Best 50 quotes in «breast cancer quotes» category

My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 13 and it was something we weren't really aware of as a family.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004.

As an ex-footballer, sometimes surfer and wannabe rock star, Quentin had been fucked by cheerleaders, surfer girls and groupies, but he had never, ever been fucked like that.

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself-and possibly teh bogey man.

All the anxiety over small things had burned off me in the fire of reentry, the fire of being afraid I was going to die.

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. So the only thing to really be afraid of is if you don't go get your mammograms.

Winning isn't the end of the world

As a recent editorial in the Journal of Clinical Oncology put it: "What we must first remember is that the immune system is designed to detect foreign invaders, and avoid out own cells. With few exceptions, the immune system does not appear to recognize cancers within an individual as foreign, because they are actually part of the self.

Breast cancer, I can now report, did not make me prettier or stronger, more feminine or spiritual. What it gave me, if you want to call this a “gift,” was a very personal, agonizing encounter with an ideological force in American culture that I had not been aware of before—one that encourages us to deny reality, submit cheerfully to misfortune, and blame only ourselves for our fate.

Do not partner with fear to help you make decisions

Carmen stood at the altar wearing a hand-beaded, curve hugging, ivory silk and chiffon gown that fit so perfectly, it looked as if it had been sewn on her. The fact that one of the breasts beneath the silken fabric was not her flesh but a form made of gel didn't detract from the gorgeousness of Carmen the slightest bit.

As I watched them file down the stairs, I didn't cry and I wasn't afraid. But I couldn't tell if it was Jesus or the gin.

He walked across the room and flicked a switch. A spotlight turned on, illuminating a laminated poster of a woman on his wall. He took a crayon from his pocket and began drawing on it. I could see smudges from past demonstrations. [. . .] His dashed lines crisscrossed the woman's chest as if he were planning a military maneuver on undulating terrain.

He shook his head at her question. Did women really think men cared about that stuff? Did he care if she did this all the time? Definitely, definitely not. He could honestly say he did not give a flying fuck whether this girl dragged guys home every other day to have her way with them for seven hours. He was just glad as hell she’d decided to do it with him. Today. And hopefully maybe again. Sometime.

I bet if cancer of the penis was more prevalent there’d be a cure for this fucker. I bet if dicks were being amputated or dropping off left, right and centre there’d have been a cure decades ago. There’d be a whole fucking government dick department dedicated to it.

Don't wait for tomorrow to live a life you love today.

I LOVE YOU FROM THE WAIST DOWN, I DON'T DEAL IN DAMAGED GOODS.

If a relative has suffered Ovarian or Breast Cancer, get the genetic screening. It saves lives.

If feeling yourself up had been an Olympic event, I'd have taken home the gold medal

I remember because I cannot forget

I needed someone to tell me how God could allow someone He loved to suffer so much when I wouldn't do this to someone I hated.

I've been married forever, and I still don't have it right.

[Karen Lundegaard] was quite frail, debilitated by metastatic breast cancer, which she had long known she had but for which she had been unable to get adequate treatment because she lacked medical insurance. ("If you mention anything about me," she said, "tell people that.")

Look,’ she said, sidling a little closer to him in the lift. ‘I understand this wasn’t what you bargained for when some cute girl at the café dared you to jump out of a plane with her. You were in it for thrills and sex and you got breast-cancer girl, her terrifying friend and her flaky mother. That’s above and beyond. And I totally get you’re here because you’d feel like some louse if you left her now, but it’s okay, she’s going to be fine, I’m going to take good care of her.

...in addition to feeling sick and tired and feverish and nauseated, I also felt forgotten. And there was no easy cure for that.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a sure-fire way to impress this girl, who was as cute as hell but wound tighter than one of his father’s antique clocks.

I've since learned that when you lose your same sex parent as a child, it's very common to believe that you, too, will die at the same age as your parent, or when your child is the same age you were. It's a kind of 'instinctive' knowledge, like knowing if you jump into your bed from far enough away, the monsters aren't allowed to grab your ankles.

Julia had been angry most of her life. She may have grown up in wealth and privilege but she’d had to fight to be heard and seen. To be validated. To be something other than a piece to be moved around her parents’ Monopoly board. Rage had given her a voice against their manipulations and the guts to walk away. But it had also become ingrained. There were times when she’d contemplated therapy for it. Right now, she was pleased she hadn’t. If anything could kill this cancer it would be the weight of Julia’s wrath.

Oh I bet you’re sweet as under all that posh.’ And he looked at her in a way that left her in no doubt that he wasn’t talking about the way she might move on the dance floor. If he mentioned honey pots she was going to pour her vodka shot over him. ‘You’ll never know,

Quentin Carmody didn’t do early mornings, heights or bossy women.

Quentin flicked a quick glance back at her again. Poppy. This girl had the wrong name. She should have been Rose. Great face, lots of prickles.

Quentin had told Spike that inking ‘percussion’ across your knuckles was kind of lame. It takes more than ten letters to make a badass knuckle tattoo. That was the problem with drummers. They didn’t listen. But they always seemed to get laid anyway.

Quentin wasn’t stupid, despite living what his father called ‘a lifestyle unworthy of yourself’.

Results from a prospective study of 25,892 Norwegian women clearly showed that consumption in excess of 750 ml of whole milk a day leads to a relative risk of breast cancer of 2.91 compared with consumption of less than 150 ml with a relative risk of 1.0 [104].

Poppy Devine did not deserve cancer. Poppy was sweet and industrious and careful and measured and always, always did the right thing. If anyone deserved cancer it was Julia. Julia was loud and opinionated and disagreeable. Rude, some might even say. She went out with bad men, took unnecessary risks, pushed people to their limits, swore like a sailor and flipped the bird more than any female in the history of the world. It should be her number coming up in the cancer lottery.

Scarlett lived by the (thankfully) ancient medical creed: If it tastes awful and smells worse, it’s probably good for you. Julia wasn’t so sure about that. She lived by the edict: If it tastes awful and smells worse, leave it the hell alone. On the other hand, if it tasted good and smelled better, you either ate it, squirted it on your neck or fucked it. It hadn’t led her wrong so far.

She frowned, and the effect was so pretty he wondered if he was going mad. Why did he find this cranky, kooky woman so damned appealing? He knew for a fact he could go out tonight and drag home some hot, willing chick who would stroke his ego and never argue with him about anything. He closed his eyes and remembered just how good that felt. Willing women; god bless them.

She’d never met someone so young who was so damn cocky. Most twenty-year-old guys she knew were either gauche or monosyllabic in her presence, but not Spike. There was a directness, a confidence in his inky-blue eyes that a lot of men never mastered. Cleary Spike was getting laid far too easily.

Ten looked confounded that anyone would consider the world’s most slavishly adored hot beverage in such a way. Julia felt momentarily sorry for him. He seemed like a guy who’d had it all figured out – join a band and get himself laid every night of the week. Living the dream. He had no fucking clue what was ahead of him.

There is no such thing as false hope. There is only hope

Two weeks ago, Aaron and Isaac, I learned your mother Laura has breast cancer. My heart feels impaled. These words, so useless and feeble. Laura is only thirty-five years old. Her next birthday will be in only three days. I write this letter to you, my sons, with the hope that one day in the future you will read it and understand what happened to our family. Together, your mother and I have created and nurtured an unbreakable bond that has transformed us into an unlikely team. A Chicano from El Paso, Texas. A Jew from Concord, Massachusetts. I want you to know your mother. She has given me hope when I have felt none; she has offered me kindness when I have been consumed by bitterness. I believe I have taught her how to be tough and savvy and how to achieve what you want around obstacles and naysayers. Our hope is that the therapies we are discussing with her doctors will defeat her cancer. But a great and ominous void has suddenly engulfed us at the beginning of our life as a family. This void suffocates me.

We were blonde, but we weren't dumb.

When I was in medical school, I embarrassed myself horribly when I found a 'lump' in my breast and frantically ran to one of the older doctors to find out if I had cancer. I found out I had a rib.

The idea that there could be one solution to breast cancer- screening, early detection, some universal cure- is certainly appealing. All of us, those who fear the disease, those who live with it, our friends and families, the corporations who swath themselves in pink, wish it were true. Wearing a bracelet, sporting a ribbon, running a race, or buying a pink blender expresses our hopes and that feels good - even virtuous. But making a difference is more complicated than that.

We’ll make a wellness altar, I think … have some incense burn¬ing, fresh flowers every day and string some lights around it …’ Poppy rolled her head to the side. ‘Still think it’s a good idea?’ Julia blanched at the tackiness of a wellness altar with fairy lights and a water feature, but what the hell, she already had a three-metre girly snake ruining the ambience. ‘Sure,’ she said. If it made Scarlett happy. Poppy laughed. ‘I’m going to remind you of this conversation when your apartment looks like a Chinese brothel.

Why this girl? Why had this girl crawled right under his skin and made an uncomfortable home there? Why did he want to make things good for her, to see her smile, to make her face and her voice make all those interesting shapes and noises? Why did he want to stay up late with her when he knew she should be sleeping, just to hear her talk about maths and politics and the state of the world? This was not Quentin. Quentin did not like skinny girls. He didn’t like serious girls. And he really hated bossy girls. Quentin loved curvy, fun, uncomplicated girls; girls who laughed at his jokes and took off their bras when they danced on tables. If they wore bras at all. Yet here he was, washing up and mopping and feeling like five kinds of an arsehole over hurting the feelings of some skinny, serious, bossy girl.

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I always sort of thought, 'I'm probably going to get breast cancer. There's a really good chance.'

Breast cancer change you, and the change can be beautiful.

About 80% of women diagnosed with breast cancer do not have a single relative with breast cancer.