If your life has been touched by cancer, there are certain things you know.
You know that the time between a scan or bloodwork and the meeting with your oncologist is a muddy pool of ugly thoughts and frantic distraction. I call it, “in the muck.”
You know that people tell a lot of stories that include the line, “And then she died of cancer,” or, even worse, “Her cancer was in remission but then it came back… and she died.”
You know that the residual effects of treatments sometimes last, and last, and last….
You know that, at times, your mental health may be just as affected by your illness as your physical health is. Mind, body, heart and spirit get driven out of balance by the experience of cancer, and part of recovery is restoring that balance.
I’ve talked about these things and more with other cancer thrivers and survivors. And one thing I was hoping to do regularly after I finished my own treatments was connect in a group setting with others who had been through a similar cancer experience.
Then the pandemic happened and the monthly support group stopped meeting and, as far as I can tell, there is no longer anything like that in Central Newfoundland.
So, starting this coming Wednesday, there will be a newonline (for now) cancer community circle of support. My friend, John, who is a cancer survivor as well, will be helping to facilitate. It is open to anyone who has endured, or is currently enduring, a cancer experience.
Whether you’ve just been diagnosed or you recovered ten years ago, you can bring your thoughts, experiences and wisdom to the circle. You can choose to just listen, or to dive right in and chat.
We will be following group counselling guidelines such as maintaining confidentiality and honouring diversity.
If you would like to join our online circle from 7:00-8:00 on Wednesday, December 9th, shoot me an email at email@example.com. I will email you back with instructions, information and the meeting link.
If you know of someone who may be in need of emotional, psychological or social support, please share this information.
Caring for yourself during and after cancer involves building a network of support. Join our circle. Enrich your connections. Find your balance.
It has been a year. A year since a doctor looked me in the eyes and said, “I have bad news.”
There is so much to say, and nothing to say. I’ve been writing and writing. There are a thousand moments, a billion thoughts, a zillion reflections.
Cancer leaves one with a multitude of things to adjust to.
Just this morning I was at the hospital for a routine test. It was nothing, just a follow-up, and I am sure I am fine. But my anxiety was high because being in the hospital hurts my throat and makes it hard to breathe.
I walked past the cancer clinic and felt this strange empty feeling, like I missed the place. The truth is that as much as I hope I never end up back there getting more treatments, it was a safe and hopeful place for me for a long time. Saying good-bye at the cancer center was a transitional moment and isn’t that just what life is full of?
Driving home I did some fire breathing to try to relax the vise in my throat. This is where you inhale deep and then drive the air up the back of your throat as you stick out your tongue and make a low “ahhhh” noise. It helps. Oddly.
I may have gotten some weird looks at the lights.
Oh, I’ve missed you, dear reader. I’ve been so stuck between wanting to say everything and needing to say nothing.
I wanted to tell you that my hands and feet feel like they’ve been stuck into a hive of bees, and that my joints and muscles hurt all the time. Chemotherapy damaged my nerves and addled my brain and made my ovaries fail. I didn’t lose my hair, though, so there’s that. Also, my tastebuds did rebound and I can taste my food again. I stop numerous times everyday while eating and think, “oh, this is soooo good!”
Sometimes I am struck by an immense feeling of gratitude to be finished with chemo and to be healed up from surgery and radiation. Being sore and numb and buzzy and fatigued is to be expected, and with time I will get better.
I am alive.
A year ago I missed my daughter’s performances in the Kiwanis Music Festival because I was in St. John’s getting radiation treatments. A year ago she played the part of “Fern” in Charlotte’s Web and I was not there because I was in the hospital.
This year I will be in the front row, for every single thing.
A year ago I prepared February birthday suppers for both my boys not knowing if I would be around to see their next birthday. I wrote in my journal, “Please, please let me be here next year for my kids. Just give me ten years, so I can help them grow up.”
And now I have the luxury of thinking I could live to be old.
It has been a year and I have learned to be careful about what I expose myself to. I have spent too many nights worrying because I made the mistake of consulting a website about recurrence statistics or because I have a new pain and I don’t know what it is.
My mom always says, “We will worry about it when there is really something to worry about, and not before.” And that is my mantra now.
It has been a year and I beat back the rushes each day, the nettles reaching up to sting me. The fog is lifting. The clean, blue lake of my life beckons. I will emerge from this gnarled foliage.
Cast your worries carelessly like garments on the shore, my friends. We will swim and swim.
Our kitten is slowly destroying the Christmas tree, and I’m okay with that. His name is Varjak Paw, after a cat in a book which Caleb’s beloved grade-four teacher read to his class, and to Annika’s class a couple of years later. Varjak is a sassy little guy, with slightly bowed front legs that give him an exaggerated swagger when he walks. He regularly attacks Cleo’s tail, in attempts to get her attention and have a good wrestle. He also likes to climb inside the fridge when someone opens it, and has been known to lick the butter if the cover is left off. We have surmised that one night he pushed a full chicken off of the kitchen counter so that Cleo, who was waiting patiently on the floor, could eat it. The roaster was licked clean when we got home, and both pets were hiding nervously in the playroom, but they didn’t need to worry.
I just laughed. We all laughed and laughed. It is hard to get upset about little things these days.
You see, my scan was clear. My oncologist told me I am cancer free. It is a wonderful thing, a truly fantastic piece of news. The best Christmas present ever, for the whole family. And I am full of gratitude and happiness. Every moment from now on is a gift for me, because I faced a life-threatening illness and survived. I am a survivor now.
I’ve been struggling to write this blog post, because part of me wants to wrap this whole experience up, put a bow on it, and say, “I’m done with this, it is over.” I feel pressure to do that. I keep saying things like, “onwards and upwards!” or “That is over, now back to normal life!”
But cancer changes you.
An old friend messaged me and said, “I am thinking of the thoughts, perspective and knowledge you’ve experienced.” I responded, “I feel utterly changed. And yet entirely like myself.” I am still processing the whirlwind that was the last ten months and, for some things, there just really aren’t words. There is understanding, though, and shared experience.
As I was thinking about how to write this post, I received an eloquent e-mail from another friend, who is a two-time cancer survivor. She said that if she had had something like this blog to read when she was first diagnosed with cancer she would have felt less alone with the disease. She thinks that many people who are dealing with a cancer diagnosis will find solace here.
I am so thankful that she sent me that e-mail, because I was reminded of why I started writing this in the first place. I remembered my poor, scared self sitting up in the middle of the night searching the internet in a desperate attempt to find people who had been through what I was facing. And then I realized that human beings are inherently messy, and that I had to continue to be honest.
So I will tell the truth, so that other people will not feel alone with these types of feelings and reactions.
I have a lot of physical, emotional and psychological changes to deal with. Some of them will heal and resolve over time, and some are here to stay. I will write about them honestly in the days to come. I will write about them knowing that I am extremely fortunate to be here everyday. I can enjoy this Christmas holiday without thinking it may be my last.
My wonderful oncologist said she thinks I will live a long time. I’ve pondered these simple words of hers a million times. I recite them in rhythm as I walk each day. And, although I no longer wake up sweating in fear in the middle of the night, I have to acknowledge that my life has been deeply altered by this whole experience.
I’ve been wanting to write this post for a while now so that I could wish you all happy holidays and share the good news. But I couldn’t present a neat and tidy ending to this cancer experience. Is anything in life ever that clean and clear?
We can celebrate happy news and enjoy the holidays. We can hug our loved ones and be filled with gratitude. And we can learn and grow and reflect and feel sadness, too. It is okay.
Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah, my friends. Here’s wishing you the courage to share a host of human emotions, the ability to laugh at the little things, and an abundance of good health throughout the holiday season and into the new year!
My daughter and I had the most wonderful day yesterday. We went out for lunch, did a little shopping (and laughing) at the mall, and went bowling with some friends. I honestly did not think about cancer once. Why? Because at this moment, my cancer is gone from my body, thanks to modern medicine.
After I got home from our wonderful girls’ day, I was resting on the couch checking Facebook. I noticed an article being shared around. As I read it, my heart started to pound and my hands started to shake. I wanted to scream at my innocent little phone screen. For there it was, another article about cancer survival rates being the same as they were a century ago and the “cancer industry” being all about making money and not about curing cancer. The author makes reference to a documentary that refers to the treatments I’ve had (radiation, chemotherapy and surgery) as “burn, poison, slash.” They make a claim that if people would only use natural approaches to cure their cancer, the rates of survival would be higher.
I am not a medical doctor, nor a scientist, but as a cancer patient I have done a lot of reading and research. When someone looks you in the eyes and tells you that you have stage 3 cancer, you sit up and you take notice.
When my cancer care team came up with a treatment plan for me, I researched it. The decisions they made were based on years of clinical trials and millions of dollars of research. If I had grown these tumours in my body 100 years ago, or even 50 years ago, I would be on my death bed at this point. But here I am, bowling with my little girl and taking silly pictures at the mall.
When I made the decision to undergo 12 heavy rounds of chemotherapy after already having gone through so much, I did the research first. My oncologist explained to me that the chemo would reduce the risk of a recurrence of my cancer from about 65% to 25%. I read the journal article that laid out the research that was done in clinical trials with my chemotherapy regime. The people who took part in these trials had the same cancer as me. And their outcomes were better because of this course of chemotherapy. Thankfully, now I will get the same benefit. So I will be forever grateful to the researchers, doctors and nurses who ran these trials, and the clinical trial participants themselves.
These days, I’m following immunotherapy research. If my cancer does come back in the future I may benefit from this research. As a matter of fact, I have met people online, many who are living with stage 4 cancer, who are being kept alive today by new, cutting-edge methods of treating cancer such as cyber-knife technology, targeted drug therapy, or immunotherapy.
I take a holistic approach to my health, and always have. Before my diagnosis I ate well and exercised and generally tried to take care of my mental, physical and spiritual health. Throughout my cancer treatment I have been going for massages and acupuncture treatments to relieve my symptoms and help with my general well-being. I use mediation, yoga and visualization to calm myself and deal with the psychological toll of this experience.
I believe that integrating Eastern medicine approaches into my treatment plan has helped me immensely in my recovery, but there was no “natural approach” that was going to shrink my big tumour and its’ little sidekick deposit. Cancer got radiated and shrivelled and cut out of me just before it ran rampant through my body. My insidious little batch of mutated cells were marching their way into my lymph nodes, but my surgeon and her team halted their progress. These people are my heroes, and I can’t help but get upset while reading an article that suggests that they are only in it for the money.
The article I read yesterday suggested there was no cure for cancer. But, in fact, cancer is entirely curable if caught early enough. Researchers and medical professionals know this. This is why we have screening for colon, prostate, breast and cervical cancer to name a few. Again, years of research and a lot of money has gone into developing screening tools and treatments for pre-cancer or early stage cancer, as well as approaches to prevention.
If you are interested in reading about cancer rates, treatment, or research globally, I’d suggest you start with the International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC), which is part of the World Health Organization (WHO). One of the recent articles posted there discusses the recent rise in survival rates in wealthy countries for certain types of cancers. Of course, their information is based on properly conducted scientific research.
I hope this post helps to explain to people that, when they donate to cancer research, they are really making a difference. I also hope that, if your life is touched by cancer now or in the future, you have access to the kind of care and treatment that I have had. My doctors and nurses have been nothing but compassionate and informed. They made, and continue to make, educated decisions for me and my health, and here I am.
I still have a way to go in my cancer experience. I am not the same as I was a year ago, but I am alive. I am bowling and writing this post. I am kissing my daughter’s cheek during funny moments at the mall.
And to the “cancer industry” that yesterday’s article presented in such a scathing light? All I can say is “thank-you.”