When was your original diagnosis?
My original diagnosis was in 1999 - I had a lumpectomy, chemo and radiotherapy then and returned to work in January 2000.
When did the cancer return and how?
I found out the cancer had returned (a new tumor in the same breast) in August 2007. I had my yearly mammogram (very important) and from there it was pretty clear something was not right. The good news is there are no signs of metastasis anywhere. I had a masectomy and chemo between September 2007 and April 2008. I am now waiting for surgery to remove my ovaries; I am going through genetic testing (I might go for a prophylactic mastectomy once I have the results).
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally)
At first, it was the proverbial hit in the stomach. I was totally panicked but a wise soul (you,Chris) told me that I would rise up to face the music. And I did. It has been really tough but has also had its glorious moments.
Mentally (and physically): Somedays, I feel a bit broken because that second round of chemo and the Femara (hormonal drug) have given me aches and pains I did not have before. I hope these will settle down as time goes on. I had a wonderful summer vacation and I enjoy so much the people around me...it is all about friends and family. I am blessed with an optimistic personality and that has been handy...Intellectually: multitasking is out. I can't tackle a lot at once. Which is quite likely a good thing.
What changes have you made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
I have slowed down a lot. The thing I absolutely love is not being in a hurry. I purposely walk and drive slowly and I don't wait until I have 54 errands to run to go out. I love not having to run through the grocery store at 7:00 p.m. on Sunday nights!!! If one day I don't "accomplish" much, well it is just fine. I love being at home so I am not sure when I will go back to work.
I have started reading a lot again. When I am in a book, my husband and son know that my ears do not work anymore. I was like that as a teenager...
Since early September, I have started exercising regularly. BCA offers a wide rage of fitness classes and soon will offer yoga. I go to the morning sessions at the Rideau Tennis Club 2-3 mornings a week. I have started Saturday morning nordic walking (and breakfast) again and I walk my dog Tina as many afternoons as possible with a good friend. So fitness and eating well is what I will do for a living this Fall - and forever. I hope to be well enough to paddle next year.
Where do you draw your strength from? How do you look at life today?
My strength is my small and big families: my husband and 12 year old son; my parents, brother, sister, niece and nephew; my parents in-law and my brother and sister-in-law who live close-by and have kept us going, cooked for us...Another huge part of my support network has been my colleagues - this is an absolutely amazing story: once we found out that I was going to go through chemo again (last Fall), about 50 of my colleagues got together and created my very own Fan Club. They divided themselves into 6 groups (for 6 cycles of chemo) and before every treatment sent care packages full of food, books music, chocolate, knitted shawls, hats., etc. My husband often had to go back to the car two or three times to bring in the boxes of stuff.....if was amazing, overwhelming and one of the most wonderful compliment I have ever had.The neighbours, hockey parents, my son's friends and their parents, my old friends from school - all have been my strengh. Every card, letter, e-mail, gift arrived exactly when I needed it. As if there was a cosmic dispatcher who was coordinating all of this...The Dragon Boat team has also been a great source of inspiration because of my teammates courage, tenacity, sense of humour and kindness, I turned to some of them in the few days after finding out I had another battle on my hands - they know. I wore my team shirt to every treatment - I had 60+ women paddling with me throughout...How do I look at life today? Some days with fear but most days with hope and a very deliberate attempt at making every moment count big time. Watching our son grow and play and become a fine young man is what I want to keep on doing for a very long time.
Anything else to add?
Thanks Chris for your fantastic blog...I truly admire your courage, openness and generosity.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Talking Turkey - by Mary O'Rourke
With apologies to the the author if some of the punctuation didn't translate properly across our versions of Word...
The turkey, as you know is a bird. A North American bird if I'm not mistaken. Which seems to be what my mother had against it.
I'm not talking abut the jolly gold and red cardboard birds that show up in department store windows every fall, or even the smaller orange and brown table-top ones with that kind of webbed paper center. I'm talking about the real thing, the actual bird - or more precisely the dead bird, which traditionally graces North American dinner tables at least once and, more often, twice in fall and winter, at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
A Britisher from the gritty industrial North, Mum could not see the point of turkey and she never let us forget it as long as she lived - all 89 years. Celebratory turkey was unheard of in Britain in her time. With charming Lancashire bluntness she'd ask, "Why do you want that dry old tasteless thing when you could have a lovely goose or roast beef and drippings?" Channel Coronation Street and you get the idea.
I'm not sure my mum was ever a good cook, even before living through rationing and World War Two. The few times she did try to get with the program and cook Canadian, the turkey was definitely less than succulent. And just thinking about the leftovers seemed to bring on a nervous breakdown, not to mention the same boring annual recitation about what a trial it was. Clearly, Mum's reserve of festive cheer didn't run to cheerily skinning and gutting the carcass and whipping it into a delightful potage.
And there was no pumpkin pie at our house either. Mum was convinced my older sister had caught food poisoning from it at a neighbour kid's Halloween party. "Ooh, imagine eating vegetable marrow with sugar and spice and things. No wonder her tummy was all funny."
This was pretty rich coming from someone whose idea of good nutrition was 'mince', or ground hamburger meat stewed in a watery gravy of onions and potatoes. Spam sandwiches with Kraft salad cream were a regular lunchbox delight, long before Monty Python got onto the spam shtick. But then the Brits have never been renowned for their irresistible cuisine.
"Enough with the turkey talk, already" we said as we got older. "Cook whatever you want and we'll eat it." By the seventies, roast beef was getting to be a bit of a luxury, not the regular Sunday dinner we'd all grown up on. And we were bringing wine to grease the wheels or drown the taste, if necessary.
One sister married a Brit who grew up with roast beef Christmases, so he didn't expect turkey. A second sister moved to Ireland. And a third sister (me) stayed home. She didn't go to market, although she did develop a taste for a nice turkey dinner, without ever feeling the particular urge to master it herself. Until her Canadian husband the traditionalist started to insist, that is. By now Mum had moved to my city and was living in a nearby senior's residence.
Thanks to divine intervention and the web, a Thanksgiving miracle occurred in my humble home in 1999, just a month before she died. I'd found an online recipe for a turkey basted liberally with a mixture of soy sauce, apple juice and a few seasoning. We had all the usual trimmings, fluffy mashed potatoes, cranberry-orange relish, broccoli and even Brussels sprouts for my anglophile sister. Grandma not only enjoyed the turkey, she asked for seconds!
But she was still on turkey patrol in daily life. A few weeks later at her residence, we attended a 'care conference', an opportunity for frank dialogue between residents and staff. "How's the food, Mrs. Smith?" asked the nice young woman in social-worker speak. "Do you have any concerns you want to share with us?" Mum shook her head to indicate no. (Actually, I know she was thinking, why don't they teach you to speak plain bloody English in those fancy universities of yours, but I digress.)
"That's not what you told me", I nudged her. "Why don't you share?"
"Well, I did wonder if you had shares in a turkey farm" she replied, alluding delicately to the frequency with which turkey appeared on the residence menu. Sadly, nobody laughed.
Humour is what got the Brits through the war, in spite of all those soggy Brussels sprouts. Too bad humour isn't on the curriculum for all those earnest social workers and geriatric carers.
The turkey, as you know is a bird. A North American bird if I'm not mistaken. Which seems to be what my mother had against it.
I'm not talking abut the jolly gold and red cardboard birds that show up in department store windows every fall, or even the smaller orange and brown table-top ones with that kind of webbed paper center. I'm talking about the real thing, the actual bird - or more precisely the dead bird, which traditionally graces North American dinner tables at least once and, more often, twice in fall and winter, at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
A Britisher from the gritty industrial North, Mum could not see the point of turkey and she never let us forget it as long as she lived - all 89 years. Celebratory turkey was unheard of in Britain in her time. With charming Lancashire bluntness she'd ask, "Why do you want that dry old tasteless thing when you could have a lovely goose or roast beef and drippings?" Channel Coronation Street and you get the idea.
I'm not sure my mum was ever a good cook, even before living through rationing and World War Two. The few times she did try to get with the program and cook Canadian, the turkey was definitely less than succulent. And just thinking about the leftovers seemed to bring on a nervous breakdown, not to mention the same boring annual recitation about what a trial it was. Clearly, Mum's reserve of festive cheer didn't run to cheerily skinning and gutting the carcass and whipping it into a delightful potage.
And there was no pumpkin pie at our house either. Mum was convinced my older sister had caught food poisoning from it at a neighbour kid's Halloween party. "Ooh, imagine eating vegetable marrow with sugar and spice and things. No wonder her tummy was all funny."
This was pretty rich coming from someone whose idea of good nutrition was 'mince', or ground hamburger meat stewed in a watery gravy of onions and potatoes. Spam sandwiches with Kraft salad cream were a regular lunchbox delight, long before Monty Python got onto the spam shtick. But then the Brits have never been renowned for their irresistible cuisine.
"Enough with the turkey talk, already" we said as we got older. "Cook whatever you want and we'll eat it." By the seventies, roast beef was getting to be a bit of a luxury, not the regular Sunday dinner we'd all grown up on. And we were bringing wine to grease the wheels or drown the taste, if necessary.
One sister married a Brit who grew up with roast beef Christmases, so he didn't expect turkey. A second sister moved to Ireland. And a third sister (me) stayed home. She didn't go to market, although she did develop a taste for a nice turkey dinner, without ever feeling the particular urge to master it herself. Until her Canadian husband the traditionalist started to insist, that is. By now Mum had moved to my city and was living in a nearby senior's residence.
Thanks to divine intervention and the web, a Thanksgiving miracle occurred in my humble home in 1999, just a month before she died. I'd found an online recipe for a turkey basted liberally with a mixture of soy sauce, apple juice and a few seasoning. We had all the usual trimmings, fluffy mashed potatoes, cranberry-orange relish, broccoli and even Brussels sprouts for my anglophile sister. Grandma not only enjoyed the turkey, she asked for seconds!
But she was still on turkey patrol in daily life. A few weeks later at her residence, we attended a 'care conference', an opportunity for frank dialogue between residents and staff. "How's the food, Mrs. Smith?" asked the nice young woman in social-worker speak. "Do you have any concerns you want to share with us?" Mum shook her head to indicate no. (Actually, I know she was thinking, why don't they teach you to speak plain bloody English in those fancy universities of yours, but I digress.)
"That's not what you told me", I nudged her. "Why don't you share?"
"Well, I did wonder if you had shares in a turkey farm" she replied, alluding delicately to the frequency with which turkey appeared on the residence menu. Sadly, nobody laughed.
Humour is what got the Brits through the war, in spite of all those soggy Brussels sprouts. Too bad humour isn't on the curriculum for all those earnest social workers and geriatric carers.
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