tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48476291167861281512023-11-01T23:32:36.122-07:00LovelyKatieLumpsStage II cancer at 26 and now metastatic cancer at 31. Yep, I'm pretty much an overachiever. Found out my cancer was back nine days before my wedding. Doing my best to focus on the living part instead of the dying part. I think I'm hilarious.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-28598920463374152372014-04-02T13:09:00.000-07:002014-04-02T15:13:07.165-07:00Sweet MelissaAs many of you know, I was lucky enough to be chosen along with eleven other survivors to go to India last year. All twelve of us, starting out as strangers, went on this adventure not knowing what to expect or what we were going to encounter. I think it's safe to say that we made lifelong friendships on this trip.<br />
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This trip was one of perspective changing, of life choices, of commitments, of fulfilling opportunities, and of unbreakable bonds between all fourteen of us (twelve survivors, Terri [also a survivor] and the infamous Hal - videographer extraordinaire).<br />
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For two weeks, none of us felt like the 'cancer' girl/guy, we just felt like us. We didn't have to explain or justify our chemo fog, our missing body parts or our lives that were in shambles more times than not. We all got that part of each other's lives without having to explain it. There's an unspoken unity among cancer survivors where we understand the guilt that comes along with a diagnosis, the financial burden, the fertility issues, the stress that we put on our families and friends and the eternal fear that it is cancer, not old age, that is going to kill us.<br />
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While in India, we took a trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. We were paired with a roommate for the overnight stay and Terri (the reason we were all in India) put Melissa and I in a room together. Melissa was cool. She was one of those girls who when she spoke, you listened, because something wise was bound to leave her lips. When Terri told me that we were going to be in the same room, I felt like I had to step up my coolness to be on the same level as Melissa - not because Melissa demanded it, but because maybe we could be friends and maybe some of her wisdom would rub off on me.<br />
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She was only a year or two older than me. She understood what it was like to have cancer in your twenties. We bonded over that. We both understood what it was like to still relate to being a 'daughter' instead of a 'mother'. Neither of us had children and both of us relied on our parents - we discussed the impact that our cancer had on our parents. Although having cancer when you are younger isn't harder than when you're 50, 60 or 70, it comes with different challenges. <br />
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That night in our RajMahal hotel room (that's right, our hotel in Agra was called the RajMahal), was another confirmation that I was with someone who 'got it'. I didn't have to justify anything to Melissa, we were on the same page and our only prerequisite was cancer. And like Terri mentioned, while I was in treatment I had a hard time making it from my bed to the couch or the washroom but Melissa, she travelled across the world to volunteer. That says a lot for who she was.<br />
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The following week was spent volunteering and wishing that we could stay in India even longer. We returned from India and all went back to the lives we knew. Some of us went back to work, some went back to their families, and some, like Melissa, went back into treatment. The Delhi Dozen sent her cards and words of encouragement as we could all appreciate what she was going through from our own experiences with cancer. <br />
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Thanks to Facebook and Instagram, I was able to stay up to date with Melissa although we were a country apart. The tone of her most recent posts were not good. It was quite clear that things weren't improving and instead were worsening. <br />
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On Monday night, her mother posted on Facebook that Melissa passed away that evening. I can't even think of a word that fully expresses my emotions. How can this actually be her reality? How can someone not have done something? How are we still losing our friends and family to cancer? <br />
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My own mortality is then thrown in my face. There it is, reminding me not to get too comfortable in remission. Melissa died from something that was growing in my body not too long ago. And I am not free of the disease, I am in remission. It is this experience that amplifies my survivor's guilt. Why Melissa? Why not me? Why have I been spared thus far when so many around me continue to suffer through treatment or are given a stage 4 diagnosis? My fears seem trivial in comparison to what her family is going through right now and yet, I can't seem to make it an hour without crying, without thinking about her saying goodbye and accepting her reality. <br />
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I haven't posted anything on Facebook because I don't know what to say. Nothing seems appropriate. Nothing seems healing. Nothing fixes the fact that she is gone. I needed a little time to process. I needed the license to write a proper post about her. And even after finishing this post, nothing feels cathartic. This also doesn't fix the fact that she is gone. I am lost with this loss of another friend. <br />
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That night in Agra, the night before we visited the Taj Mahal, we discussed our dads, both of whom are musicians. She told me about her dad (and I have since seen the picture on her Facebook of the two of them with their matching tattoos). I told her about my dad too and I showed her the painting that I had got for my dad, it was of Ganesha playing the drums. My dad, the drummer, introduced me to so many different bands growing up. Some of his favourites include Tower of Power, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and the always-playing-in-our-kitchen, band-we-were-going-down-to-Georgia-to-see-on-my-dad's-hypothetical-motorcycle, The Allman Brothers. They have always had a special place in my heart and hearing their songs throws me back to the summers of the 1990s, when as a little girl, life was easy and naive; cancer free. I have always loved their song 'Melissa' not because of anything in particular, but it just always made everything feel right. It seems appropriate then that I can't help but listening to 'Melissa' on a loop as I write. <br />
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I recently sent Melissa a message offering to send her anything from some maple syrup to a beaver from Canada if it would brighten her day. I wanted her to know that regardless of none of us Delhi Dozen being able to stand right beside her, we were all united with her.<br />
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Regardless of her physically being gone, her spirit is alive and well in all of us. We are all better people for having her in our lives. <br />
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I am sending all the comfort and peace to her family. I can't even imagine that pain.<br />
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Hold your loved ones tightly tonight.<br />
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Rest well Sweet Melissa. <br />
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-46665573248485865282013-11-21T18:43:00.000-08:002013-11-22T14:47:37.547-08:00Challenge Accepted!For as long as I can remember, I have always put a lot of pressure on myself
to be the 'est': tallest, funniest, smartest, youngest, well, you see where I am
going with this. By the time I was in grade 4, I was four feet, eleven inches -
needless to say, tallest was not difficult through my formative years. In my
double cohort graduating high school class, I was voted funniest female and I
was not afraid to put that on my resume for the few years that followed
(funniest? Check!). By the time I was 24 years old, I had earned three degrees -
well, at least three pieces of paper say I'm smart(est). And by the time I was
26, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, something that not many other 26 year
olds can achieve (Youngest? Also Check!).<br />
<br />
While I spent the first 26 years of my life putting pressure on myself to
achieve all the important 'ests', I was not prepared for the pressure that I was
about to feel as a cancer survivor. I'm not sure how many times someone has
asked me the reason that I was diagnosed with cancer; microwaves? deodorant? the
birth control pill? too much meat? not enough meat? too much stress? did you
swallow a bottle of cleaner as a kid? did every female ancestor in your family
have breast cancer before you? the gene mutation? tap water? And with this
barrage of questions comes a certain pressure that no one intentionally puts on
me but it weighs heavily none the less. Along with these questions come a deeper
questioning; 'Now that you've had cancer, you don't still use a microwave, do
you?', 'You're not going to eat that chocolate bar, are you? You know what sugar
can do to you, especially now that you've had cancer, don't you?', 'What? You
don't eat organic EVERYTHING? You are a failure at being a cancer
survivor!'.<br />
<br />
I consume so much of my day with questions of 'What would a good cancer
survivor do?'<br />
<br />
We are faced with so many questions about what to eat, what not to eat,
supplements to take, pills to avoid, and interactions to consider that it
becomes so overwhelming and the result many times is a guilt induced binge-fest
on everything that we know is bad for us. I gained a whopping 33 lbs with cancer
and chemo. Wait, aren't you supposed to lose weight when you're going through
chemo? Ya, that's what I thought too. But with breast cancer, it's different.
When they start playing with your hormones, when you eat anything that you can
keep down regardless of nutritional or caloric value and when you limit your
physical activity because the thought of walking to the bathroom exhausts you,
you pack on the weight. Oh, and because I am in a medically induced menopause,
the cancer drugs that I'm on now help pack on the weight, too. Yes, if you're
wondering, I AM living the 20-something dream!<br />
<br />
Many times, when I would obsess over eating the right thing or avoiding the
wrong thing, I would feel so overwhelmed and helpless that I would find myself
wondering 'What's the point?' and I would eat myself into oblivion. Anytime I
would start to research post-cancer foods or cancer survivor diets, I would find
opposing viewpoints; coffee is bad because of the caffeine/coffee is good
because of the antioxidants; bananas are good because of the potassium/bananas
are bad because of the potassium. Avoid sugar. Avoid fat. Eat <em>enough</em>
fat. Avoid carbs. Our body needs carbs. Become a vegan! You need meat... Holy
crap, it is so overwhelming. Actually, just out of curiosity, I just googled
'too much broccoli' and articles actually popped up. Seriously?<br />
<br />
When our life has just been flipped upside down, we have been hammered with
toxic chemicals, we are beaten and battered, we are many pounds heavier than we
were, and we have no energy with no promise of any in the near future, where do
we go? Where do we start?<br />
<br />
Back in January, I started to realize my addiction to pop (soda for my
American friends). I loved pop, a lot. It was that 'thing' that I could never
give up. Take away chocolate, and candy, and pizza but don't ever take away my
pop. In all the research that I had been doing, with all the different food, and
all the opposing viewpoints, I couldn't find one article that said that pop was
a good thing or that its contents were beneficial in anyway. At that point, I
decided to try to make it a week without a pop; a little 7-day challenge if you
will. I didn't think I would last three days but one day turned into two which
turned into four which turned into a week and ten months later, I haven't had a
drop of pop. I mean, I still dream about it, and most mornings I wake up hoping
that it was just a nightmare, but to this day, I haven't had any since I gave it
up. This gave me a little momentum and I started trying this little challenge
with other aspects of my life.<br />
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I started upping my veggie intake. I like vegetables, luckily, but I have
never been a big vegetable eater (well post-mom's cooking). I decided to try to
eat 4-6 servings a day - I challenged myself - and it worked and now I just
naturally gravitate towards the vegetables, I even crave them. Don't get me
wrong, I still like all the bad stuff but I make sure to get my vegetables in to
me and then if there's room, I go for the bad stuff and to be honest, there
isn't usually room. I also tried eating less processed foods. I am no pro at
this but I definitely limit what I consume when it comes to prepackaged meals in
a can/frozen/vacuumed-packed container.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, I got on a juicing kick and decided to do a three day juicing
detox. I know, right? Why would anyone not eat for three full days and only
consume homemade juice that isn't the most delicious tasting liquid in the
world? Well, I thought after going through chemotherapy and still currently
being on cancer drugs that it was a good idea to detox, to give my digestive
tract a break from the ups and downs of chemo and cancer (a long overdue break).
Day 1 was so hard and if it hadn't been for Keith, I think I would have quit.
Day 2 was just as hard but at least I knew that I could say 'tomorrow is the
last day' and Day 3 was easiest although we did spend a lot of that evening
planning the food we were going to eat the next day. Actually, we had planned to
order pizza because we were both craving salt and couldn't imagine anything
saltier. And then, when the time came, oddly enough, we both just wanted salad.
I know that sounds like I am making it up, or that I am getting paid by a
juicing company to say that, but honestly, we both just wanted nutrients. It was
like our body had rebooted and once we could eat again, once we could
<em>have</em> the salt, and the sugar and the garbage, we didn't even want it.
To be honest, I wasn't expecting that. Bonus!<br />
<br />
But, this challenge approach has not all been about what I consume, it has
also been about exercise. I rely on public transit and I walk a lot but I am not
someone who exercises for the sole purpose of exercising. I also found that
after I felt a little relief from the residual chemo fatigue, Tamoxifen was
right there to pick up where chemo left off - I am still tired from cancer.
Needless to say, I haven't had the most energy in the past two and a half years.
But regardless, I decided that on October 1st I was going to join a gym and go
for five days a week for the whole month. I could quit on November 1st if I
wanted to but I had to make it through the month and I had to go five days a
week. When I go to the gym (I have been a member at a few gyms over the years) I
am not someone who likes to ease into it. Every day that I have gone, I've burn
800-1000 calories (an hour on the elliptical and then weights). The first week
was the hardest. I was so warm for hours after my workout because my circulation
was going crazy and then I would freeze for another few hours. I was sore all
the time. I was so tired. I didn't think I could last the week let alone the
month. I just kept telling myself that I want to enjoy things like baseball
again (which I haven't played since cancer), and I am getting married at some
point in the future, and I know about the correlations between being overweight
and the recurrence of breast cancer, and an hour on the elliptical gives me time
to think about the good stuff - the endorphins just encourage good thoughts.
Well, wouldn't you know it, I'm still going to the gym 52 days later, five days
a week and I am down 17.5lbs. At the 15.5lbs mark, I had officially lost the
last of my chemo/cancer weight. Did that ever feel good! F-U cancer, and the
horse you rode in on. <br />
<br />
I am going in next Tuesday (the 3rd) for the last of my three surgeries. I am
getting my expanders exchanged for implants. So that means six weeks of no
elliptical or weights. I am nervous about the break in my routine but let's be
honest, no pop is much harder than being on the elliptical for five hours a week
and I'm ten months deep with the 'no pop thing' so I should be able to get back
to it mid-January.<br />
<br />
I know what it's like to feel like you need to make a change but feel
powerless. Consider giving yourself a seven day challenge. Start with something
achievable (which is different than easy). Giving up pop was achievable but it
was not easy. Eating more vegetables was achievable but not always easy. As a
cancer survivor, it is so easy to feel the pressures of needing to change your
entire life over night but instead of trying change everything and succeed at
nothing, try changing one thing at a time; you'll be surprised how long seven
days can last.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-74949211293866871142013-08-22T10:47:00.001-07:002016-04-08T10:02:55.109-07:00A Natural Ambition<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Having cancer in your twenties presents issues that you may otherwise not face if diagnosed in your fifties or sixties. Issues include; worrying about student loans, being isolated from your peers, the loss of your womanhood in your prime (in my case, part of it was surgically removed) and the ever-looming (in)fertility. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had six rounds of chemo and Tamoxifen has put me in a medically induced menopause. Ah, menopause at 27, 28, and now as of last Wednesday, 29. Yep, sure am living the dream these days. I still get my period and (because they just don't have the research about young women on Tamoxifen) they aren't exactly sure if that is a good thing or not - I've been told two opposing viewpoints by two different oncologists. At the start of each period</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">, I have a sense of relief because for another month, I have managed to avoid permanent menopause at 29 years old.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">With social media, I am bombarded with pictures of babies. When I see friends who post pictures of their 'positive pee stick' (yes people do that), or their growing bellies or their newborns, 1 year olds or the first day of school pictures, I feel lost. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not one part of me is angry with friends or frustrated with them, shit if I had a baby, I'd be plastering those pictures on Facebook, Twitter, Tumbler, can you post pictures on LinkedIn?,;you get my drift. But, it seems that if my double mastectomied chest wasn't reminder enough that I may never have children, Facebook and Instagram are right there to reinforce it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Although I know that being pregnant would not be the safest thing right now, I think about it all the time. In an alternate universe where I didn't have cancer, I would be pregnant with my second baby and in love with my first. But we don't live in an alternate universe and here's my reality; last month, after I was about four weeks post-op, I missed my period. That is my first missed period since chemo ended. On about day three of being late, the thought crossed my mind that I may be pregnant. I have an IUD in place but weirder things have happened. I'm not going to lie to you, day three to five was a bit of a mind-fuck (excuse the language but I have devoted a solid three minutes to coming up with a less abrasive, equally descriptive word to describe my feelings and I couldn't). I kept thinking 'I can't be pregnant, I'm on Tamoxifen, I have an IUD, I only have a 40% chance, there's no way' and the other part of me was cheering, 'I could be PREGNANT.' </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">On day six, I took a pregnancy test and although I knew better, I had hope (for some twisted, delusional reason). I stared at that test waiting for the second line to appear to signify pregnancy and although the test said results would appear in 90 seconds, I gave that second line at least seven minutes to appear. The second line never showed up but on day seven, my period did. It was late (I'm assuming from the anesthesia and myriad of prescription drugs that I was on after my second mastectomy only weeks before). I know that I can't get pregnant right now (not 'can't' like it's impossible but 'can't' like I'm still in treatment [Tamoxifen]) but that second line would have meant that pregnancy was possible.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I know women who have had babies after chemo, I have even met said babies. I know this isn't impossible and although I am not one for statistics, I had a less than 1% chance of getting breast cancer at 26 so a 40% chance of getting pregnant seems pretty high with my track record. So many friends are enjoying the happiness of parenthood while I'm waiting for my next surgery; being the one who has loved kids since I was six years old and being surrounded by so many people who seem to get pregnant by what seems to be just laughing too hard is heartbreaking. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So in true Katie fashion, in heartbreaking times, I like to torture myself with music that really drives the point home. You know when you hear a song and it’s like it was written
for you? Look at these lyrics:</span></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It felt like a given,
something a woman’s born to do<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A natural ambition to
see a reflection of me and you<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'd feel so guilty, if that
was a gift I couldn’t give<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Could you be happy if
life wasn’t how we pictured it?<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And sometimes I just
want to wait it out to prove everybody wrong<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I need your help
to move on ‘cause you know it’s so hard, so hard</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yep, lyrically, that about sums it up!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The thing about cancer is that it affects so many lives,
regardless of whose body it’s harbouring. Keith has had so many choices made
for him without ever being asked (and without ever complaining) but how do I not
feel guilty for making him wait, for not knowing if I can give him the gift of
life?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few months ago, Keith and I were lying in bed and I asked him
if he could picture his life without kids. The conversation went like this:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Katie ‘If I can’t give you
children, will you still be happy?’ </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In true Keith fashion he said ‘It’s not a
matter of you giving me children, <em>we</em> can either have children or we can’t.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">Keith and I have stuck with the idea that ‘if it’s meant to be then it’s meant to
be'.</span><span style="font-family: "times";"> I will be done Tamoxifen when I'm 32 and although that is not old when it comes to reproduction, chemo accelerates the aging of your ovaries and they could be 'as old as' 44 when I'm only 32. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times";">On March 16th, 2011, my oncology surgeon told me that chemo would significantly lower my chances of having a baby so much that it was more likely that I wouldn't have children. I cried more that day than the five days prior when I found out I had aggressive stage two breast cancer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times";">I've talked with a few girlfriends about the way we used to see the world. When we were in high school we imagined graduating from university, getting a good job, marrying our prince charming, having a few kids and living the dream. Life was easy, dreams were attainable, the future was definite. Now, some of us have dealt with loss and pain and hurdles that have not only tripped us but have made it hard to get back up. I know that cancer has taught me lessons about life that many adults twice my age still haven't learned but I beg the greater powers at be not to teach me the lesson of being a childless woman.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times";"></span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And sometimes I just want to wait it out to prove everybody wrong<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I need your help to move on ‘cause you know it’s so hard, so hard</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-61234499470685245672013-06-16T21:19:00.002-07:002013-06-16T21:19:30.244-07:00Turtleneck NuptialsWe stood, with our arms wrapped around each other. He thought it was a long hug, I knew that it was my security blanket. He felt my lungs hiccup with air and asked 'what's wrong', I said in a quivered voice 'I'm scared'.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
After being back from India for two weeks, after feeling good about life and living, after feeling a little more fulfilled than before I left and feeling worthy of love, Keith proposed to me. I have been giddy ever since. I am so proud to wear his ring, I am so proud to be his wife someday. I am proud to call him mine. <br />
<br />
I haven't tried on a wedding dress yet as I feel like my mastectomy scars will be the spotlight instead of the dress. This prompted a call to my plastic surgeon's office where I had been about five month prior discussing reconstruction options.<br />
<br />
So as a refresher, I had a mastectomy in 2011 and at the same time, I had a tissue expander put in as well as having a reduction on my left side to even things out. Once I was fully expanded, the plan was to have the exchange surgery in January of 2012 and 36 hours before my scheduled surgery, my plastic surgeon called saying there was a mix up/ no OR time / he couldn't reschedule me until May / more prolonged cancer garbage. I decided to go back to work in March of 2012 and in August I decided to change plastic surgeons, to someone who I had met and liked immediately and who I knew did great work. I saw her in November and we too had a plan. <br />
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During my November appointment, I came to the realization that as long as I had one reduced breast (that I felt like wasn't even my own anymore) and one (partially) reconstructed breast, I would always have one breast that always had cancer in it. They would never be a pair, a set, or a match.<br />
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Over the next few months, Keith and I discussed a prophylactic mastectomy on my left side. We weighed the pros and cons and I came to the conclusion that I wanted to get it done. So I called my 'new' plastic surgeon's office in March, once my Indian travels were over, and at that point, I realized that I had fallen through the cracks again. My file had not been dealt with, faxes hadn't been made, calls had not been dialed, I was in limbo again. After expressing my extreme frustration with waiting five months with no resolve, the ball started rolling again.<br />
<br />
As a side note, it is extremely difficult to be an advocate for yourself when it comes to reconstruction - let me tell you why. There is an immense sense of vanity that comes along with wanting to have breasts again. I can't imagine that this vanity exists with many other body parts that are reconstructed but because a breast is so closely related to sexuality, it is so incredibly easy to feel vain when trying to regain a part of your body that cancer stole from you.<br />
<br />
So, as the ball was rolling again, my plastic surgeon's office advised me to call my oncology surgeon's office to let her know that I wanted the prophylactic mastectomy (which I would like to point out that I wanted in the first place in 2011). I made the call and was left a voicemail in return within a few days explaining that she was not taking on any new patients for prophylactic mastectomies and that I would have to go through my family doctor to get a referral to a new oncology surgeon to do the prophylactic mastectomy. This was all in a voicemail!!!<br />
<br />
I called the office back, said that was unacceptable and that I wasn't going to start all over with a brand new surgeon especially because I am not a new patient and that could take years. And then emotion took over and I said 'I am engaged and I refuse to wear a turtleneck wedding dress at my own wedding. I need to move on and without these surgeries, I won't be able to.' The receptionist felt awful (which was not my intention, I just became so emotional) and said she would speak to my oncology surgeon and would get back to me. Within a few days, she got back to me and let me know that she would do the procedure for me. <br />
<br />
So, now we are back on track and I presume that surgery will be hopefully by the end of the year until, oh wait, my expander ruptured on May 24th because really, why wouldn't it?? So, in to the plastic surgeon I go and surgery has just become an ASAP situation. Needless to say, surgery is on Tuesday, in about 36 hours, and I am going through a whole whirlwind of emotions.<br />
<br />
Because I have wanted a prophylactic mastectomy for two years now and have been told for all 24 months that it is NOT what I want, I feel relieved that it is finally happening however a few realities have set in. Tonight will be my last Sunday night with a real breast and although it has been reduced and it is not the way it was made originally, it is my own tissue and it is mine. I take some comfort in that. Tomorrow will be my last Monday and my last day with my breast and I know that thought will consume my day. How do you prepare for losing a body part and having it be replaced by something that is known in daily conversation as 'fake'?<br />
<br />
The other day someone asked how big I was going to go (kind of personal but I am pretty open about it). I told her that it isn't entirely up to me because we have to make sure the skin and muscle stretch to a certain size, your body shape has an impact as well as other factors. Anyway, this woman seemed surprised that it wasn't just as easy as saying 'Double D, please'. I explained to her that this wasn't a breast augmentation but instead a reconstruction - after she still looked confused and confirmed that confusion by saying 'Oh really?', I said 'picture cutting your hand off, and trying to rebuild it, not easy, right?'. I think that drove the point home.<br />
<br />
I often wonder if my breasts will ever be sexual again. I am still in the process of mourning the loss of my first breast, and I will have to mourn my second as well but with the reconstruction will I feel like I just have bumps on my chest that fill the place of the location where my breasts used to be or will they feel like breasts one day? I had breasts for 26 years and so by the time I'm 52, I will have had implants for just as long - will I be used to them by then?<br />
<br />
I have been thinking about my first surgery a lot. I think about that scared girl who hugged her mom, dad and mother-in-law before she had to register for her cancer surgery. The hospital was incredible and let Keith come with me as far as almost the OR but I was scared. I was naive and somehow the word 'mastectomy', although knowing it meant the removal of the entire breast, did not have the full impact on me until I saw the flat space on my chest. In the case of my first surgery, ignorance was bliss. This time, I know exactly what I am going in for. I am still a little unsure though, how do I prepare for the physical and mental pain that this will cause having known how painful it was in the past? In the past year or so, I have thought about that scared girl and I have thought about what I would say to her knowing what I know now. Then today, I revert back to that scared girl and I feel no farther ahead. I feel so petrified to go through with this that I have spent most of the day crying.<br />
<br />
It's funny because I feel like I have known the right thing to say to so many cancer patients that I have met as a result of my own cancer and I usually feel like I provide some comfort in the things that I say but now that it's my turn, now that I need the pep talk or the right words, I have nothing to say to myself. I am scared, that's all I keep coming up with.<br />
<br />
At the pre-op last week, the nurse said, 'Now you've had a mastectomy already?' and once I nodded she said 'because of cancer, correct?'. I nodded again. And then she said generically 'Wow, you're young.' At the time I just nodded, smiled and said my generic 'Yep, and it's not in my family history nor do I have the BRCA gene.' You can tell that I have maybe had this conversation 100 times before. It wasn't until this weekend that I finally thought, you know, maybe a double mastectomy at 28 years old is a little young - ya, I guess it's even a 'Holy shit, she's only 28' kinda young. You just start getting used to it I guess but somehow the word 'double' preceding the word 'mastectomy' takes it up a notch for me.<br />
<br />
Somehow I have found strength in the thought that this time, if I want to say 'no' or don't want to go through with the surgery, I can because this one isn't cancer's decision, it's mine. By having a choice this time, I feel a little more in control and that I have a little more power. Knowing that I could just walk away from this calms me down a little and knowing that in order to grow my breasts back, this is the way it has to be done gives me strength. <br />
<br />
Even though I have experienced this once before, I just don't know how to get a mastectomy. Luckily, having been born with only two breasts, this is the last time I will have to navigate the experience. The two and a half lines at the start of this entry were about today, in the living room, just Keith and I. I have spent a lot of today crying merely because I don't know how I'm going to go through this again.<br />
<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-75309256202455757982013-04-17T18:54:00.001-07:002013-04-17T18:54:18.878-07:00Eureka! It's Not About You!Months ago, I was asked to speak at the National Women's Show in April. It's
easy to say 'Yes' to something when it is months away. The day slowly crept up
and before I knew it, it was this past weekend.<br />
<br />
I shot my mouth off and invited my mom and aunt to come up for the weekend as
I thought it would be a great opportunity to spend the weekend together.
Actually, while I was growing up, my mom, my aunt and I would all drive to
Montreal twice a year to see my other aunt for the weekend. When I was fifteen,
my aunt from Montreal died from pancreatic cancer and so I thought having my mom
and aunt come to watch me speak about cancer was somewhat symbolic. As the day
got closer, I started to get nervous because I was not only asked to speak, but
I was asked to speak for 20 minutes. The longest I had spoken at an event was
about 15 minutes and although the time whizzes by, my fear is that no one wants
to hear about cancer for 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
Regardless, I cranked out a speech and included challenges, hurdles, sweet
stories, and times when I laughed in cancer's face. I went over it and over it
on Saturday morning in preparation for Sunday afternoon's 2:30 slot. I practiced
on Keith too many times to count and after the trillionth time, he said 'You're
treating this like an oral presentation. Treat it like you are just having a
conversation.' Don't tell him I said this, but he was right. That's exactly what
was wrong. I was trying to memorize my own story. I started looking at my
'speech' less as a grade six school presentation and more like a chat with my
girlfriends and I felt much more comfortable. Why didn't I think of that?<br />
<br />
My mom and aunt got into town at about 4:30 and we met them for dinner. We
had a delightful Chinese meal and afterwards, I opened my fortune cookie and it
read like this:<br />
<br />
<img alt="Photo: Ok, ok, I get it. Move on." height="504" mce_src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-d-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/p480x480/559402_10151502245564694_1972850742_n.jpg" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-d-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/p480x480/559402_10151502245564694_1972850742_n.jpg" width="504" /><br />
<br />
Dammit, I know. I get it. Move on! Quit dwelling on cancer. Enjoy life. You
survived. Sometimes, I feel like life is begging me to move on and I just keep
wanting to hold on because by moving on I am accepting that cancer was allowed
to do this to me and I am admitting that I have accepted it. And by moving on, I
fear that I won't know who I am without cancer by my side. And if I move on,
what is my excuse of being tired, and not having a breast?<br />
<br />
That was a bit of an aside but it'll tie in later, I promise. Anyway, Keith
left us girls and we stayed up much too late chatting. I took one last attempt
at practicing my speech then closed my eyes.<br />
<br />
We headed to the women's show at about 11am the next morning and as my mom
and aunt went from booth to booth my stomach got tighter and tighter. I read
that there were supposed to be 35 000 women go through this show this weekend
and although I saw the stage that I was speaking on and saw that there was only
room for about 35 women to sit while listening to me, I was freaking out a
little bit. I have spoken in front of eight hundred people before, why was I
nervous about this?<br />
<br />
I started thinking about being perfect. I started thinking about being
hilarious at the right times and getting the attention of the right person so
that I could share my story at the next big event or write an article for a
magazine or start a new career in public speaking (I think you get the drift and
maybe a little of the delusion, too).<br />
<br />
And then as I watched my mom and aunt booth-hop from the end of the aisles
anxiously waiting for 2:30pm, I all of a sudden realized that this wasn't about
me. This wasn't about how 'well' I did. This wasn't about being funny, or witty,
or clever or smart looking. This was about that one woman in the audience who
felt alone until today or that one woman who felt a lump but she was told that
she was too young to have breast cancer. Like a huge bag of hammers slamming
over my head, it hit me that this wasn't about me.<br />
<br />
I had a sense of calm come over me and as I flicked my headset microphone
from 'off' to 'on' I was completely ready to go on stage. So here we were, it
was 2:30pm and it was time for the Professional Breast Cancer Ass-Kicker to go
on stage.<br />
<br />
<img alt="" height="513" mce_src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/526623_10151503801309694_1486735420_n.jpg" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/526623_10151503801309694_1486735420_n.jpg" width="430" /><br />
<br />
As I was about a minute into my speech, a woman in her fifties came over, sat
down and had a look on her face that said 'Oh good, I didn't miss this.'
Throughout the twenty minutes, she did a lot of nodding, some crying, some
laughing, and a lot of tear wiping. When I was finished, I got off the stage and
went over to my mom and aunt. The woman in the audience was speaking to one of
the women who belonged to the group that I was speaking for. I could see that
she had been crying and so I went over to her and put my hand on her back and
asked if she was ok. She told me that she had been diagnosed when she was 20 and
then again when she was 40 and she could relate to so much of what I said (she
continued to wipe the tears). Then, what made it all worth it was her saying,
'You know, I didn't know why I came here today. I came by myself and wasn't sure
why I was here. Now I know. I came to hear you speak.' Regardless of being out
of treatment for years, she still had pain, and still had tears that hadn't been
cried yet. She got the contact information for the group that I was speaking for
and is going to contact them for support. Why did I ever think that this was
about me?<br />
<br />
It's women like this that make me get up in front of ten, a hundred, or eight
hundred people and share my story. Once I realized that it wasn't about me, I
was able to help someone - the same way I was in India. I struggled for the
first couple of days of my placement in Delhi because I didn't know where to
start, or how I would fit in or how the children would take to me but once I
stopped making it about me and made it about the children, learning happened.
This weekend, once I made my speech about someone else, I was able and prepared
and that woman ended up getting what she needed from my speech.<br />
<br />
I think that damn fortune cookie was right and I think as soon as I realized
that it wasn't about me, I was able to take another step towards closing my
cancer chapter - not leaving cancer behind, but growing from my experience in
order to help others and starting my next chapter. I think I am learning to use
my story to help someone else rather than needing the help myself. Oh Lord, is
this what they call an epiphany?Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-50722887861716178632013-04-08T19:52:00.002-07:002013-04-08T19:52:53.918-07:00Cancerville: Population MeI know, I know, it has been weeks – months even. I don’t even know if I have
a good excuse.<br />
<br />
Well, I went to India, that’s gotta count for something. And, yes, it was
amazing. I just keep thinking, ‘India exists’ and not just in textbooks anymore.
I went with A Fresh Chapter along with 11 other survivors, Terri (the founder of
A Fresh Chapter) and Hal, the world’s greatest digital story teller. I
volunteered at a school that <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">doesn’t</span></span>
have enough money for an actual school structure so we taught in a park. I have
1400 pictures to prove that I was there, friendships that will last a lifetime,
and my heart was stolen about seven different times by different children whose
different eyes told different stories.<br />
<br />
About three weeks before I left for India, I asked Terri if it would be <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">ok</span></span> if I just told people that I went
to India but <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">didn’t</span></span> actually go because I was
scared, <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">shitless</span></span>. I was afraid for my safety.
I was afraid of how the poverty was going to affect me. I was afraid that I was
going to teach nothing to the children. I was afraid that I was going to be
overwhelmed. And you know what happened? None of it.<br />
<br />
I projected this sadness and depression on the people of Delhi before I even
met them because I assumed that the importance that we put into ‘stuff’ here
whether that means clothes, possessions, cars, money, accessories, etc. was what
the people of India would be missing but instead I saw more smiles than I see
here. I saw more pride in one person showing me her dirt floor home than I see
here. I mean, I think it’s all safe to say that we all know that it’s what’s on
the inside that counts, and that money can’t buy
love/life/experience/personality/insertanythingelsethatyoucan’tbuywithmoneyhere
but until you see someone surviving, nay, thriving on $200/month, until you see
children sitting, LISTENING, and happy to be at school because to them it’s a
privilege not a right, and until you see a woman smile back at you simply
because you have taken the time to acknowledge her, it’s difficult to express
what that’s like.<br />
<br />
I have struggled with the question ‘How was your trip?’. Quite often, I just
say ‘Oh, it was great.’ because I don’t know how to formulate my thoughts and
experiences into words or into a concise explanation that <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">isn’t</span></span> going to make someone want to
gouge their eyes out.<br />
<br />
What I think I can put into words is the feeling of giving. I’ll try to
explain. Since the day that I was diagnosed, I became the focus of a lot of
people’s lives. Every time I walked into a room, people would stop talking and
start asking about me, if I needed anything, about my latest doctor’s
appointment and when I was going to grow my boob back. I got quite used to
talking about myself and expecting the conversation to be about me (now, I’m not
going to lie to you, before cancer I quite enjoyed attention and talking about
myself, it’s just that cancer really lit up that spotlight).<br />
<br />
Unintentionally, sometimes I think I would make the conversation about me
because I just became used to it. And because of this, I lived in a cancer
bubble, where it was all cancer, all the time. And, I think I have dreaded the
day that someone forgets that I had cancer,that I struggled, that I survived
because when that day happens, I will feel like my entire experience will be
undermined. If I accept that it's time to move on, I feel like I am
contradicting that lesson that I have been trying to teach so many people -
'Cancer doesn't end when treatment does.' I don't feel any less associated with
cancer now than when I was in the middle of treatment. The way I keep explaining
it is through the loss of a loved one. I have explained many times how cancer is
about loss and so when you compare it to the loss of a loved one, it's not like
once you bury someone, you get in your car, drive out of the cemetery and say
'<span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">Geez</span></span>, that was a hard week. I'm glad
that's over.' It doesn't work like that. And cancer doesn't work like that
either. I keep waiting to wake up one day without this cancer-monkey on my back
but the little banana eating piece of shit won't leave. <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">Ok</span></span>, sorry, that may have been a
little angry. In saying all of this, something that I did experience in India
that I have yet to experience here was that with the children at my placement, I
<span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">didn’t</span></span> have time to worry about me
and worry if these children remembered that I <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">didn’t</span></span>
have a breast, the focus <span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">wasn’t</span></span> on me, it was on them and it
felt wonderful. <br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">Although this was a wonderful
feeling, to take a little from what Terri and I have talked about since our
return to Canada, I think my problem is that I expected India to not be A Fresh
Chapter in my life, but instead be the entire <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">bo</span></span><span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">ok</span></span>. I
expected to fly to India for two weeks, volunteer, meet new people, and become
an entirely enlightened, clear, sorted, healed person. I put the pressure of my
post-cancer struggles and (if I can coin a term here for a minute that my cancer
peeps may understand) my 'stuckness' on India and so when I came home and I
wasn't transformed (Changed? Yes. An entirely different person? No), I felt like
I had failed at being a cancer survivor - regardless of how many times I tell
other people that there is no right way to do this cancer thing.<br />
<br />
This has led to a little soul searching and sometimes I wonder if I stay in
my cancer bubble, in C<span class="mceItemHidden"><span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">ancerville</span></span> (population me) because I
don’t want anyone to forget that I had CANCER and the thought of not mentioning
it within 20 minutes of meeting someone new makes me feel like I am lying to
them because I have learned to identify with cancer, it is part of me, and I’m
used to it, and I want to teach people about it (for example – the other day
someone said to me [after finding out moments before that I had cancer] 'Well,
I'm glad you made it.' Huh? I'm glad you made it? Isn't that kind of comparable
to 'Hey, I'm glad you didn't die'? Sometimes I am a little sensitive to these
things but when I got home, Keith assured me that that wasn't okay to say.).<br />
<br />
I mean there's also the obvious angle of 'So, what you're saying is, if you
attempt to move on, you won't be able to associate with cancer, and without
cancer, who are you?' Yes, I have thought of this. And in a weird way, I think
the timing of my cancer has somewhat defined me. I had just graduated for the
third time from university and I was trying to find myself, trying to start a
career and make a name for myself. I found a job and after 15 months, I was
diagnosed with cancer. By the time I went back to work, I was as much a
professional cancer patient as I was a professional working girl. At that point,
the majority of my career life had been spent in a hospital. So who am I without
cancer? I don't really know and to be honest, it frightens me a little to think
about it. <br />
<br />
How am I supposed to move on from cancer when the physical and emotional
effects are at the forefront of my life?Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-37110383804670997642013-01-31T18:00:00.000-08:002013-01-31T18:00:47.878-08:00A Slight Resolution<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The other day I was sitting in my office, crunching numbers and pushing paper – needless to say, my brain wasn’t all that engaged – and I started thinking ‘If I could be anyone, in the entire world, who would it be?’ I scrolled through a few beautiful actresses, rich people crossed my mind, people who have never had cancer came rushing in too but I kept coming back to the same person – me. Now, that is not a normal reaction to this question that I’ve been asking myself for as long as I can remember.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I've spent many years wanting to be anyone skinny (I’m still kinda partial to this one), I spent years wanting to be someone rich, someone famous, someone who has traveled the world, someone who wasn’t afraid of needles and a variety of other people who had traits that I admired or characteristics that I envied. It was only the other day that I realized that I wanted to be me. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I have said this before, but although getting cancer at 26 wasn’t exactly what I would call ideal, I have learned life lessons in my twenties that I may not have learned until my sixties or maybe even ever. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t buy into that whole ‘Cancer is a gift’ garbage, I am just trying to turn a horrible situation into a manageable one. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I think Keith and I have done things that we wouldn’t have done otherwise, like our Christmas trip to NYC. I think we would have put that off, until ‘next year’ and India – can you believe that I’m going to India? I fly out on the 14<sup>th</sup> of February to Delhi along with 11 other cancer survivors to volunteer for two weeks. I am at a point in this cancer <i>business </i>(I just can’t write ‘journey’ anymore) where I am starting not to feel like a cancer patient anymore and I feel as though it’s time to look to the future rather than the past. I am hoping that this adventure helps answer the 'now what' post-cancer question. I would have never gone to India if I didn't have cancer and didn't have questions that needed answering. It is way out of my comfort zone and I have never been more excited about something. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I am also not trying to convince anyone (including myself) that my life is problem-free or perfect. My weight is at the forefront of my thoughts every day (who am I kidding, it's every minute) and this one breast thing is really getting old. I don't have much money and I owe a lot to the student-loan department of the government. I went to school for six years for three degrees in education and I am working in accounting. I still rent an apartment and aspire to own a home one day. I live four hours away from family and am missing out on our nieces and nephews milestones.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">BUT</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I am alive. I have surrounded myself with the kind of people that you only hear about in books. Keith and I spend the majority of our time laughing at cancer, at each other, and together. I have a roof over my head, food in my belly, and a pony tail. Although not having a breast does give me some anxiety and only feeds into my body image issues, I am starting to accept that it was part of the price that had to be paid to stay alive. I am slow moving on the reconstruction train but I am getting there.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I am surrounding by such generous, kind, and caring people. Your know, after coming to and supporting my benefit in 2011, friends and family dug deep into their pockets again and donated to Team Katie at the Relay for Life and then when I told people I was going to India as part of my survivorship <em>business</em>, they stepped up again to get me there. Saying 'thank you' seems like a slap in the face compared to how I feel. I am so grateful to so many people. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Some days I struggle, some days the bone pain from chemo that still ails me puts me into a recurrence tail spin and other days I can convince myself that it's the chemo still working hard to fend off any potential cancer. I have the regular challenges that everyone has - too much to do - not enough time - need to organize - don't eat this - gotta eat that - and so on - but I think I have just learned how to compartmentalize what's important, what needs to be dealt with, and what can wait. I've learned to take a deep breath and work my way through life. I feel like I am living and not plowing through each year so I can get to the next like I used to. I can safely say that I am enjoying each day. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Keith and I have made a slight resolution. We have decided to do what makes us feel good in 2013. I am very hard on myself for just about everything and many times it results in guilt and struggle. I'm going to do my best to reassure myself that I am enough. As I have said, 2011 was awful, 2012 was great, and if this pattern continues, 2013 is going to be spectacular!</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-6318314640378813372013-01-17T15:18:00.002-08:002015-10-15T22:40:30.798-07:00The Blame Game<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">As time passed from my
initial diagnosis, more and more people asked me the reason for my cancer. I
think they wanted an answer so it gave them something to avoid and somehow
provided them with more protection from the disease. They were hoping that I
said ‘Uh, well, when I was a kid I swallowed some poisonous floor cleaner and it
gathered in my breast and turned into a tumour’ so they could in turn say ‘Oh,
thank God I never swallowed floor cleaner and therefore will never have cancer.’
People seemed to want to be able to put their blame somewhere, so they felt less
threatened by the reality of cancer and it seemed harder and harder for people
to grasp the concept that my cancer is a big question mark.</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">Never the less, I have been
told by many, many people, who don’t have any medical or oncological training,
that my cancer has a cause. Some people think it was the hormones from the birth
control pill, others think it was stress, others think it was the food I eat or
the deodorant I used, and others have blamed it on our environment. I continue
to assure them that my entire medical team is baffled but regardless of genetic
testing being negative, having no family history, and being only twenty six when
I was diagnosed, they feel as though they know the answer.</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">In the beginning, I would
let this kind of thing go, or just agree with the different conclusions to the
cause of my cancer but I am starting to get annoyed – pissed even – because I
think this blame game that we are playing is detrimental to our health. On
Facebook yesterday I saw a picture of a bald woman, obviously hooked up to
chemo, with IV bags lingering everywhere with a picture of a green fruit in the
forefront and it said ‘<em>The Soursop</em> [it is some kind of fruit] –
<em>Totally ignored by the criminally murderous pharmaceutical industry, this
medicinal tropical fruit kills cancer cells up to 10, 000 times more effectively
than their expensive failure called chemotherapy with no side effects</em>.’ Are
you fucking serious? This just pisses me off. This picture blames me for losing
my hair, for feeling like shit for 6 months, for not having a breast anymore,
for taking a year off work, for everything that comes with cancer. It’s saying
that I had a choice and when I had to choose my course of survival, I chose
chemotherapy; a treatment that has horrible side effects and may have left me
infertile instead of a simple fruit. What an idiot! The choice is so obvious,
pick the fruit you moron, you like fruit, and it's 10000 times better than chemo
and the bonus? No side effects. Man, people are stupid who decide to go through
chemo. (You see where I’m going with this?).</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">What pisses me off even more
is that I know of women who have been fit their entire lives, who don’t smoke or
drink and who eat organically and guess what – they got cancer. Is
<em>their</em> cancer somehow <strong>not </strong>their fault but because I
didn’t eat organically and am overweight, my cancer <em>is </em>my fault? I was
told by a doctor who specializes in nutrition and health that at 26 years old,
it is physically impossible for me to be the reason for my cancer – I have not
had enough time to be the cause because in 26 years, my body cannot produce a
tumour because of something that I’ve done. Wow, did that feel good to hear. It
doesn’t give me a free pass to live a reckless life but it does relieve some of
the guilt that I have felt about somehow causing my own cancer due to stupid
shit like this Facebook post (as someone who doesn’t smoke, drinks maybe 3 drinks
a month, and has a relatively healthy diet). </span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">This soursop fruit might be
wonderfully healthy and it might have cancer killing agents but I absolutely
detest when people who have never had cancer preach about how they would react
if they were faced with it. I fully support alternative medicine and if
anything, I am envious of those who are brave enough to refuse chemo because
they believe in a more natural route but to say that chemo doesn’t work or that
drinking green tea will cure the aggressive cancer tumour growing at a rapid
pace in my breast is morally irresponsible and ill informed. And oddly enough,
in all of the research that I did on breast cancer, treatment, chemo, fertility,
etc. etc. etc. I found actual data and research about how chemo works and the
survival rate and yet, I didn’t come across one thing that said ‘soursop is the
cure.’ </span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">When I initially read this
Facebook post (along with a variety of other ones that say marijuana will cure
cancer, eating sugar is a sure way to get cancer, drinking green tea is a sure
way to avoid it, etc.) I was pretty angry and it led to a tweet that resulted in
a number of replies that I want to share with you (keep in mind that you only
have 140 characters in a tweet so grammar doesn’t really count on
Twitter).</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">My original tweet – ‘<em>I
hate reading about how people who have never had cancer would not do chemo and
would instead eat a certain fruit or drink a special tea.</em>’</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Reponses</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-size: small;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From
@ChristinaNewman – <em>‘talking to hubby about this – I used to be that girl –
refused treatment for 11 months till I realized I would die w/o treatment.’
</em><u>I loved her honesty. You just don’t know how you would react unless you
are faced with these decisions.</u></span></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-size: small;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From @zapladybug
<em>‘When I was first diagnosed *two* people told me green tea cures
#breastcancer. Two. To my face. And they were sober.’</em> <u>I loved this. It
was retweet worthy. Seriously, who says that? </u></span></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-size: small;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From
@arielnoriega5 <em>‘Agreed! People think they would do one thing but when you
are put in the situation, one thing is clear… treatment!! #Life’.</em> <u>Yep,
couldn’t agree more.</u></span></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From @terriwingham
<em>‘Seriously. I think it’s total garbage as I sip my red wine ;-) Everything
in moderation even moderation is my mantra :)’. </em><u>Terri, you’re so
friggin’ great!</u> </span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-size: small;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From @slieks
<em>‘Even worse when they try to convince you it’s the key to your
survival.’</em> <u>Couldn’t have said it better myself.</u></span></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-size: small;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From @lexieann73
<em>‘Agree! Unless they have been there and done that they should keep their
mouth shut.’</em> <u>I don’t pretend to know how I would treat MS if I was
diagnosed and the same should be said for cancer.</u></span></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-size: small;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From
@iamnotcancer <em>‘After I finished chemo, an acquaintance told me a friend’s
mother was cured by marijuana oil. Pot cures.’ </em><u>Don’t forget your green
tea!</u></span></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-size: small;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri;" style="font-family: Calibri;">From @nancebeth
<em>‘I was told that grilled food caused my #breastcancer and that there was an
herbal tea available that would cure it’.</em> <u>Aha! I knew there was a tea
for that.</u></span></span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Calibri;">To my cancer peeps – thanks
for listening, this post was brewing for months. To non-cancer peeps, please be
very conscious of telling people why <em>you</em> think they have cancer and how
to treat their cancer and don’t forget that sometimes bad cancer happens to good
people, and instead of trying to get to the bottom of it, accept it – we
have.</span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-65417425424721335672013-01-03T12:58:00.001-08:002013-01-03T12:58:54.113-08:00There Is No Less Pain<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Today, I write with a heavy heart.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">On the 28<sup>th</sup> of December, I got an e-mail from someone at YACC (Young Adult Cancer Canada) and the subject said ‘Open when you have some time and privacy.’ I was in my office, at work, and for some reason, when I heard the ‘ding’ of my phone, I checked it. I didn’t really read the subject and instead just started reading the e-mail. It was an e-mail that informed us ‘YACCers’ that one of our own had died, on Christmas Day.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Back in May, Keith and I went out to Alberta for a YACC Retreat and I was lucky enough to meet Naomi. Naomi was one of about 25 other survivors, caregivers, and healthcare providers at the retreat. We all arrived as strangers and we all left as hugging friends and although it was mentioned (as a form of preparation) that sometimes we lose some of our friends to cancer, I just never really expected it to happen. Although Naomi and I didn’t stay in contact after the retreat, we were united by cancer and by the experience of the retreat.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Reading of her passing was difficult. I was grateful that my office door was closed as I shed a few tears at my desk. I have never asked myself why I got cancer, it really doesn’t matter, and to be honest, I have convinced myself that it’s so my mom, mother-in-law, sister, sister-in-laws, aunts, cousins, and nieces never have to go through it. I do however ask myself why I was spared. Why was I ‘cured’ while others are diagnosed with a more aggressive cancer or a cancer that is farther along? Naomi’s family and new husband don’t hurt any less than my family would, there is no less pain in the world because Naomi died from cancer and I didn’t.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">This is the first time that I have experienced someone dying from the same thing that I had and I don’t know how to deal with it. I am having a hard time getting through this blog entry - I’ve wanted to write something for a few days now but I just haven’t found the right words or the strength. I so wanted to go to her wake and I selfishly didn’t because I was too scared. I was afraid that I would sob, loudly, the entire time. I didn’t want to take away from her, I didn’t want anyone consoling me when it wasn’t about me, it was about her. On the 31<sup>st</sup>, via facebook, it was ‘Wear something Sparkly for Naomi Day’ and I participated; I felt like I was doing something in an otherwise helpless situation. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I feel as though cancer is that one thing you hope your doctor doesn’t say. It’s what we are all afraid of happening. For some reason, cancer didn’t seem as scary to me once I finished treatment as it did before my diagnosis because I knew that I could survive it. I mean the thought of having it again is horrifying but for some reason, it doesn’t scare me in the same way that it once did, that is, up until I found out about Naomi. It’s like her death has really brought everything to the surface again, it makes cancer real, the feelings new, and the pain as fresh as it was on March 11<sup>th</sup>, 2011.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Up until I had cancer, when I heard about someone who had died, I thought about the family of the deceased and how they were coping and to be honest, I have thought about her family and her husband every day since I found out. But since cancer, when I hear of someone who has died, I have started thinking about what he or she thought about during his or her last day on earth. I think about the way I would be, and if I would be crying because I’d be scared to be alone, I think I’d be scared for what the after-life looks like, I'd think about what I hadn't accomplished and how everyone would deal with my death. Does that make sense? I guess it’s because for the first time in my life, I could picture myself in a hospital bed, surrounded by family…</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Although I put a lot of pressure on myself to be the 'old Katie' I know that deep down she is gone and along with 'new Katie' comes new challenges, new heartache, and new loss and although I would like to resign as a cancer survivor and just be me again, I am learning that alongside cancer comes continual struggle well after treatment is over.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I want to dedicate this entry to Naomi. You were a star on earth and now you are a star in the sky. Thank you for brightening my life.</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-5192985064070540642012-12-19T17:01:00.001-08:002012-12-19T17:02:24.490-08:00Your Dreams Miss You<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><em>‘All the lanterns are lighted, the kids are invited, all chorus united, PINATA!’</em> </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">My class was chosen to represent ‘Mexico’ in our ‘Around the World Christmas Concert’ in grade six. The lyrics above are just a few of the gems from the tasty lick that we were given. It was an awful song and at the peak of our social suicidal fears, we had to get up in front of all the cool grade sevens and eights and sing our hearts out to a song that quite honestly, we all mocked.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Every year, at Christmas time, I think about this song. It makes me smile. It makes me think of one of my best friends, Heather, who detested the song more than any of us and made her thoughts and opinions quite well known (as we all snickered about what she was saying). This song makes me think about my childhood, my naivety, and the time I showed up in a long floral print dress for my debut in the Christmas choir although it was painfully obvious when I walked in that the uniform was simply black pants and a white shirt. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Christmas is my favourite time of year. I love being with family, celebrating life, laughter and childhood and having an excuse to give presents. I still believe in the magic of Santa and the thought of being in bed early to ensure that he stops at my house encourages me to call it an early night every December 24<sup>th</sup>. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">It wasn’t until last year that I experienced the most magical Christmas of all. You often hear people say that their lives flash before them when they are faced with a traumatic experience. When I was first diagnosed with cancer, it was my future that flashed before me; everything that I hadn’t accomplished or experienced rushed through my mind and this included the next sixty Christmases. L</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">ast Christmas was filled with a few tears because back in March, I wasn’t sure if I was going to see Christmas and here I was loving it just as much as I had loved every other Christmas. December 25<sup>th</sup> is my survival marker – when it’s Christmas, it means that I’ve made it through another year.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">As I have learned at an early age; you only get one crack at life, money is just an object, and there are no guarantees so don’t wait your whole life to start living. Based on these life lessons, this year Keith and I decided to head down to New York City to experience Christmas in The Big Apple. I thought I knew about the magic of Christmas, well my friends, I knew nothing until I crossed the George Washington Bridge and entered the land of Manhattan.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Keith and I were there for four days and explored the hell out of the city. We did all the touristy stuff during the weekdays and left the walk up 5<sup>th</sup> Avenue and the tree at Rockefeller Centre for Saturday. Oh, and on Friday night, we went to see <i>A Christmas Story</i> on Broadway (that’s the movie with the little boy named Ralphie who wants the Red Rider BB Gun). Ugh! It was flippin’ amazing. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">On Thursday, as we walked through the streets of Greenwich Village, I spotted a little girl singing <em>Frosty The Snowman</em> while she was holding her mom’s hand. It made me think about that time in my life, when I was little, when the thought of cancer never crossed my mind – mostly because I didn’t know what it was, but partially because I was too busy thinking about the amazing life that I was going to live. When I was this little girl's age, I thought about my future husband, my future kids and my future career. I dreamt about my dream home and all the toys that I would fill it with. I never wondered what the inside of a chemo centre looked like, I never pictured myself without a breast, and I knew nothing of this fear of recurrence.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The innocence of this little girl, the fact that she was singing like no one was listening, taught me a few lessons. In May, I did a bit of a 'project' where I cut out different words, sayings, pictures, and symbols from magazines and put them into a collage. One of the phrases read 'Your dreams miss you'. I didn't realize how much I had stopped dreaming and how much I had started planning. This little girl reminded me to keep dreaming because if anything, it's a great foundation for what the future will bring. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'm slowly learning that whether I think about a future with cancer or one without, I am not going to be any more prepared to hear the words 'Your cancer is back' - worry and fear do not somehow better prepare us for disaster. In saying that, I feel as though it's this time of year where cancer doesn't get to stand front and centre in my life, it takes a back seat to magic, laughter, lights, family, and warmth. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This Christmas will be just as magical as all the Christmas' before and as I lay my head on my pillow on Monday night envisioning sugar plums dancing through my head, I will also be dreaming of my dream career with my dream kids, in my dream home and luckily I already have my dream man.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-67753436655405876032012-12-06T06:50:00.001-08:002012-12-06T06:51:05.034-08:00Naturally Normal<div>
<span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">On a daily basis, I think
different cancer thoughts. I sometimes flip flop between wanting my breast back
to the generic 'I'm so lucky to be alive.' What I have started realizing is that
although many of my thoughts aren't normal, based on the hand I have been dealt,
many of these thoughts are natural. In order to distinguish between the two, I
interpret 'normal' as being: average, common, and thought by others whereas
'natural' is more: expected, probable and thought by others in your
situation.</span></div>
<br />
<div>
<span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">I've been thinking about
natural vs normal a lot lately and as thoughts drift into my mind, I often
wonder if other cancer survivors and/or if people who have never had cancer
think these same thoughts. Are these cancer thoughts? Katie thoughts? People
thoughts? Or a mixture of all three? (Sometimes I picture some of you reading an
entry and thinking 'What the hell is she talking about?'. I hope I haven't lost
you this early).</span></div>
<br />
<div>
<span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">Here's a good one - at least
once a week, I think about how long Keith would wait to start dating after I
died. I'm not saying someone who has never had cancer has not thought about
this, but I highly doubt it's a weekly event. I don't think that's a normal
thought however, I feel like it's natural considering I've had cancer. I wonder
what his new girlfriend will look like and if he'll talk about me. I wonder if
they'll do stuff that we do and if he'll enjoy them as much with her. The
weirdest part is that I'm getting used to thinking about this kind of thing. I
don't have that same rush of emotion come over me the way I did when I thought
about this for the first time - instead, I am genuinely curious about the answer
to these questions (here's hoping they stay unanswered forever).</span></div>
<br />
<div>
<span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">I think about my funeral a
lot. Who would come? What songs would they play (this is a really important one
for me because I've already picked some out)? How would people remember me?
Would I die as Cancer-Katie or as who I was without cancer? I know these aren't
normal thoughts (although I will admit that I did think about the VIP list at my
funeral before I had cancer because let's be honest, whether I die tomorrow or
when I'm 97, my funeral is going to be the event of the year), but they are
natural considering that I had cancer.</span></div>
<br />
<div>
<span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">I know I have written about
guilt before, but I still carry a lot of guilt around with me. I feel guilty
that my niece has to check 'cancer' on any medical family history forms for the
rest of her life. I feel guilty that my mom feels guilty for the cancer
'skipping' her and finding me. I feel guilty for the fear that others have for
me, for the future, and for recurrence. I'm Catholic, so I feel guilty for just
about everything that I do, but cancer guilt is a new level of guilt. It may not
be normal to feel this way, but I've learned, by connecting with other women,
that it is indeed natural.</span></div>
<br />
<div>
<span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">I think about the next time
I have cancer. I know that's not good to put that out there, but if I'm going to
be honest, I think about getting cancer again. Sometimes, I get a pain in my
left arm where my PICC line was by just thinking about going through the
procedure again. I envision what my friends will say and I think about how I
will respond to people saying 'Well, at least you know you can get through it.'
(because I know people are going to say that). I think about chemo and more
scars and how I'm going to deal with the needles. I think about growing my hair
out just to have to shave it again. No part of these thoughts are
normal.</span></div>
<br />
<div>
<span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">The same way most of us
think about our day; plan when Ashley needs to be driven to soccer practice and
when Jason needs to be picked up from piano lessons, on top of work, grocery
shopping, this weekend's wedding and next week's yard sale, I think about
cancer. I plan many futures with many outcomes and depending on what cancer has
in store for me, my future will be very different. </span><span mce_style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;" style="font-family: Arial;">Now, some of you may be
thinking that this is a very sad entry, or that I am 'down in the dumps' but to
be quite honest, I am writing this with a smile on my face. Seriously, I can see
the reflection of my teeth on the screen as I type... No, I can't... but all
joking aside, what I'm trying to say is that my natural thoughts have become my
normal thoughts anymore. Thinking these things doesn't make me sad or think
negatively, instead they are just my new reality and they are what I think about
when I think about the future. These thoughts make me feel naturally
normal.</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-57225336654030932262012-11-28T17:31:00.004-08:002012-11-28T17:32:00.783-08:00Volunteering Abroad: Being Healed vs Being CuredRight before my last chemo, I remember thinking that cancer was almost over.
I assumed that once the doctors, the hospitals, treatment and tests went away,
cancer would go away too and but I learned that it doesn't.<br />
<br />
As time passed and the days of chemo were farther and farther away, my
physical appearance started looking the way it did before but internally I felt
broken. Now that's not an easy thing for me to admit. I'm the one who others
come to to fix their problems, I'm the one who can do anything, I'm a 'yes'
person, and I not only don't like admitting that I can't do something, I
strongly believe that there is nothing that I can't do.<br />
<br />
Cancer has left me with this void, an unfulfilled spot in my soul that needs
to be filled. You ask, 'what does it need to be filled with Katie?' and I say
'Let me try to explain.' (<----- too much??). <br />
<br />
Cancer can quite easily leave you with a sort of post traumatic stress
disorder. During diagnosis and treatment, it is common to be in fight or flight
mode and while everyone around you is struggling with what you're going through,
odds are you're trying to make it through to the next hour without puking.
Tomorrow, Saturday night, and next week all don't matter - surviving the
chemical warfare of chemo matters. It isn't until the end of treatment when you
have to deal with the emotional side because now that you aren't trying to stop
from puking or staying up all night with anxiety to only sleep through the day
from exhaustion, you have time to think. While you're in the thick of things,
you almost don't have time to deal with the psychological aspects of cancer and
I think that's why it feels so overwhelming after treatment (which is oddly
enough when everyone around you takes a huge sigh of relief and starts treating
you like it's over). <br />
<br />
Secondly, cancer is about loss. You have to mourn the loss of a body part,
potentially. You need to mourn the life that you used to know. In my case, I
have to mourn the body that I used to have. To be quite honest, I have to mourn
naivety. I liked it a lot and I don't have it anymore. You could compare that
loss with the loss of a loved one; a parent, a child, or a sibling. I am not
saying it's an exact comparison, but the idea that I am trying to get across is
that a year after a loved one dies, you aren't 'over' the trauma and the pain is
still right there. As time passes, the pain may not be as fresh but it doesn't
mean it's not there. That's the way I feel about having had cancer. Sometimes I
feel like my friends or family may think, 'God, why is she STILL talking about
cancer, treatment ended over a year ago' but to be honest, the pain is still
there. To be fair, once you've had cancer, your perspective changes and what's
important to you shifts so the idea of being the same Katie that I used to be
doesn't seem possible.<br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">There is no right way to do
this cancer thing and I mean that to include; your reaction to your diagnosis,
surgery, treatment, <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">survivorship</span> and
so much more. You have no idea if your thoughts are totally crazy or totally on
par with what others think when they are at the same part as you are in your
'journey' (I still shutter when I write that word. I really don't like it). I
knew that the transition period between patient and survivor was difficult for
most, but what I didn't know was what I needed to help me through the other side
of treatment.</span><br />
<br />
A few months ago, I read a blog post by the amazing Terri Wingham. She talked
about wanting to take twelve cancer survivors to India where they could
volunteer for two weeks and by helping others they would be helping themselves.
Now when I read this post, I thought I was just reading some of Terri's
wonderful writing but when I ended up in tears by the end of it, I knew that I
needed to be part of the adventure. <br />
<br />
Going to India, looking into the eyes of a woman who speaks a different
language, comes from a different background, and was most likely not given the
same opportunities that I have been given in life, will provide a connection
and a unity that someone who has never had cancer cannot understand and although
we won't be able to communicate with words, we will understand each other's
pain. The thought of that makes me feel the healing power of this trip.<br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">This trip means a lot to not
only me but also to future cancer survivors. It is so easy to feel the most
isolated and the most alone after treatment ends because for months you have
been monitored on a daily basis and now it's a simple 'See you in three months'
and your body is totally left to betray you again. This foundation will help
fill a huge void in resources for <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">survivorship</span> and a huge void in my
post-cancer life.</span><br />
<br />
I would really appreciate your help in getting to India. I am currently
trying to fundraise $2400 to be able to go on this adventure. Any donation would
be appreciated - if everyone who read this post donated $10, I would reach my
goal in a heart beat. <a href="http://www.volunteerforever.com/volunteer_profile/katie-evans" mce_href="http://www.volunteerforever.com/volunteer_profile/katie-evans">Donate
Now</a><br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">I realize that not everyone
can afford to donate money and if that's the case, please spread the word about
this amazing opportunity to other cancer survivors. This is the beginning of an
incredible adventure for future survivors and an essential part of surviving
<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">survivorship</span>. Please pass on this link
</span><a href="http://www.afreshchapter.com/delhi-2013/delhi2013-expected-outcomes" mce_href="http://www.afreshchapter.com/delhi-2013/delhi2013-expected-outcomes">http://www.afreshchapter.com/delhi-2013/delhi2013-expected-outcomes</a><br />
<br />
I know from having taught in grade school and ESL at my university that quite
often the teacher becomes the student and quite often, I felt like I learned
more than I taught. I anticipate that India will provide the same outcome. I
hope to spread laughter and kindness and hope but quite honestly, I believe this
is going to be a life changing experience where I will learn much more than I
will be able to teach.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-85152564671647100832012-11-21T17:09:00.002-08:002012-11-21T17:09:44.098-08:00Surviving Survivorship Part Deux<span class="mceItemHidden">I have heard people call
cancer 'a gift'. I'm not even kidding, some people refer to cancer as a gift. I
think of a gift as something that I would not only like to receive but also
something that I would like to give to my family and friends and I can safely
say that cancer therefore doesn't qualify. The idea behind the concept is that
once someone has had cancer, she develops a new perspective on life, she makes
lifelong friends through the experience, she doesn't take life for granted, she
lives in the present and doesn't worry about the future, <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">et</span> <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">cetera</span>, <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">et</span> <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">cetera</span>, <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">et</span> <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">cetera</span>. And, I will admit that cancer has
been a great teacher and that I have learned life lessons in my twenties that I
would have otherwise not learned until my fifties or sixties however I will
never refer to cancer as a gift.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">Most of the time, I am able
to focus on what I have learned from cancer and live life accordingly but every
now and again the thought of not making it to thirty because of a cancer sequel
creeps into my mind. To be honest, the farther away treatment gets, the less and
less I think about it coming back. Don't g<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">et</span> me wrong, it's still a daily thought
process but it isn't an hourly one anymore and I'm hoping in another few years,
it is more like a weekly thing instead of a daily thing. I try not to focus on
it because it's not like if I worry about it every day that I will be more
prepared for the doctor to say it's back. This is the best way I know how to
describe it; once you're diagnosed with cancer it is terrifying not knowing what
is coming your way and how you will be affected by all of the poking, the
prodding, the surgeries, the appointments, the mental game and everything in
between. But, once you've had cancer, once chemotherapy isn't just a word, it's
instead a past experience, being diagnosed for a second time means you know
exactly what to expect and nothing terrifies me more. Recently, I saw an
interview with Michael J. Fox and he said 'If you imagine the worst case
scenario and then it actually happens, you've just experienced it twice.' Isn't
that the truth?</span><br />
<br />
I don't think survivorship is only about the fear of recurrence though
either. I have some pretty hefty body image issues now. Seriously, I joke all
the time about not having a breast because it's how I deal with it but to be
totally honest, it f*cking sucks. It makes my heart hurt to think that the only
way that I could stay alive was to chop off my breast. And I know that many
people say things like 'Well, at least it was your breast and not your [insert
other body part here]' but I miss her. I miss feeling like a woman or even
feeling attractive. My breasts certainly didn't define who I was as a woman but
they certainly were part of my womanhood, the same way that being a mother is
for other woman (oh wait, cancer may have taken that from me too).<br />
<br />
When I pass a mirror anymore, I don't look at my make-up or my hair (really,
there's no controlling it) but instead I make sure that my 'boobs' (and I use
that word loosely) are straight and I make sure that there is no way to tell
which one is real and which one is manufactured in the same factory as stuffed
teddy bears and pillows. And my hair, well, I've just given up on it. I don't
look like Orphan Annie anymore but it is an interesting look. I try not to worry
about it but to be honest I miss my hair. So many people would very easily say
'There is so much more to worry about in the world' and to be honest, I miss my
breast more but I think we underestimate the trauma of losing our hair. At the
time of treatment, it didn't bother me and even being bald for so many months
really didn't phase me but it is now that I am trying to grow it back that I
find the injustice of the hair loss of chemo (ugh, especially the thought of
having to go through treatment again and losing it all over again).<br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">I think cancer also presents
this void in your life once you've finished treatment. I feel as though everyone
around me took a huge sigh of relief when treatment was over and managed to
translate the end of treatment as being the end of cancer whereas I seemed to
look back at what I had just been through and think 'Holy shit, I just had
cancer. Now what?' It was almost like it was just beginning for me while it was
just ending for every one else. Although the physical warfare is intense, you
know that the nausea will pass and the bone pain will lessen but the emotional
stuff, it gets suppressed until after treatment. While you're in the thick of
things, it's almost like you don't have time, patience, or strength to deal with
the emotions that come with a cancer diagnosis and it's not until after
treatment, once you stop living day by day (or minute by minute during the bad
days), that you start dealing with your diagnosis.</span><br />
<br />
As my physical strength started to return and my hair started to grow back, I
stopped looking sick and I was able to go back to work and lead a normal life
again except things weren't normal anymore. I don't know how to do anything that
I used to do now that I've had cancer. I've used this analogy before but you
know how new mothers often explain leaving the hospital with their first child
with a lot of anxiety? I have often heard new moms explain it in a way that they
are surprised that their medical staff is just going to let them leave with this
newborn without a manual and without someone telling them what every coo, and
goo goo means. I felt the same way after my mastectomy - 'What do you mean
you're just going to let me leave? I don't know how to get through a Tuesday
with only one breast. And to be honest, I've never experienced any other day
without a breast so you might as well add Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday,
Sunday and Monday to that list. And while we're at it, what's the protocol for
holidays?' I somewhat still feel that way now. An example would be when I fly, I
often think about my prosthesis (what if they pat me down?). Everything has
changed but everyone wants me to be the same. Well, it's not happening. Now, I
know at this point all my cancer-sisters are nodding their heads and all my
never-had-cancer-peeps are thinking, 'Ok, she's lost it! What the hell is she
talking about?' and I'll try my best to explain it.<br />
<br />
When I was first diagnosed, like within a week of being told the news, my mom
and I were out at a housewares store and the sales rep was trying to tell us
about the current promotions and all I kept thinking was 'I have cancer. I have
cancer. I have cancer.' Intermittently, my thoughts were interrupted with '50%
when you buy the salt <em>and</em><span class="mceItemHidden">pepper shaker' and 'Buy one g<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">et</span> the second for free' but primarily I was
focused on cancer. I certainly don't think like that anymore but I still do have
a lot of thoughts go through my head that would have otherwise freed up the
space to l<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">et</span> me dream of my life
without cancer. At the same time, although the 'I have cancer. I have cancer.'
thought doesn't go through my mind during every waking minute, sometimes I do
feel like I am lying or omitting information when someone like a cashier asks
'Would you like to donate a dollar to [insert cancer charity here]'). In this
weird way, I feel like I should tell her that I had cancer myself. I think it's
because even though you can't tell by looking at me, I still feel like I am in
the thick of things and I think in a way that I am; the cancer just moved from
my breast to my mind. I still think about it, it's just not in as much of an
intense way; now when I think about not having a breast, it isn't traumatic,
it's not as fresh and instead it's just sad (and y<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">et</span> normal).</span><br />
<br />
Tomorrow I have a doctor's appointment. It's just a consultation for my
future reconstruction but I always fear the look of 'Something's not right' on
the doctor's face. I don't know if that fear will ever go away. I just had no
concept that even in remission and even after being told that I am cancer free
one day, that I will have cancer for my entire lifetime and without writing
about it, others won't understand it either.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-30237630665461764462012-11-14T17:00:00.000-08:002012-11-14T17:04:39.427-08:00Does Everything Happen for a Reason?<span class="mceItemHidden">Is it <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">ok</span> to say 'Everything happens for a reason'
to someone who is facing a difficult situation? No, I don't think so either and
yet many people have said that to me about getting breast cancer at twenty six
years old. For some reason, I don't mind it as much when the person saying this
five word phrase is a breast cancer survivor herself but regardless, I feel as
though it's fine for me to say this or think it but when someone else says it I
want to snap back wi<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span> 'you have
bo<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span> of your breasts, don't you?' or
'You've never experience the wra<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span> of
chemo, have you?'.</span><br />
<br />
I could go on about what people say when you have cancer (actually, I have
gone on about it, many times) but instead I want to share a story with you that
has made me a believer of 'Everything happens for a reason.'<br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">About a year or two before I
was diagnosed, I went to a nutritionist to discuss my weight. Within about 10
minutes of discussing my life, my weight and my lifestyle she had said that she
thought that I had something called PCOS (<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">Polycystic</span> Ovarian Syndrome). In order to
find out for sure, I needed to get off the pill for three months and get a blood
test, neither of which sounded appealing so instead I just assumed she was right
and looked into it further.</span><br />
<br />
Two of the most common symptoms of PCOS are being overweight and rarely
getting a period, both of which I had. While I was on the pill, I was getting my
period of a regular basis but left to my own devices, I had maybe three or four
periods a year. I came home after that appointment and did what any normal
person does - googled the hell out of PCOS. I read that it was going to be very
difficult to get pregnant because my absent periods had meant that I wasn't
ovulating. I stared at the computer screen and cried. The more I read, the more
I cried. <br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">So what is PCOS, you ask? I
to<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">ok</span> this right off of <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">womenshealth</span>.gov -</span><br />
<em>The
ovaries, where a woman’s eggs are produced, have tiny fluid-filled sacs called
follicles or cysts. As the egg grows, the follicle builds up fluid. When the egg
matures, the follicle breaks open, the egg is released, and the egg travels
through the fallopian tube</em><em> to the uterus (womb) for fertilization. This is called
ovulation. In women with PCOS, the ovary doesn't make all of the hormones it
needs for an egg to fully mature. The follicles may start to grow and build up
fluid but ovulation does not occur. Instead, some follicles may remain as cysts.
For these reasons, ovulation does not occur and the hormone progesterone is not
made. Without progesterone, a woman's menstrual cycle is irregular or absent.
Plus, the ovaries make male hormones, which also prevent ovulation.</em><br />
<br />
Anyway, I never ended up getting tested and just assumed that I had PCOS. I
had prepared myself for a long road of pregnancy difficulties. What I wasn't
prepared for was the unexpected obstacle that chemo was about to produce, or so
I thought.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to March 16th - my mom and I are with the oncology surgeon
hearing all about my treatment. I ask if chemo will affect my fertility and she
throws out a statistic of 40% - I only have a 40% chance of being able to have a
baby after chemo. I burst into tears and the rest is a blur. I seem to black out
for the rest of the appointment as I was trying to envision my life without
children. I 'come to' in the parking lot as I laugh my way to the car (when
things get really bad, I laugh, not intentionally, I think it's just my way of
expressing pure frustration - some people cry, I seem to laugh) and saying
'mother f*cker' in too loud of a voice. My oncology surgeon referred me to a
fertility doctor that I would see in April.<br />
<br />
Keith and I head to the fertility doctor after my surgery but before chemo
started. We discuss all of our options with the fertility doctor and I am sent
for an internal ultrasound then sent to another doctor who reads the
results.<br />
<br />
Keith and I are sitting in Dr. C's large office while he reads my imaging
results and we hear him say the word 'Excellent'. Keith and I look at each other
and what I wanted to say was 'Don't eff with me here doc, I got enough on my
plate. What could possibly be excellent in this situation' but I instead sat on
the edge of my seat waiting for him to explain himself.<br />
<br />
He started with, 'Well, you have something called PCOS.' I filled him in on
my prior assumption, he said 'Well, it's no longer an assumption, you have it.'
Okay, so?? He continued to explain that the average woman has 24 follicles on
her ovaries and I had 60. It just so happens that it is the follicles that get
damaged in chemo so even if fifty percent of my follicles get damaged, I will
still have more than the average woman. Whoa, he was right, that is
excellent!<br />
<br />
He then said 'I don't mean to give you false hope but I really do think that
you and Keith could have a healthy family after treatment without doing any
preservation.' Holy shit, excellent was an understatement.<br />
<br />
Months later, I spoke to an oncology fertility doctor and I told her about my
situation and she told me about ovarian drilling. In EXTREMELY simplified terms,
ovarian drilling is a procedure where a doctor 'damages' your ovaries in order
to encourage ovulation. The way it was explained to me was, they go in
and damage some of the follicles (because the 'poly' part of PCOS means 'many'
and in many cases it means 'too many'). By damaging the follicles, ovulation is
more likely to happen. She said essentially, chemo did what ovarian drilling
would do for other women.<br />
<br />
I kid you not, my periods came back about two months after chemo ended and I
have gotten one every 28 days ever since - something that has never happened in
my life prior to chemo. Needless to say, I am a bit of a believer in this whole 'everything
happens for a reason' business.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-37307385524915610392012-10-31T19:24:00.000-07:002012-10-31T19:45:47.119-07:00My Eggplant ExpanderOh breast reconstruction, how you have plagued me! Ok, maybe that was a
little dramatic but it doesn't mean it's not true. Many times I have been asked
about the reconstruction choices that I have made and how the process works so I
thought I would write about it to explain my experience with reconstruction. I
also want to say that I don't know anything other than the option that I chose
and for some women, they are quite happy with not having reconstruction- an
option that works for some women but it wasn't the right choice for me.<br />
<br />
So, I was told that I had cancer by my family doctor (which really isn't fair
considering that when I asked a question she couldn't provide an answer [to no
fault of her own]). Five days later, I saw my oncology surgeon and she explained
the difference between a lumpectomy and a mastectomy but I left that appointment
still not understanding anything about reconstruction although she did say that
she would set up an appointment with a plastic surgeon to discuss
reconstruction. A week later (so twelve days after I found out that I had
cancer), I met with my plastic surgeon and I had five days (before my mastectomy
surgery) to decide what I wanted to do. In reality, 13 days before I met with a
plastic surgeon to decided what kind of breasts I wanted for the rest of my
life, I didn't even know I had cancer and now I only had five days to decide -
it was an absurd process.<br />
<br />
To be honest, the surgeon told me his recommendation and I took it. I regret
not doing more research mind you I didn't really have the time and having no
concept of how quickly cancer grows or spreads, the thought of getting the
cancer out of me was my focus, no matter how mutilated or deformed I looked. I
was also told that a nipple sparing procedure was not possible because research
showed (insert stat here...) but in reality, there are surgeons who do perform
nipple sparing procedures, I just didn't have one of those surgeons. Do I ever
miss my nipple.<br />
<br />
So, the day of the surgery, I had my right breast removed and at the same
time, I had an expander inserted (I refer to it as one stop shopping).
Apparently, having a mastectomy and an expander put in during the same surgery
is not common practice so I consider myself lucky that I didn't need a separate
surgery for the expander. Because my breasts were far from perky, my plastic
surgeon suggested that I get a reduction on my left side to try to even them
out. It seemed like a good idea at the time.<br />
<br />
I woke up from surgery totally bandaged up and for about a week, I could not
see anything underneath my bandages (which I was totally fine with). Once the
bandages came off those, I can safely say that I was not prepared for what was
underneath. My left side was so incredibly small (I had size 'e' breasts before
and I asked for 'd' but woke up to a small 'c') and I had no idea that I would
never get the sensation back in my reduced side either. If I had known any of
this information, I would have seriously reconsidered my decisions.<br />
<br />
My right side was flat and as I have written about many times, I struggled
being able to accept that my breast was gone. Instead of accepting it, for weeks
Keith got me dressed and cleaned my wounds (while I kept my eyes closed). I was
petrified of my first expansion but soon learned that because I had lost so much
sensation, I could barely feel anything (although I did still take sedatives and
used an Emla patch). I had a total of seven expansions and because of my fear of
needles, I asked that he double up (so rather than having the usual 50cc-60cc
per injection, I was getting 100cc-120cc per injection to limit the number of
needles that I needed). It caused a lot of pain doing it this way but the
anxiety that my needle phobia puts me through is so crippling that it was worth
it.<br />
<br />
As I got more and more expansions, I assumed that the expander would start
looking like a breast but instead it continued to look like an eggplant (thank
you AnneMarie) was growing under my skin. And of course with no nipple, it
looked like there was a lump in the place where my breast used to be, but in no
way was this a breast.<br />
<br />
As time moved on, the expander seemed to 'deflate' but what I think actually
happened was that it slipped out of place and was now somewhat 'pooling' at the
bottom of my 'breast' (and I use that word strictly for location not for
description). While going to different doctor's appointments, I had four
different doctors tell me that I should make an appointment with my plastic
surgeon because my expander didn't look 'normal'. So, I made an appointment with
him and he said, word for word, 'It should be ok.' I don't know about you, but
that's not an appropriate response for me. If I've had to experience the bull
shit that is breast cancer, I better end up with the best damn real looking
boobs that are humanly possible and not something that 'should be ok.'<br />
<br />
At the time of making decisions about what my breasts were going to look
like, I was told that they wouldn't be symmetrical because one was a natural
breast and one was a 'fake' breast but again at the time, I didn't care - just
get this cancer out of me. Because doctors don't like touching healthy breast
tissue and therefore the idea of getting two implants was shot down, I was
prepared for my unsymmetrical set however, I expected them to look like boobs
and not like vegetables. But now, now I care. Now that the cancer has been cut
out of me, there has got to be something better than what I'm left with. I can't
go from having 'e' breasts my entire life to then have a small 'c' and an
eggplant. I am not ok with this. And because I've waited this long for my implant, what's another few months
- I've decided to get a second opinion. <br />
<br />
I know as much about reconstruction as I do about the Buckingham Palace, or
building a house, or raising chickens, (that would be nothing at all) so why not
talk to another expert who can maybe shed some light on breast reconstruction
and give me some guidance. I am currently, I am on a waiting list for a surgeon
who I have only heard amazing things about and I am hoping that she will be able
to give me my breasts back, even though I am aware that nothing will ever
replace my original pair, there has got to be something better than this.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-80787776931991861362012-10-24T16:45:00.000-07:002012-10-24T16:45:25.243-07:00Talkin' Breast Cancer with an Old LadyBecause of my age, I have been given many opportunities to speak about my
experience as a 26 year old cancer patient and the most recent experience
allowed me to spread my own awareness to young girls. I was asked to speak to a
group of Girl Guides between the ages of 15 and 18 and it was quite honestly an
amazing experience.<br />
<br />
October is a busy month for breast cancer organizations and many times
survivors because it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It means different things
to different people. The blogging world is lit up with 'pink washing' and you
hear a lot about the pink ribbon, consumerism, and how corporations take
advantage of this month. I have been told by a number of people that 'the public
is aware, now we need a cure' or 'why do we focus on awareness when prevention
is what we need?' Although I agree that we need a cure, that we should focus on
prevention, and that we should use the pink ribbon for good, I don't think we
are all aware. Well, and maybe my awareness means something different than
other's awareness.<br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">Before I had breast cancer, I
had seen the pink ribbon, knew that it represented breast cancer and knew that
if someone was wearing it that they were touched by breast cancer in some way.
Does that make me aware? I don't think so. I had zero awareness of what breast
cancer is or more importantly that it could happen to me. I didn't know about
the emotional effects, about the process, about the pain, about <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">survivorship</span>, the required support, where my
donations went - I knew none of it.</span><br />
<br />
I get a little frustrated during breast cancer awareness because I, among
other young breast cancer patients/survivors are forgotten about again. The ads
target grandmothers, women with grown children, women in menopause and they miss
us youngins. It is true that 80% of all breast cancer diagnoses are in the 50+
age group so I understand why so much of this month is devoted to our aunts,
mothers and grandmothers but if anything, that group is more aware of breast
cancer than anyone. Aren't women in their 20s, 30s and 40s a missed demographic?
Shouldn't we (daughters, nieces, sisters, and granddaughter) be the ones that
are targeted by awareness?<br />
<br />
When I was asked to speak to the Girl Guides, I was pretty excited about
it. During the weeks leading up to the engagement, I kept thinking, 'these girls
must be really looking forward to this night (<---- pure sarcasm). How
excited would I be at 15 years old to hear an old lady talk about breast cancer?
Cancer is the most depressing topic ever and on top of it, we have to discuss
our breast?' I tried to keep these thoughts in mind while I was preparing what I
was going to say to them. I wanted them to feel comfortable with me and ask any
question that they could think of. In my own experience, primarily with my Aunt
Sandra who died of pancreatic cancer when I was 15, I didn't ask any of my own
questions because I didn't want to upset anyone. I didn't know what cancer was,
I didn't understand how having cancer made someone so sick and could kill them,
I didn't know how she got it, I knew very little but didn't want to bring it up
so instead I said nothing. Because I was someone who had no personal connection
to these girls, I wanted them to know that they could ask any question without
me getting emotional, being sad, or saying that I would explain it to them when
they were older and I wanted them to be aware that breast cancer doesn't only
happen to 'old ladies' (although I'm sure that at 28, I am still 'old' in their
minds).<br />
<br />
I told them stories about cancer, chemo, things people say, supportive things
that people had done for me, how cancer doesn't end when treatment does
- primarily my story. I handed out pamphlets that explained how to examine your
breasts and told them at their age, it was important to know what was normal so
if anything abnormal showed up, they would be able to identify it, tell someone,
and catch it early. I didn't want to scare them and I think I was able to
balance awareness and education.<br />
<br />
I had them laughing, tried to spare them the stories of my PICC lines, the
constant nausea that comes with chemo, and the grossness of my post-surgery
drain. Instead I tried to explain how I dealt with the loss of a breast, how
people helped me when I was in need, and most importantly how I was so relieved
in the end that I told someone when I found a lump even though I was so scared
to find out what it was.<br />
<br />
Every so often I would stop talking and ask if anyone had any questions and
there was the odd one here and there but as time progressed, more hands went up
and more girls were asking more questions. "How long did it take your hair to
grow back", "You mentioned your periods went away, why?", "Can you have kids
now", "Why was it hard to look down at your chest after surgery?" All I kept
thinking was, "We've started a dialogue!" Together, we are talking about breast
cancer and these girls feel safe. I don't know if I said the words 'period' and
'breast' in front of my peers when I was 15 but these girls are not only saying
the words, but they are also asking questions. I loved it.<br />
<br />
They thanked me at the end with a box of Girl Guide cookies (which are all
gone - oops) and all I kept thinking was 'What I did was easy, what you girls
did was the hard part.' I speak and write about cancer all the time, it's those
girls that deserve a thank you. The fact that they welcomed me into their group,
invited me to speak about breast cancer and then were interested enough to ask
questions - it was amazing and it was awareness.<br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">There are conflicting ideas
about the right age to start breast cancer screening and whether the pink ribbon
is a good representation of breast cancer anymore. No one can agree if we should
focus more on prevention or on the cure. Some want more funds devoted to
research while others want more support for <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">survivorship</span> programs. To be honest, I don't
know what the right answer is but what's clear to me and what I've learned is
that it's never too early to talk to young women (in high school, in college,
<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">pre</span>-med, etc.) about breast
cancer.</span><br />
<br />
Thank you to the Girl Guides for letting me share my story and for having a
conversation with an old lady.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-15049930713556556242012-10-17T17:13:00.001-07:002012-10-18T03:57:25.628-07:00Lost in TranslationI have had many conversations with other cancer survivors about the
insensitive things that people say when you have cancer. There are some classics
like 'it's only hair' (to which I started responding 'Oh great, so you're going
to shave your head with me') to 'Well, just stay positive' (like it's as easy as
breathing or blinking).<br />
<br />
As time moved on and more and more people said the same things, I started
realizing that no one was trying to be hurtful or insensitive, they just didn't
know what to say. Another common thing was 'How are you feeling?' and I usually
responded with 'fine' for a few reasons. First of all, most people don't want to
hear about my diarrhea, my vomit, and the number of drugs that I'm on, most of
which seem to be counteracting the side effects of the others. The other reason was that I found that sometimes people would almost try to compete with me.
For example, when I said 'I am really tired' I was met with 'Uh, I know what you
mean, my son is sick and I stayed up all night last night'????? Nope, you don't
know what I mean. The anxiety of the disease, the chemicals of chemo, the
restlessness that some of the drugs cause and the fatigue of being sick all
mixed together keeps you in this zombie-like state where it's almost impossible
to sleep regardless of if it's the only thing that you want to do.<br />
<br />
I think one of my favourite examples, because it happened so much, was the
number of times someone said 'You have breast cancer? My aunt had breast cancer
and she died three years ago.' What in the hell am I supposed to do with that?'
I wanted to say 'Well, I hope I don't die.' But, as time went on, I started to
realize that people were trying to relate to me. They weren't really saying
'Gee, you might die', they were more likely saying 'I had an aunt who suffered
through breast cancer and because of her pain I have an idea of what you're
experiencing.' It definitely took a while to understand this but after almost
pulling my hair out (wait, I guess I can't use this expressing in this
instance...) from the things people said, I needed to cling to some explanation.
I also tried to think of my life before cancer (maybe it's just me, but I
feel like I didn't have a life without cancer, anyway) and I'm sure I said
things like this because I had no concept of the psychological side of
cancer.<br />
<br />
Another favourite is 'God works in mysterious ways', I wanted to say
'That's easy for you to say, you've never had cancer.' I think people wanted to
find a reason for my cancer so they would feel better about it themselves. If
they are able to blame stress, or the environment, or food, or deodorant, or the
microwave, or genetics, or plastic, or the birth control pill, or God, they can
decide that my cancer was caused by one of these many factors and can try to
avoid it. When I tell them that no oncologist can tell me why I got cancer, they
get scared and realize that it can happen to them.<br />
<br />
I think one of my favourite (and I use that word loosely) things someone said
to me was all in the span of a red light. I was driving and my mom was in the
passenger seat. We pulled up to someone that we knew and rolled down the window.
The driver asked how I was doing and I told her that I was just about the start
my fourth chemo the following week and that I was a little nervous about it. In
my case, my chemo cocktail changed half way through (at my 4th treatment) and I
had heard of people being allergic to this cocktail causing severe vomiting,
etc. So anyway, the driver of the other car says 'Oh my friend Lois almost died
from her fourth chemo.' My mouth dropped, the light turned green, and we both
drove away. ALMOST DIED? Who says that??<br />
<br />
The rest of the drive home, I was freaking out, 'almost died, almost DIED'.
My mom tried to calm me down by coming up with excuses for the driver but she
knew that what was said was so insensitive and just stupid. Again, I tried to
find a reason that someone would say that and I know, deep down, that she was
trying to relate. What she meant was 'I know you must be scared because Lois
really struggled with her fourth treatment.'<br />
<br />
Even now, I seem to get a lot of 'Ugh, you must be glad that's over.' And I
know that people don't understand that cancer doesn't end when treatment does
but it's still hard for me to have a conversation when that is the starting
point. I try to calmly explain that I am still experiencing cancer even if it is
out of my body. I know what they mean is 'I bet you're glad that your hair has grown back,
aren't in chemo any more, and aren't experiencing the same physical side effects
that you were a year ago' but it's still a struggle to hear someone say that to
me.<br />
<br />
My mom has compared it to being pregnant. She said that when her ankles were
really swollen, people would come up to her and tell her horror stories about a
friend of theirs who almost lost her baby when her ankles looked like that. Why
do we do this to each other? As I said, I think we choose relations over
mindfulness and rather than thinking of the consequences of our words, we try to
let the other person know that we have a slight understanding of what they are
going through. If I can give any advice, try to translate what people are saying
to you into what they could possibly mean, I know it kept me sane as I went
through treatment.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-77818635058088091912012-10-11T20:15:00.000-07:002012-10-13T04:47:17.283-07:00A Modern Day Love Story<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was a kid, I thought about my Prince Charming, the perfect man, who always knew what to say, took care of my every need, and no matter how fat I was, never said that I looked fat in anything. When I was a kid, things were easy, I would finish school, go to university, be rich by twenty five years old, have two kids and be married by the time I was thirty. When I was a kid, I had it planned, and the possibility of not achieving any of this never crossed my mind.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was in high school, I never really had a boyfriend. I like to pretend that it was because they were all too immature but I think it’s safe to say that the size of my hips scared most of them away. At the ripe old age of 18, I wasn’t sure if love was ever going to happen for me.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I considered myself someone who hadn't faced much adversity in my life. I mean, I have always struggled with my weight and I had arthritis by the time I was sixteen but everyone has something, right? When my aunt died of pancreatic cancer, I started looking at life a little differently. Why her? Why so young? Why cancer?</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fast forward about six years and after I had come to terms with my aunt's death, as I ploughed through university my childhood dreams slipped away. After 20 years of marriage, my parents split up shattering much of what I believed in, instead of being rich, I was borrowing more and more money from the government to sustain my six years at university, kids were nowhere in sight and I had just broken up with who I had considered to be my soul mate. Boy, did I miss being six years old and seeing the world with rose coloured glasses.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So as I entered my fourth year of university, I was determined to get through the year and graduate. In the mean time, I got to know Keith. I mean I had known him for five years at this point but I knew him as my brothers’ friend. We started hanging out and once he started making the four hour drive to Ottawa to see me on weekends, I knew we were becoming more than friends. Near the end of my first semester of my last year, we made it official. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One year turned into two and between going back to university for two more degrees and working at a pretty steady pace, Keith packed up all of his life and moved it to Ottawa to be with me. After a few more years, it started to become apparent that Prince Charming doesn’t exist. Hahaha, just kidding Babe! But seriously, what I started to realize is that Keith and I work very hard (as a team) to make our relationship work. There is no secret, and we aren't perfect but damn we make a good pair.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I graduated in 2009 and Keith and I took a six week trip to Europe. When we came back, I got a decent job, as did Keith and things were starting to fall into place. After the split of my parents, I didn't know if I was prepared to get married but Keith and I were discussing starting a family, certainly not right away, but within a couple of years. Then right in the middle of careers and baby came cancer. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The morning of my diagnosis, my mom came with me to the appointment and although we were convinced that it was nothing, I didn't want to go alone in case it was something. I called Keith at work and said 'I have cancer.' There are no words for the feeling that I had at that moment. What I wanted to say was 'I have cancer but I promise I'll do my best not to die, okay?' and although I wanted to be strong for him (knowing how scared he must have been to hear me say those words) I needed him to be strong for me.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As time moved on, we were able to joke about cancer. I still insist that everyone should have a 20% off everything card while in treatment (including big purchases like cars, houses, and student loans). A week after my diagnosis, I came home to a gift on the kitchen table. I opened it to find a journal inside and a card that said 'for everything you can't tell me.' </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As one appointment turned into twenty, Keith was by my side for everything and as my needle phobia only worsened, his protective hugs and his tear wiping abilities only got stronger. He walked me to the washroom when I could barely walk myself there after surgery, he emptied my drain because I couldn't do it myself, he would shower with me just so I wouldn't have to accept my mastectomy by touching it and to be honest, he even dressed me for a couple of weeks.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After surgery was chemo and although I was bald with only one breast and packing on the steroid pounds, I never questioned his love for me once. After chemo #3, I hadn't left the house in six days. After responding 'no' to the daily 'are we going to leave the house today' question, on day six he <em>told</em> me that it was time to leave the house. I told him that I wasn't feeling well and he said 'Sweetie, you have to try.' It took about a half an hour to get dressed (between the nausea and the fatigue) but I did it. I walked to the end of the hallway, took the elevator downstairs and went outside. I made it about nine steps into the parking lot and said 'I'm going to throw up' and he quickly said 'Ok, let's turn around.' I got back into bed and Keith said 'I'm proud of you for trying.' The next day I walked for about fifteen minutes and the next even longer. Without Keith, I would still be in bed.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have heard of too many women who deal with breast cancer alone or whose partners throw themselves into work or turn to alcohol to cope. Keith heard the diagnosis and instantly treated my cancer as our cancer. I never had a choice in having cancer, I knew what my fate was, but he did. Keith could have left, he had the choice and he chose to stay.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chemo ended but the fatigue didn't. I spent a lot of time sleeping for the months after chemo and again, some days I didn't leave the house. Keith never made me feel guilty or pressured me to 'get more done' or to go back to work. A </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">week after chemo ended, I posted a blog called 'My New Normal' and this is the one and only comment that Keith has ever written on my blog;</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Katie,</em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<em>
</em></div>
<em>I have tried to tell you all the positive “comments” in person about
your blog. I didn’t want to have it become about us, as much as it should be
about you. You deserve your own place to write about all the feelings you have,
(which are a lot) and as we all know, you react well to a reward system.</em><br />
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<em>You are an amazing woman. It’s no suprise you have so much support and love
surrounding you, seeing as that you can brighten anyone’s day just by being
yourself. You have taken over not only my friends, but my family with your
charm. I can’t tell you how many times I will tell friends or family, “yes, I
will be there” and the first words out of their mouths are “is Katie coming?”. I
used to be popular, but now I’m just the guy who brings Katie.</em></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<em>
</em><em>I sincerely believe you have found your true calling through this awful
experience, and will take the education and passion you have for teaching and
use it to change peoples’ lives. You have the gift of being able to express an
idea to someone in a way they can comprehend, without
coming across as superior or pretentious. Your amazing sense of humour and quick
wit can pull people out of their shell and help them open up to you and your
ideas.</em></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<em>
</em><em>There are great things in store for you my sweet, and this is only the
beginning.</em></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<em>
</em><em>Love Keith</em></div>
</span><br />
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'm not trying to pretend that at 28 years old or after six years of a relationship that we've got it figured out. I somewhat think that the idea of a 'soulmate' takes away from a relationship. It gives us the idea that once you find that one person in the world that you are destined to be with, everything will work itself out, that there is no work involved and that you don't have to try, and until you find that person, it is you that is doing something wrong by looking in the wrong places. I don't believe in soul mates, I believe in working hard, giving and taking, being on the same team, and communication.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In May, we were at a cancer retreat and at the end of the weekend, one of the cancer survivors came over to Keith and I and said 'Do you guys always laugh this much?' and together we said 'Yes.' We just get each other. Keith still makes me laugh harder than anyone else and what I'm most proud of is that I can make him laugh just as hard. I can safely say that I still have a crush on my boyfriend after six years.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To Keith,</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
I'm proud to be yours and to call you mine</div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
Thank you for caring enough to stay.</div>
</span><br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-52919549797780195792012-10-03T16:54:00.000-07:002012-10-03T17:12:59.377-07:00Singing in the Rain<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">On Sunday afternoon, I seemed to have a lot of energy which I must say is rather unusual lately. I have been told, by both survivors and doctors that at the two year mark (post-treatment), the fatigue will be noticeably different. I guess I just have to power through the next year then. Anyway, on Sunday morning I had just downloaded some of the latest girl music mostly from Rihanna, Pink, and Nicki Minaj and as I was sitting at my desk, searching Twitter, Facebook and Google for the latest breast cancer ‘stuff’, dancing in my chair, I thought ‘I should go for a walk’. As I said, with my lack of energy, this kind of thought doesn’t go through my head very often. </span><br />
<div>
<div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I looked outside and it was raining. I went to The Weather Network website to see what the weather was supposed to be like for the rest of the day, and the forecast said rain. And although popular belief is that I’m made of sugar (just kidding), I decided to brave the rain, because as Keith says when he eats things like a cinnamon bun for breakfast, ‘I’m an adult and I can make these kind of decisions.’ What's the worst that's going to happen, I'm going to get wet? </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I threw a sweater on, grabbed my running shoes, turned on my MP3 player (I’m not fancy enough to have an ‘i’ anything – just an old fashion MP3 player) and before I was out the door, I was already dancing. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It felt so good to walk, and although not every day is an active one, I am really trying to get in thirty minutes of walking a day. I chose not to bring an umbrella mostly because I didn’t want to carry it and lets be honest, my hands needed to be free for my dance moves. Yes, I got some looks and I was wet (like really wet) by the time I got home but I felt good. I was singing in the rain, dancing in the rain, and mostly, I was kicking ass in the rain.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It’s so easy to feel sorry for myself. It’s so easy to focus on cancer. It’s so easy to feel like a victim. And some days, I do feel all of these things but I really try to look at the positive side. Nothing can change the fact that I had cancer, nothing can change the fact that it took my breast and that I will never have my nipple back but I am trying my best to make sure that that's all cancer takes from me. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’m not trying to make it sound like I sleep with a smile on my face or like cancer isn’t a profound part of my every day routine because it certainly is but whether I worry about the future or dwell on the past, I won’t be able to grow a breast back and the scars on my chest and in my heart will always be there so for now, I am trying to do what makes me happy. </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I had someone (who I only met a few months ago) say to me the other day ‘I had no idea that you had cancer. You’re just so happy all of the time.’ She wasn't trying to imply that if you've had cancer, you need to be miserable - her point was that if SHE had cancer, she would be miserable. She’s right in some respect, I do have a lot to be upset about but I keep coming back to; what good is that going to do? Some days are easier than others but through the tears are always smiles because to be quite honest, it's cost me less energy to laugh than to cry and if anything, I am doing my best to conserve my energy.</span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="ecxMsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I think it was this walk that felt so good because I realized how empowered I was as a survivor. A year ago, I was stuck inside in a chemo haze, feeling like garbage, dreaming about going for a walk - this year I'm walking! I don’t want to let cancer have a hold on the rest of my life the way that it once did. Not being a patient anymore and having transitioned to a survivor comes with some empowerment and as I think about the days during treatment when walking to the washroom was a challenge, I refuse to let the memory of treatment affect my present. I am so grateful to have my health back and I feel like I should be celebrating it by not taking it for granted.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-37818727623367742852012-09-29T12:50:00.001-07:002012-09-29T13:04:13.548-07:00#Delhi2013 is My Fresh ChapterFor those of you who don't know, I want to go on a trip to India with 12 other cancer survivors. Terri Wingham, a trailblazer in the cancer (survivorship) world, it taking 12 survivors to India for two weeks in February to volunteer, give back and find a little bit out about themselves. <br />
<br />
Terri has asked that all applicants write a blog entry with a max of 500 words about why they are ready for A Fresh Chapter (which is the name of Terri's blog and foundation). <br />
<br />
Here's my entry...<br />
<br />
After being told for seven months that 'it was nothing', on March 11th, 2011,
I was diagnosed with stage II breast cancer at the age of 26. With no family
history of the disease and being otherwise healthy, being blindsided is the only
way I know how to describe my diagnosis.<br />
<br />
I had a mastectomy 17 days after hearing the news and then went through six
aggressive chemo treatments. As I approached the end of treatment, I kept
thinking 'It's almost over' but I soon realized that even though treatment was
coming to an end, cancer is never over.<br />
<br />
I went through a transition or 'cancer limbo' as I like to call it where I
couldn't identify as a patient any more but I certainly didn't feel like a
survivor. As a part of this transition, I also had to get used to my new
(post-treatment) normal.<br />
<br />
When I finished treatment, I felt like everyone around me took a huge sigh of
relief, and I took a huge sigh of 'what now?' I somewhat feel that it was the
end of treatment where my journey really began. I am trying to find a place for
myself in this world now. I am trying to balance my cancer life and my career,
my personal life, and my relationships.<br />
<br />
I don't think I necessarily understood how much of a void cancer left in my
life until I read Terri's blog about taking a group of 12 survivors to India. I
was in tears after reading about the trip and I knew I had to be one of those 12
survivors. #Delhi2013 gives me a sense of purpose, a way to give back (or pay
forward what so many people did for me), a way to help others when I know so
much about needing help.<br />
<br />
Cancer can be (and was) so isolating and to be able to volunteer in a country
like India gives me hope; hope for learning about others, hope for learning
about myself and hope for my future as a healed (not to be confused with
'cured') breast cancer survivor.<br />
<br />
I think this trip would provide a lot of emotional healing that I may not be
able to find in another capacity. Having been out of treatment for a year now, I
think I am ready to grow as an individual and truly learn what it means to start
a fresh chapter.<br />
<br />
'Sometimes you need to be on the other side to find your way back to yourself.'<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-76682142244073160832012-09-26T10:04:00.000-07:002012-09-26T10:05:06.939-07:00Hope Floats<span class="mceItemHidden">As a breast cancer patient
and now survivor, I was inundated wi<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span>
a variety of words, symbols and phrases. 'Stay positive' and 'It's only hair'
were very common phrases and the pink ribbon symbol was just about every where
(including places like the shrink wrap packaging on mushrooms, K-cups for <span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">Keurig</span> coffee machines, and umbrellas -to
name a few). A word that kept coming up was the word 'hope'. I've seen this word
written in every colour but most popularly pink, tattooed, and wi<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span> letters substituted wi<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span> the pink ribbon. I have said in previous
posts that the words 'cancer' and 'mastectomy' were only words before my
diagnosis and now they carry meaning and substance and somehow, I seem to feel a
little bit of the opposite towards the word 'hope'.</span><br />
<br />
Before my diagnosis, having had family members experience it, I considered
myself well versed in <em>cancer</em> (I mean in comparison to what I know now,
I knew NOTHING) and a mastectomy was a surgery that women get when they have
breast cancer, I had no emotion attached to the word, it was just a procedure -
those were simpler times. I knew what I needed to know about those two words.
Hope on the other hand, I was a pro at hope, I could explain it, give examples
from my life, I had experienced hope and wished hope onto others. Hope was easy.
Well, hope was easy until I had cancer then hope went away. I couldn't rely on
hope because I had cancer. I had to rely on doctors, on chemo, or family and on
myself. Hope took a back seat and to be honest, I thought she jumped out of the
car somewhere between <a href="http://lovelykatielumps.blogspot.ca/2011/09/my-new-normal.html" mce_href="http://www.facingcancer.ca/thebaldandthebeautiful/2011/09/15/my-new-normal/">My New Normal</a> and <a href="http://lovelykatielumps.blogspot.ca/2011/10/cancer-limbo.html" mce_href="http://www.facingcancer.ca/thebaldandthebeautiful/2011/10/26/cancer-limbo/">Cancer Limbo</a>.<br />
<br />
<span class="mceItemHidden">Hope used to be (<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">pre</span>-diagnosis) positive, achievable, gave me
streng<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span> and provided some sense of
motivation. Now, I feel like it's breast cancer's word, it is used on shopping
bags, on t-shirts, and bandannas and has become such a part of pink ribbon
consumerism that I think it has lost its luster. To me, hope isn't what got me
through breast cancer; positivity, streng<span class="mceItemHiddenSpellWord">th</span>, motivation, courage, vulnerability, they
got me through breast cancer. To be honest, I don't feel like I have felt 'hope'
since my diagnosis, not in a negative way, it's just not something that I have
been able to capture or </span><em>feel</em>. This may sound really childish,
but hope is magical to me, it's something you have to believe in and it's not
always easy to see.<br />
<br />
I have gotten used to saying things like 'I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow' or
'I hope my car doesn't blow up on the way to work tonight'. I feel like I
started to use 'hope' in cases where I had no control of the outcome and
although cancer can be a helpless situation, I just never <em>hoped </em><span class="mceItemHidden">that I would survive breast cancer
because whether cancer liked it or not, I was taking control of the
outcome.</span><br />
<br />
After living in a 'hope-less' world since my diagnosis, the other day, with
only two little words, I was given hope.<br />
<br />
I am on a committee for young women with breast cancer. We meet once a month
and connect in a way that others wouldn't understand. We all miss our nipple(s),
short hair is a prerequisite, and if you have two natural breasts, you're not
welcome. We get it because we've been there. Anyway, each time we meet, we have
an organized activity or speaker and then get to socialize afterwards. It's such
a fantastic group to be a part of.<br />
<br />
So on Sunday night, I was setting up the sign-in table and one of the other
committee members (who had gone through eight chemo treatments in 2009) made
some comment about her shirt not fitting properly [insert hope here] because,
she said, "I'm pregnant." First Try! No Fertility Help! Good Old Fashion
Sex=Pregnant! I had goosebumps (and do again as I write the word 'goosebumps').
I wanted to say 'What about the struggles? What about the 40% chance? What about
the... and the ....?' In my heart, I felt hope.<br />
<br />
I struggle with 'faith' (not religion but faith) and unfortunately I
sometimes cling to stats and what can be proven. I'm one for achieving in the
90th percentile of everything (math tests, English assignments, height) and a
40% chance of me being able to have a baby isn't exactly what I call 'cohesive
with my plans'. When I see a baby bump in front of me, on a girl who was
supposed to struggle, who was supposed to have to seek help and only get
pregnant by a miracle, it gives me hope. According to a 2011 study, I had a 1 in
383142 chance of getting breast cancer at my age and I did so a 2 in 5 chance of
having a baby should be a breeze. Those two little words 'I'm pregnant' put
everything into perspective again.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-38748168172749295122012-09-19T19:30:00.001-07:002013-08-16T14:38:14.197-07:00I am Strong! I am Invincible! I am Woman??For the last week, I keep thinking about what it means to be a woman. Is a
woman defined by what she does? How she acts? Her appearance? Her anatomy? And
well, I think it's easy to say it's a mixture of all of this. I have always had
strong examples of women in my life who have taught me a thing or two about
the definition of a woman.<br />
<br />
I think different occasions in our lives change the way we define ourselves
and change the way we define each other. I know when it comes to being a woman,
occasions like losing your virginity, getting married, having a child, etc. can
change what we think it means to be a woman. I can't help but thinking about
Erin Brockovich (the movie not the woman) when I think about being a woman.
There is a character in that film who has had different forms of women's
cancers and she says something like 'Erin, do you think that with no uterus, and
no ovaries, and one breast, I am still considered a woman?'. And for some
reason, I can't get that line out of my head. I guess I feel similarly about
myself; with only one breast (one that was reduced and doesn't even feel like my
own) and the potential of not being able to reproduce, am I still considered a
woman?<br />
<br />
Part of me (the kick-ass, I can take on anything, nothing will get me down,
part) thinks, 'I'm not going to let cancer take this from me. Cancer may have
taken my breast but it can't take my womanhood. I am a woman for many other
reasons than my breast(s).' And then the other part of me (the insecure,
put-it-all-out-there, vulnerable, part of me) says, you are not the (amount of)
woman you used to be. I feel like my boobs helped define me, and I don't want
that to be confused with anything other than I was proud to have large breasts,
the same way I was to have curves; they made me feel womanly. Anymore, I feel
like I am fighting with myself to say 'I am still a woman.' Do you know that
song by Pink called 'Don't Let Me Get Me'? Well it goes 'Don't let me get me,
I'm my own worst enemy. It's bad when you annoy yourself, so irritating, don't
want to be my friend no more, I want to be somebody else' - that describes it
pretty well.<br />
<br />
Last week, while thinking about what it meant to be a woman, I read a blog post about Kathy Bates' decision to have a double mastectomy and in
one of the comments, a woman (who has never had breast cancer or any cancer)
wrote something like 'I don't find that my breasts are part of my sexual
identity or femininity and because I have used them for their true purpose of
breastfeeding, I wouldn't think twice about chopping them off.' I think in that
one comment, she managed to discredit so much of what I feel, so many of my
insecurities, and it makes me feel shallow about missing my breasts. Mind you,
it is safe to say that I will never be able to breastfeed (I'm missing one, and
the other one was reduced which means it's a no-go either). My pre-cancer
breasts were already pointing south but I would give just about anything to have
them back, they weren't perky or firm but they were mine and they made me feel
like more of a woman than I will ever feel like again.<br />
<br />
I just don't seem to have that innate 'feminine' feeling anymore. It's a rare
occasion that I want to dress up, or go out, or get dolled up, I think because
primarily I would feel like I was trying to fool everyone (including myself). I
know what my chest looks like and I know that I am not who I used to be (I'm
sure many of you are thinking 'Yes, but you need to mourn the old you and
embrace the new you' and trust me, I KNOW). And like so many survivors said, it
has gotten better and I am getting used to it but I guess it's just sad to think
that this is what I have to get used to. Sometimes, I feel like I want to throw
a tantrum yelling 'I want my old breast back' (mind you, I'm not sure what that
would accomplish or who would be able to appease me considering there is nothing
that can be done.)<br />
<br />
I remember seeing a movie with Diane Keaton, and Rachel McAdams and the guy
who played 'Coach' on the show 'Coach.' Anyway, it's a Christmas movie (totally
irrelevant to the story) and at one point Diane Keaton (a breast cancer survivor
in the film) takes 'Coach's' hand (her husband in the film) and puts it on her
mastectomied breast and although I watched this film pre-diagnosis, I had a hard
time not looking away from the screen. I remember thinking, 'how awful would that
be?' How could she ever feel sexy? Those scars represent so much more than
surgery! And now, the difference is, I can't put my hands over my eyes until the
scene is over. I'm the one in the movie and those thoughts and fears are now
directed at myself. <br />
<br />
Listen, I give myself a pep talk every day and I know there is more to being
a woman than breasts, I just miss my old one. I know it's what's on the inside
that counts but I miss putting on <em>that</em> shirt and feeling good about the
way I looked. I miss filling out clothes and buying a NORMAL bra not a mastectomy
bra. I miss feeling sexy and mostly, I miss feeling like a woman. Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-598593100642158542012-09-13T10:23:00.002-07:002012-09-13T10:25:23.162-07:00Potpourri<br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">There are
many 'things' that go through my mind in a day that I couldn't write an entire
blog post about, well to be honest, I couldn't write more than a couple
sentences about but that I wanted to share. So this is a mixed bag post, with a
variety of different thoughts and perspectives. I have also been told some
interesting things by people who just don't think since I have had cancer. I
have documented some of them in previous posts but I've included some more. I
have also included some tips that I have found really helpful so far.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The other day, I was walking to work in the rain
without an umbrella and thought 'Am I going to have to ring out my prosthesis
when I get there?' (mine is cotton and is taking the place of the implant that
I will be getting in a few months). I'm being quite serious too, I honestly
wondered if I was going to have to ring out my boob.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><strong>What was said: “I used to feel sorry for you that you
had cancer, now I feel sorry for your that you’re a Leafs fan”<br />
My response: “Cancer has nothing on the pain that the Leafs cause.”<br />
<span class="mceitemhidden">My thought: I don’t need you to feel sorry for me for
anything, especially having cancer. Your pity </span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">isn’t</span><span class="mceitemhidden"> welcomed
here!</span></strong></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Tip: I have been struggling with these hot flashes
that so nicely accompany Tamoxifen and so for my birthday, I asked for a gel
filled pillow that stays cool. Keith got it for me and it really seems to be
improving my sleep. They aren't cheap (mine was $55 at Costco) but they are
supposed to last a long time and can you really put a price on sleep?</em></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="mceitemhidden">What was said: “</span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">Ok</span><span class="mceitemhidden">, well keep me abreast”</span></span></strong><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>
My response: <Angry Look><br />
<span class="mceitemhidden">My thought: After finding out that he was genuine in
his comment and </span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">hadn’t</span><span class="mceitemhidden"> intended on saying anything about breasts he just meant
‘keep me informed’, he </span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">hadn’t</span></strong><span class="mceitemhidden"><strong> even noticed that he used the word ‘aBREAST’.</strong> </span></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I can't believe what I'm about to write is true, but
sometimes I wish that I was back in chemo. I felt safe there and I knew that
cancer couldn't survive the treatment. I almost feel like if they found another
cancerous lump, I would feel relief, relief that they caught it and relief that
I would be monitored again. I find it nerve racking to leave my body to its own
devices anymore.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have found that humour unites people and it makes
everyone feel comfortable. It's not for everyone but for me it has allowed for
many discussions that wouldn't have otherwise happened. I find that people my
age are so disconnected from cancer and assume it's something we get when we're
older and I try to use my humour to make them feel comfortable with the idea of
talking about it which in the end brings awareness to it.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>What was said: “…Oh yeah, he was asking about you and
I told him that you were on holidays until April.”<br />
My response: “Oh that’s nice.”<br />
My thought: “HOLIDAYS???????”</strong></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have found that Twitter is SHOCKINGLY supportive.
For anyone who is going through (breast) cancer, whether you're a patient or
survivor, you need to get onto Twitter. I am still learning but it is amazing.
I have read so many articles and connected with so many people that I would
otherwise not have found.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>What was said: “I’d give anything for your hair.”<br />
<span class="mceitemhidden">My response: “Oh thanks, I can’t say that I love this
style. I feel like I should have Daddy </span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">Warbucks</span><span class="mceitemhidden"> right
beside me.”</span><br />
My thought: “How about giving your right breast, that’s all it took for me to
get this style.”</strong></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have been very blessed my entire life and especially
since I have been diagnosed with cancer. I have had many opportunities that I
would have otherwise never had but sometimes I miss my boring, NAIVE life that
I used to live (with two breasts that were my own). Sometimes, just looking at
pictures of myself pre-cancer makes me tear up.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">W</span></strong><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>hat
was said: After finding out that I was off for a year, 3 different people
assumed that I was on mat-leave.<br />
<span class="mceitemhidden">My response: “Well, I </span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">wasn’t</span><span class="mceitemhidden"> on
mat-leave, I had cancer”</span><br />
My thought: It was just that much harder because I may never experience
mat-leave.</strong></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Tip: Sometimes, wearing lingerie helps make you feel
good and dare I say 'sexy'. Although, I never feel good enough to bare my
chest, a nice bra or teddy sure beats a t-shirt.</em></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">When I was in treatment, and cancer <em>survivors</em><span class="mceitemhidden">reached out to me, I was so jealous of where they were
because it was 'over' for them. I had absolutely no concept of the struggles
that come along with </span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">survivorship</span><span class="mceitemhidden">. I just didn't understand the difference between surviving
cancer and finishing it (I thought they were one in the same). Oh how I sing a
different tune now. I guess that's why we aren't called 'Cancer Completers' or
'Cancer Finishers' - I kid.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><strong>What was said: 'Well, at least you get a free boob job
out of it.'<br />
My response: 'Yeah...'<br />
<span class="mceitemhidden">My thought: Are you f*</span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">cking</span><span class="mceitemhidden"> kidding
me? A mastectomy with an implant shoved underneath where my breast used to be
isn't exactly a breast augmentation.</span></strong></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span class="mceitemhidden" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes I wonder if my
plastic surgeon looked at me and thought 'She's overweight and already had a
mastectomy - I'm sure she'll be happy with whatever I give her' because this
lump on my chest is the farthest thing from a breast that I've ever seen.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>What was said: After telling someone that an oncology
surgeon told me that I did not have cancer - 'You didn't think to get a second
opinion?'<br />
My response: 'No.' <br />
My thought: Are you kidding me? I was 26, with no family history and no one was
concerned. No, I trusted my doctor. I'm sorry, is that your way of saying that
you think it's my fault for getting cancer? When someone tells you that you
don't have a disease (a disease that you have less than 1% chance of getting
and that you carry non of the symptoms), do YOU usually go and get a second
opinion?</strong></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Tip: Although I don't always follow my own advice, I
have found that the more active I am, the less tired I am. This
cancer/treatment recovery/Tamoxifen fatigue is really kicking my ass but every
time I start moving, I always feel better, sleep better, and am less tired in
the end.</em></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>What was said: 'You can always adopt.'<br />
My response: 'Did you have a choice in bearing your own children?'<br />
My thought: Who says that? People say this in a way like they think they are
providing me with an option that I had never considered. I think it's about the
way they approach it. If someone said 'Have you and Keith discussed adoption?',
that wouldn't offend me but because they make it sound so simple and cut and
dry, it drives me crazy.</strong></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Writing is incredibly therapeutic and healing. I am
NOT a writer and mostly feel like I am talking out of my ass sometimes but I
can't believe how many things I have worked through by just writing. I
encourage you to do the same. I feel like I am validating others' feelings and
when others write comments, they totally validate me and that's what so much of
this emotional cancer thing is about, feeling less isolated and validated.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><strong>What was said: After watching me put something in the
microwave - 'Do you have to watch what you eat now that you've had cancer?'<br />
My response: 'Well, everyone should watch what they eat.'<br />
<span class="mceitemhidden">My thought: RAHHHHHHH! I just get so annoyed when I
feel like people are criticizing me. This person SMOKES for God sakes, worry
about your own shit!</span></strong></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Tip: When I finished treatment, I found like I wanted
to give back, for a variety of reasons. I feel like so many people provided me
with support that I wanted to pay it forward, and there are so many women who
go through this alone and feel so isolated, that I wanted to help now that I
was on the other side. I have found that volunteering with different
organizations has proven to be so rewarding and has filled a bit of that void.
If you are feeling that void, I suggest you look into volunteering.</em></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="mso-line-height-alt: 7.1pt;">
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="mceitemhidden">I have found that you need
to be gentle with yourself and when your body is telling you something, you
need to listen. Sleep when you need to sleep (within reason - </span><span class="mceitemhiddenspellword1">haha</span><span class="mceitemhidden">), move when you need to
move and most importantly be patient with yourself - you just kicked or are
currently kicking</span><span class="mceitemhidden"> cancer's ass, that's no easy feat!</span></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-69765010959850217512012-09-05T18:14:00.000-07:002013-08-16T14:50:50.310-07:00Surviving Survivorship<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Living in the
moment! Don’t worry about tomorrow, dream about it! Live in the now! Take risks!
Be less predictable! </span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I try to remind
myself of these little sayings every day. Am I always successful? Nope!
But does it ever feel fantastic when I am.</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I have always been
one to plan; my meals, my wardrobe, my finances, my life. Obviously cancer
doesn’t give a shit about your plans and so I have had to change. Eeeeeek!
Change! I hate change. I like predictability, I like knowing what to expect, and
I like organization, expectations and highlighters; highlighters are
great.</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So now that
treatment is over and it’s just me and Tamoxifen hanging out for the next few
years, what do I have to worry about, right? Wrong! I feel like when I finished
treatment, every one around me took a huge sigh of relief but I felt like I was
just starting my ‘journey’ (ok, seriously, I am really starting to hate that
word. A journey sounds adventurous, exciting, PLANNED – cancer is not a
journey). Anyway, now I’m kind of lost - at a 'what now?’ point in my life. How
do I give back? How do I pay forward what others have done for me? How do I live
a more fulfilling life? How do I apply what I have learned from cancer to my
every day life? How do I ‘teach’ about cancer without preaching or complaining?
How do I take the pressure off myself to be the ‘perfect’ cancer survivor and
just learn to be (the new) me?</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">It’s almost like
there’s a void in my life now, and I’m not talking about the void on my chest. I
feel like something is missing (again, not talking about 'Righty'). In a weird
way though, I think every thing is going the way it’s supposed to be going. I
went to university for six years and got three degrees in education and yet I
have always known that I don’t want to be a teacher. Weird, right? Why keep
going back for different degrees and racking up an unspeakable student loan if
you know that you don’t want to teach? Well, I just always knew that I wanted to
be in education and make a difference, but just not in a classroom. Now that I
have a bachelor's degree in cancer, I feel like I know how to use my education
degrees. I was right to keep going back to school, and I was right that I didn't
want to be in a classroom; I want to be a part of cancer education.</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Ok, so that answers
part of the 'what now' but what about the planning, the predictability, the need
to live in the moment? Well, I am taking baby steps. Here's an example; before I
had cancer, I had decided that I didn't want to get married, ever. I wanted to
be with Keith for the rest of my life, but I didn't want to get married (for a
variety of reasons that I don't necessarily want to get into here). Then I got
sick, really sick, and my life was potentially going to be taken from me, and
marriage all of a sudden became very important to me. I think I just assumed
that Keith and I would both live until we were 100 and die together, the way the
old couple from 'The Note Book' did. But then cancer happened and I realized
that may not be the case. I decided that the day I die, whether that means at 28
years old, 50 years old, or 100 years old (like I had planned), I want to die as
Keith's wife. Wow, this took a really morbid turn, really quickly.</span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">There is a point, I
promise. </span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So, ever since I
finished treatment, I have wanted a ring, well, not just a ring, THE ring. And I
mean it's not enough that the entire world is putting pressure on Keith, but now
I am adding pressure, pressure that he hadn't felt before I was sick. But I have
recently started to try to live in the moment and trying not to plan my life
away (you know, that whole 'it's about the journey not the destination' thing).
Here's the conclusion that I've come to; as soon as we get engaged, I will start
planning the wedding, then we'll get married and somewhere in there buy a house,
my student loans will slowly be paid off, if we're lucky, a few kids will show
up along the way, I'll find my dream job and then what? When will I be happy? At
what point will I look at my life and say 'I am enough'? At what point will I
enjoy the life I live instead of the life I want to live? </span><br />
<br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So, I have (tried
to) stopped pressuring Keith. I love our lives. I love him. Why am I wishing
away this part of our lives together to just move to the next part? Is our love
going to change when I have a ring on my finger? I hope not. Am I going to feel
more fulfilled? I hope not. I hope I get happiness from within not externally.
It may not seem like anything significant to anyone else, but to me, this is
huge. Focus on making myself happy now, not in the future because you just never
know...</span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847629116786128151.post-18610776706376010552012-08-29T19:20:00.002-07:002012-08-29T19:37:59.437-07:00Fertile Future???<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">As kids, we have everything
planned out, don't we? I mean, playing MASH foretold so many of my potential
scenarios. The number of times I ended up in a Mansion with a Ferrari, married
to Brad Pitt and having three kids, is unbelievable. (For those of you who don't
know, MASH is a game that primarily girls play that determines what kind of
house you'll live in, who you'll marry, how many children you'll have and what
kind of car you'll drive.). So far, I live in a two bedroom condo, drive a Ford,
have never met Brad Pitt and am childless, hmmmm, not exactly what I had
planned. As I got older, I learned that out of all of the MASH categories, the
only one I could really control was the number of children I was going to have
and now that seems to be out of my hands as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve dreamed of having kids
for as long as I can remember. I was the youngest of fifteen grandchildren on my
mom’s side and so I have always been closer in age to my cousin’s kids. I
considered myself very lucky in that respect because I loved being surrounded by
kids all the time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Before I was diagnosed, I
was a little baby crazy. Once Keith and I were confident in our jobs and in our
incomes, I wanted to start trying to get pregnant. At 26 years old, I felt like
I was ready to be a mom. My biological clock wasn’t only ticking but it was
screaming at me and for the first time in my life, I felt like I could care for
another human being other than myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Five days after my
diagnosis, I sat in a hospital room with my mom, waiting for my oncology surgeon
to tell me about surgery, recovery, and a little about chemo. I asked if chemo
would affect my fertility, expecting a swift ‘it might’ and instead I was told
right then and there that after chemo was over, I would have a 40% chance of
having children. I can’t even express to you the amount of tears that fell from
my eyes with those odds. 40%? You’re telling me that in order to kill the
cancer, I might have to potentially give up being a mother; the one thing that I
have been certain of my entire life? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, I managed to file that
40% in the back of my mind, along with many other cancer variables and effects
as surgery approached. And like I have said before, as the cyclophosphamide was
being pumped into my veins during each treatment, Keith and I would have a bit
of a pep-talk with it, trying to convince it that we were on the same side and
if it could focus on the cancer cells and spare hurting my ovaries, we would be
so grateful. I also talked to my ovaries, hoping that my talk would prepare them
for the chemical warfare that they were about to go under. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Now that treatment is almost
a year behind me, that 40% has crept back into the front of my mind. Although I
am more than four years away from finishing my Tamoxifen, I have started
thinking about having children again. Keith and I have already decided that
fertility treatments are not for us. With all of the hormones, injections,
procedures, etc. and having already had a hormone based cancer, we are not
prepared to put my body through that. And if one more person says ‘there’s
always adoption’ like they think they are providing an option that I had
never thought of before or like it’s the same thing as carrying a child for nine
months, I may scream.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This is about choice. I have
some friends who never wanted children and then when they have had that option
taken away from them, they were devastated because it is no longer their choice
– it is now cancer’s choice. I have had the option to be a mom in my twenties
taken away from me and although 32 isn't old to start a family, it wasn't part
of the plan, and it wasn't my choice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have started thinking
about what it would be like not to have children. I have always pictured myself
with children because that’s the way it was supposed to be but now that I’ll
have to wait until I’m 32 to start trying, I don’t know how I feel. I walk
through the grocery store and hear children wailing because they can’t have
jujubes or because they’d rather be outside and I find myself thinking about how
grateful I am that once I turn the corner, leave the department or go home, I am
child-free (and screaming-free). I've never felt like that before. Usually what
goes through my mind is, ‘My child would never act like that’ (spoken like a
true non-parent, eh?’). I have started to wonder if I am becoming less
interested in having children or if I am just using a coping mechanism in case
cancer has taken that choice away from me. I just keep coming back to Christmas
morning, thinking about waking up without children asking if they can open their
stockings at 6am because they can’t possibly sleep another wink, so excited that Rudolph
ate part of the carrots that were left with Santa’s milk and cookies, ripping
and tearing through presents and in an instant, I become certain about
having children again. I have started to wonder what it would be like without
children because that may be my reality and I am bracing myself for what might
happen. And my biological clock has not only stopped screaming at me, but
it’s more like a faint tick anymore. Am I just trying to come to terms with
being a childless woman by pretending like it’s not what I want anyway?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Like I have said so many
times, cancer doesn’t end when treatment does and the effects of cancer will
forever be with me, it’s just a matter of if cancer left me with a fertile
future.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span mce_style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">*Fertile Future is an
incredible organization for cancer patients how have not yet gone through
treatment and need financial aid to be able to afford fertility treatments. For
anyone who is interested, here is a link </span><a href="http://fertilefuture.ca/" mce_href="http://fertilefuture.ca/"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">http://fertilefuture.ca/</span></a></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18186936206241330007noreply@blogger.com8