missed milestones (by Laurie)

This  year, two dates -  November 24th (the anniversary of my diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer) and December 2nd (the anniversary of the night I found the first lump) – came and went without causing me the anxiety of previous years. I noted both events in passing, took the time to breathe deeply and be grateful, and then got on with my day.

It’s been four years since I found the lump. It’s been three since the cancer spread to my liver. And it’s been two and a half years since my first clean scan.

I had an appointment with my oncologist yesterday. I had nothing to tell him. He said, “Shall we keep dragging you in here every few months just to say ‘hi’?”

I readily agreed.

I have chemo next week. They’ve been building a new treatment centre for what seems like years. I have often jokingly pointed in the direction of the new building and said, “They’re building that for me.”

Yesterday, I discovered that the new building is open and the chemo room has been moved. No more listening to the sounds of construction during treatment. No more listening to the intimate details of the constitutional issues of the patient beside me. There will be a little more light and a little more room and hopefully, a little less noise.

I’m kind of excited.

And yes, that is somewhat ironic. I have lived long enough to be excited about getting chemo in the new building.

my husband’s chest

You don’t need to tell me how lucky I am.

I have a roof over my head, great medical care and I’m surrounded by people who love me.

And don’t think I forget how very lucky I am to be alive at all. Why did I get to go into remission? Why me? I am indeed very fortunate.

But there are times when I do feel sad that I will never put this cancer behind me. I feel the toll ongoing treatment takes on my body and my emotional well being.

So last night I stood in my kitchen, with my head on my husband’s chest (we say we were built for each other. My head lands flat on his chest and tucks under his chin). He put his arms around me and we just stood there, breathing together.

He didn’t need to say anything. He understood my frustration. Only a few hours before I was finallly feeling sharp and healthy and energized. And then, after chemo, I stood in his arms, feeling sick and more than a little shaky.

He didn’t remind me how lucky I am.

But I know it.

aware of the irony

Life is funny.

This morning was perfect weather for a bike ride. The sun was out and the temperature climbed to 17C (that’s 62.6 in American). It was my first time on the bike in more than a week – since before the plague toppled my family, like a series of dominoes.

It was a fun ride, and I didn’t even mind the big hill I have to climb on my way to the hospital. I arrived twenty minutes after I set out, a little sweaty and with my heart pumping. As I locked up and headed into the cancer centre, I noted with pleasure that I hadn’t been coughing.

“It feels good to be healthy.”

I very nearly said it out loud.

I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of my situation. Here I was, going to get my bloodwork done the day before chemo and thinking about how healthy I am.

Three years ago, at almost exactly this time of year, I learned that my cancer had become metastatic. I don’t think I could have imagined this day, when I’d be riding my bike up Smythe Rd. and thinking about how healthy I am.

So, as I was saying at the beginning of this post – life really is pretty funny.

Cross-posted to Not Just About Cancer.

Death Be Not Proud*

(cross posted on Coffee and Chemo)
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You know, I am good. I mean, I have cancer and everything, but I am good.

Mostly, I feel good, and I do things, and I even work a bit.

Most of the time, I do not feel that cancer defines me.

But it does.

I am unquestionably in the cancer world.

Even taking chemo in pills (at home), I still have to go to the hospital several times a month — for doctor’s visits and blood tests (every 3 weeks) and my bone treatments (once a month).

But that is not all. No, no, that is not all.

I also have to go to the hospital for regular CTs, MRIs, bone scans, echocardiograms, ultrasounds, and whatever other tests or procedures are deemed necessary by my team of medical caregivers.

Everywhere I go, I meet other cancer patients.

Over time, many of the cancer patients get better and “disappear” back to their “old life,” the life without cancer.

But not everybody.

Some people, like me, are not going to get better. We meet regularly, week by week, month by month. We get to know each other. We get connected.

Many are like me. They are good. They are living with their cancer, and they are really living. Struggling, like me, but living. Even, I would say, living a good life.

But not everybody. Not all the time.

Sometimes people disappear and I do not know why. Have they simply switched treatment days or….? I am afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

It is hard. Hard to keep hearing about people dying of cancer.

Hard to keep my head buried in the sand, denying the threat of death, when death is all around me.

When I was first diagnosed, I stumbled onto the devastating statistics: five years after diagnosis, only 20% of women diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer are still alive.

I desperately needed to find other young women who were living with cancer for more than 10 years, to know they existed, to know it was possible, to believe that I could be one of them.

It was surprised (though I should not have been) that it was not easy to find these women.

I contacted Sharsheret, a support organization connecting young Jewish American women with breast cancer, who connected me with an amazing woman. Though extremely private about her cancer, she generously shared details of her challenges and accomplishments. She was still working, full time, as a professor in a university! She inspired me, and gave me hope. I spoke with her several times, until I found more local support via Beit Natan.

I just found out that, a year ago, she passed away suddenly, leaving behind 8 children. She battled cancer for around 10 years.

Her sudden death shocked those around her. But not me.

I have already learned: cancer is devious.

A cancer patient can seem fine one day, and the next day is critically ill. The situation can revert back to being stable or the patient can be dead within a few weeks. There is no way to know.

We never know.

Every death is devastating. Another reminder that living with cancer is uncertain.

Everything can change in an instant.

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footnote: Death Be Not Proud, by John Donne (Link includes full poem and Wikipedia article)

Courage

“Courage doesn’t always roar.  Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I’ll try again tomorrow.”  ~Mary Anne Radmacher

On Friday my support group for young breast cancer survivors BCAUSE held it’s annual Courage Night. BCAUSE stands for Breast Cancer and U Support and Encouragement. Courage night  is a special night when we celebrate being breast cancer survivors. There are not many things to celebrate about having breast cancer, but once a year we all gather together for a party in our honor. It’s kind of like a big group birthday party. A celebration of life.

I am very lucky to have such a tight circle of strong woman to talk to, to lean on, and to celebrate with. I feel twice as blessed because of my online support group, Mothers With Cancer. I refer to my support groups as my “home” support group and Mothers With Cancer as my “bloggy” support group. 

We had a special speaker, Geralyn Lucas author of Why I Wore Lipstick To My Mastectomy. What a treat it was to meet her. She was so gracious and eloquent, a very kind and genuine person. She read an excerpt from her book, it was hard to listen with dry eyes. It was such a wonderful thing for her to be there. Traveling and making a special trip here to our little town to celebrate with us. She stepped into our group just as if she knew all of us personally.

It was a bitter sweet night. One of our founding members lost her battle with  Metastatic breast cancer last spring and it was our first courage night with out her there. She lived for ten years with metastatic breast cancer. We really missed her but I have a feeling she was there smiling down on all of us, happy that we could all be there joined together in a sisterhood of strength.

I can’t imagine not having someone to talk to while going through a thing as terrible as cancer. Knowing that there is someone just a phone call or a key board away has made a big difference in my life. I am very thankful for the friendships and strong bonds I have with these brave and courageous woman. If it were not for my cancer diagnosis I would have never had the privilege of meeting these wonderful young woman. breast cancer, any cancer for that matter is not a walk in the park. I would never ask for it. I am however blessed with a network of friends that I know are always just a click away. These woman have taught me a lot about life and living. Living with cancer, being happy in spite of it. It makes all the difference for me, it makes everyday easier to put my feet down on the floor and continue to fight.

Posted by Spruce Hill