Music touches the heart and soothes the soul. Through personal connection and community it reaches far beyond a listening experience. While it plays a role in our overall well-being, though, it's only part of the bigger equation.

Through the mutual connections that music has brought us at SPB, we learned of Bree of Allegedly Records' breast cancer diagnosis about one year ago. There are an estimated 2.3 million new breast cancer diagnoses every year causing severe pain, stress and turmoil for those we love.

We asked Bree to share her journey -- and how music played a role along the way.

Cancer just sucks and doesn’t care

I have sat down to write this probably 50 times; looking for this specific angle to relate my cancer journey with music. But in truth, those two things were intertwined from the beginning. They simultaneously existed in every step, decision, and day. My end goal has always been to normalize cancer through honesty and with jokes and to be a resource for those in need. So I think that I'm just going to tell my story about the events, the bands, and the people who got me to this moment in time.

To start, let me quickly introduce myself. I'm Bree. I’m a chubby middle-aged stoner who lives in the middle of nowhere with my husband, four teenagers, and more pets than we need. I run Allegedly Records with my partner, Amy. We have around 20 punk bands on our roster and we would love for you to check them all out.

Now, I wish this story began with me being super responsible and doing my monthly checks. But like with many stories, it was pure stupidity and dumb luck. In June of 2023, I went for a run during 90 degree weather. I came home covered in sweat and got myself stuck while trying to remove my sports bra. Maneuvering my way out of the fabric, like a sea turtle trapped in a 6-pack ring, my hand came in contact with an alarmingly sized lump on my left breast. That scared me enough to make a doctor’s appointment.

Monday morning came. I got to the doctor and she confirmed the lump. I had a mammogram later that week and everything escalated quickly from there. As soon as my film was reviewed, I was whisked down the hall to the ultrasound room. I was told to lie down, that someone would be in soon, and it should only take about 10-15 minutes to get some pictures. The tech came in and started her typical dialogue about how these situations were usually benign and it was more just a precaution. Yada yada.

I’m not typically someone who worries, but I already knew in the pit of my stomach that it was cancer. Watching the tech’s forehead wrinkle more and more as she took pictures for the next 45 minutes only confirmed my suspicions. A doctor came in at this time and said that she wanted to do immediate biopsies of the tumor and my lymph nodes. I replied that I would do anything that they wanted, but not until the following week.

At that moment, I knew that the news would not be good and I didn’t want to get the results while being in a sea of people. You see, I was leaving in a few days to go to a festival in Ohio. My friends from all over the country were meeting me there for a weekend of music and fun. I also wasn't ready to tell people yet. I had no idea what the future held and, as morbid as it sounds, if this was the last time that I spent with everyone, I didn't want it to be about me having cancer. The weekend was perfect. I created core memories with my friends, fellowshipped in the Get Dead pit with people that I hadn't seen in years, and fell in love with a boy during NOFX’s The Decline. I left Punk in Drublic with a full heart; ready to face whatever waited for me back home.

The following week I went back to the medical center and had the biopsies done. This was not a great experience. I laid on my right side with that arm tucked under my head while my left arm was held straight up in the air. I kept that position for about 45 minutes. I’m not sure if this is universal, but other people warned me that numbing agents don't work on cancer tumors and they felt every single piece being removed. I found that to be true for me as well. To biopsy lymph nodes, they drag a needle back and forth over them. After about 15 minutes of this, the tech told me that the lymph node was giving up. I agreed that I was spent as well. I got dressed, went home, and watched my left tiddy bruise, like it had been used as a punching bag.

A couple days later, while at work, I received a phone call at 9am from a nurse regarding my results. I was told that the doctor wanted to see me at 2pm and to not come to my appointment alone. Fuckkkkk. I tried so hard to stay at work until the afternoon, but I was a mess. I knew what that meant, but I had to wait five hours to confirm it. I was single at this point (that boy from the punk show still lived in Colorado), so my mom went with me.

Hearing the words, "you have cancer" is weird. Like the shit that happens to other people, but not to you weird. Even when I knew those words were coming and I prepared myself to hear them; it still sucked the air out of the room. And that's not even the scariest part, because my primary doctor had no real answers for me. I then had to pick a breast cancer surgeon and wait for the appointment and further tests to finally determine what I was dealing with. Knowing, but not knowing. I wouldn't wish that anxiety on anyone.

While I was waiting to meet with the cancer doctor, I began to slowly start telling people about my diagnosis. Remember that cute punk boy from Colorado? He was one of my first conversations. I told him that he shouldn’t waste his time on me, because there was a chance that I would only break his heart. I’ll never forget his response. He replied, “This will be nothing and then we have our whole lives to waste together.” If I didn’t love him before, I absolutely did then.

I also made the decision to be completely public and honest about my cancer journey. There was so much that I was learning and I wanted to be a resource for people in similar situations. I also knew that running a record label would make it hard for me to just disappear for six months. My partner, Amy, already knew by then, but I needed to tell our bands. I could not have asked for a better support system. I knew in my heart that everyone at Allegedly had my back and would help in any way that I needed.

I found an amazing breast cancer surgeon in Johnstown, PA and she presented me with the facts and my options. Even though I had cancer, I had caught it early. I was considered Stage 1B, which is a fancy way to say that the tumor size was Stage 2, but the cancer hadn’t spread to my lymph nodes yet. The cancer was estrogen and progesterone feeding, which is another fancy way of saying that my body was producing the hormones that were making the cancer cells grow larger.

I made extreme decisions when it came to my treatment and chose to have a double mastectomy. I never wanted to hear those three words ever again. (The joke was on me there, but more on that soon.) The first few weeks of recovery were rough. I had drain tubes coming out of my armpits, couldn’t raise my arms over my head, and relied on my mother and kids for almost everything. That cute Colorado boy even came to take care of me for a week once those pesky drains were removed. I also started taking a hormone blocker called Tamoxifen, which pushed me straight into menopause. So not only was I not able to shower properly, I was a constant sweaty mess from the hot flashes. Nothing like beginning a new relationship being the worst, smelliest version of yourself.

People always mention how positive I was during this period, but that wasn't always the case. Nobody saw when I sobbed alone in the car so that my kids wouldn't see me. One of our bands, Paperback Tragedy, released an album with a song on it called, “Silently Screaming,” and it became my anthem. I would have to pull off the highway during my 90-minute commute to the doctor because I would get so emotional when it played.

While I was healing and waiting for my oncotype results, I was out of work and struggling financially. (I’ve said over and over that it’s not fair that cancer patients' biggest fears are losing their houses, etc. during treatment.) Again, the punk community stepped up and helped me. They had benefit shows, took donations, and sold homemade items, like buttons, to help me stay afloat financially. Every kindness is etched into my heart and I’ll never forget it.

When my oncotype results finally came back, I was so fortunate that I did not require chemo. That C word scared me more than cancer. I had panic attacks just thinking about life with the chemo port. Having so many people tell me that they were prepared to shave their heads with me still makes me snotty when I think about it.

I thought that this was the end of my tango with cancer, but about six months later, I started having pain around my implants. I went back to the plastic surgeon and I was basically told to “either go to a pain clinic or stop complaining about it.” So I ignored it for about another six months. Then the pain became so unbearable that I struggled doing simple daily tasks. While I had resigned to the fact that this was my life now, I had a support system urging me to get another opinion.

I called my breast cancer surgeon and asked to be seen. During the initial exam, she asked me how long I had the lump. Since I have no feeling in my chest, I hadn’t noticed it. She said that it was probably scar tissue around the clip marker that she left behind previously, but she sent me for an ultrasound. Again, just to be safe.

History began to repeat itself. The ultrasound turned into biopsies that turned into the waiting-for-results game. Those results came a couple days later, in a tearful after-hours phone call from my surgeon. News that totally blindsided me this time. The cancer was back. Same place, same type. She apologized so many times, said she poured over my file, and had no idea why. My response was simple. “Cancer just sucks and doesn’t care.” Most likely a single cancer cell broke off either during the initial biopsy or during the mastectomy surgery. One cell is all that it takes for a recurrence.

I call this portion of my journey, “Cancer’s Groundhog Day.” I went back in for surgery and basically had the double mastectomy all over again. They removed the old implants, along with the tumor, put new implants in, removed some problematic skin, and I was home by the afternoon. Recovery was much the same, but by now that cute punk boy had uprooted his Colorado life and moved across the country to live with us. He was such a huge help and the time spent in bed flew by.

Radiation was also a necessity this round, since I was a recurrence. I had a bit of an ego going into treatment. I figured that I would go during my lunch break, use lotion on my skin to prevent burns, and drink more water. Piece of cake. I could not have been more wrong. I haven't felt that level of exhaustion since having 4 kids in 5 years back in my 20s. My body ached from the position that I had to lay in during treatment and I felt like I was full of static electricity. Food tasted like metal, my hands and feet felt like lightning was shooting out of them, and my already raspy voice became a whisper. They promised that the radiation would permanently remove my armpit hair. They lied…It did not.

Week 1: The initial week was the hardest. I would come home from my sessions at 4pm and go straight to bed for the night.

Week 2-3: The laser clipped a portion of my throat and it became hard to talk and eat. I started surviving on milkshakes and soup.

Week 4: The first signs of the burns show up.

Week 5: This was the week that our school district decided to hold all end of the year activities. I literally drug my body to every single one.

Week 6: Even with all of the lotion, steroids, and silver cream, I finished treatment with 3 large burns: one across my chest, one around the incision where my nipple used to be, and one in my armpit.

You would think that this would be the end of my story, but nay. Life had one more kicker for me. Thankfully, I did not need chemo this round either. However, they did find abnormal spots on my annual gyno exam. Further, horribly painful tests followed. (Side rant. Could they please offer something to make this less painful for women? Imagine taking a hole punch to an unpeeled orange and don't even get me started on having an IUD inserted or yanked out….) Anywho, I didn’t have cancer in my lady bits yet, but it was coming. And since my ovaries were producing the hormones (estrogen and progesterone) that were feeding the cancer cells in my body, all that shit had to go. I underwent a complete hysterectomy in August of this year. Goodbye, Uterus…. Hello, my body thinks we need our AARP card.

I’m happy to report that I am currently cancer free for the second time. I have to take a pill every day for the next seven years that hopefully keeps me that way. I recently married that cute punk boy from Colorado and we put on a huge show full of Allegedly bands to celebrate. When I say that the punk community showed up for us, boy do I mean it. It was like being surrounded by royalty on our special day. Getting cancer sucked, getting it twice sucked harder. But in the immortal words of Angus, “I’m still here, asshole. I’ll always be here.”