Let yourself fall ill. How I told my inner circle I had cancer
It was easier for me to tell strangers I had cancer than it was to share the news with my loved ones. By Anna Sullivan
In October 2017, after learning the marble-shaped mass sitting just above my right breast was a malignant tumor—and not, in fact, a clogged milk duct from nursing my then 18-month-old son, Freddie—I sat in shock on the exam table. I stared blankly at the young radiologist, who couldn’t have been much older than I was. I realized she was waiting for me to say something.
I’d gone to the appointment alone (which I promptly regretted). Call it denial, or delusional optimism, but in the weeks leading up to my mammogram—and subsequent biopsy—I’d managed to convince myself that I was fine. After all, I looked healthy. I felt healthy. But apparently, I wasn’t healthy.
“Are you sure?” I asked. She nodded.
“We have to do more tests,” she said. “But it’s likely you will need surgery. And soon.”
After the appointment, I sat in my car and cried. I visualized the Tetris-like blob growing inside of me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Finally, I called my husband Alex.
“Just come home,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out.”
After we hung up, I thought about calling my two sisters - but I didn’t. The three of us have always been extremely close, and we’d grown even closer after we lost our mother to a fast-moving bone cancer just two years earlier. How was I supposed to tell them that I had cancer too? I didn’t want them to worry, so I decided to wait.
Instead, I called my doctor friends. Over the years, these dear friends had received many panicked calls and texts from me regarding various children’s medical issues: weird puke viruses, vaccination concerns, rash photos- you name it. But now, I was the one who was sick. It felt strange and out of character for me to ask for help—for myself— but I didn't know who else to confide in. Over the phone, my two friends cried with me. Then, they helped me navigate the complicated medical jargon and chart my next steps.
A few days later, after I’d scheduled multiple follow-up appointments, and begun an intense green juice regimen, I was beginning to develop a false sense of control over what was happening. I confided in one or two of my best friends (Annie, Sara), but I still hadn’t told most of my close friends. Or my sisters. Or my father. Back then, I lived 2,000 miles away from my family, which made it easier for me to keep it secret.
I’ll tell them after I meet with the oncologist: when I have a treatment plan. But when I finally spoke with the oncologist, I learned he wouldn’t be able to determine how far the cancer had spread and what kind of treatment I would need until after my mastectomy, which was at least four weeks out.
I felt defeated. After the initial chaos of diagnosis, I was thrown into a long-term medical waiting room. A place where I quickly realized I could not find certainty—about anything. I needed to find a way to be okay with that. Later that day, I picked up the phone and finally told my family.
I’ve always been a fiercely private person. In 2013, when I got pregnant with my first child, Max, I kept it a secret for almost four months. I told a few close friends (again, Sara), and my mother, but mostly I wanted time to process the news on my own. With that said, during my first trimester, I told random strangers about my pregnancy, like the checkout lady at CVS who rang up my prenatal vitamins, the receptionist at my doctor’s office, and the Lyft driver who offered me a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water to help with morning sickness. It was almost like I wanted to practice sharing the news with people I didn’t know before I announced it to my inner circle. I wanted to try on my new identity before it became part of me.
Similarly, by not immediately telling my inner circle about my cancer diagnosis, I gave myself time to adjust to being a ‘cancer patient’. I wanted to come up with a plan—to feel like I had it all under control—before I told them. What I failed to understand is that my best friends and family members wanted to go through the messiness of it with me. A beautiful book that discusses this idea of relinquishing control is Perfect Daughters, by Dr. Robert Ackerman.
I ended up traveling to the east coast for treatment to be closer to my family.
As soon as I shared my diagnosis with the people closest to me, I was able to access and release many of the feelings I’d been trying so hard to compartmentalize. In retrospect, I see it clearly: I’d just witnessed my mother battle her bout with cancer and I was terrified. Opening up to my sisters and best friends helped me to process my fear, anxiety, uncertainty, anger, sadness, etc. and that brought an incredible sense of relief. They offered to call the rest of my friends so that I didn’t have to spend the next few hours/days on the phone fielding questions that I didn’t have answers to. They organized an email update and meal train, to take those things—quite literally—off my plate. Perhaps most importantly, they kept me laughing.
In the end, how you announce your cancer diagnosis—or any unfortunate news, really—is totally up to you. I didn’t tell my kids right away. You can read about why I decided to wait here. The truth is, I was extremely lucky that I even had the choice whether to tell them. Many people aren’t as lucky. I love this essay on this topic featured on Today, by Julie Devaney Hogan.
I have a few survivor friends who never told anyone about their diagnosis, outside their closest confidantes. I respect that choice. I also admire public figures like Olivia Munn, who is currently using her enormous platform to raise awareness for breast cancer risk assessment and screening procedures. The truth is: there is no right way or wrong way to go about this.
In the aftermath, when I opened up about what I was going through—and how I was struggling—I found strength in my community when I needed it most.
xo
Anna