Rubbish to Toss Away
The tears are streaming into my barely edible “chicken casserole” and mashed potatoes on the overnight flight to Heathrow. My thumbs are raw and bleeding—a horrendous habit of skin picking I have not been able to break since I was five, always exacerbated by stress. The flight attendant notices my puffy eyes and pours me a second round of cheap prosecco, brimming over my plastic cup, just like the tears down my face. In her proper British accent, she whispers, “Enjoy, darling; get some sleep.” It’s as though she could feel my grief, my heavy chest and broken heart; the pit in my belly; the breath that is stuck.
I put on my headphones and sleepmask, listening to the “soothing anxiety sleep affirmations” in hopes of passing out. I have not felt this gutted since the diagnosis two years ago.
I cannot fall asleep as the invasive thoughts run through my head—in a furious stupor, while I threw clothes in my bag a few hours prior to the flight, I began ripping things off the wall around the house: wedding photos, handwritten vows, the mezuzah which has the glass you broke from our magical wedding day at the vineyard, the piggie figurines we would collect and bring back from every trip together, each labeled with the country and date (good news: one less chochkie to fetch in London, right?). I put them into a box and threw it upstairs on the third floor in the cedar closets behind our winter coats. A wave of devastation rushes over me as I peer into nearly 15 years of our lives together, all tidied away into this box.
Obsessive thoughts don’t stop there: why do I have to re-invent myself yet again? what is the universe trying to scream at me? I was once convinced that the most challenging thing I would do is move to a new city and take a new job while eight months pregnant with a toddler in the height of a global pandemic—and then breast cancer happened. I am a few weeks from celebrating two years of NED. I should be living my best, joyous life. Instead, I am back in fight or flight mode. I can’t sleep or eat. I cannot even put into words how we got here. This was a slow trickle, for sure, but a very sudden realization that separation is necessary and by separation—permanent, not just some time apart.
I hit a breaking point. The lies continued, and you distanced yourself further. I am no longer a priority despite my begging for your love and connection. Fool me once, but not again, and again. Your inability to be loyal, honest, and open, and your disdain for me on the daily has broken me. I have repeatedly voiced my concerns to a numb, uninterested face I don’t recognize anymore. Putting aside the pure sadness of losing my life partner and breaking up our family, the painstaking feeling of rejection hits so incredibly hard—you can’t love this flawed, scarred, battered body. I feel broken knowing I won’t get to see our boys every morning to give them a hug before school, or that we won’t be together to share our favorite part of the day over dinner. I am simply not enough. If you cannot love me unconditionally after what we have been through—then what are we doing here?
I always joked that if we can survive cancer, immediately followed by your ruptured Achilles tendon and subsequent infection and surgeries, we can do anything. We have the caretaker thing down, “through sickness and in health.” The wild, scary reality is—it was the exact opposite.
While I thought cancer would bring us closer, it scared you away.
Having breast cancer taught me to re-evaluate every relationship in my life: a complete reset; a second chance; a commitment to finally cultivate self-love by putting myself first for perhaps the first time in my people-pleasing life. I now protect my peace and crave people who feel like stability. I am slowly learning how to change my default pace of chaos, hustle, and quiet panic into a harmonious, calming alignment and presence. Release and let go: shed, soften, love, repeat.
Someday, I hope you can break the cycle. Until then, there is a lot of hard work to do. As a survivor, I have a new perspective on life—“joie de vivre” tattooed under my port scar to remind me every day—the exuberant enjoyment of life, living in the present, and focusing on what brings joy and contentment.
The night before this red-eye flight, I sat in bed, cuddling our boys for bedtime. Evvie chose The Giving Tree and The Hungry Caterpillar. I couldn’t help but laugh quietly to myself: both so perfectly aligned to the current energy in our home and embodying the spirit of transformation. I have given, given, and given-and no longer can wait for you to do the hard work and sit on my stump. You have taken my branches, leaves, and apples. And just like the hungry caterpillar—I shall use this next transition to cocoon away and emerge as a beautiful butterfly: a continuous journey of self-discovery and metamorphosis. Rather than ask myself, if only, my internal monologue is shifting. I am better equipped for this loss. I don’t have to put on a strong face with a smile and pretend I am okay.
As I wake up groggy from the cheap bubbles after a two-hour catnap, we are landing. A flight attendant is perusing the aisles asking if we have “any rubbish to toss away.” Well, how big a bag do you have, sir? For the next few days, we eat, drink, shop, and explore. I’ll sip tea with milk at our fancy afternoon tea date and cry in my best friend’s arms. I’ll deal with the rubbish when I’m back home.
It’s hard to distinguish what is harder: a broken heart or your rogue cells throwing a party, trying to take you down. The reality is that there is no comparing grief: loss is loss, in all forms. So much has been taken from me: boobs; ovaries; tubes; my hair, lashes, and brows; nerve damage, bone health, and fertility; and now, my marriage and life partner. My sense of security and trust is non-existent; my identity stripped from me. For now, I search for a new vibration and know that just like a lotus, I, too, can emerge and rise from this dusty, messy chapter, transforming the past into the foundation of its beauty. The next version of me will rise above stronger, more powerful, beautiful, and confident to learn how to love again. 🌿
Shannon Gottesman
Professional Fundraiser and Teacher of Philanthropy. Diagnosed in 2023 at 40. IDC, Stage III, ER+, PR+. Current Lines of Treatment: Verzenio, Arimidex.
Navigating a rigorous journey, Shannon is now embracing the complex landscape of survivorship. Based in Pittsburgh and a proud Philadelphia native, she is figuring out her new transitional period and title: single mother to her two young sons. By day, she works in university and hospital development, leveraging her professional skills while advocating for the patient voice.
“Rubbish to Toss Away” is published in Wildfire Journal’s 2025 “Metamorphosis” issue. Order a print or digital copy of the full issue in our shop. Available in the subscribers’ library as well.