Love and Cancer

I am 42 years old. Never married, no children. This was not ever what I had planned for my life. I always wanted children, and because my own mother died of cancer in her 40s, I wanted them young. And so I looked for a partner. And looked. And looked. I came close a few times. I lived with a few partners, talked to a few about wanting to want a future together, but never actually got there with any of them. Eventually, enough time had gone by that I felt children were no longer in the cards for me. That was hard, but I came to terms with it. I still had the hope of finding love and making a family different than the one I had always imagined. And in January 2025, at 41, I met the love of my life.*

It was a whirlwind romance, but it felt truer than anything I had ever known before. Every stupid cliche there was went through my head. This man was the reason nothing ever worked out. Finally, I had found the love I had spent my life looking for. Last March, he told me he loved me. Last May, he told me he wanted forever with me. He called me his future wife. We agreed on a timeline for engagement — after one year of dating. He lived in the suburbs of Boston, with two kids from his previous marriage, and I lived in New York City, so we talked about my plans to move there. I looked for remote jobs. In July, we talked about finances and when we would buy a new house together. In August, I met his mother and children. Also in August, we went to a wedding, where he decided to start planning our wedding (I had never wanted one). In September, we went to Scotland together. I was so stupidly, deliriously happy. I had never been so in love. I was not sure I had ever even been in love. Literally everyone noticed how happy I was. Everyone saw how much he loved me and felt the need to comment on it. I had finally found the one. It was just too good to be true.

But, also in September, he began accusing me of cheating on him. Constantly. And for what it is worth, I would never have even considered cheating on this man. But the accusations took their toll. And they illustrated how deeply mentally unwell he was. In October, I asked him to work with me to get additional help with his mental health. He did not take that request well. And even though I approached it as gently as I could, he broke up with me on the spot. I was devastated, because while I knew he needed help, I still loved him completely. A few days later, he reached out to me, wishing “none of this had ever happened.” And that kicked off three of the worst weeks of my life, a constant rollercoaster of being thrown between “I love you” and “I hate you” from him. Before, eventually, also in October, exactly one day after we broke up (supposedly, I suspect it was sooner), he met his new girlfriend on Tinder. He tried to convince me to stick around while he slept with her, but I declined, somehow still having a shred of self-respect in tact. And in November, we spoke for what would be the last time, ever.

It was a hard month. While I now believe no part of our relationship was real for him, it was all so real to me. My love wouldn’t fade, even knowing how badly it ended. I knew I would never take him back, but even that didn’t stop the pain. In many ways, fantasizing about getting back together probably would have lessened the pain. But I leaned on my friends. I continued going to therapy. I started seeing a second therapist. And that led me to reading about personality disorders, and even though he was diagnosed with Bipolar 2, I believe with every fiber of my being he also has Narcissistic Personality Disorder. And that gave me the framework to understand his behavior. It also gave the the framework to see how the emotional abuse and manipulation started long before the cheating accusations.

And if that was where the story ended, well, this wouldn’t be called Love & Cancer, lest you think my mom’s cancer was the cancer in question. In December, I had my regular mammogram (6 months late, I note with guilt). And because after my first mammogram 18 months prior, I learned I had dense breast tissue and needed to always have an ultrasound, I did that as well. The tech spent a solid 45 minutes on my right breast, and about 5 on my left. I knew something was wrong. I went to a party that night and joked that it was definitely cancer. In January, I was sent for a diagnostic mammogram and another ultrasound. In February, I was sent for a biopsy. And on February 17, 2026, in a conference room at work, I got a phone call telling me I had cancer. Grade 3, Triple Positive, Stage TBD.

And you know, the good news is that breast cancer has really, really good survival rates. The bad news is that I have cancer. And I can’t imagine anything more threatening to the idea of finding love than having my breasts mangled, being plunged into menopause, and being on hormone blockers for the next decade of my life. Not to mention chemo, with its almost inevitable hair loss, and radiation, with its side effects that could keep on coming for years. And the baggage of wondering when to tell potential partners, knowing that having had cancer could be a deal-breaker for a lot of people.

Does this mean I will never find love? I don’t know. But I am a lot more scared than I ever was before. It definitely means I won’t be dating while I am in treatment. This is also one of the reasons I have always wanted to find my person. I watched my mother die of cancer in her forties. I always expected that I, too, would die of cancer in my forties. I never wanted to waste any time with someone who wasn’t the one. I’ll be honest, though, I did think I would at least make it to my late 40s.

*He was not the love of my life. I know that now.