“You know, when I went in to get a mammogram the other day, the nurse asked me if I had an Ashkenazi grandmother. What does Ashkenazi mean?” my best friend’s mother asked me.

I was visiting my non-Jewish childhood best friend in South Carolina. Greater Charleston has a population of 8,000 to 11,000 Jewish people, compared to my hometown of Greater Boston’s roughly 248,000 Jewish people. I have often taken it upon myself to act as an ambassador to all things Jewish with her and her family, whom I stay with for a week every year.

On this particular day of my visit, I compared traditional kashrut rules for Passover in Ashkenazi versus Sephardic communities. Growing up in a community so surrounded by Judaism, I took for granted how much others knew about Judaism. It never occurred to me that this family that I had known for seven years didn’t understand something so prevalent in my life. Her question caught me by surprise.

“Well,” I started slowly and cautiously, all too aware of what a delicate subject it can be, “after the Jewish people were expelled by the Romans in 70 CE, most of us went to Babylonia. Eventually, the Jews started to leave, and different Jewish people went to different areas. Ashkenazi people are descended from the Jews who went to northern France and Germany, called Ashkenaz, and most American Jews are Ashkenazi. Ashkenazi Jews have a very limited gene pool, which has also resulted in more of us having the same genetic mutation that can lead to cancer. So they probably asked to see if you were more at risk for carrying breast cancer-causing genes,” I offered. A year-long class on Jewish history coupled with personal knowledge of Ashkenazi Jews and breast cancer had finally come in clutch.

When I let my night-time anxieties get the best of me, I worry about breast cancer. I know so many brave Jewish women who have had it, including my own grandmother. It’s a fact of life in my community.

Despite being normalized, it isn’t normal. Being treated for breast cancer can cost tens of thousands of dollars, even with insurance. The cost can make care inaccessible, and some victims have to choose between going untreated or living in debt. Chemotherapy, one of the primary treatments, causes hair loss, fatigue, and vomiting. It also includes the risk of long-term symptoms like infertility. Mastectomies, a serious surgery to remove breast cancer, permanently alters the body which can result in body dysmorphia.

While necessary, being treated for cancer is a life-altering event. No matter how common it becomes, life for women with breast cancer isn’t normal. Jewish women—all women— deserve better care. Yet as I worry, I also think about the Jewish women, like Patricia Barr and Rose Kushner, who fought so people like my grandmother could live happy and full lives after breast cancer. 

Born in 1950, Patricia Barr was an impressive lawyer whose diagnosis inspired her to become a founder and director of the National Breast Cancer Coalition (NBCC). The NBCC later became the largest breast cancer advocacy group in the United States. Barr also participated in the Breast Cancer Task Force as chair of the Ethics Subcommittee. Overall, Barr’s advocacy led to research on breast cancer that contributed to the rising rates of survival amongst breast cancer patients.

Journalist Rose Kushner found a cancer lump in her chest at age 45. The disease and treatments were less understood at the time, and women didn’t always have autonomy in choosing the procedure that followed the results of their biopsies. Kushner fought to make her own choice about her treatment, using a contract that stopped her surgeon from operating until she saw the biopsy results and decided how to move forward. She educated herself on breast cancer and published her findings for other women. Her work helped women understand the disease and their options for treatment.

Barr and Kushner advocated for better breast cancer treatment and improved the lives of so many women, Jewish and non-Jewish alike. When women are diagnosed with breast cancer, it affects their family, friends, and their community at large. Combating breast cancer is the responsibility of every community and every person. There’s no magic cure for cancer, and I don’t believe one will be invented in my lifetime. However, I trust there will continue to be Jewish feminists who fight for better treatment. I hope that I, too, will be a part of this legacy.