The First Date: Biopsies with a Side of Boyfriend
In the days leading up to the dreaded “D-day” or diagnosis day, I was having a blast in life. I was enjoying single life, time with my friends, work colleagues and my then 10-year-old kiddo. Little did I know that my world was about to shift into survival mode due to a breast cancer diagnosis, or that dating during treatment and recovery would become a journey of self-acceptance.
My work colleagues decided it was time I got set up with someone new. I hadn’t dated in some time. I was a single mom who had other priorities. I also no longer wanted to “dip the tip into the company ink,” as I had burned by that process before. So when one of my work colleagues offered to introduce me to a friend outside of the company cubicles, I decided, “Why not?”
The date was set for the end of the week. But I also had another appointment set for that Wednesday — one I didn’t think carried much weight. It was just a quick check to see what this annoying bump on my left breast might be. My doctor at the time said it was likely breast tissue changes, so no alarm bells were going off.
Such was not the case. Instead, I was told it was breast cancer. Immediately my ears and eyes were flooded with medical jargon and terminology. A series of appointments were lined up for me on the spot. I left the Women’s Breast Health Clinic – a place I never thought I’d visit – on autopilot. I continued my routine of picking up my kiddo from the after-school program. Then I called my Mom that night and cried with her.
The next day seemed somehow lighter, in reflection, it was surreal. I dropped my kid off for school and headed to work. It felt surreal to share the news of my breast cancer diagnosis with my colleagues. Immediately they rallied around me saying, “Holy shit, what are you doing after work? We’re going for drinks!” The way they instinctively knew how to comfort and support me in that moment was sweet.
I lined up a sitter and met everyone at one of our frequented after-work restaurants. Walking in, I saw a guy I hadn’t met before. Turns out, my colleague had decided to surprise me by having his friend join us for drinks. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved, as our “official” date was set for the next evening.
We began chatting and he immediately put me at ease — yes, even with the news that I’d just been diagnosed with breast cancer. As it turns out, his father had recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer.
While most people would retreat into a cocoon of self-preservation given the circumstances, I decided to start dating this guy. Perhaps it was my rebellious spirit or a subconscious attempt to cling to normalcy amidst the chaos. Whatever it was, I had an “EFF-IT” attitude that fueled my decision. Plus we had hit it off on our pre-date and actual date night.
I wanted to have as much fun as possible, to experience life without the filter of fear that cancer had suddenly imposed on me. So, I put myself out there, started dating this guy and did what I could to cling to normal life. For a while, it was blissful. We laughed, we connected, and for those moments, I almost forgot about the looming shadow of my diagnosis. It was like a breath of fresh air, and a distraction that I desperately needed.
Sure, my approach to diagnosis dating was unconventional. I was navigating uncharted territory. But the thrill of new romance was exhilarating. It allowed me to momentarily escape the constant barrage of medical appointments and treatments.
The Shift: Embracing Vulnerability
As our relationship deepened and my cancer journey progressed, the reality of my situation became harder to ignore. My double mastectomy surgery occurred just a few months later, and with that came the inevitable changes. My body, once a source of confidence, became a landscape of bandages. I had drains and scars across both breasts, now minus nipples. The double mastectomy was a turning point. Suddenly, I was grappling with a new narrative – one filled with body image issues and doubts about my sexual desirability.
I remember looking in the mirror, struggling to recognize the person staring back at me. The scars were a stark reminder of what I had endured. I couldn’t help but wonder if my partner still found me attractive. The self-doubt was overwhelming. It was hard to shake off the feeling that I was somehow less than before. I began to withdraw emotionally, afraid to show my vulnerabilities. Intimacy became a source of anxiety rather than comfort. I worried constantly about how my body looked, about whether my scars were too much for him to handle. There were nights when I cried myself to sleep, mourning the loss of my old self and grappling with the fear that I would never feel desirable again. But we stuck with each other, determined to make it work.
Second Verse: A Lot Louder and a Lot Worse
Three years later. I was free from any follow-up treatment. While I was still battling with post-trauma reflection and depression, I thought life was getting back to normal again. I had bought my first house and my partner moved in with me.
While he was there for me as much as was humanly possible, his father was also declining and we lost him that fall. In hindsight, that’s when things truly took a turn for the worse for both of us. We just couldn’t see it at the moment.
It was then that I found another lump. This time it was golf ball-sized under my left armpit in the same area where the initial cancer was found. I had nipple reconstruction surgery performed just a couple of weeks before, so I thought initially the swelling might be related.
It was not. The breast cancer was back with a vengeance.
Enter chemo, radiation, and more surgery to remove 21 lymph nodes. And yet, at the same time, some clarity. There were some red flags related to my partner that concerned me. I decided I was done showing up for anyone other than myself during this healing. I needed to reclaim my sense of self or learn how to invite the new self in.
The Italian Epiphany: Reclaiming My Power
After my final treatment, I took a trip to Italy with a girlfriend. Italy, with its breathtaking beauty and rich history, became the backdrop for my self-discovery. It was there, amidst the ancient ruins and vibrant culture, that I had an epiphany. I realized that my value was not tied to my physical appearance. My experiences, my resilience, my spirit – these were the things that defined me.
My friend and I spent the days exploring charming villages, hiking the picturesque Cinque Terre, and savouring gelato. I got my perfect thin-crust Italian pizza slice! Every moment was a reminder of the beauty and richness of life. It was something I had almost forgotten amid my cancer challenges.
One evening, as I watched the sunset over the Tuscan hills, I had a moment of clarity. I realized that I had been viewing my body through a distorted lens, one that was heavily influenced by societal standards and self-criticism. My scars, I understood, were not a mark of defeat but a testament to my strength and survival. I began to see them as symbols of my journey, reminders of the journey I had been on.
Returning home, I made the difficult decision to end my relationship. It was not out of a lack of love, but rather, a profound understanding that I needed to rebuild myself independently. It was time to reframe my narrative around my body image and self-worth. I had to embrace the idea that I was a powerful and beautiful woman, cancer and all. It was a mutual decision, although hard for us both. I wish him much joy and happiness.
Moving Forward: A New Narrative
I now approach life with a renewed sense of confidence and humour. I joke about my “no nips” and celebrate my new-found normal. I’ve learned that while cancer has changed my body, it hasn’t diminished my spirit. I still have so much to offer – my gifts, my skills, and yes, my wit and humour.
I began to focus on self-care, both physically and mentally. I learned to reconnect with my body. I delved into yoga, mindfulness and meditation, practices that helped me cultivate a kinder, more compassionate relationship with myself.
One of the most transformative experiences was writing my first book, No Baby Pigeons – Navigating Cancer through Thought Wellness. Writing this book allowed me to process my emotions and develop a deeper understanding of myself. It was through this practice that I discovered the power of narrative.
I learned that I could choose how to tell my story and focus on my resilience and growth rather than my losses. I also began to show up for others navigating their cancer journeys. I left corporate high-tech and became a full-time Cancer Trauma Coach. It fills me with deep gratitude that I can show up now in this new narrative to help others reframe theirs.
Socially, I began to re-engage with friends and family. I hosted gatherings and attended events. I made a conscious effort to surround myself with positivity and support.
I also ventured back into the dating world, but this time with a new mindset. I was honest about my journey from the beginning. I met my now husband – who, ironically, calls himself a ‘boob man.’ He has never made me feel less of a woman or that my battle scars are alien.
Dating during a cancer diagnosis was an emotional rollercoaster. That said, it taught me invaluable lessons about love, vulnerability, and self-acceptance. Through the highs and lows, the laughter, and the tears, I emerged stronger and more self-assured. I learned to love myself in new ways, to embrace my scars as symbols of my strength, and to recognize my worth beyond my physical appearance. Cancer changed me, but it did not define me. I am still here. I am still thriving. I am ready to give and receive love.
About the author
Jennifer Farr is a 2X breast cancer journeyer, cancer coach, and FarrFromFear Coaching founder. Jenn’s new Digital Cancer Trauma program, which helps survivors ReVeal, ReLease and ReDefine their narrative is now open for enrollment.
