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.
My days were chaotic; my clothes helped balance the scales. I made mood boards for hospital outfits the way people plan wedding looks. I started wearing neutrals for stability on long appointment days. For surgeries, I went bold, wearing over-the-top prints and silhouettes the same way I wore red lipstick in college to give me confidence during exams. On bedridden days, I’d slip into feather-trim pajamas and relish in old movies and TV—*The Eyes of Laura Mars, Melrose Place, Ally McBeal—*stealing subtle styling tips and adding them to my sartorial vision for the week.
Soon, the line between clothing and costume blurred. As I felt worse, I dressed better, brighter, and more dramatically. I abandoned all things appropriate and dressed for fantasy, as if I were on my way to some glamorous occasion and cancer treatment just happened to be a to-do list item on the way. My hospital is known for its world-class art collection, so some days I’d arrive early and tour it like a museum. I’d shift my weight from one knee-high boot to the other, fringe from my poncho swaying back and forth, and consider a series by Ed Ruscha. Strutting from building to building, Lichtenstein to Warhol, I’d flash my hospital bracelet like an entry button at The Met.
It wasn’t long before my doctors started commenting on my clothes. Some noted the benefit of color; others simply did a double take. My reconstructive plastic surgeon refused to pity me and, therefore, was always my favorite. “Saks Potts!” she screamed one day when I wore a fuzzy-sleeve coat from the brand. “They make us dress down,” she lamented. “Otherwise, I’d be wearing mine too.”
As pandemic precautions lifted, fashion led me to community. I met a group of women, like me, who were diagnosed in our 30s, just as we were becoming who we wanted to be. I met a hairstylist who’d just lost her hair, a beauty writer in recurrence, and two stylists who’d had such a hard time getting dressed in treatment, they launched a line of silk pajamas called Doze. Through mutual friends, I met a girl named Lauren who was even more over-the-top than me. One day, she bought us matching pink light-up cowboy hats—“To make cancer FUN!” she said. Cancer crowds out the life force that is frivolity; patients aren’t given room for “shallow” concerns like how they dress. But we knew it was more than vanity; it was identity.
Somewhere between Ally McBeal mini suits and Nancy Sinatra cosplay, my treatment started to work. Against all odds, I was declared NED—no evidence of disease—and after nine months, I did ring that final bell. Standing in front of my fellow patients on my very last day of treatment, I wore a cream knit top and camel trousers, topped off with a baby pink wig. I wanted to represent a vision for the rest of my life, one that was confident and calm but didn’t take itself too seriously. It was no feather boa, but it was my version of a victory sash.
Three years later, I’m grateful to remain NED. My scars have healed, my hair has nearly returned to its original thickness and length, and I’ve continued to carefully choose my outfits as I return to the hospital for maintenance care. As I got ready for my latest appointment on a blustery winter day, I fumbled through my closet until I reached a faux fur coat by Khaite. It has an odd cropped body and oversized wing sleeves, the kind of thing you buy when You only live once is more of a mantra than a meme. With every appointment, my same old fears return—will they find a recurrence, complications, or something entirely new? My body shivered against the weather and my fearful thoughts. I wrapped my faux fur armor a little tighter and confidently walked in.