Living with cancer — and daring to date again

By Stefanie LaRue with Paula Derrow

updated 9:41 a.m. ET Oct. 29, 2008

Picture this: You’re in a bar, and a guy a few seats over starts flirting. Soon, you’re sharing personal details — the last movie you’ve seen, music you like. Then, if you happen to be in a high-powered city like Los Angeles, where I live, one of you inevitably asks what the other does for a living.

For me, that’s when things get uncomfortable, especially when all his friends are standing around listening. Because I’m not working. Almost three years ago, I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer.

Since then I’ve been on disability, and it’s hard to imagine anyone seeing me as a potential partner. Among other things, I can’t have kids and I have a disfigured right breast. After treatment, when I could go out again, I remember thinking, What the f--- do I say to the “What do you do?” question.

That I can’t work? That statistically, I don’t have long to live?That the fact that I’ve made it two years is a miracle? Boy, am I a catch! When I do manage to explain, guys say, “So, you’re cured, right?” and I’ll say, “No. Stage IV cancer is not curable.” And they’ll say, “Wow. That’s heavy.”

The worst date ever
Oddly, my breast cancer odyssey began on a date. I was out with a guy I’d seen a few times before — I’ll call him Jake — and when we got back to his house, we started kissing. Soon, he ran his hand across my breast and all the action stopped. “Do you know you have a lump?” he asked, looking worried. That definitely killed the mood. I wanted to keep going — I was a little buzzed and a lot horny! — but Jake made me feel it, and then I began to worry. Not surprisingly, we didn’t have sex.

The next day, Jake was adamant about my getting the lump checked, and I ended up seeing three different doctors, all of whom reassured me that at 30, I was too young to have breast cancer. They also said that because my lump was tender to the touch, that it was unlikely to be cancer; breast cancer lumps aren’t usually painful. Mastitis, they called it. A breast infection. But they were wrong. Now that I know what I do, I say, Shame on those doctors for not ordering a breast biopsy sooner, just to be safe.

Finally, after a suspicious ultrasound, one doctor ordered a biopsy. Two days later, I learned that I had a very aggressive cancer, which yet more tests revealed had already spread to my spine and bones. The official diagnosis, which I got after six weeks, was stage IV metastatic breast cancer. I was given a year to live.

Lifesaving sex
During my diagnosis nightmare, I got very close to a man I’ll call Luis, whom I met around the same time as Jake. But while Jake and I became friends, I fell in love with Luis. He oozed so much passion, I figured I’d found my McSteamy. On the day I was diagnosed, he came over and said, “You’re coming to stay with me.”

My sex drive has always been healthy, but something happened when I got sick, despite all the harsh treatments: My sex drive went through the roof, even after I started chemo and lost my hair (everywhere!). Of course, there were days I didn’t feel well enough to be intimate, but I’d always bounce back and want Luis, mostly because I craved the closeness. Even though I had no hair, I was bone-skinny and chemo toxins were oozing out of my pores, he still made me feel sexy and loved. Wig on or wig off, it didn’t matter. We even had spontaneous sex in the hospital one time when I was getting into one of those gowns that open up in the back — we couldn’t help but take advantage! In some ways, the sex was lifesaving; it helped take my mind off everything that was happening. I’ve always had a hunger for life, and the diagnosis only intensified that. Whether I’m playing with my dog in the backyard and he’s licking my face or I’m connecting with a guy, I cherish those moments of chemistry.

A grueling course of treatment
Within three weeks of that diagnosis, doctors inserted a port into my arm (a big, round metal thing that makes it easier to stick the needles in) and I started chemo, with all the nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, body cramps and other symptoms. As a bonus, the chemo put me into early menopause, which brought on blazing hot flashes, night sweats and insomnia. I was told I could never have children because the presence of estrogen in my body would feed the cancer. I was devastated, and I still had breast surgery and radiation to get through. All of this took a toll on Luis, too. He stuck with me through the chemo, but I know the whole thing wore on him. He had become my co-survivor, something he said he didn’t sign up for. (Hell, neither did I.) But I think he was done with me and my diagnosis. So we ended it, and he helped me move back into my apartment. I was heartbroken, but really, how could I blame him? This was my battle to fight.

Back on the dating scene
After Luis and I broke up, I wanted to date again, I wanted to have sex again and most of all I wanted to feel close to someone in an intimate way. But I was also very scared of being rejected. I have a chronic disease — doctors have told me that it’s not a matter of if the cancer returns but when. And the fact that I was missing most of my right breast, not to mention my hair, made me feel inadequate, especially when I was surrounded by all the beautiful women in L.A. with their long, sexy hair and outrageous bodies. It was hard to compete. I got a great-looking long-haired wig, but I had to stick it on with double-sided tape, and removing it hurt — it peeled off my skin and left red welts. Not sexy. Guys would say, “I love your hair,” and ask for my number, and I’d think, If you only knew. I’d tell them, “I’ve got heavy baggage!” Of course, when I went out without the wig, I got a different kind of attention, which is to say minimal. Mostly, my attitude about meeting men was “I’ve been through the wringer. If you want to be friends, fine, but as far as anything else, I’m not feeling it.”

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