By Meredith Rosenthal, Breast Cancer Survivor
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Lately, I find myself in the same downtown Philadelphia hospital parking garages, elevators, and waiting rooms. My senses are overtaken by all-too-familiar stimuli—harsh fluorescent lighting, the sharp scent of cleaning supplies, and pink gowns that “open in the front.” I wish it was déjà vu, but it isn’t.
This time, it’s not about me. Instead, I’m helping my mom, Iris Vinokur, navigate the complicated, disorienting experience of a breast cancer diagnosis. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—I’m familiar with how all of this works. It’s been just over three years since my own diagnosis, now my mom faces the same reality.
After the death of my father, Jack Vinokur, in January 2025, my mom understandably delayed her routine mammogram. My parents had been married for 57 years, and my dad always accompanied her to that appointment. I can picture him in the waiting room—impeccably dressed in a blue blazer, khaki dress pants, and a flat cap—patiently waiting for the love of his life to emerge, reassured by the familiar words that everything “looked okay.”
About six months after she was supposed to have a mammogram, the day finally came for her appointment. This routine mammogram was anything but routine. My dad wasn’t in the waiting room—my brave mom went alone to what she thought would be a non-event. I still find myself regretting not being with her, but who would have thought she would be diagnosed at 80 years old, after having just supported me through my own cancer journey. The radiologist—ironically, the same one who had delivered my own diagnosis—shared the news that it was most likely breast cancer, and further testing would be needed. Anyone who has faced this diagnosis knows that one of the hardest parts is the waiting. Waiting for results. Waiting for appointments to be scheduled. Waiting—just waiting.
Now what? Deep breath. Without hesitation, my mom made it known that she wanted the same medical team that cared for me. From the breast surgeon to the oncologist, we knew the drill.
Her journey is different. While the type of cancer is the same, being diagnosed in your late 40s is different from being diagnosed at 80. She opted for a lumpectomy. I had
a double mastectomy with reconstruction. Radiation for Mom. Chemo was on the table for me; although it’s a treatment I never ended up enduring due to complications. Five years of oral medication for Mom. Five years of oral medication for me. However, different medications because we are at different hormonal points in our lives. Everyone’s journey is different.
Mother and daughter with the same type of breast cancer must mean that there’s a genetic component. Right? You would think, but that’s not the case. Mom and I both had genetic testing and counseling, and none of the markers point to genetics—at least for now. New genetic markers are always being discovered. So many questions. So many fears. Top on my list—what does this mean for my daughter? Earlier diagnostic testing for her? What can she do to prevent yet another generation facing breast cancer?
And yet, genetics don’t seem to tell the whole story. With so many of my dearest friends being diagnosed with breast cancer, I can’t help but wonder why it is so prevalent. Doctor after doctor point to environmental factors—and they don’t solely mean pollution. They are clear that all of us need to reduce the stressors of daily life. My mom and I always make a list of questions before each appointment. She wanted to ask “our” breast surgeon what else could be done to prevent the cancer from coming back. I’m sure it was the same question the doctor had already answered dozens of times that month. It was also the same question I had asked three years earlier. I already knew the answer because I had heard it before, but I let Mom ask—just in case something had changed. It hadn’t. The advice was the same: “Exercise at least 30 minutes a day, five days a week. Don’t drink alcohol. Reduce your stress. And continue to get screened.” My mom looked at me and said, “You were correct.” Yes, Mom. Unfortunately, I know all too well—and now, so do you.
By the time this article is published, my mom’s journey will have taken many twists and turns. Truthfully, it’s a journey that never ends. Even when the physical part fades, the mental weight stays. So where does this leave me? Sitting beside my mom—sometimes as her guide, sometimes as her daughter—both of us doing the best we can with what we know. I will keep sharing our story, as a survivor and as a daughter, in the hope that it encourages others to listen to their bodies, to take care of themselves, and to remember that even in the hardest moments, no one has to walk this path alone.
About the Author:
MEREDITH ROSENTHAL lives in North Wilmington with her family and is actively involved in the community, serving on several local boards, including the Siegel JCC, the University of Delaware’s Hillel, and Jewish Living Delaware advisory committee. She has been a realtor for more than 20 years, is licensed in both Delaware and Pennsylvania, and works with Long & Foster Real Estate’s Greenville office. Earlier in her career, Meredith was an Emmy Award–winning TV reporter and producer and served as press secretary to two U.S. Senators. When she’s not touring houses or volunteering, she enjoys spending time with family and friends, writing, and traveling.
Photos provided by Meredith Rosenthal
