there I was, sitting inside a quiet Japanese cafe in Murray Hill, Manhattan, methodically eating piece after piece. With each bite, the MRI appointments, CT scans, X-rays, blood tests, and biopsies became a distant memory.
A month prior, three days before Christmas, I got the news no one ever wants to hear: “The biopsy came back positive for DCIS, Stage 0, Grade 3 Breast Cancer,” the doctor said over the phone, proceeding to go right into the next steps before I had any time to process. Stage 0 = very treatable; Grade 3 = most likely to spread. Words like “lumpectomy,” “mastectomy,” “radiation” went from one end of the line to mine. My mind froze, my body felt like it was sinking, I couldn’t move, my heart fell to my feet.
“Do you want to come home early for Christmas? I don’t like that you are alone with this news,” my mom said worriedly over the phone when I told her.
“No, I want to keep my plans with my friends,” I said.
Every year, I spend the days leading up to Christmas connecting with friends and indulging in all the holiday delights New York City has to offer. It has become a tradition. And this year, despite the unwelcome phone call from my doctor, I was determined to stick to my plans before I headed home to Pennsylvania; before I started googling,What is radiation? What is a lumpectomy? Before I began to think about any of it.
So, two hours after learning that I had cancer, I went to a new Brooklyn Heights bakery with a friend. We ordered three croissants—plain, strawberry, and chocolate—along with two of their famous cookies. The croissants were chewy yet crispy and the tahini sea salt chocolate chip cookies were a perfect blend of sweet, nutty, and salty. We assessed the quality of each pastry, posted all of it on Instagram, reveling in the delicious result that comes from a creative blend of flour, eggs, and sugar. We didn’t talk cancer. I chose not to tell him; telling anyone would make it real, and so we just ate and ate.
Later that day, I met another friend at the holiday market in Bryant Park, where I stayed mum about my news. We made this specific rendezvous to consume a paper boat full of crispy fries topped with burrata cheese, seared wagyu beef, and endless shavings of truffle, not to talk about cancer. We ate this smoky, salty snack amidst ice skaters, last minute shoppers, and others like us, indulging in hot chocolate, ciders, and cinnamon-y doughnuts. Enveloped by the warm energy of the market, I’d never been hungrier. My stomach was a bottomless pit, I could eat anything and everything in sight.
Over the next week, amidst a variety of doctor consults, I was told I was one of the lucky ones. Stage 0 cancer meant it was not invasive, that I had a 98-99 percent chance of survival and a “normal life”—whatever that was. That said, my tumor was labeled Grade 3, which meant it could likely become invasive, so getting it out was key. I learned that the tumor was estrogen and progesterone negative, which meant I couldn’t take pills to target the cancer. I’d have to do radiation. Each doctor said this as if it were an unfortunate situation, except for the youngest doctor. “Negative” meant I did not need to take pills that would put me into menopause at the age of 40. It meant that I could still have my own babies one day—something that I have always wanted.
Now, a year and a half after my initial diagnosis, I still don’t understand why the older surgeons didn’t see what a blessing it was to do radiation over losing my period and risk not having children. When I heard the news, I felt grateful. A part of me felt, and still feels, that this was a sign from the Universe. That I am meant to meet someone wonderful and have kids. Funny that even in the middle of a doctor’s appointment, I was thinking about my love life. Some things don’t change, I guess, even during a major health scare.
“So yeah, you can also do a mastectomy, and we’ll take the whole thing out, so you never have to worry again!” the doctor said in a high-pitched voice.
“I don’t want to do that,” I said, holding back tears.
“OK, that’s your choice. We can do a lumpectomy, and I’ll do what I can to make the shape good and the scar minimal, but ultimately it’s about getting the cancer out and then radiation and then… Oh…” she stops, alarmed because I am now sobbing. At the practicality of it all, at the matter of fact, quick-paced way she is speaking about me, my breasts, the scarring, the emptying of a part of me.
This doctor’s directness was not working for me. I got a second opinion and the new doctor went the entirely other way: too sympathetic. Is finding your cancer doctor kind of like dating? Trying to find the right fit, having to settle a bit, except much faster… or else you die? My typically bubbly personality slowly began to dissipate as I did this unique version of “Speed-Dating: Doctor Edition.”
Ultimately, I found a doctor who fit. An impeccably-dressed surgeon from NYU with the right balance of empathy, confidence, and practicality. “Let’s get this out so you can move on,” she said on our first visit. Move on was exactly what I wanted to do.
A few months after my first visit with her, in the operating room before my lumpectomy, it was clear I made the right choice when she noticed me silently panicking and stopped everything to hold and softly stroke my hand. Her voice—a mix of maternal energy and yoga teacher calm—soothed me as the anesthesia kicked in.
Throughout my experience, the one thing I heard most often from friends, family, and medical staff was: “You should feel lucky.” I realize now this is a thing one says when there is nothing else to say.
I didn’t feel lucky. In the moments where I was visiting countless doctors, letting dozens of people poke and prod at my breasts, seeing their shape changed post-lumpectomy, walking 20 minutes cross-town for 30 minutes of radiation therapy every day for 15 days, feeling exhausted and stressed about the growing “sunburn” that comes with radiation, I didn’t feel lucky at all.
Luck and being lucky is such a relative thing; it would be funny if it wasn’t so upsetting in the moment. When you’re healthy, being lucky means getting the last salted toffee chip cookie from your favorite West Village bakery, Mah-ze-Dahr, before it closes, or making the subway right before it leaves the station, or saving all your work before your computer crashes. Now, for me, being lucky was a slew of at least it’s nots. At least it’s not a later stage; at least you found it so early; at least you don’t have to get a full mastectomy; at least you don’t have to do chemo—only radiation. At least, at least, at least.
The at leasts were fair and true. Yet, I still felt like I was constantly battling the but whys. But why do I have cancer at all? But why did I find it when I did my very first mammogram at 40? But why, but why, but why. Well, at least… As the but whys get louder the at leasts soften the blow. Until they don’t, until they do again; and the spin cycle continues.
No one knows what to say when you have cancer, so they try to find the silver linings. Looking back, I was lucky to have many. But it’s a constant balancing act: feeling lucky, being grateful, and just being honest that things can suck.
For me, these sentiments fought with each other daily, simmering beneath the surface. Sometimes positive, sometimes agitated, sometimes so tired all I could do was sleep or watch Grey’s Anatomy reruns (Patrick Dempsey’s soothing voice placating my anxiety) and eat all the things that I normally would limit: soft and decadent, molten chocolate lava cake with the perfect scoop of matcha ice cream, pints of creamy gelato, spicy, tangy pasta arrabbiata—my Seamless delivery orders were abundant.
Then finally, it was over. The last day of radiation came. My mom joined me for support and celebration, and I brought buttery, flaky croissants for the technicians at the hospital. I only realize now how fitting it is that this cancer experience started and ended with croissants. Croissants and Cancer, a Memoir. No. An essay. I refuse to let this experience make up an entire book.
A few months after my radiation ended, it was summer—my favorite season—but I had trouble finding my joy. The cookies, croissants, ice cream, and cake—all my indulgences during treatment—had left me a few pounds heavier. My jeans no longer fit comfortably, my slight ab line was gone, and my self-critical internal dialogue screamed at me to lose the weight. The softer part of me, however, reminded me to be kind to my body.
I didn’t feel like me. I was sad, and I was happy. I was “hashtag blessed,” and I was annoyed. I wondered if having something removed from my body, while putting something in (radiation), had changed parts of my personality.
Now, a year and a half later, the scar on my breast has lightened to a softish brownish, pink. The swelling has softened and evened. I can raise my whole arm up again with just enough tension that it reminds me of what I went through, but not enough that it stops me from doing the yoga poses I love. Things flow, and eventually, I’ve been told, I’ll probably barely see the scar or miss the chunk of my breast tissue that is gone forever.
“Probably, barely,” “You should feel lucky,” “You should feel.” Words are funny. They can mean something so different to the person receiving them then the one saying them.
Sometimes, I miss the pre-cancer me. I miss my old, scar-free breast, and the version of myself who didn’t need mammogram check-ups every six months. I miss the girl who felt invincible, who didn’t cry during her breast ultrasounds because of PTSD from her cancer scare. But I’m also grateful—grateful that I’m here to miss anything, all because I got checked early.
So, I guess the idea of “you should be grateful” has fully sunk in. I’m grateful to be alive, as cliché as that may sound. I’m grateful I get to laugh with my siblings, cry during sad movies, take yoga classes, and pet every dog I see. I’m grateful that two months after my last radiation session, I went to my very first Coachella and danced under the desert sky, high on mushroom gummies a kind stranger offered me. I’m grateful I get to still be a little reckless, and that I can enjoy all the soft-serve matcha ice cream I want—four extra pounds I still can’t seem to lose be damned. And today, after my latest mammogram, I’m especially grateful to hear the words: “Everything looks good. Your scans are clear.”
Want our stories delivered to you? Sign up for our newsletter, then follow us on Instagram, Threads, and Facebook for regular updates and a lot of other silliness.
by Jasmin Guleria
Jasmin Guleria is a brand marketer by day and a certified yoga teacher and writer by night. Her work has appeared in publications like BeautyNewsNYC, SikhChic, and the dozens of journals she’s kept since she was eight. Though she’s called New York home since her early 20s, she has a loud and passionate love affair with Los Angeles, escaping to the land of crystals, sound baths, and Erewhon smoothies whenever she can. Growing up, TGIF and Saved by the Bell filled her TV time, and she once convinced her dad to take her to a car show just to meet the real-life Zack Morris (Mark-Paul Gosselaar)—who was as dreamy as she’d imagined.
Leave Us a Comment