Breast cancer, infertility, and pregnancy loss. This is my story.

A guest post by Emily Voreas

My name is Emily. I have batted infertility, pregnancy loss and breast cancer. This is my story.

I love to sing at the top of my lungs alongside my 2-year-old daughter. I play the guitar and she bangs on her tambourine, and then we throw our instruments down and dance around the living room until we fall in a heap laughing until we can’t breathe.

I love to swim until my arms turn to jello and my lungs burn with chlorine fumes. I love to hike and bike and run and have so much fun.

But I also have a dark side. 

I battle anxiety and thoughts of my impending death.

I spiral down dark corridors and find myself curled up on the floor, tears pouring down my face after I put my daughter down. 

My dark side is new. I’m not a fan. 

But I suppose it comes alongside a fight for your life. You can’t build resilience and strength without also casting a dark shadow. 

A BRCA2 mutation put me at risk for breast cancer

When I was 18, my mom and I did blood work and discovered we both had the BRCA2 mutation. My grandma had breast cancer in her 50’s, and my mom had breast cancer in her 40’s. So it didn’t come as much of a surprise to learn of our genetic dilemma. I was judicious about annual MRI’s, mammograms and breast exams to guard against breast cancer. But when it came time to start a family, my doctor recommended we consider IVF. She pointed out how nice it would be to screen out BRCA2 and the risk of breast cancer for future generations.

We were lucky enough to make such an expensive choice, so we dove in.  I was young and overly optimistic. The minute we implanted our first embryo, I told everyone we were having a girl. The embryo was genetically tested, and I was young and healthy so it should work, right? I planned out her bedroom in my mind, figured out her birthday and what my maternity leave would entail, and even started googling daycares. 

The heartbreak of infertility and pregnancy loss

Joke’s on me. Miscarriage. And then another. 

And then it was the heart of COVID and my heart was ripped open. And my IVF doctor suggested we save our last embryo for a rainy day and try it the old-fashioned way. “BRCA is an adult-onset disease, I’m sure we’ll have a fix for it by the time your kid has to worry about it.”

And it worked… and this time it stuck! But DAMN, I’d never been so sick in my entire life. It’s called Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG). I’d vomit 1-8 times a day for months on end. I was teaching online at the time and I’d keep a vomit bowl by my computer, turn off my camera, vomit, and then keep teaching. I’d never experienced anything so debilitating in my life! But I’m an upbeat warrior. And it was worth it. Because we were having a BOY! 

Except… It was the holidays, and our boy’s genetic testing was held up in the lab… and then the doctors called with sorrow in their voices. A chromosomal microdeletion. Such a teensy tiny hiccup with such life altering results. 

It’s called a termination for medical reasons (TFMR). He was 19 weeks. Our friends held us up through the hardest moment of our lives. They threw a What the F*** party for us and we lit sparklers on the beach, drank mimosas and screamed and sobbed into the wind. I was good when I was around friends, but when they left, I’d curl up on the couch and sink into a deep dark depression. So I tried my best to fake it and stay busy as much as possible. 

And we weren’t out of the fire just yet, because I had another TFMR and a couple more miscarriages ahead of me.

But we made it—lucky pregnancy #7. I again battled HG. I vomited on my bike, in the closet of my classroom, in the shower, in a friend’s car, on the slopes while skiing… oh you get the point. BUT we did it! And our sweet rainbow girl was perfect and healthy and happy and strong. Brave and joyful, social and creative. And we were wrapped up in a bliss I couldn’t imagine was possible.

Diagnosed at 33 with breast cancer

But you know what they say about happy endings… because at 4 months postpartum, at 33 years old, I found a lump. Docs claimed it was clogged milk ducts. But at 10 months I could no longer ignore the softball size boulder sitting on my right chest. It was stage 3B, breast cancer. 

Then it was GO time. I did a speedy second round of IVF, followed by 25 weeks of chemo. Doctors advised me to keep it easy, and be gentle on myself. So, I (in typical Emily fashion) decided to ignore all of their advice. 

I worked part time as a 2nd grade reading intervention teacher and wore brightly colored wigs each day. I explained that my hair changed colors if I ate different foods. So one day I “ate a salad” and had a green wig. Another day, pasta with butter, thus a blond wig. And one day, I even ate cotton candy and had a hot pink wig. The kids lost their minds! But inevitably, each day, my scalp would get hot and I’d shuck off the wig and walk around bald. And every single day the kids would jump on me and scream, “I knew it! I knew it was a wig!” And yet, the next day, they would be just as gullible… And while I was fatigued by my breast cancer treatments and working and parenting a young child, I also felt it incredibly important that I feel strong and like myself. So I started small, short walks. But the more I moved, the stronger I felt, and so I upped my game and started swimming, kayaking, hiking and biking.*

I’ve always been an athlete. I’m used to hopping in a freezing cold pool when my body is aching and I’m exhausted. So I treated chemo like a really intense workout. If I could just get myself to move I’d immediately start feeling better.

And it worked! In fact, I ended up feeling so strong that I celebrated the end of chemo by organizing a Chemathlon (triathlon) with all my friends around the Bay Area, CA. One week after finishing chemo, I swam 1 mile, biked 24 miles, and ran a 5K, surrounded by the love of friends, family, and the beauty of nature.

*I don’t want to sugarcoat this time period and the realities of a breast cancer diagnosis. It was also absolute hell. I ended up hospitalized for 2 week long stays due to neutropenic fever. The first time I was ever away from my daughter overnight. But I have the memory of a goldfish and like to focus on the things that bring me joy…

A decision to remain flat

Next up was surgery. I pushed back against doctors’ advice and chose to have aesthetic flat closure while undergoing a preventive oophorectomy at the same time. Docs strongly suggested I reconstruct, and take my ovaries/fallopian tubes out at a separate date.. One doctor even asked, “is your husband okay with you going flat?” But I was ready to move on with my life with as few surgeries as humanly possible. I held my ground.

December 21, 2023. A few days before Christmas. I went under the knife and got chopped up like a roast turkey. Flat as a board. Permanent menopause like my grandma. And self-conscious AF about losing my “femininity”.

But there were perks. For instance, I announced to my radiation doctors that I found hospital dressing gowns to be triggering and would, therefore, be topless forever more. Also, now that I was having approximately 10 million lava pit melting hot flashes a day, I started stripping my top off whenever I pleased. In fact, my friends concluded it wasn’t really a party unless Emily took off her shirt. But the real icing on the cake was halfway through radiation. My husband and I went on a bike ride across the Golden Gate Bridge. When we reached the top of a peak, I insisted he take a topless photo of me hoisting my bike overhead.  “But, Emily, there are people around….”. I glared at him. “I don’t care! I don’t have boobs. Let them look!” He quickly palmed his face and sheepishly apologized for falling back into old norms. “You’re right! Let’s do it!”

You know, I’ve gone through a fair amount of shit in just a few years. And I have had to come to terms with the darkness and fear. But I’m also quite proud of my energy, positivity, and general bad-assness.  I’m loving my life braless and appreciating each day I’m on earth.

About the author

Emily Voreas is patiently growing out her chemo curls while awaiting her 2nd Cancerversary next March, 2025. She is now 34 years old and lives in San Francisco, CA with her husband and daughter. Emily is wrapping up her memoir and is excited to get it out into the world. When she’s not writing, Emily spends her time as a teacher, adventurer and living room-based musician. But above all else, she adores playing momma.