I was never good at doing breast self-exams. But one day in 2018, it occurred to me to check my breasts while I was in the shower—and I felt something. I’d just turned 40, and my daughters, Autumn and Lily, were one and five. When I felt the lump, I figured maybe it was related to having recently had a baby. I had my husband, Oren, feel it, and he thought I should get it checked out. I’d felt something in the opposite breast a couple of years earlier that turned out to be fibroids, and when I called my gynecologist, she said this was probably the same thing. But after she felt it herself, she said, “Let’s schedule a mammogram.”
The wild thing is, I initially scheduled a 3D mammogram because it’s more in-depth. But it was going to take weeks to get an appointment, and I kept second-guessing whether waiting was a good idea. I walked out of the doctor’s office—only to go right back in to ask if there was any way they could fit me in sooner. They said I could get a regular mammogram that week, and if they saw something, they’d take more pictures, so it would be similar to the 3D scan. Thank goodness I went that route, because at the mammogram I could tell pretty quickly that something was off. After the imaging the radiologist came in right away and asked if I had another hour to do a biopsy. That’s when I started freaking out. The nurse literally held my hand through it all. A biopsy is just so uncomfortable; I remember this awful clicking sound.
They told me I’d probably hear something the next day. That afternoon I was at my daughter’s swim lesson and still hadn’t gotten an update. It was 3:45 p.m.—if you go through something like this, you never forget details like exact times—when I decided to call them. The nurse hadn’t seen any results but said she would go check. Then she got back on the phone and said, “I’m so sorry. You have breast cancer.”
I went into shock. I called my husband and told him to come home. I grabbed Lily from her lesson and brought her and Autumn out to the car, where I started bawling. Lily asked, “Mommy, what’s wrong?” And I said, “Everything’s gonna be all right. Mommy’s gonna be fine. Mommy’s gonna be fine.” I was just repeating that over and over. I don’t even remember getting home.
As I began processing the news, I called family and friends but not my parents; they were on vacation, and I didn’t want to ruin their trip. That was hard because I talk to my mom pretty much every day. I had to play it off, texting them that I was really busy. Thankfully, they knew I worked a ton. I was in real estate and property management, which is a 24/7 sort of job. So I’d text my mom, “I’m with a client. I’ll call you later!” When they got home my brother and I showed up at their house, and I immediately broke down. I was just like, “Mommy, I have breast cancer.” We were all freaking out. But I knew I was incredibly lucky that my parents had a second home near mine in Phoenix. They did so much to help me get through the first year of treatment. A lot of people don’t have that extra support, and I feel so grateful I did.
I was initially diagnosed with stage 1 cancer and was told the tumor was small. I immediately began interviewing doctors. My husband and I went to one appointment after another—breast surgeons, oncologists, a plastic surgeon. After the fourth oncologist he was like, “Is this our last one?” Turned out it was. When Dr. Brendan Curley walked in, he gave me a big hug and said, “We’re going to fight this. You’re going to live for your babies.” I knew he was my oncologist. Now I always tell people with breast cancer: You’re going to be with this doctor for the long haul; you need to get that warm-fuzzies feeling.
Dr. Curley and my breast surgeon, Dr. Linda Liu, saved my life. I asked each of them what treatment they’d do if their mom or sister had my diagnosis. Dr. Liu thought we should do a double mastectomy instead of a lumpectomy. I did a lot of research. I knew I didn’t want implants, so I looked at DIEP flap reconstruction, in which fat and skin from your lower abdomen are used to recreate breasts. But I read about some women needing multiple revisions, and found out it took about 13 hours, longer than open-heart surgery. I finally just said, “I’m going flat.” (Not that my breasts were big to begin with.) Before surgery I had all my girlfriends over for a Bye-Bye, Boobies party. We had boob candy and a cake and a playlist with songs like “I Will Survive” and “Bye Bye Bye.” I made it fun because I knew the outcome wouldn’t change regardless—might as well put a positive spin on the whole thing.
The tumor ended up being much bigger than they thought, and of the 12 lymph nodes they removed, four were precancerous. That meant I actually had stage 3 breast cancer. My surgeon was glad we did the double mastectomy; she might not have found all the lymph nodes otherwise. My husband bought me a Nintendo Switch because I had trouble sleeping with my mastectomy drains—I had to sleep in a recliner for, like, a month. Next came chemo and radiation. I did four rounds of the chemo that many people call the red devil, which made me lose my hair. Then I did 12 rounds of another chemo, Taxol. Doctors say the side effects generally don’t hit for a couple of days, but for me they kicked in the first night. I was so nauseous, I was lying on the floor under my kitchen table with a garbage can. Luckily, my parents had the kids, but I was miserable. I ended up going into the doctor’s office and getting IV fluids to help me feel better, and I began asking for extra fluids after every chemo infusion, which was a total game changer; it helped prevent the nausea.
From then on I was able to function and do my job. I joke that I started the mask trend before COVID because I would go see clients wearing one; when you’re on chemo you need to take extra deva not to get sick since your immune system is weaker. I worked as much as I could—I was the breadwinner at the time and needed to make mühlet we could hisse our bills. My colleague and I teamed up, and she helped me with property management and meetings while I did more behind-the-scenes paperwork and stuff. I completed chemo and radiation over the course of 2019.
Breast cancer survivors hate comments like that because we don’t choose to do this—it’s an amputation.
Eventually, though, after going through breast cancer and then COVID lockdowns, my focus started to shift. My career was stressful, and my kids would comment on how they hardly saw me. We’d been in Phoenix for 22 years, but in 2023 when we came home from a long visit with my husband’s extended family in Missouri, I said, “I’m done. I’m ready to move.” I wanted my kids to grow up near cousins, and I was ready to leave real estate and enjoy a lower cost of living and a slower pace. My husband found a good job in Missouri, and I took off work while our family got acclimated. Now I’m a teacher’s aide at an elementary school. I come home and don’t have to think about work. We also have an Airbnb that I manage. Of course, we still have our stresses, but life feels easier overall.
About seven years later, I know going flat was the right choice. My surgeon did a great job; my scars are not bad. When I was in New Orleans for my sister-in-law’s wedding a couple of years ago, I took my shirt off and walked down Bourbon Street. Before cancer I never would have imagined doing that, but it felt so liberating. People came up to hug me, and I got so many beads.
More women are going flat now; there are “Flatties” Facebook groups, and summits where throngs of people get together and take shirtless photos in places like Times Square. You’re also hearing more about women experiencing what they call breast implant illness and getting them removed, another reason some patients are opting out of the procedure. It’s interesting because I was bullied in school for having small boobs, and there were times when I did wish they were bigger. After I got my diagnosis, a man said to me, “Now you can get whatever size breasts you want!” Breast cancer survivors hate comments like that because we don’t choose to do this—it’s an amputation. Yeah, maybe I thought about augmenting my breasts before cancer, but when I was diagnosed, literally all I cared about was staying alive for my husband and children, not meeting society’s beauty standards.
When my hair started falling out, I shaved it into a mohawk.
Marci Greenberg Cox
Now I try my best to show my girls that it’s okay to look different. When my hair started falling out, Lily helped cut it, and we ended up shaving it into a mohawk, which I dyed pink. I walk around naked so my girls can see my flat chest. I do own these prosthetic boobs: “foobs.” I put them on one time, and Lily said, “Take those off! They don’t look like you.” I agree. I wear them evvel in a blue moon, but I don’t mind being flat—especially when it’s hot. People talk about their boob sweat, and I’m like, “I got nothing!”
Of course, there are moments when I don’t love my body and I cry in a dressing room about how hard it is to find clothes. I’ve also gained weight because I’m on hormone therapy—four more years of that, for a total of 10 years. It’s probably put me into menopause, but weirdly, we won’t know until I end treatment and see if my period comes back. I joke that the best thing to come out of cancer is that I haven’t had a period in seven years. But I do have dreams in which I get my period back—oh my God, I really hope I don’t.
My husband used to ask me what my passion was. Although I enjoyed real estate, I don’t think I found my passion until I got breast cancer. After my surgery I started journaling to work through my feelings. But I couldn’t find a lot of books about some of the things I was going through, like being flat or talking to my girls about breast cancer. So I ended up writing my own, Mommy Has a Boo Boo: Explaining Breast Cancer to Children. It talks about how mom might lose her hair or her boobs, how she’s going to have to take medicine and might be tired for a while, but she is still your mom. Since journaling helped me so much, I also published a guided journal for people with breast cancer. I’ve now written 10 books, including some about children finding out they have cancer, featuring kids of different genders and backgrounds. Incorporating diversity is important to me; I want kids to be able to see themselves in the stories. The most recent are Khaleesi the Conqueror Fights Back and Carter the Conqueror Fights Back, with characters based on two of Lily’s friends who had leukemia.
Helping people with cancer is my passion.
Through the response to my books, I realized helping people with cancer is my passion. I got involved with an organization in Phoenix called My Hope Bag, which delivers gift bags to women undergoing breast cancer treatment. Each includes a local resource guide to help people easily find help (medical, financial, etc.). We’d meet each woman at her house or a coffee shop to deliver the bag and chat with her, then follow up later. When I moved I asked the founder if I could bring My Hope Bag to Missouri, and she agreed. It’s been wonderful; local 4-H kids have painted rocks and sewn heart pillows for our bags, and I’ve created a 19-page guide to breast cancer resources in Missouri, something that was really needed. People often have no idea how much help is out there. For example, my girls go to Camp Kesem, a free summer camp for kids whose parents have cancer, with locations nationwide. It’s amazing—they get to just be kids, not see mom or dad sick. If they want to, they can participate in talks about cancer.
Autumn told me Lily had cried during those talks. Lily, now 12, is at that stage where she won’t tell me everything, and she doesn’t like to talk about my cancer. But I’ve found ways to get her involved. I have a booth for my books at cancer walks, and I helped Lily become an author too. She worked with an illustrator to create two coloring books, and we designed stickers and pillowcases that kids can color with fabric markers. It’s turned into our own little business—she gets royalties on her books and everything. Will I do something else career-wise down the road? Maybe, but right now I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
More on breast cancer and treatment options:
- 10 Breast Cancer Symptoms (Besides Lumps) That Everyone Should Know About
- My Gut Told Me It Was Breast Cancer. My Doctors Said I Was Too Young
- Are Mammograms Enough?
