My ex was a fellow L.A. native I’d met on a dating app. We were surprised we hadn’t met IRL because our circles were intertwined; we went to rival high schools, and his cousin had been in a singing group with my sister and me, often performing at the Sherman Oaks Galleria back when it looked like it did in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.”
We’d been dating for a year when I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had to deal with additional risks due to my BRCA1 gene mutation. He was right by my side, spending countless hours with Cedars-Sinai doctors and with me in the medical center and treatment rooms . Once I came out all clear, he proposed. Our wedding was set at the Sportsmen’s Lodge Hotel in Studio City, not far from where he grew up and where my mom was having lunch when she went into labor with me.
I left that relationship a different person than I entered it, not only with more self-awareness but also with the emotional and physical scars and changes that going through cancer brings. I found my single self face to face with two fears: the fear of sharing my new body with a new man and the fear that I might never find a man, or love, again. I stopped allowing myself to believe, or even hope, that I would.
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