Last spring, I was slapped with a life-altering diagnosis: stage 2B invasive lobular carcinoma. A suspicious lump was discovered at my routine mammogram, and right then and there, my world turned upside down. Looking at my pathology report, I was bowled over by waves of fear—and a sense of disbelief as I faced the previously unimaginable.
But it was not just my initial diagnosis I was forced to process. Genetic testing also takes place after identifying a malignant mass. Within a matter of days, the test came back positive for the CHEK2 gene mutation, a mutation that is associated with breast cancer but has not yet been heavily researched. The news catapulted me into a galaxy of unanswerable “what ifs,” both about my own mortality and that of my children. CHEK2 is linked with other forms of cancer too, meaning I not only grew gravely concerned about the quality and longevity of my life, but was sucker punched by the ways it could impact my offspring and what may or may not lie ahead for them.
After a string of sonograms, biopsies, and multiple MRIs, it was clear that a bilateral mastectomy was the most prudent next step. As I geared up to undergo surgery, I wanted to carve out time to do something meaningful with my two children, individually and out of town. Something special they would remember. I wanted to have an enriching experience with each of them before being out of commission—before they saw their mother lose her breasts, her usual joie de vivre, and perhaps most importantly to them, her ability to cuddle up close and hug tightly for a while.
I took my 12-year-old son to Knott’s Berry Farm—one of California’s best amusement parks—and suffice it to say, the roller coasters were a perfect prelude to and metaphor for the intense, unexpected, and sometimes nauseating emotional ups and downs that invariably accompany the long haul that is cancer. But with the gnawing fear that my seven-year-old daughter could one day potentially be faced with an identical diagnosis based on the genetic mutation identified in our family, I wanted to take her somewhere serene and reflective.
I booked a three-day getaway to Laguna Beach, just the two of us. A little over an hour drive from our Hollywood Hills home, it seemed manageable amid the pandemic, even in my topsy turvy pre-surgery state of mind. I was confident she’d have a blast constructing sand castles and splashing about in the ocean, and that I could sit back and watch her in wonderment as I mulled over how this diagnosis might affect motherhood, not to mention all other facets of my newly changed life.
We spent hours scootering along the boardwalk, exploring secluded coves while skipping rocks and examining seashells, and marveled that we could hear the waves crashing from the balcony of our hotel room. We spoke so deeply with one another, as we took walks at sunset and played countless rounds of cards by the fire pit, that there were moments when I forgot I was traveling with a first grader. It felt like I was lying on the beach with my oldest friend. Leaving the COVID-induced monotony of our life in Laurel Canyon, even for a few days, infused me with the energy and fortitude needed to endure surgery and the subsequent treatments.
I planned the trip primarily as an opportunity to connect with my daughter, but I hadn’t anticipated the effect traveling so soon after receiving my cancer diagnosis—and prior to my mastectomy—would have on me. Piqued with curiosity raised by my own travel experiences, I began speaking with other women who had taken trips while navigating breast cancer. These women, too, experienced travel in a more nuanced way than before—with profoundly altered perspectives, and almost a sense of wonder.
“I have always been a grateful person, and really tried to savor everything I’ve gotten a chance to do,” says Dawn Amodeo, 38, who was diagnosed with stage 2B invasive ductal carcinoma, which spread to axillary lymph nodes. “But cancer made that one hundred times more important. [Away from home], I felt increasingly grateful like, Hey, here I am, still alive, bald, sitting by the hotel pool, happily in love.”
Amodeo went on several trips after her diagnosis, including one to Joshua Tree, California, on what would have been her wedding weekend, in what would have been her wedding accommodations. “I had to cancel my wedding and honeymoon in order to start chemotherapy right away, so my wife and I made the best of things—we had Airbnbs booked and just kept them,” she explains. “It wound up being two days after my second chemo treatment. Some friends who had been planning to come to our wedding came out anyway, so we celebrated this weird weekend, just being alive and together. My hair was falling out. I was nauseated and exhausted. We shaved my head and I napped in the sunshine.”
The trip’s pre-cancer intention—to celebrate Amodeo and her wife—never changed, in a way. “The desert has always felt like medicine to me, and it was especially true at that time,” she says.
For those who plan a trip after their diagnosis, having something exciting on the horizon can provide hope and motivation during challenging days. “Travel has always been my favorite way to celebrate,” says Katelyn Burrell, 31, diagnosed with stage 2 triple positive ductal carcinoma in situ. “I spent so much time alone and at home, and travel is so important to my life. Having a trip planned gave me something to look forward to on the days I wasn't feeling great—I knew I was going to get a change of scenery soon.”
Burrell went with her sister to visit her best friend in Los Angeles, California, after two months of chemotherapy treatments. “It was so refreshing to be out of my house,” she says. "It was definitely exhausting, but we didn't do anything crazy. I wanted to see the sunset and one night we drove to the coast to watch it go down on the beach. Knowing that I only had a few days to be ‘carefree’ and feel ‘normal’ made me want to experience as much as I could. When I got home, I was recharged and ready to beat this disease.”
Of course, going on a trip amidst a cancer diagnosis has formidable considerations: some women discovered that they could not travel the way they used to. Carmen Risi, 39, who tested positive for BRCA1 and was diagnosed with stage 1 HER2 positive invasive ductal carcinoma, has gone on an annual camping trip with her family in Door County, Wisconsin, for years. “I wanted to continue on with my life as much as possible, so I planned to keep the tradition,” she says. “The first meal I ate at the campsite included Johnsonville bratwursts, a Wisconsin staple, but unfortunately they triggered a diarrhea episode. There I languished, sitting on the toilet in my parents’ RV while my anti-nausea meds were at the condo where I was staying with my sister's family.”
It was humbling not to be able to keep up with her family’s beloved rituals—the following day, Risi was forced to forego a boat trip. “I learned I was going to have to take a third of each day to rest and pull back from being a full participant in all activities,” she says. By spending a good chunk of the next day resting, she made it onto the boat with the group. “Comparing my present camping-self to my past camping-self was sad and demoralizing, but everyone else was giving me grace and I needed to remember to give myself some, too.”
Anne Laks, 41, diagnosed with stage 2A invasive ductal carcinoma which spread to a lymph node, shared this experience. “Traveling during breast cancer was eye-opening,” she says. “I was still getting used to my new body, and my limitations were surprising.” For one thing, her usual beach vacation of choice was no longer an option: between the hot flashes induced by chemotherapy and the burns from radiation, spending time in the oceanside sun was no longer desirable. So she went to Sun Valley, Idaho, with some college girlfriends, though she had to scale back on the hikes the group did, normally one of her favorite parts of a trip. The next trip she took was to Rancho Mirage, which coincided with her final chemotherapy treatments. “I barely left the rental home,” she says. “It was nice to sit by the pool, but I couldn’t get in it because of cold capping—the process of putting ice cold packs on your head to save your hair.”
Sandy Jessop, 35, diagnosed with stage 3C invasive ductal carcinoma, says she was occasionally snapped out of her wonderful family beach trip to Cape Cod by the reality of her diagnosis. “I remember being at the beach looking at women in their bathing suits wondering: Have you checked yourself? Have you? Have you?” she says. She was taking stock of her own body, too. “I knew after the trip, my double mastectomy was on the horizon. I was hyper-aware of myself in a bathing suit, knowing that soon my breasts would be gone forever. I wanted to get as many photos as possible of myself with my 10-month old baby boy. I was just trying to soak him up, hold him as much as I could. I wanted to remember it all—me before surgery. I made memories to last a lifetime,” she says.
And that, ultimately, is what makes the concessions worthwhile. “I’m glad I went in the end," says Risi. "It was a triumphant experience, even if there was a battle involved. It was worth it to not let my cancer pull me out of our annual vacation.”
Jessop put it this way: “I could feel sick alone, or I could feel sick with my family in a beautiful setting. The latter is so much sweeter.”
I can say from experience, this resonates: these trips are not just opportunities to break out of the drudgery of the cancer process, or the sameness of our homes. They are chances to reflect on our lives, to appreciate the privileges we have in being able to explore and admire the beauty of this world.
“I don’t know how you could go through all this and not gain perspective,” Laks tells me. “That’s the one thing that stands out to me through all my [post-cancer-diagnosis] travel experiences. That clear mountain air with great friends—that was a gift. And I didn’t know how much I needed it until I was there.”