B3ddable

I didn’t grow up loving hockey. I don’t have some story about how my dad taught me to whack a puck, or my first steps being in conjunction with my first time on ice skates. In fact, I remember throwing tantrums when my parents would drag me to my older brother’s hockey games at the Bill Gray’s ice plex.

I think I was an ice skater for a total of 2.5 weeks. I didn’t wanna keep wearing leggings & stockings under my skirts, so I quit and ditched the spins.

I was diagnosed with Stage 2b, triple negative breast cancer, on March 25th, 2026. Because of the extremely invasive, and aggressive form of cancer I had, treatment had to start almost immediately. I flew home to Rochester, NY April 1st, met with my oncology team April 2nd, had my port placed April 7th, and started my chemotherapy regimen on April 8th. I was due to do 12 weeks of harsh chemo, weeks of fatigue, nausea, vomiting, losing ability in my body, shedding hair/lashes and brows. 

The first few weeks of treatment weren’t terrible. Some fatigue. Expected nausea. Soreness. But, unfortunately, day by day I was becoming more and more sick. Finally the realization of what was happening was setting in. I remember it really hitting me when I didn’t have the strength to open an amazon package on my own. I remember crying to mom about how I was once a World Champion athlete, and now I didn’t possess the strength to open a doorknob. I needed help getting out of bed, I laid on the bathroom floor for hours, and not only was I struggling so intensely physically, I couldn’t stop thinking about cancer 24/7. Which side effect I was gonna face next? What appointments did I have this week? Would I feel worse after this upcoming chemo? Am I gonna lose more hair? Am I gonna live? If I needed a distraction from the physical pain, the mental was there to drown it out. 

As hard as it was on me, it was probably even harder on my family. My amazing support system, my two loving and dedicated parents, my devoted and fierce sisters (who protected and advocated for me like a bear and a cub), and my older brother who was probably just as scared as everyone else, but never showed it in attempt to keep me calm. Sometimes I try to imagine what it was like in their shoes. What it must’ve felt like to get a phone call at 8:30 am from thousands of miles away to be told their daughter/sister had the scariest disease in the world. I used to joke around with my sisters that if I ever died young, to make sure I was buried in my favorite pink Juicy tracksuit, and never let them put that pale white makeup on my face. I’m sure for them that became more of a scary reality than a joke. I remember the horror in my parent’s voices the day I told them. I think it was the only time I heard my dad’s voice crack in my entire life. I remember every tear that fell from my mom’s eyes, when I had to fill out the patient intake forms, or get my 70th hospital band of the week. I imagined what it would be like to have my future child go through this. I couldn’t imagine how genuinely difficult it must’ve been for them watching me deteriorate from what was once such a strong, independent woman, to someone who became just as co-dependent like a toddler again. I can never repay them all for what they had sacrificed and all they endured at the time. 

Just as all of this was transpiring, simultaneously were the Stanley Cup Playoffs. My dad always maintained that he never missed the Stanley cup playoffs. Even if he didn’t watch a lick of hockey all year, you better believe that by late April there was a game playing on our family room TV. My mom used to yell “you don’t even watch hockey!!” (When she probably wanted to change the channel to TLC or the news), and he’d always reply “but I always watch the Stanley Cup Playoffs”.

For most of the day during treatment I was out of it, sick and trying to sleep it off. When I would leave my bedroom for the first time around 6:00 pm everyday, there was my dad getting ready to watch the first round: Sabres. vs. Bruins. Weak, nauseous, I would wobble down the stairs in my robe and my teddy bear slippers, and I would sit and watch with him. For those two-ish hours I wasn’t a sick girl and her caretaker father. We were just 2 people enjoying the game of hockey. Talking about fist fights, and bad calls, not about chemo and needle pricks. Being from Upstate NY, it’s hard to be a Buffalo fan sometimes, but the Sabres had made the playoffs for the first time in 14 years. I wanted to show my gratitude for my family so I was able to get front row tickets to a home game during Round 1 of playoffs (courtesy of my amazing job & boss, @ Hard Rock Bet). I remember how normal it all felt. To go to KeyBank center with my whole family and watch gloves be dropped, and people skate past us at like, 20 mph. It was the only time we didn’t dwell on my cancer. So, we made it a habit. Instead of just watching the Sabres, we’d watch every game, everyday. Starting in the east & finishing off with the west coast teams around 11, sometimes 12 at night. I was able to get approval to go to 2 sabres games at the time, this time it was vs. Montreal. I went with my older sister & her fiancé Adrian (who btw has also been incredible and has shown his love for me & our family throughout this process 10 fold) (He was the first and only person to cry when I got my first clear scans). Regardless, they knew taking me to a game would be my little treat, and I had a ball, but I could feel the physical difference in the 1st game vs the 2nd game. I was tired, weak, having hot flashes and I knew I was in the thick of it. I really, really wanted to go to game 6 in buffalo vs. Montreal. It was electric to watch it on TV, and my whole family was extremely passionate about it at this point, we looked up ticket prices, we gauged the time we’d have to leave Rochester, to get to Buffalo for puck drop, but unfortunately, I couldn’t go. My oncology team had let me know, I no longer was safe to be in public. I had no white blood cells to fight off any germs or infections, so a simple common cold could’ve put me in the hospital. I was extremely disappointed, but I was still excited to watch them. This continued on from April until June, the entirety of my chemo regimen. When one team we were rooting for got booted, we swap to a new one. It was fun to learn the players, the rules & how intense it all was. So again, even though I wouldn’t say the Bakers are dropping dough in the pro shops, or die hard puck lovers, we couldn’t be more grateful for the distraction and the bonding of hockey during that extremely hard, and dark time for us. 

That is why I thought it was integral I created something that not only felt authentic to me, but something that represented the good times in my journey as well. This jersey is a reminder that there is always good in bad. You can find happiness in the worst of times, if you look for it. I can’t wait to share with my community, as well as the hockey community, something that means so much to my family & I. We hope it can mean something to yours as well. 

Proceeds will be donated to BCRF & Cold Capping fundraisers to help women be able to financially elect to cold cap during their Chemo. 

Thank you all so much, and always remember…. 

You CAN’T KEEP A DIVA DOWN!!!!!!

With all the love in world, most sincerely, 

Brynn Baker