Last week, as I thumbed through the clothing in my closet, I came upon a piece that took me down. It was an oversized patterned vest in thick tan wool, a Prada find from the Real Real, and the sweater I chose to wear for my first session of chemotherapy.
I was diagnosed with cancer in 2021, when I was 30 years old. I had begun checking my breasts just a few months earlier and was surprised, after only the sixth check, to feel a lump that hadn’t been there before. A doctor I’d never met relayed the diagnosis, and from the moment the words left her masked mouth, my head began to spin. Like Alice entering Wonderland, I entered a free fall.
After the doctor left the room, I changed out of the requisite pink robe and back into the clothes I’d worn to the appointment: a structured leather blazer, midrise 501s, and a pair of black loafers I wear like most people wear tennis shoes. I thumbed the soft cotton of my jeans and considered my reflection in the mirror. I still looked and felt like me, and my unofficial uniform comforted me. Ahead lay a sea of endless appointments, painful procedures, and overwhelming uncertainty; what I wore would be the one thing I could control.
Google “What to wear to cancer treatment” and you’ll find everything from functional tips to fashion blogs; there are even sponsored ads. Some women wear a dedicated outfit for every infusion, then burn it in a ceremony when their treatment is complete. Others post photos of feather boas and crowns, planning to wear them when they ring the end-of-treatment bell.
I resented the idea of dressing for a timeline, for I feared my own celebration would never come. People told me I had “the good kind of cancer,” then a scan showed it had spread to my spine and, suddenly, it wasn’t so good anymore. Immediately I went from stage one to four—enter again: the free fall—and I’d arrive at the hospital for a single appointment that subsequently engulfed the entire day. Arriving home on those nights, I’d reach for the cashmere pashmina I picked up on a surf trip, putting a layer of nostalgic protection between my body and the world. “Fashion is armor to survive the reality of everyday life,” Bill Cunningham once said.
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