Health / Wellness

The Gift, The Anchor, The Rock

Working through cancer in a supportive environment can provide you with the distraction you need to keep going.

By Kristen M. Sinclair  
on

(Image via Getty)

Ed. note: This is the latest installment in a series of posts on motherhood in the legal profession, in partnership with our friends at MothersEsquire. Welcome Kristen M. Sinclair to our pages. Click here if you’d like to donate to MothersEsquire.

On the snowy February 2019 night of my first mammogram, I cried for myself, my two young sons, my husband, and my mom. We would be the most affected by a cancer diagnosis.

My tears were centered around my fears of abandonment. My self-worth has always been tied to my perception of my usefulness to those around me. If I lose that ability to produce at home and at work, how will I know my value? If I am useless, everyone will leave, therefore I should leave first. I should die and make room for someone else to take my roles as mother, wife, and employee.

Facing the leap into a bottomless pit, and, for a moment, you too might think death was a more viable option. Envision yourself facing a potential death sentence, and serve it bald, scarred, burned, ugly, medicated into heart, liver and lung complications, unable to care for your children, to work … why live?

I wallowed in fears of the reaction I would encounter in each segment of my life. How would my boss handle the news? I worked for nearly 10 years at the same firm. We had built a solid relationship on trust and respect, founded upon mutual confidence in my management capabilities. I never rested upon prior accomplishments. So if I stopped adding value to the firm, how could my boss stand by me? How would I withstand the brutal treatment without losing my seat at the table?

As I cruised online support groups, I grew more horrified at all the physical ravages I had in my future. The world would know: I was a defective product.

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Many cancer patients take leaves of absence during these phases of treatment. I refused. My boss, a father of two daughters and owner of his practice, urged me to rest. I saw him wince as I dragged my limp body into the office just five days after my first round of chemotherapy. I can still envision how he ran out of the office at lunchtime, returning with the best matzo ball soup in town, his way of showing comfort.

My coworkers assumed one of the largest roles in my “Boob Army,” bearing the brunt of my days off and my chemo-brain fog. The entire office family huddled around me. No one wanted me to step aside for someone unbroken. I felt anchored in the storm by the commitment of my office family.

To a cancer patient, that kind of reassurance is everything. When you feel lost in a sea of medicines, side effects, and depressing statistics, hope should anchor you through the storm.

Have you met many hopeful lawyers? Or, even a slightly optimistic lawyer? We don’t deal in hope. We live in the worst-case scenarios. When you practice law, it’s your job to see the worst-case scenario.

Hence why I immediately wanted to order a dumpster on the night of my first mammogram. Because I was already dead. If I had to accept cancer, fine, I’ll accept it at its worst. I couldn’t see fighting any other way. Still, even if I wouldn’t allow myself to hope, I would keep going for my sons.

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We received an outpouring of support. A special gift came in the form of a bracelet with a hidden motto on its inside: “Keep f*cking going.” The gift was more than the bracelet; it became my mantra, my battle cry.

And so I did keep f*cking going. I survived six rounds of intense chemotherapy, lost my hair, underwent countless scans, exams, and bloodwork. Following two lumpectomies, I faced 32 rounds of radiation, concurrently with 14 triweekly Kadcyla rounds, and eventually five to 10 years of medically induced menopause.

Once I lost my hair and half my eyebrows, I truly felt ugly. I had to push myself to still be in pictures with my boys and to continue making memories. I made peace with my baldness and shed the feelings of ugliness gradually.

Regardless, the experience of baldness heightened my awareness of my own tendency to judge others based upon their outward appearance. Cancer opened me to seeing the beauty inside of others’ hearts, eyes, and smiles before I look at their physical presence.

I worried about losing my place with the firm, yet the opposite occurred. For the first time in my 10 years there, clients were encouraging my boss to bring me to the annual fall conference, scheduled to occur at the tail end of my radiation schedule. On a leap of faith, my boss asked me to join him. His vote of confidence cannot be understated. The man was not afraid to bring the defective product, nor was he embarrassed by my physical presence. It spoke volumes about his character that he committed more deeply to my professional development.

I prepared for the three-day whirlwind conference in D.C., packing clothes for a month-long trip. I included a few wigs, just in case I was too afraid to be the bald lady lawyer. Upon arrival, I elected to leave the wigs aside. No one knew me there with long hair, so I chose to wear a big smile, come what may.

On the first evening of the conference, I attended a new member dinner event by invitation from the association’s incoming president. The president introduced me to a few other new members. One of the women, “H,” became a friend. She overheard me mention cancer. She too had very short hair. H shared that she had recently lost her beloved mother to cancer.

We talked about our shared experiences, and also our differences. H later told me that when she first saw me, she said to herself, “Who is that other bald bitch? I have to meet her.” She had expected to be the only bald woman in the room at that dinner, but she was relieved to find another “bald bitch.” She too had packed her wigs, but challenged herself to leave them behind that evening. Being bald allies gave us both an extra boost of confidence that weekend.

Radiation concluded October 25, 2019. Many hurdles lay ahead. Still, the boost of professional confidence I gained from the trust of my boss to participate gave me reassurance that no doctor could offer.

Working through cancer in a supportive environment provided me with the distraction I needed to keep going. I remain employed with my current firm, anchored to the loyalty and support I received in the darkest months most people could ever experience.

Kristen M. Sinclair is a wife, mother of two sons, Brody & Carson, and breast cancer survivor. After serving as Law Clerk to the Honorable Michael J. Kassel, J.S.C. from September 2008-August 2009 in the Camden County Superior Court of New Jersey, she began a career in a civil, commercial, and retail collections practice. Cancer interrupted her plans in 2019, but she did not allow treatment and survivorship to dull her desire to grow her personal practice of law into political and social advocacy. She is presently serving as a County Committee member in Burlington County, NJ. 

Kristen is the founder of Freedom Speaking LLC and Shielding Liberty LLC, entities focused on free speech advocacy. She has co-founded the Child Advocate Coalition LLC with her partner, Nik Stouffer, a medical biostatistician of 25 years experience. They work together to advance parental rights in school advocacy efforts. To learn more about their organizations, they can be found on social media and maintain newsletters through chaosandcontrol.substack.com with a readership of over 3,000. Her personal author page can be found at Kristen20.substack.com.

Kristen credits the support of her work family as an anchor she needed to weather the storm of active cancer treatment. For anyone in a similar situation, let her story remind you: Keep going. 

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