Today I had my LAST treatment. Halle-friggin-lujah.
I rang the bell and celebrated with my friends and family and drank a huge milkshake. It was quite the fun party. I got lots of nice presents. Everyone knows that my favourite part about cancer is the presents. That’s the only thing I like about it, really. But it’s a pretty sweet perk.
Dad hugs post-bell-ringing
I have all these confusing, mixed-up emotions. I’m scared of saying bye to all the nurses. I feel like I still need them. I’m scared of saying bye to my drugs. I worry what could happen to me once they’re out of my system. I’m scared of getting too comfortable, and ending up back in that chemo room. It’s hard to say it’s my last treatment without adding on “here’s hoping!” But I really want to believe it’s over. I want this to be the end. Please, please, please, let it be.
I am so over the whole cancer thing. Time for a new thing.
Have you noticed my posts have become less frequent? Sorry to the new subscribers who have signed up for the blog. I don’t wish to disappoint you. However, you can usually safely assume that in my case, no news is good news. The less I have to say/write about cancer, the more I am focusing on other things. Important things. Like getting caught up on Season 3 of Scandal. Very important. (P.S. no spoilers, please. Seriously.)
I recently attended a support group of sorts. It wasn’t technically labeled a support group, but it was a group of cancer patients, in a room, talking about issues surrounding a cancer diagnosis. It was kind of a lecture with some discussion thrown in here and there.
I didn’t attend one support group while I was undergoing chemo and radiation. I know these groups are really helpful to many people. For me, my support group was my family, my friends, and the many wonderful people I met through writing this blog. I’m fortunate that I had a large network of people I could talk to and who offered to listen.
I decided to attend this session because the topic at hand interested me and I figured it might be a good experiment, and might even help me in this whole “healing” and “recovery” process.
To be honest, I didn’t get a whole lot out of the session. Everyone sitting in the circle was more than twice my age, and although we might have this cancer thing in common, that’s not really enough to make me feel connected to a bunch of senior citizens. (No offence to the many seniors who read this blog. I love old people and would love to sit around with you and play card games and yell at punk teenagers from the porch and do other old-people-things.) Being around a bunch of old people with cancer just reminds me of my crappy luck to have cancer in my 20’s and how much I just don’t belong and don’t want to be part of this particular group. The Cancer Club.
As much as I can empathize with anyone who has cancer regardless of age, when I listened to this group talk about their experiences and feelings, I couldn’t help but think, You have lived long enough to have kids, and grandkids and a career. You’ve had an entire life that I have not lived. If someone told me I could have waited until I was 70 to get stuck with cancer, I would be jumping up and down and doing cartwheels. It’s almost like I am jealous of old people with cancer. Because as much as it is still awful, an old person with cancer just isn’t the same as a young person with cancer. It just ain’t.
Besides that, the “teachings” in the session also felt very “Intro to Dealing With Cancer/Coping 101” kind of stuff. And as you might have noticed, I’m not exactly a cancer novice anymore. I suppose I was looking for something with a little more depth. A new way of thinking, or a different way of approaching things. The ideas and advice given were not new to me. It was all stuff I’ve heard before. However, it seemed that a lot of the folks in the group were really engaged and likely learned something new. I assume most of them were/are a lot less likely to use the internet to search for answers or to connect with others, so there is a much stronger need to have these types of group sessions. I think I was mostly alone in my feelings of I don’t belong here/get me out of here/why aren’t any snacks being offered to me right now/when can I go home and eat a snack.
I’m happy the other patients could get this kind of much needed support. But unfortunately, for me, in a strange way, I just ended up feeling more alone, as if I had accidentally walked into the wrong room. A foreigner in a strange country. But really, that’s what it is to have cancer in your 20’s. It shouldn’t feel normal, because it is not normal. Young people shouldn’t be sick. They shouldn’t have to be part of a peer group where the majority of members have white hair (or no hair… although that part, I can relate to a bit more). But whether I like it or not, and whether I want to join them in their circle, or not — I do have this link to them, this bond that ties us all together. Regardless of age, we’re all scared, and we all want to escape the awful realities of a cancer diagnosis. And we’re all searching for a way to make sense of it all.
I am still searching.
In the meantime, though, maybe it’s time to teach myself Canasta. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
Lately I’m finding it very difficult to write about cancer stuff. I sit down at my computer, almost every day, feeling inspired to write a blog post or work on this “book” that I haven’t touched or really thought about in a long time. And then quickly, the motivation goes right out the door. I put on another episode of Scandal and instantly forget about whatever it was that I felt I needed to get down on paper (and by “paper” I mean “computer”… but that obviously sounds way less romantic and writer-ish).
I’m not sure why this has been happening, but I think much of it is due to the fact that I am majorly cancer’d out. I have not had one day where I haven’t had to think or speak about cancer in a very long time. It is exhausting thinking and talking about such heavy things all the time.
I keep trying to have a day where I don’t think about cancer once the entire day, but I have not come close to succeeding. People say that eventually the day comes where you realize, “Hey, I haven’t thought about cancer in a week!” Honestly, I can’t imagine that really happening. I might think about it less on certain days than others, but the idea of it being entirely absent from my thoughts just seems impossible right now. It is such a major part of my life. I didn’t invite it in, but there it is, and its presence is constant.
I read up on the “cancer news” all the time. It might not be the best idea, but I really can’t help it. This is my universe. You might work in marketing, or finance, and you probably keep track of what is going on in those sectors so you can stay up to date and feel in the loop. Well, it is the same for me. My world just happens to be a bit less flashy and a bit less “something to talk about around the water cooler.” But I like to keep informed. I want to know what’s going on. This is my life, and my health, after all.
Cancer is not just something I had, or something that is in the past. It has become a huge part of my life. I used to get emails from people asking me for movie or music recommendations. Now I get emails asking for advice about getting through chemo and radiation. This has become my new area of expertise. When people have a friend who is diagnosed, they send them to me. The cancer guru. The Dear Abby of planet cancer.
And really, I’m okay with it. I love helping people, however I can. I like reading about clinical trials and drug advancements and understanding a very complex world that until recently, I knew very little about. I am a passionate person and I become highly invested in whatever it is I am currently working on or learning about. And, as unfortunate as it may be, my “job” and my “work” has been cancer for over a year now. I am drawn to books and movies about cancer. I like talking to people about their own experiences with cancer. I suppose, like anyone, I want to feel like I belong. And as much as I want to just be a “normal” young woman, thinking about things like work, and social events, and all that regular-people stuff… that is not my life. It is part of my life, sure. But so is cancer. There it is, and there it will always be.
But all that to say that sometimes, I just need a break. Sometimes I am literally so tired from thinking about it and writing about it, living and breathing it, that I need to lie down and take a nap. Sometimes I just need to turn my brain off, from the research, the statistics, the drugs, the fear, and the reality. Sometimes I just need to turn on the TV and watch The Bachelor, which is pretty much the opposite of thinking about cancer. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to watch The Bachelor premiere (and you should too, so we can talk about it) and I’m going to give myself a whole hour, free from cancer, free from the heavy stuff. You might need a break from your screaming baby. Or your beeping Blackberry. Or your cancer. Whatever it is… sometimes, we all just need a little break.
2013 was quite the year. Lots of happy times. Lots of not so happy times. It’s been a long year, and I am ready to move on to the next one, and start looking forward.
May 2014 be filled with good times, good friends, good family, good health… and 100% less cancer.
I think it’s time for another round of FAQ’s, don’t you? Here we go!
Your hair looks so good! Are you going to keep it short?
If I had a dollar for every person who has told me I should keep my hair this short… well, I wouldn’t be rich, but I could at least buy a nice sweater or something. I appreciate the compliments and everyone’s fascination with my hair growth process. However, I have no intention of keeping my current boy-cut. Having your hair fall out is totally traumatic. Having your hair grow back is totally awesome. I want it to keep growing. I have frequent dreams where my hair is suddenly long again. I look at old photos constantly and lament the loss of my long hair. So although this short “style” (if you can call it a style) is extremely low-maintenance, and perhaps one day I’ll go back to it… it’s still not me. It’s not my choice. And it still reminds me of cancer.
So everything’s good now, right? You feel good?
I never know how to answer this one. Yes, I feel pretty good, in comparison to how I felt when I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs or raise my arms or sit up without assistance. It’s hard to complain about anything when I know what it really is to not feel well. But if you want to know the truth, I’m not just “fine” and “all better.” I still suffer from fatigue all the time. I often hit a wall in the late afternoon where I feel like I need to lie down and nap. I try not to plan more than one “exhausting activity” (such as grocery shopping) per day, because sometimes I can’t keep up. I have side effects from my drugs. Sporadic bone or joint pain. Headaches. Pelvic pain. Hot flashes. The constant drip of my nose. Tightness around my implant where I received radiation. Lots of little reminders, scattered here and there. So yes, I’m feeling pretty great, and thankful every day for my health. But it’s not perfect. And it probably won’t be for a long time.
You’re all done with treatment now, right?
Oh my gosh, you guys! Don’t you read this blog? I am totally NOT done with treatment. Every three weeks, I continue to check-in at chemo daycare and wait around 1-2 hours to begin my treatment. My port is then accessed with a needle and hooked up to an IV. It’s injected with saline, which leaves a gross taste in my mouth. Then I receive my medication for the next two hours. Then I go home and feel tired. I have been doing this for a year. And I am ALMOST done. In fact, Jan 31st should be my last trip into Chemoland, if you want to mark it in your calendars. That phase will be over, but I will still be taking my Tamoxifen each and every night and dealing with its thrilling and varied side effects (see above) for a looooong time. But it’s all a small price to pay for the chance to live, in my opinion.
Did you ever end up catching that mouse in your house?
No! The little guy is super sneaky and exceedingly intelligent. We have had a few sightings and have set up a variety of traps. Somehow, he is not falling for any of it. He knows what’s up. So for the time being, he is living with us. Really, he’s an ideal houseguest, as he mostly keeps to himself and stays out of sight and doesn’t ask for anything. But unfortunately, unlike with our other houseguests, our goal is still to murder him. Sorry, mouse. It’s a cruel world out there. As I have learned time and time again, sometimes life just ain’t fair.
Last week pre-treatment in the waiting room. The christmas tree was pink and adorned with cupcakes and candy. Now that’s my kind of tree. Merry Christmas!
A couple days ago, I attended the funeral of my great-aunt, the eldest member of my family tree. She was an amazing woman who lived a full and long life. As the rabbi and members of her family spoke about her, I began to think of the legacy she left behind and I realized that a good way to assess if you’re living the life you want to is to imagine what someone would say about you in your eulogy. What will they remember about you? What are the highlights they will touch upon? Is your career noteworthy enough to mention as one of your great accomplishments? Your charitable acts? Your kindness? The family you have created? What will you leave behind?
I’ve thought a lot about my own funeral. I imagine this might be somewhat normal, when you’re faced with a life-threatening disease. But maybe not. I think I’ve always thought a bit more about death and such things than the average person. Six Feet Under is my favourite TV show, after all, and I don’t think that is exactly a coincidence. I’ve wondered what would be said about me at my funeral. The stories everyone would tell. I imagine who would show up – perhaps people from my past whom I haven’t spoken to in years. I like to imagine that it could be a happy celebration of life, but I know it would not be so. When someone young dies, it’s seen as a tragic event. We think of the person they could have become and the many things they wanted to accomplish.
As much as I try to live in the present and not think about the many what ifs, I sometimes find myself consumed by the knowledge that I might not survive this brutal disease. The next few years for me are critical. And there are many people who have a recurrence many years down the road… 6 years, 8 years, 10 years. You get comfortable, and then BAM, you are told it is back, this time somewhere else in your body, and the situation is bleak. I hate that this is a possibility. I hate that because of my age and the genetic make-up of my tumour, my risk is higher. I am aware that the odds are in my favour, with all the treatment I have done. But the chances of an unhappy ending are still much greater than I am comfortable with.
One of the hardest parts of thinking about all this heavy stuff is imagining the people I would leave behind. I can sometimes come to grips with the idea of me, myself, not existing anymore. But when I think of the pain this would leave, with my husband and with my family… well, let’s just say I try my best not to let my mind go there. I guess I should feel grateful that I’m loved and that there are many people who would like me to be alive. Most would say that’s a good thing. But the idea that I could destroy the happiness of so many people is a lot to bear.
When my mind spirals down these dark places, I try to snap myself out of it: I say to myself, Don’t worry about tomorrow. I’m still here. Everything is okay today. Today, I’m alive. And then I move on and go on with my day and try to live a normal existence, the best I can.
Tomorrow is my 19th treatment. 54 weeks of having drugs pumped through my veins. That’s a long time. But I’m hopeful that the drugs are doing their job and that my story will have a happy ending. Today, that’s what I feel like believing.
Today, I am alive.
A recent pic with my siblings where we all, unintentionally, wore matching tops.
Last night, I was invited to check out the super high-tech, one-of-a-kind guided therapeutics operating room (GTx OR) at the Toronto General Hospital. The operating room is equipped with really fancy, expensive imaging equipment which will be used during cancer surgeries, allowing surgeons to be much more precise when looking at and removing tumours. Pretty cool, right? It actually made me a bit jealous, like my surgeries weren’t sci-fi enough. However, this snazzy operating room is currently only being used for research purposes, i.e. very unique cases. And I’d prefer not to be a very unique case, so I don’t hope to be in there any time soon. Except to play with all the crazy machines, which from my understanding, is not allowed. Too bad.
The presentation about the room was a bit of a challenge for me, as the surgeon who was presenting spoke of aggressive tumours and the fast growing ones being more likely to “come back with a vengeance” and “those are the ones they worry about.” Even though I’m very aware of my cancer and what it could mean, I still don’t like hearing cancer spoken about in these terms. Other people are able to discuss it and ask questions, purely for interest’s sake, remaining safely detached. But I don’t have that luxury. Every discussion of cancer and prognosis and dying feels personal to me. I can’t escape the feeling of, that could be me he’s talking about. Someone again said something about me being brave last night, to which I replied, I am not brave, this is just my life. I have no choice but to wake up every day, and live this life. C’est la vie.
Next week, I’m getting yet another MRI. This time around, we’re going hunting for tumours in the brain. You see, I have been having headaches for awhile now. My oncologist was not overly concerned, but when I mentioned them to my family doctor and how they have been persistent, she wanted to do the MRI because of “my history.” In other words, because I have cancer. And once you have cancer, everything else could be cancer. That’s just the way it goes. So I’ll do the test, and I’ll try to meditate and breathe deeply and not think about dying while I await the results. Same old story, different organ.
I also have a UTI (urinary tract infection for the layperson). I felt the symptoms come on very suddenly last week. Even though it is incredibly minor and tolerable, I still got a little weepy and angry over it. I mean, can I not get one week off without my body malfunctioning in some way? Without having to order another test, or fill another prescription? I am so ready for a break from thinking about my health, my body, doctors, hospitals, medicine. I am trying so hard to return to normal life (whatever that is) but it seems something always pops up, holding me back, keeping me firmly planted in this state of unrest.
Tonight is the last night of Chanukah. One of my favourite holidays. Presents. Fried food. Family. Chocolate. All of the key ingredients. Oh and of course, most importantly, Chanukah is about miracles. A big miracle. And oh boy, do I love a good miracle. More miracles, less cancer.
Someone should put that on a bumper sticker.
Clinging tightly to my wonderful Chanukah loot. Happy holidays!
A mouse just ran across my kitchen floor while I was putting groceries away. I screamed “OHMYGAWWWWD NOOOOO!!!!” and ran down the hall shrieking and hyperventilating. There is almost nothing that gives me the heebie-jeebies more than mice. In fact, I’ve even had recurring dreams where I am being attacked by vicious mice. True story.
As I hid in my living room, with the door closed, I tried my usual mantra of calming myself down: You’ve had cancer. This isn’t so bad. It’s not cancer. It’s just a mouse. Nothing can scare you anymore.
As the kids these days say – EPIC FAIL.
As much as I try to employ this type of logic all the time now, it rarely ever works. As I have said before, I am still fundamentally the same person. Sure, I had cancer. But does this now mean I am not completely, irrationally petrified of a tiny little mouse? Have I been cured of all my pre-cancer phobias? Hellz no.
I just got a notification from WordPress congratulating me on blogging for one year. Happy anniversary, blog! What a pal you’ve been.
After I was diagnosed, I had thought of starting a blog where I could document what I was going through. But I put it off for a couple months. Not because I was afraid of exposing myself or revealing I had cancer. Not because I had nothing to write about. But because I was worried writing a blog would kill me.
I had been searching online for blogs written by young people with cancer, to find something I could relate to. But the more I searched and the more I read, the more it started to feel like everyone who wrote a blog about having cancer ended up dying. I can’t tell you how many blogs I found, particularly of young women with breast cancer, whose most recent entry was either about their cancer metasticizing, or an entry written by a loved one informing the readers that the writer of the blog had passed away. It seemed like for every one blog I could find where the person was alive and well, there were ten more where the opposite was true.
So I convinced myself that if I were to start a blog, I would be writing my own death sentence. That my blog would join the many other young adult cancer blogs, with a sudden, abrupt ending, letting down all those who stumbled upon it, looking for inspiration and hope, as I had with so many others. I felt like writing a blog, and having people read it, would somehow curse me, and set my fate in stone.
I’m not sure what changed, but eventually I realized this was a crazy way of thinking, and blogs do not have the power to kill you. At least I really, really hope they don’t.
Writing this blog has truly been a gift to me, connecting me with so many awesome and lovely people all over the world. It has given me a healthy dose of confidence, allowing me to feel both brave and vulnerable, and uninhibited in my self-expression. It has made me feel less alone and isolated during a very lonely time, being the dependable friend I so badly needed. It has forced me to confront some very deep and dark feelings. It has also turned me into some sort of writing machine, where I feel as though I can’t stop, and I won’t stop (to quote the very inspirational Miley Cyrus).
So, happy birthday dear blog, and thanks for all you have done. I will continue to update you and visit you as often as I can, as long as I have something to say. And you can return the favour by not killing me. And if it turns out you do possess some sort of mystical power to decide who lives and who dies, please choose the mouse. Thank you.
The wind
That I think about dying way too much
That I might die young
The pain in my hip
The pain around my implants
The lesion on my thyroid
The pelvic pain that landed me in emerg two days ago (I am fine)
The new cysts that were found all over my ovaries
Never having a CT/MRI/Ultrasound without something new/weird showing up
The recent death of a girl with breast cancer who I used to see every chemo session. She was nice. And pretty. And a few years older than me
Cancer, obviously
Post-traumatic stress
Not knowing what to do with my life
That I might never have a baby
That everyone around me is having babies
That my life’s plans were derailed
That any regular pain or ache might be bone/brain/lung/liver mets
That despite all the hell I put myself through, the drugs might not have done anything
My awkward, impossible to manage hair length
War
Mean people
Poor etiquette
Things I am happy about today:
Cereal
My family
My husband
My friends
The smell of fresh laundry
Being able to walk
The blue sky
Upcoming holidays
Canadian healthcare
Indoor heating
My blanket
The roof over my head
Writing
The Downton Abbey finale episode that awaits me
Vacation plans
Chocolate, always
That my hair grew back
That the drugs might have worked
That it might not always be cancer
This kid:
Unless you are one of those people who doesn’t know how the internet works, you’ve likely seen this viral video circulating around social networking sites, where a woman who is about to undergo a mastectomy dances with her medical team prior to having her surgery.
I have no issues with this woman and her dance party. I liked watching the video and it made me smile. I love a good dance party and I totally danced at odd times throughout my cancer treatment. When the urge strikes, I say go for it. Her display of joy does not bother me in the least.
What bothers me, however, is people’s reactions to this video. The video went viral because people LOVE seeing patients who have fun with their cancer. Patients who subvert expectations of being a cancer patient and who defy convention. These types of stories are the ones that spread like wildfire because we find them to be inspirational and uplifting. Thousands of people shared and commented on the video: She is so awesome! Wow, she is brave! What amazing courage this woman has! I wish I could be like her!
Okay, fair enough.
But I’ll tell you a secret: EVERYONE who gets their boobs lopped off possesses courage. We just all choose to do it in different ways. Sure, no one wants to see the video of the young mom being wheeled in her hospital bed, into the operating room, with tears running down her face, hopped-up on anxiety meds. Fine. You don’t have to see it. But all these women are no less courageous and no less awesome and no less worthy of being celebrated.
Our society loves showing the lighter side of cancer, and the people who laugh in its face. We need to perpetuate this “happy cancer” myth so that we feel we have some sort of control. If I get cancer, I will dance too, and I will be okay. Cancer’s not that bad.
But the truth is, most people aren’t dancing. Most people are scared as hell, and isolated and anxious, which is how I feel most days. I can tell you, as someone who loves to dance and loves giving the big EFF YOU to cancer, I most definitely was not dancing the day of my mastectomy. I cried. And I cried for many days after.
pass me another cupcake 