Tammi and Me

When breast cancer becomes a sister act.


My cousin Stephanie gave me a picture of Tammi and me at about ages 4 and 5. In this tiny, black-and-white photo, our hands are clasped as we stand on the sidewalk in front of our home, smiling. We are two sisters in matching denim overalls; we look very "country" because we were! In the background is a '50s-era car (how could that be?!), parked on a street in Cumberland, Md. Looking at the picture reminds me we are still joined — she in the afterlife, me in this world — connected through love and our common disease.

Tammi was born only 14 months after me, so we were very close. In our 30s, we made a pact to be like the Delany sisters: living well beyond 100 and sharp as tacks. Presumably widowed, we would live together. Tammi, always tidy and elegant, would wear a trench coat, even in summer. I, less organized but lovable, would be searching for lost keys, glasses, and other effects from morning until night.

Our treasured plan was disrupted when Tammi was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 33. Somehow, this brought us even closer. We talked by phone for hours after her diagnosis; I slept in her hospital room after surgery and walked the oncology ward with her; we shopped after her radiation treatments; I fed her ice chips in her final days of hospice care at my house. I held her in my arms when she died at 36 in 1995.

About a month before Tammi died, I promised her I would take care of my own health and breasts. Those final days were so precious, but that day I made the promise to her was particularly special.

Since Tammi's diagnosis, I've dutifully followed my annual routine: procrastinate, make the mammogram appointment, show up, don the gown, have my boobs squeezed like they were being run over by a steamroller, and then wait in a little cubby, holding my breath and hoping this won't be "the time." For all those years, I exhaled and thanked God as I got the results.

Last June, my time came as I was flirting with Scott, my husband of 13 years. That sunny day in our kitchen, I flashed him playfully, lifting my tank top for about 10 seconds. In that time, Scott noticed a little crease on my left breast. It was so tiny you could see it only with my arms raised, and barely then. But I knew what it meant. If you've lost someone you love to breast cancer, you know.

As usual, my mammogram showed no sign of problems, but the sonogram certainly did. On my daughter Sara's last day as a second-grader, I received the pathology results.

Mammogram, sonogram, and biopsies all happened in rapid succession. My family and friends were ready to circle the wagons. Red-winged blackbirds — my favorite — were everywhere in my neighborhood the day we got the news from my breast surgeon, and I knew they would be no less beautiful if I had cancer. Results: two malignant tumors in my left breast — exhale. "OK, I've got breast cancer."

How could both beaming little girls, hand in hand in an old photo, have grown to develop this disease? Maybe Tammi and I shared a genetic mutation that contributes to developing breast cancer. Our first cousin Carol had breast cancer, a few years back, in her early 50s. Her cancer was caught earlier than mine, requiring a lumpectomy, but not chemo or radiation. A second cousin, Dolores, also postmenopausal, had an experience similar to Carol's. Like many African-American women, neither Tammi, Carol, Dolores, nor I had gotten genetic testing and counseling.