Hope and Heartache, Hand in Hand
On a crisp fall morning, I stood in a coffee shop reeling with nausea from my chemo infusion the day before. I scanned the menu behind the counter, wondering what would wreak the least havoc on my troubled tummy. A whole milk latte called to every fiber of my being… probably too ambitious. Peppermint tea…practical, but so boring. I was here to celebrate! Have fun! Eventually, my fuzzy chemo brain landed on an oatmilk chai and settled into a tall table near the door.
I rarely left the house on Day 1 after treatment. A year into my “three weeks on, one week off” chemotherapy rhythm, I knew my routine. I’d navigated an early breast cancer diagnosis in 2019 with general success (if anyone can really say that). I learned to predict “good days” and “bad days” for my side effects, strategically scheduling plans with friends. I found myself back in treatment less than a year later, however, with brain and liver mets. I quickly learned that life with metastatic triple-negative breast cancer was a whole new ballgame. Treatment duration? Indefinite. Side effects? Indefinite. Real life? Always moving without me. I found myself carving out just a few days each week to be a person. But this week, I made an exception!
The coffee shop door jingled, and I leapt up to hug the gorgeous girl walking inside. With tears in both our eyes, we hugged and giggled like long-lost friends. We knew our families’ names, had seen each other's pets, and had shared the innermost feelings of our hearts, but had never met in person. Today, we finally sat down together for the first time.
Stacy and I met in a virtual support group during chemotherapy, and were so excited to learn we only lived twenty minutes apart! We had “virtual coffee” dates for months before we were finally able to meet in person. Our stories were very different, but we quickly bonded over teaching, marriage, and navigating life as young women with breast cancer. The best part was that our husbands had similar hobbies, and they became friends in their own right. It heralded this shiny, less lonely season of our cancer journeys. It was such a gift to have other people our age who could relate to our situation. We laughed together, cried together, dreamed together. It finally felt like we weren’t alone. We didn’t just find neighbors, we found friends.
Stacy and I were like two kayaks, paddling down the same whitewater river. Despite all we had in common, we were never really in the same boat. As I plunged back into treatment as a metastatic thriver, Stacy was dipping into her first diagnosis, surgery, and treatment. I felt like I could share the random tips and experiences I’d collected with someone who needed it. She taught me how to draw my eyebrows and coached me through wedding planning.
As Stacy completed her initial treatment and moved into “real life,” I waited for my miracle. We had game nights at her house, sweating through hot flashes and swapping recipes. Our husbands came along for movies, dinners, and arcade nights. We talked about her new job and my latest infusions. The balance of “normal” and what never should be, but so grateful for every step we were able to take together. We paddled on.
By the next fall, everything irrevocably shifted. As Andrew and I drove home from infusion, I opened a Facebook message from a name I didn’t recognize. My heart dropped as I read that Stacy was in the hospital after a seizure, revealing that her cancer had spread to her spinal cord. I knew I hadn’t heard from her in a while, but I just assumed she was living her full, beautiful life! Her family and close friends rallied when she came home, celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas early in case the unthinkable happened. And it didn’t, not then.
We had just a few conversations after that. I’d had my own previous seizure and metastatic experiences to share with her, and was heartbroken to know that she was following behind me. Our lives continued to slide further apart, as I celebrated a clean PET scan, dropping chemotherapy, and starting my own road to “normalcy.” The river suddenly carried our kayaks in opposite directions. It felt as if we only caught glimpses of each other through foaming rapids.
How could I truly celebrate my own healing when my sweet friend deteriorated before my eyes? Why couldn’t the current just carry both of us forward together?
I followed Stacy’s updates online, growing less and less frequent as time passed. As many thrivers know, treatment can “work” and show encouraging signs for a while before cruelly changing directions at random. We were all so hopeful!
I read of Stacy’s passing as I packed for a trip to Orlando. Almost a full year from her seizure, almost a year of making memories with her family and praying for healing, she was taken from us. And where was I? I had just launched my fundraiser for metastatic breast cancer research, and had been invited to share my story at the American Society of Clinical Oncology (ASCO) conference with my oncologist. It was earthshattering to know that I would tell a room of strangers about my healing, while privately grieving the loss of my dear, dear friend. I was a symbol of treatment that had “worked,” while recognizing that so many others never get to see moments like that.
This is the paradox of living with Adolescent / Young Adult (AYA) MBC.
Healing and hope. Regression and grief. Double dates and hospital stays. Joy of making friends in the darkest places, and holding their memory forever when your life continues on.
I’ll never be the same, and my heart aches every time we drive past Stacy’s house or pictures pop up on social media. I pray she was as hope-filled as I was from our friendship. Having a confidant, a real-life friend to giggle over make-up and hold hands over immense grief in this wild cancer story made my journey a better one. And if that’s all that I can say for our time together, I count it as a blessing.
I pray more thrivers meet each other in real life, connecting over all the love and light they have to share. We keep living to keep sharing, knowing that every moment of connection makes cancer a little more bearable. And we feel a little less alone.
We can hold joy and grief together because we realize that light is always available, even here.
Remembering the good reminds us that it’s possible, even here. I’ll carry that wherever I go, remembering my sweet friend and the sparkle she brought to my life. I pray the same for you! 🌿
Caitlan Killian
Writer, Podcaster, Founder of Still Good Co. Diagnosed in 2019 at 29, and again in 2021 at 31. IDC, Stage III, Triple Negative then Stage IV; PDL1 mutation. Current Lines of Treatment: Tecentriq infusions every four weeks.
Caitlan is a writer and MBC thriver. She began blogging after her diagnosis and found healing through words. She publishes the “Goodness & Grace” email newsletter, hosts the “Goodness & Grace” podcast along, and runs Still Good Co, an apparel line that raises awareness and funding for metastatic breast cancer research.
“Hope and Heartache, Hand in Hand” is published in Wildfire Journal’s 2025 “Paradox” issue, which is our 10th annual metastatic breast cancer issue theme. Order a print or digital copy of this issue in our shop. Available in the subscribers’ library as well.