How Frozen Peas Saved My Mom's Life

A little-known Japanese study convinced my mom to consent to life-saving breast cancer treatment

My mom was diagnosed with an aggressive HER2+ breast cancer after a routine mammogram in 2017. We were in disbelief. My wild, outrageous, SNL-character-of-a-mom had made it through seven+ decades without hearing from the beast that stole her mother’s life at 46. She thought she’d dodged an ever-looming bullet.

At 7mm, it was the size of a pencil eraser, but mighty, with a propensity to rapidly invade the brain, lungs, or liver if left untreated. Thankfully, a biopsy of nearby lymph nodes found no evidence of spread.

My mom met with a wonderful oncologist at MD Anderson, Dr. J, who explained that a lumpectomy was not enough; data showed her risk of recurrence would drop from 20% to less than 4% if she agreed to a chemotherapy drug called Taxol for 4 months, 20 rounds of radiation, and Herceptin infusions (targeted therapy) for a year.

It was terrifying but the alternative was unacceptable.

We wanted her to do the whole protocol but after learning about the alarmingly high rate of neuropathy (numbness, weakness) in hands and feet from this chemo drug, she refused to go beyond the lumpectomy. She’s been playing piano every day since she was six and didn’t want to risk losing dexterity in her hands. She loves to play her vast collection of pop songs. With a passion.

Cue renowned Duke oncologist, Neil Spector. My friend, “brother,” superhero to everyone he touched. He was a leading expert in HER2+ breast cancer and had developed a life-saving drug, lapatinib, for it.

My mom was not going down on his watch.

I relayed the above but she couldn’t wrap her head around a lumpectomy not being enough to cure a Stage 1 cancer that appeared not to have spread. Nor could she justify an 81% chance of no more piano. But then….

Determined to find a solution that would sway my mom, Neil sent a fascinating paper from Kyoto University which found that using frozen gloves and socks (aka cryotherapy) can significantly reduce chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN) in breast cancer patients receiving Taxol (paclitaxel). In this study, the use of these frozen accessories lowered the incidence of neuropathy from 81% to 28% in hands and from 64% to 25% in feet. Patients tolerated the cold well, and the study measured both objective symptoms and patient-reported experiences, showing significant improvements in comfort.

This was the promise we needed to get her on board. We ordered the special gloves and socks (crazy expensive at that time, at over $500, for essentially cheap gel freezer packs you get at the pharmacy but shaped like socks and gloves!), bought a cooler, and she began chemo a few weeks later. You have to wear them for the duration of the infusion plus 15 minutes before and after, but they just didn’t stay cold for long. I ran to Wegman’s and bought eight bags of frozen peas for $8. We rested her hands and feet on one bag each and then covered them with the other four. My mom found it hilarious but they worked! We re-froze them and used them every week. She got through the entire treatment with NO neuropathy and few other side effects.

What astounded me was that this data was not known to her oncologist or others in the department who prescribe Taxol. Dr. J was happy to learn, and told my mom, “Go for it! If it works for you, I’ll start recommending it!”

Armed with frozen peas (literally) and a fierce resolve, my mom not only conquered cancer but bestowed awareness within the oncology community that could benefit others. Her story serves as a powerful reminder that innovation can emerge from the most unexpected places, and that the journey through cancer is not just about survival, but about reclaiming life with purpose, creativity, and the unyielding spirit of a mother who refused to let her diagnosis stand in the way of her Stevie Wonder songbook.

Mom, Thanksgiving 2017: after completing treatment, teaching my nephew the Jaws theme ; )

Eternal thanks to the incomparable Dr. Neil Spector, who lost his battle with chronic Lyme in 2020. Here he is between my mom and me, with my brother and dad.