Posted By SUE HENDLER
Feb 6, 2009
TALKING ABOUT CHANGES TO ONE'S identity is pretty common among people diagnosed with cancer. We can look different, act different and feel different. Our looks can be altered by surgery, stress, radiation, chemotherapy and, sometimes, voluntary changes if we want to shake up our appearances a bit. Our actions can change because we have varying amounts of time, strength, stamina and, perhaps, courage and flexibility. And our emotions might change because of medications and all of the above.
While most people around me insist that I am still the same person -I just now have a "condition" -it often doesn't feel that way to me. Instead, it feels as if cancer has rocked my foundation, and I've often said that I don't know how to be this (new) person.
My friend, Susan Babbitt, and I often talk about this issue of identity. She was diagnosed, over five years ago, with sarcoma, an aggressive cancer of the soft tissue that began and recurred in her leg, and then spread. We have been on our respective journeys
for different periods of time and in different ways, but I often seek her insight as to how she has adapted to cancer, and her wisdom has been an important resource in my living with cancer the best I can.
Sue:Susan, you've had a bunch of surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy. You've so far outlived a pretty dire prognosis. How would you describe who you are now in comparison to five years ago?
Susan:I have the same interests and commitments, the same personality, but much has changed for practical reasons. At first, I just wanted to "get my life back." But I eventually realized that if I didn't want fear, disability and cancer to rob me of my life, I had to think differently. This has affected my expectations and priorities.
Sue:How so? What has changed?
Susan:Cancer took away so much. I had never been ill before. I'd always had health, strength and energy, and I loved physical activity. And then, from one day to the next, just because of a lump on my leg, I became a seriously ill person. Eventually I couldn't ride a bike or ski, and now I can hardly walk. My life became so bizarre, with so many hospital stays and so much uncertainty, that I learned to look just at what was happening and not to think about what I wanted or expected to be happening. This requires mental discipline but it is possible. Again, it's practical. I had to accept the arbitrariness of disease. The result is that, although I feel like the same person, I no longer have much sense of that identity, or so it seems. I do and believe in the same things, but I don't think much about what I do, or whether and how it matters.
Sue:What do you mean when you say that you can't think about what you do or if it matters?
Susan:We've talked about how there's no script for living with the threat of death. Even though I teach philosophy, I had no resources to know how to face death. The challenge is: How do I not lose my life just because I'm losing my life? And I've found that as I live with what I have - which is the present -I lose not only the future, but also the past, or at least it loses importance. Perhaps that's because the past is tied to expectations for the future. It tells us something about who we are and what we can offer. Thomas Merton said that life is never absurd when you just live it, but it is always absurd when you watch yourself live it. Life with cancer is absurd enough, as you and I have laughed about. So I don't analyse what's happening. Perhaps that sounds odd, from an academic.
Sue:Not odd -just hard. In some ways, my probably having less time than I would have thought makes each remaining moment both more and less important. It's a strange tightrope to walk. Just when I think I've mastered it, cancer throws another curve ball and I find myself fighting to find my balance again.
Susan:I learned through the practice of meditation -just observing the arising and passing away of all aspects of my own being, and recognizing experientially that this is the nature of the whole universe. This serves as a tool. A focus on importance brings back the fear of losing it all -for me, at least. I lose that fear when I live just with what I have.
Sue:So, if we return to how we started this column, how would you describe your identity now?
Susan:I'd say that I now identify as part of the unfolding of a beautifully complex and mysterious universe, in love with the day-by-day ordinariness of my temporary existence.
Sue:Amidst all the ugliness of cancer, that is really beautiful, Susan. Thank you for sharing it with me.
¦ Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey. Susan Babbitt teaches in the philosophy department at Queen's University.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
When you're a cancer patient, there's a lot of waiting
Posted By SUE HENDLER, Feb 20, 2009
Waiting for godot is the title of a play written by Samuel Beckett. The play is focused on the time that passes as two men await the arrival of someone called Godot. Godot never shows up and the men are left to decide whether they will wait again the following day, as a young boy tells them that the elusive Godot will certainly come then.
I was reminded of Beckett's play this week as I waited for the results of various tests that will determine how my chemotherapy regime is working. Like this play, life with cancer is filled with waiting. Waiting to be seen by doctors. Waiting for treatment. Waiting for pain or discomfort to go away. Waiting for tests. And, especially, waiting for test results.
Those of us with cancer typically undergo a variety of tests. There are blood tests that show how my organs are working and that measure the levels of the tumour markers my cancer cells produce. There are specialized tests, like the Multiple Gated Acquisition Scan (MUGA), that make videos of my heart and demonstrate whether the chemotherapy treatments I'm on are compromising its functioning.
This is one type of imaging; there are three others that I experience pretty regularly.
Magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI, allows my doctors to see detailed three-dimensional pictures of my spinal cord or other body part(s) of interest. Bone scans demonstrate levels of metabolic activity throughout my skeleton. They give rise to pictures showing the absence or concentration of a radioactive tracer that suggest where my bones are either rebuilding or breaking down. And there are computerized axial tomography, or CT, scans that generate two-dimensional cross-sections often focused on soft tissues and organs, like my lungs and liver.
Most of these tests require the use of specialized equipment and trained personnel. Some also require particular dyes or radioactive isotopes that allow for the collection of different sorts of data based on the staining or absorption rates of these tracer elements. All of these things - equipment, people and tracers - are, or can be, in short supply, so it often takes a while to be scheduled for a given test.
Once a test takes place, the waiting for results starts. While my doctors can access MRI or CT scan images on their computer almost immediately after the pictures have been taken, they usually prefer to wait to contact me until they've received a technical report in which the images are analysed and compared with earlier tests.
I have found that I not only wait with bated breath for my own tests results, I also wait for those of my friends who are living with cancer. My friend, Susan, gets a CT scan every three months to gauge the state of her cancer. Then there's Jackie, who gets a colonoscopy every year to assess whether any stray cancer cells were left after her successful colon surgery. A new friend, Chris in Ottawa, has breast cancer that has metastasized to her lungs, and she recently had a CT scan as part of her ongoing treatment.
While my oncologists say they don't treat numbers or images, the tests are still an important part of my living with cancer, as they will be used in conjunction with how I look and how I'm feeling in order to figure out how best to treat my condition. And the same applies to my friends and their tests.
While I wait to hear about my latest tests and any subsequent decisions about my chemotherapy, I play Sudoku, wash dishes and brush my cats. I talk with friends and sort my recycling. I also think more about Beckett's play. There are a lot of interpretations of Waiting for Godot. Is Godot a real person? Is Godot actually supposed to be God? Or is Godot not a person or being at all but, instead, a metaphor for something else entirely? Pleasure? Life? Death? Meaning itself ?
Conversely, or at least on the surface, my waiting for things like test results seems unambiguous. If blood work shows that my tumour marker has gone down, that's good news. If my CT scan suggests that various lesions are bigger, well, that's bad news. There is some truth to this, but, it seems to me, there are even bigger issues at stake. Do I want my life to be summarized as a play called "Waiting for Cancer Tests Results"? If not, then I have to find a way of appreciating the fact that the tests are important but not allow them to take over whatever time I have on this planet.
It's hard to do, but I'd really like a play about my life to have a more interesting title. "A Woman of at Least Some Importance," perhaps (with apologies to Oscar Wilde)?
* Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
Waiting for godot is the title of a play written by Samuel Beckett. The play is focused on the time that passes as two men await the arrival of someone called Godot. Godot never shows up and the men are left to decide whether they will wait again the following day, as a young boy tells them that the elusive Godot will certainly come then.
I was reminded of Beckett's play this week as I waited for the results of various tests that will determine how my chemotherapy regime is working. Like this play, life with cancer is filled with waiting. Waiting to be seen by doctors. Waiting for treatment. Waiting for pain or discomfort to go away. Waiting for tests. And, especially, waiting for test results.
Those of us with cancer typically undergo a variety of tests. There are blood tests that show how my organs are working and that measure the levels of the tumour markers my cancer cells produce. There are specialized tests, like the Multiple Gated Acquisition Scan (MUGA), that make videos of my heart and demonstrate whether the chemotherapy treatments I'm on are compromising its functioning.
This is one type of imaging; there are three others that I experience pretty regularly.
Magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI, allows my doctors to see detailed three-dimensional pictures of my spinal cord or other body part(s) of interest. Bone scans demonstrate levels of metabolic activity throughout my skeleton. They give rise to pictures showing the absence or concentration of a radioactive tracer that suggest where my bones are either rebuilding or breaking down. And there are computerized axial tomography, or CT, scans that generate two-dimensional cross-sections often focused on soft tissues and organs, like my lungs and liver.
Most of these tests require the use of specialized equipment and trained personnel. Some also require particular dyes or radioactive isotopes that allow for the collection of different sorts of data based on the staining or absorption rates of these tracer elements. All of these things - equipment, people and tracers - are, or can be, in short supply, so it often takes a while to be scheduled for a given test.
Once a test takes place, the waiting for results starts. While my doctors can access MRI or CT scan images on their computer almost immediately after the pictures have been taken, they usually prefer to wait to contact me until they've received a technical report in which the images are analysed and compared with earlier tests.
I have found that I not only wait with bated breath for my own tests results, I also wait for those of my friends who are living with cancer. My friend, Susan, gets a CT scan every three months to gauge the state of her cancer. Then there's Jackie, who gets a colonoscopy every year to assess whether any stray cancer cells were left after her successful colon surgery. A new friend, Chris in Ottawa, has breast cancer that has metastasized to her lungs, and she recently had a CT scan as part of her ongoing treatment.
While my oncologists say they don't treat numbers or images, the tests are still an important part of my living with cancer, as they will be used in conjunction with how I look and how I'm feeling in order to figure out how best to treat my condition. And the same applies to my friends and their tests.
While I wait to hear about my latest tests and any subsequent decisions about my chemotherapy, I play Sudoku, wash dishes and brush my cats. I talk with friends and sort my recycling. I also think more about Beckett's play. There are a lot of interpretations of Waiting for Godot. Is Godot a real person? Is Godot actually supposed to be God? Or is Godot not a person or being at all but, instead, a metaphor for something else entirely? Pleasure? Life? Death? Meaning itself ?
Conversely, or at least on the surface, my waiting for things like test results seems unambiguous. If blood work shows that my tumour marker has gone down, that's good news. If my CT scan suggests that various lesions are bigger, well, that's bad news. There is some truth to this, but, it seems to me, there are even bigger issues at stake. Do I want my life to be summarized as a play called "Waiting for Cancer Tests Results"? If not, then I have to find a way of appreciating the fact that the tests are important but not allow them to take over whatever time I have on this planet.
It's hard to do, but I'd really like a play about my life to have a more interesting title. "A Woman of at Least Some Importance," perhaps (with apologies to Oscar Wilde)?
* Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Don't tell me I should be positive in the face of my illness
Don't tell me I should be positive in the face of my illness
Posted By SUE HENDLER
March 20, 2009
I've written a couple of columns about questions I have been asked. If I had to say what one thing I had been told, not asked, it's the importance of being positive. This has, to be polite, started to irk me. Why? There are lots of reasons.
While my surgeon once told me that some of his patients had said cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, I think this must have involved curable, turn-your-life-around kinds of cancer. I seriously doubt anyone would laud the benefits of a cancer that, at least 97% of the time, is going to kill you. It's hard to think positively about a disease that is almost always terminal. It's also difficult to glue rose-coloured glasses to your head and assert that you are going to beat the odds, no matter how much those odds are stacked against you. So, as someone who tends to be a realist, it has been important for me to acknowledge that I will probably live a lot less time than I thought I would and that cancer is to blame for this.
Second, it's easy to feel like a failure if you can't do this thing that everyone tells you that you should be doing. That is, when people tell me to be positive or think positively, and then I have moments or days when this seem impossible because I feel too scared or sad or angry, I start to see myself as having failed: failed to believe I will get well, failed to smile and be cheery, and failed to be brave in the face of adversity.
So, the bottom line is that not only have I failed to be healthy, I have also failed to stay positive in the face of a serious illness. I don't know about you, but I'm not good at seeing myself as a failure.
The third reason follows from the second. If I don't do something that will help me get better, then I can be blamed for not getting better. In other words, if people are right in asserting that being positive is important in healing, then not being positive can actually be a reason for getting sick or staying sick. So, I am responsible for my cancer! Clearly, this is one of the last things I need to hear right now, and it certainly wouldn't help me be positive (and therefore supposedly heal myself ).
My friend, Christine, has suggested that maybe people want me to be positive so I don't show them how upset I really am. This may help them feel better -- or at least less uncomfortable -- when they are around me. If this is true, I am pretty sure it's not a conscious thing, in that I think the people telling me to be positive really do want me to get better and beat this thing.
Whether being positive is good for people around a sick person, or for the sick person him or herself, the empirical question remains as to whether optimism actually helps someone get well.
A recent study in the journal Cancerconcluded that "emotional status was not associated with survival rate" in people with certain kinds of cancer. When this was reported in the news during the fall of 2007, many people responded with anger, disappointment and a sense of betrayal. We are so wedded to the idea that thinking and acting positively is important, even the suggestion that this could be wrong generates a strong emotional reaction.
Regardless of the medical data, I think it makes sense that enjoying our lives makes for more enjoyable lives. Irrespective of the amount of time we have on this planet, how do we want to live? To a certain extent, I think we can choose whether to be caustic, critical and pessimistic or pleasant, constructive and joyful. But there will always be times in which anger and/or sadness take over.
In my case, these are days in which my pain level makes moving uncomfortable, the sores in my mouth from the chemotherapy make eating difficult, and my cats insist on eating house plants and then barfing all over the place -- especially on the bed because, if you have to throw up, why not do it in the most comfortable place possible?
I don't need to be told that my feelings of irritation and negativity at these times may fester even if they don't actually shorten my life. I'll figure that out for myself and hopefully get to a more "positive" place in time.
After my diagnosis, my mother asked me to tell her when she said something wrong or something that was not helpful. While I won't say it's wrong, I've definitely asked her, and anyone else who will listen, to avoid telling me to be positive. I'm pretty sure -- no, I'm positive -- that would make my life easier, and maybe even better.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travel her breast cancer journey.
Posted By SUE HENDLER
March 20, 2009
I've written a couple of columns about questions I have been asked. If I had to say what one thing I had been told, not asked, it's the importance of being positive. This has, to be polite, started to irk me. Why? There are lots of reasons.
While my surgeon once told me that some of his patients had said cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, I think this must have involved curable, turn-your-life-around kinds of cancer. I seriously doubt anyone would laud the benefits of a cancer that, at least 97% of the time, is going to kill you. It's hard to think positively about a disease that is almost always terminal. It's also difficult to glue rose-coloured glasses to your head and assert that you are going to beat the odds, no matter how much those odds are stacked against you. So, as someone who tends to be a realist, it has been important for me to acknowledge that I will probably live a lot less time than I thought I would and that cancer is to blame for this.
Second, it's easy to feel like a failure if you can't do this thing that everyone tells you that you should be doing. That is, when people tell me to be positive or think positively, and then I have moments or days when this seem impossible because I feel too scared or sad or angry, I start to see myself as having failed: failed to believe I will get well, failed to smile and be cheery, and failed to be brave in the face of adversity.
So, the bottom line is that not only have I failed to be healthy, I have also failed to stay positive in the face of a serious illness. I don't know about you, but I'm not good at seeing myself as a failure.
The third reason follows from the second. If I don't do something that will help me get better, then I can be blamed for not getting better. In other words, if people are right in asserting that being positive is important in healing, then not being positive can actually be a reason for getting sick or staying sick. So, I am responsible for my cancer! Clearly, this is one of the last things I need to hear right now, and it certainly wouldn't help me be positive (and therefore supposedly heal myself ).
My friend, Christine, has suggested that maybe people want me to be positive so I don't show them how upset I really am. This may help them feel better -- or at least less uncomfortable -- when they are around me. If this is true, I am pretty sure it's not a conscious thing, in that I think the people telling me to be positive really do want me to get better and beat this thing.
Whether being positive is good for people around a sick person, or for the sick person him or herself, the empirical question remains as to whether optimism actually helps someone get well.
A recent study in the journal Cancerconcluded that "emotional status was not associated with survival rate" in people with certain kinds of cancer. When this was reported in the news during the fall of 2007, many people responded with anger, disappointment and a sense of betrayal. We are so wedded to the idea that thinking and acting positively is important, even the suggestion that this could be wrong generates a strong emotional reaction.
Regardless of the medical data, I think it makes sense that enjoying our lives makes for more enjoyable lives. Irrespective of the amount of time we have on this planet, how do we want to live? To a certain extent, I think we can choose whether to be caustic, critical and pessimistic or pleasant, constructive and joyful. But there will always be times in which anger and/or sadness take over.
In my case, these are days in which my pain level makes moving uncomfortable, the sores in my mouth from the chemotherapy make eating difficult, and my cats insist on eating house plants and then barfing all over the place -- especially on the bed because, if you have to throw up, why not do it in the most comfortable place possible?
I don't need to be told that my feelings of irritation and negativity at these times may fester even if they don't actually shorten my life. I'll figure that out for myself and hopefully get to a more "positive" place in time.
After my diagnosis, my mother asked me to tell her when she said something wrong or something that was not helpful. While I won't say it's wrong, I've definitely asked her, and anyone else who will listen, to avoid telling me to be positive. I'm pretty sure -- no, I'm positive -- that would make my life easier, and maybe even better.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travel her breast cancer journey.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Now Voyager
To change one's life: Start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. No exceptions. ~ William James~
If you woke up breathing, congratulations! You have another chance. ~ Andrea Boydston ~
John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans."
Truer words were never spoken.
It certainly was true in his life. A gifted and immensely popular musician, poet and artist, Lennon had found his soul mate in Yoko Ono, and together they had a healthy, beautiful son. Life was good, and the future looked brighter than ever. Book and movie deals, new recording contracts, gallery exhibits - those were their plans.
Until life happened.
On a cold, drizzly evening in New York City, December 8, 1980, John Lennon was shot and killed outside his Central Park apartment by a crazed fan.
We're all familiar with names of other well-known people who seemed to have their whole lives ahead of them, whose futures held great promise but were cut tragically short. Princess Diana and John F. Kennedy, Jr. are two of the most obvious examples.
The actor Christopher Reeve was surely making other plans when he was thrown from his horse during a riding exhibition in 1995. Life happened in one terrible moment, and he went from being the man everyone knew as the movie hero Superman to a quadriplegic dependent on others for every breath he took. He died from the combined and long-term effects of his injuries nine years later.
Nearly three thousand Americans were making other plans when they went to work or boarded airplanes on September 11, 2001. Their lives ended that day, and the lives of countless thousands of others, their families and friends - who were also making other plans - were forever changed by the nightmare now known simply as "9/11."
All of these people and the tragedies that befell them made headlines around the world either because of the celebrity status of those involved or the sheer enormity of the event. But life happens to ordinary individuals making other plans every single day, quietly and with little or no warning, in doctors' offices and clinics and hospitals around the world. Someone says a single word - "cancer" or "terminal" or "coma" or "inoperable" or any one of thousands of terrifying possibilities - and someone else's life changes forever.
If you're reading this, it's probably because you are one of those for whom life has forever changed because of some circumstance beyond your or anyone else's control. There is some measure of comfort in reminding ourselves that no one gets off this planet without his share of such circumstances. Give yourself time to grieve, focus on slow, deep breathing to calm and center yourself, then begin to move forward again, this time using the new tools and techniques you have learned at such dear cost.
And now begin to really live. No prissy, half-hearted living like you were living before. That wasn't really living, and that you doesn't exist anymore. No putting off dreams until tomorrow. Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe that diem now.
Go live your life. Become who you know you're supposed to be. No holding back this time.In the words of Walt Whitman, "Now voyager, sail thou forth to seek and find."
And don't you dare say it's too late. If you're reading this, it's not too late. It's only too late for the people who didn't wake up this morning.
Live out loud. Be outrageous. Love fiercely. Laugh and cry at the sheer beauty of it all. And thank whatever god you believe in that you have another chance to get it right.
Every day, you get another chance.
Dear God, thank You for allowing me to wake up breathing this morning and for one more chance to get it right. Today I will begin to become the person you created me to be.
Amen
Roger and Kathy Cawthon
The Cancer Crusade
email: cawthons@thecancercrusade.com
web: http://www.thecancercrusade.com
Roger and Kathy Cawthon
The Cancer Crusade
email: cawthons@thecancercrusade.com
web: http://www.thecancercrusade.com
Monday, August 17, 2009
Life is Eternal
lyrics (Carly Simon/Teesa Gohl)
I've been doing a lot of thinking
About growing older and moving on
Nobody wants to be told that they're getting on
And maybe going away
For a long, long stay
But just how long and who knows
And how and where my spirit will go
Will it soar like Jazz on a saxophone
Or evaporate on a breeze
Won’t you tell me please
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
Here on earth I'm a lost soul
Ever trying to find my way back home
Maybe that's why each new star is born
Expanding heaven's room
Eternity in bloom
And will I see you up in that heaven
In all its light will I know you're there
Will we say the things that we never dared
If wishing makes it so
Won't you let me know
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothingS
ave the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
I've been doing a lot of thinking
About growing older and moving on
Nobody wants to be told that they're getting on
And maybe going away
For a long, long stay
But just how long and who knows
And how and where my spirit will go
Will it soar like Jazz on a saxophone
Or evaporate on a breeze
Won’t you tell me please
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
Here on earth I'm a lost soul
Ever trying to find my way back home
Maybe that's why each new star is born
Expanding heaven's room
Eternity in bloom
And will I see you up in that heaven
In all its light will I know you're there
Will we say the things that we never dared
If wishing makes it so
Won't you let me know
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothingS
ave the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Two years
Chris Lynds
Diagnosed at: Age 40
Diagnosis: Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma, one positive lymph node
Treatment: Modified Radical Mastectomy, Chemotherapy, Tamoxifen
Occupation: Training Specialist
It has been almost two years since I found a lump in my breast. Two years since my life changed forever. Two years of learning about cancer treatments. Two years of getting an education that I never signed up for. Two years of finding my own strength while learning to lean on others. Two years of crying every tear my tired eyes could produce. Two years of discovering that some of the humor that makes me laugh the hardest is the stuff that comes from a dark place. Two years of appreciating things I overlooked before. Two years of letting go of what is not important.
I probably don’t look much different to the world. I have a new, shorter hairstyle. My prosthesis gives the illusion that all of my body parts are intact. Artificially induced menopause and daily doses of Tamoxifen have made my skin a bit drier, my waist a bit thicker and my temper a bit shorter. No one except the person living inside this body really knows how much I’ve changed.
I was one of the lucky ones. I had a lot of support from family and friends. But not all of the people who started on this journey with me were able to hang in for the long haul. And some of the people who helped me the most were an unexpected surprise.
My cancer was treated by a team of capable and experienced doctors. My soul was treated by a group of women who had one scary but bonding thing in common: we all had cancer. Joining a support group was probably the most beneficial and important step I took towards healing. My Bosom Buddies (as we call ourselves) are the only people who I feel really understand what I’ve been through. My participation in a dragon boat team of breast cancer thrivers makes me feel safe, that there is life after breast cancer.
My life has changed so much, yet so many things are the same, that sometimes it feels surreal. I still go to work every day, I still forget to take out the garbage, I still spend too much time in front of the TV. Yet always in the back of my head is the anxious feeling that I should be doing something important, that somehow on this wild roller coaster ride that I’ve been on these last two years I should have discovered the ‘true purpose’ of my life.
I have not.
What I have discovered is that everything is temporary. Happiness, grief, joy and heartache – it’s all temporary. I always knew that even life itself is temporary. But now I REALLY know it.
Whether you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, or have never been sick a day in your life, we’re all in the same boat, headed in the same direction. To the business person who boards a plane with a faulty engine, to the lonely old man sitting on the porch of an old-age home, to the active young woman who has an appointment today for a mammogram, to those of us living everyday with the hope that our cancer will never return – statistics don’t matter. However bad your prognosis is, there are many seemingly healthy people that you will outlive.
Cancer or no cancer – expensive cars, grand houses, and huge bank accounts can’t save us from the inevitable. All we have is this minute, right here, right now.
I wish I could say that I’m living this minute to the fullest. For now, it’s enough that I’m living this minute. I’m still working on the ‘fullest’.
Diagnosed at: Age 40
Diagnosis: Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma, one positive lymph node
Treatment: Modified Radical Mastectomy, Chemotherapy, Tamoxifen
Occupation: Training Specialist
It has been almost two years since I found a lump in my breast. Two years since my life changed forever. Two years of learning about cancer treatments. Two years of getting an education that I never signed up for. Two years of finding my own strength while learning to lean on others. Two years of crying every tear my tired eyes could produce. Two years of discovering that some of the humor that makes me laugh the hardest is the stuff that comes from a dark place. Two years of appreciating things I overlooked before. Two years of letting go of what is not important.
I probably don’t look much different to the world. I have a new, shorter hairstyle. My prosthesis gives the illusion that all of my body parts are intact. Artificially induced menopause and daily doses of Tamoxifen have made my skin a bit drier, my waist a bit thicker and my temper a bit shorter. No one except the person living inside this body really knows how much I’ve changed.
I was one of the lucky ones. I had a lot of support from family and friends. But not all of the people who started on this journey with me were able to hang in for the long haul. And some of the people who helped me the most were an unexpected surprise.
My cancer was treated by a team of capable and experienced doctors. My soul was treated by a group of women who had one scary but bonding thing in common: we all had cancer. Joining a support group was probably the most beneficial and important step I took towards healing. My Bosom Buddies (as we call ourselves) are the only people who I feel really understand what I’ve been through. My participation in a dragon boat team of breast cancer thrivers makes me feel safe, that there is life after breast cancer.
My life has changed so much, yet so many things are the same, that sometimes it feels surreal. I still go to work every day, I still forget to take out the garbage, I still spend too much time in front of the TV. Yet always in the back of my head is the anxious feeling that I should be doing something important, that somehow on this wild roller coaster ride that I’ve been on these last two years I should have discovered the ‘true purpose’ of my life.
I have not.
What I have discovered is that everything is temporary. Happiness, grief, joy and heartache – it’s all temporary. I always knew that even life itself is temporary. But now I REALLY know it.
Whether you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, or have never been sick a day in your life, we’re all in the same boat, headed in the same direction. To the business person who boards a plane with a faulty engine, to the lonely old man sitting on the porch of an old-age home, to the active young woman who has an appointment today for a mammogram, to those of us living everyday with the hope that our cancer will never return – statistics don’t matter. However bad your prognosis is, there are many seemingly healthy people that you will outlive.
Cancer or no cancer – expensive cars, grand houses, and huge bank accounts can’t save us from the inevitable. All we have is this minute, right here, right now.
I wish I could say that I’m living this minute to the fullest. For now, it’s enough that I’m living this minute. I’m still working on the ‘fullest’.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Healing Chemistry of Tears
The sorrow which has no vent in tears may make other organs weep. ~Henry Maudsley ~
When I was diagnosed with cancer, I thought there could be no scarier words than those my surgeon had just said to me. I was wrong. Over the course of the next few months, I heard far more frightening words over and over again from well-meaning friends and family members. At least once a day someone said to me, "You have to have a positive attitude! That's the only way to beat this thing!"
Each time I heard those words, my heart skipped a beat, and I had to swallow hard tokeep the rising panic down.
I had just been told that I had cancer and that I was facing at least a year of what the medical professionals mysteriously referred to as "very aggressive treatment." Before any of it could begin, I had to sign a 13-page consent form that outlined all of the potential complications and side- effects I might encounter, including "sudden death."
I desperately needed and wanted to cry, and yet everyone kept telling me not to, that that would be "giving in to it" and evidence of a "negative attitude." I began to believe that if I cried, it could actually cause me to die. I thought that I would not die of cancer, but of negative thinking.
I want to say again and really emphasize that these were well-meaning friends and family members who love me. But they were not cancer survivors. They were people who cared about me who were only repeating words they had heard somewhere because they didn't know what else to say. The fact of the matter is that the best thing someone could have said to me at that point was (and please listen up here, caregivers), "You need to have a good cry."
There is considerable scientific evidence to indicate that the shedding of tears may be involved in removing waste products and toxic substances from the body. The chemical composition of tears resulting from emotional stress (grief, fear, anger, etc.) is known to be different from that of tears produced while cutting onions. Scientists speculate that this is why we experience an increased feeling of well-being after having a "good cry."
University of Minnesota researchers who are studying the chemical composition of tears have isolated two important chemicals (leucine-enkephalin and prolactin) in emotionally shed tears (as mentioned earlier, tears released in response to an unemotional activity, like cutting an onion, don't contain these chemicals). The researchers say that leucine- enkephalin may be an endorphin, one of the natural pain relievers released by the brain in response to stress. William Frey, Ph.D., a biochemist and the leader of the research team, suspects that tears cleanse the body of substances that accumulate under stress. In other words, crying seems to be a healthy and very appropriate way to respond to stress.
Conversely, to resist crying may be harmful to your health. It's possible, say researchers, that men develop more stress- related illness because they don't cry as freely as women do.
So are we to ignore the "positive attitude" advice? Absolutely not! But we need to understand that it will develop over time. It will come with experience along the way of the cancer journey. You will reach a place where you will feel more positive because you will regain control. You will understand more. You will not feel that you are lost and floundering in a foreign land. You will learn the ropes. You will become something of an expert on your specific cancer and treatments, so far less will be unknown to you and you will therefore experience less fear.
But there will also be times when you feel like crying, and when that feeling comes over you, you need to give in to it. Crying does not mean that you don't have a positive attitude. It simply means that your body needs to cleanse itself of some stress-related toxins so that it can get on about the business of healing. Help your body and your spirit heal by having a "good cry."
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Jennifer
When was your original diagnosis?
4/2005
When did the cancer return and how?
3/2009. I was scheduled for the second stage of my reconstruction and in the mean time my oncologist ordered a CAT and PET scan because my tumor markers were higher. They ended up canceling my surgery the day before it was scheduled. They told me it spread to my bones, lungs, and liver. I ended up getting my ovaries removed 2 months after that.
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally) What changes have been made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
I have to say cancer has affected my life both times, not just because of the return. I learned to not let anything or anyone stop you from doing anything you want to do. I learned to live in the moment and enjoy life for what it is. I learned to appreciate and love your family and friends and tell them how you feel as often as possible, even more. I try to stay positive and only alow positive people into my life. I have changed many things in my life. I have done more things in my life in the last 3 years then I did for the first 28 years. I experienced life and done things that I always wanted to try. Some of the things I tried were photography, kayaking, cross-country skiing, rock climbing, hiking, snorkeling, singing, swing, latin, and ballroom dancing. I received my reiki master, scuba diving certification, directed 2 plays, and I'm working toward my black belt in Kenpo. I have also traveled more and have been to Ireland, Scotland, England, Wales, and Paris among my favorites. I also returned to school for something I have wanted to do almost my whole life. I'm not happy with my current career. I have also become more spiritual and I try to share the lessons I have learned with all my loved ones. I have had a few of my friends and family do things or make changes in their life that I never thought they would do, but always wished they would. They told me I was their inspiration.
Where do you draw your strength from? How do you look at life today?
I draw my strength from myself. I think I am a very strong person. Don't get me wrong, I have my moments. But most of the time I am pretty strong. For the moments that I do get weak, I would probably have to say my boyfriend. He is my inspiration. He lost both his parents in the last 4 years and he always knows the right thing to say to get me out of my depressing moods when I find myself there. I look at life as a learning experience and every day there are lessons to be learnt. If you don't learn those lessons, things will keep happening to you until you do. Once you do learn the lessons, you need to share all you have learned with anyone that will listen. It is also a place to enjoy and appreciate. We will not always be here, but we much enjoy it while we are.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
You made it through the first time so that means you have the strength and determination to make
it through again. Take one day at a time and still continue to live your life. Don't let this run your life, take control.
Anything else to add?
Love yourself and don't be afraid to tell your loved one's that you love them every day.
4/2005
When did the cancer return and how?
3/2009. I was scheduled for the second stage of my reconstruction and in the mean time my oncologist ordered a CAT and PET scan because my tumor markers were higher. They ended up canceling my surgery the day before it was scheduled. They told me it spread to my bones, lungs, and liver. I ended up getting my ovaries removed 2 months after that.
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally) What changes have been made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
I have to say cancer has affected my life both times, not just because of the return. I learned to not let anything or anyone stop you from doing anything you want to do. I learned to live in the moment and enjoy life for what it is. I learned to appreciate and love your family and friends and tell them how you feel as often as possible, even more. I try to stay positive and only alow positive people into my life. I have changed many things in my life. I have done more things in my life in the last 3 years then I did for the first 28 years. I experienced life and done things that I always wanted to try. Some of the things I tried were photography, kayaking, cross-country skiing, rock climbing, hiking, snorkeling, singing, swing, latin, and ballroom dancing. I received my reiki master, scuba diving certification, directed 2 plays, and I'm working toward my black belt in Kenpo. I have also traveled more and have been to Ireland, Scotland, England, Wales, and Paris among my favorites. I also returned to school for something I have wanted to do almost my whole life. I'm not happy with my current career. I have also become more spiritual and I try to share the lessons I have learned with all my loved ones. I have had a few of my friends and family do things or make changes in their life that I never thought they would do, but always wished they would. They told me I was their inspiration.
Where do you draw your strength from? How do you look at life today?
I draw my strength from myself. I think I am a very strong person. Don't get me wrong, I have my moments. But most of the time I am pretty strong. For the moments that I do get weak, I would probably have to say my boyfriend. He is my inspiration. He lost both his parents in the last 4 years and he always knows the right thing to say to get me out of my depressing moods when I find myself there. I look at life as a learning experience and every day there are lessons to be learnt. If you don't learn those lessons, things will keep happening to you until you do. Once you do learn the lessons, you need to share all you have learned with anyone that will listen. It is also a place to enjoy and appreciate. We will not always be here, but we much enjoy it while we are.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
You made it through the first time so that means you have the strength and determination to make
it through again. Take one day at a time and still continue to live your life. Don't let this run your life, take control.
Anything else to add?
Love yourself and don't be afraid to tell your loved one's that you love them every day.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Asparagus vs Cancer
"My Mom had been taking the full-stalk canned style asparagus that she pureed and she took 4 tablespoons in the morning and 4 tablespoons later in the day. She did this for over a month. She is on chemo pills for Stage 3 lung cancer in the pleural area and her cancer cell count went from 386 down to 125 as of this past week. Her oncologist said she does not need to see him for 3 months."
THE ARTICLE:
Several years ago, I had a man seeking asparagus for a friend who had cancer. He gave me a photocopied copy of an article, entitled, `Asparagus for cancer' printed in Cancer News Journal .I will share it here, just as it was shared with me: I am a biochemist, and have specialized in the relation of diet to health for over 50 years.
Several years ago, I learned of the discovery of Richard R. Vensal, D.D.S. that asparagus might cure cancer. Since then, I have worked with him on his project. We have accumulated a number of favorable case histories.Here are a few examples:
Case No. 1, A man with an almost hopeless case of Hodgkin's disease (cancer of the lymph glands) who was completely incapacitated. Within 1 year of starting the asparagus therapy, his doctors were unable to detect any signs of cancer, and he was back on a schedule of strenuous exercise.
Case No. 2, a successful businessman 68 years old who suffered from cancer of the bladder for 16 years. After years of medical treatments, including radiation without improvement, he went on asparagus. Within 3 months, examinations revealed that his bladder tumor had disappeared and that his kidneys were normal.
Case No. 3, a man who had lung cancer. On March 5th , he was put on the operating table where they found lung cancer so widely spread that it was inoperable. The surgeon sewed him up and declared his case hopeless. On April 5th he heard about the asparagus therapy and immediately started taking it.By August, x-ray pictures revealed that all signs of the cancer had disappeared.. He is back at his regular business routine.
Case No. 4, a woman who was troubled for a number of years with skin cancer. She finally developed different skin cancers which were diagnosed by asking specialist as advanced.... Within 3 months after starting on asparagus, her skin specialist said that her skin looked fine and no more skin lesions. This woman reported that the asparagus therapy also cure her kidney disease, which started in 1949. She had over 10 operations for kidney stones, and was receiving government disability payments for an inoperable, terminal, kidney condition She attributes the cure of this kidney trouble entirely to the asparagus.
I was not surprised at this result, as `The elements of materia medica', edited in 1854 by a Professor at the University of Pennsylvania , stated that asparagus was used as a popularremedy for kidney stones He even referred to experiments, in 1739, on the power of asparagus in dissolving stones.
We would have other case histories but the medical establishment has interfered with our obtaining some of the records. I am therefore appealing to readers to spread this good news and help us to gather a large number of case histories that will overwhelm the medical skeptics about this unbelievably simple and natural remedy.
For the treatment, asparagus should be cooked before using, and therefore canned asparagus is just as good as fresh. I have corresponded with the two leading canners of asparagus, Giant and Stokely, and I am satisfied that these brands contain no pesticides or preservatives.
Place the cooked asparagus in a blender and liquefy to make a puree, and store in the refrigerator. Give the patient 4 full tablespoons twice daily, morning and evening.
Patients usually show some improvement in from 2-4 weeks. It can be diluted with water and used as a cold or hot drink. This suggested dosage is based on present experience, but certainly larger amounts can do no harm and may be needed in some cases.
As a biochemist I am convinced of the old saying that `what cures can prevent' Based on this theory, my wife and I have been using asparagus puree as a beverage with our meals.
We take 2 tablespoons diluted in water to suit our taste with breakfast and with dinner. I take mine hot and my wife prefers hers cold. For years we have made it a practice to have blood surveys taken as part of our regular checkups..
The last blood survey, taken by a medical doctor who specializes in the nutritional approach to health, showed substantial improvements in all categories over the last one, and we can attribute these improvements to nothing but the asparagus drink...
As a biochemist, I have made an extensive study of all aspects of cancer, and all of the proposed cures. As a result, I am convinced that asparagus fits in better with the latest theories about cancer. Asparagus contains a good supply of protein called histones,which are believed to be active in controlling cell growth. For that reason, I believe asparagus can be said to contain a substance that I call cell growth normalizer. That accountsfor its action on cancer and in acting as a general body tonic.
In any event, regardless of theory, asparagus used as we suggest, is a harmless substance. The FDA cannot prevent you from using it and it may do you much good.It has been reported by the US National Cancer Institute, that asparagus is the highest tested food containing glutathione, which is considered one of the body's most potent anticarcinogens and antioxidants.
THE ARTICLE:
Several years ago, I had a man seeking asparagus for a friend who had cancer. He gave me a photocopied copy of an article, entitled, `Asparagus for cancer' printed in Cancer News Journal .I will share it here, just as it was shared with me: I am a biochemist, and have specialized in the relation of diet to health for over 50 years.
Several years ago, I learned of the discovery of Richard R. Vensal, D.D.S. that asparagus might cure cancer. Since then, I have worked with him on his project. We have accumulated a number of favorable case histories.Here are a few examples:
Case No. 1, A man with an almost hopeless case of Hodgkin's disease (cancer of the lymph glands) who was completely incapacitated. Within 1 year of starting the asparagus therapy, his doctors were unable to detect any signs of cancer, and he was back on a schedule of strenuous exercise.
Case No. 2, a successful businessman 68 years old who suffered from cancer of the bladder for 16 years. After years of medical treatments, including radiation without improvement, he went on asparagus. Within 3 months, examinations revealed that his bladder tumor had disappeared and that his kidneys were normal.
Case No. 3, a man who had lung cancer. On March 5th , he was put on the operating table where they found lung cancer so widely spread that it was inoperable. The surgeon sewed him up and declared his case hopeless. On April 5th he heard about the asparagus therapy and immediately started taking it.By August, x-ray pictures revealed that all signs of the cancer had disappeared.. He is back at his regular business routine.
Case No. 4, a woman who was troubled for a number of years with skin cancer. She finally developed different skin cancers which were diagnosed by asking specialist as advanced.... Within 3 months after starting on asparagus, her skin specialist said that her skin looked fine and no more skin lesions. This woman reported that the asparagus therapy also cure her kidney disease, which started in 1949. She had over 10 operations for kidney stones, and was receiving government disability payments for an inoperable, terminal, kidney condition She attributes the cure of this kidney trouble entirely to the asparagus.
I was not surprised at this result, as `The elements of materia medica', edited in 1854 by a Professor at the University of Pennsylvania , stated that asparagus was used as a popularremedy for kidney stones He even referred to experiments, in 1739, on the power of asparagus in dissolving stones.
We would have other case histories but the medical establishment has interfered with our obtaining some of the records. I am therefore appealing to readers to spread this good news and help us to gather a large number of case histories that will overwhelm the medical skeptics about this unbelievably simple and natural remedy.
For the treatment, asparagus should be cooked before using, and therefore canned asparagus is just as good as fresh. I have corresponded with the two leading canners of asparagus, Giant and Stokely, and I am satisfied that these brands contain no pesticides or preservatives.
Place the cooked asparagus in a blender and liquefy to make a puree, and store in the refrigerator. Give the patient 4 full tablespoons twice daily, morning and evening.
Patients usually show some improvement in from 2-4 weeks. It can be diluted with water and used as a cold or hot drink. This suggested dosage is based on present experience, but certainly larger amounts can do no harm and may be needed in some cases.
As a biochemist I am convinced of the old saying that `what cures can prevent' Based on this theory, my wife and I have been using asparagus puree as a beverage with our meals.
We take 2 tablespoons diluted in water to suit our taste with breakfast and with dinner. I take mine hot and my wife prefers hers cold. For years we have made it a practice to have blood surveys taken as part of our regular checkups..
The last blood survey, taken by a medical doctor who specializes in the nutritional approach to health, showed substantial improvements in all categories over the last one, and we can attribute these improvements to nothing but the asparagus drink...
As a biochemist, I have made an extensive study of all aspects of cancer, and all of the proposed cures. As a result, I am convinced that asparagus fits in better with the latest theories about cancer. Asparagus contains a good supply of protein called histones,which are believed to be active in controlling cell growth. For that reason, I believe asparagus can be said to contain a substance that I call cell growth normalizer. That accountsfor its action on cancer and in acting as a general body tonic.
In any event, regardless of theory, asparagus used as we suggest, is a harmless substance. The FDA cannot prevent you from using it and it may do you much good.It has been reported by the US National Cancer Institute, that asparagus is the highest tested food containing glutathione, which is considered one of the body's most potent anticarcinogens and antioxidants.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Dance with my Father
It is probably fair to say that I miss my father since his death last year. But then, I’ve been missing my father most of my life.
I think back to a day when I was about ten years old, before my parents divorced. My mom told me that Daddy would be coming home soon for supper (as we always called it in the Maritimes) and I decided to walk down Herring Cove Road towards the Armdale Rotary to meet him.
I remember walking along the gravel shoulder of the road, watching for my dad’s car in what was probably considered rush hour traffic in those days, feeling the coolness of the spring ground through the rubber soles of the sneakers that my mom bought me every year from a bin at Lawton's drug store. I imagined that my dad would stop and pick me up; he would be so happy to see me. I would get to sit in the front seat with him, listening to the radio, and we would arrive back home together.
He never came. I walked for what seemed like a very long time before I turned around. He probably took an alternative route home, or maybe, because my parents’ marriage was already in trouble, he didn’t come home at all that night; I’m not sure. What I do know is that it was the start of a lifetime of missing my father.
I left home when I was only seventeen and lived most of my life in Ottawa. When I decided to get married, my dad didn’t attend the wedding. He said he couldn’t afford to travel from Halifax to Ottawa.
I longed to hear him say “I’ll find the money somewhere, don't you worry about it. I’ll take a second job. I’ll drive all night. I’ll do whatever I have to do to be at your wedding, because I’m your father and that’s what fathers do”. The marriage didn’t last and it was a lifetime ago, but it still causes me pain when I remember that my father wasn’t at my wedding to walk me down the aisle.
In the years since I moved away, my dad only came to visit me once. I was in my twenties and my son Adam was only a few years old. During the visit I developed an ear infection and the doctor prescribed drops that had to be put into my ear canal. My dad offered to help me and I still remember how it felt for him to touch me, to take care of me, to cradle my head in his hand while he put the drops in my ear.
I’ve seen pictures of me on my dad’s knee as a baby, but I don’t’ remember him ever touching me or holding me. The only memory I have is of him putting those drops in my ear when I was a young woman and it has stayed with me for thirty years.
Time went by and I usually went home to Nova Scotia every year or two. I always went to visit my dad when I was there, sometimes reluctantly. Usually the visit would be awkward and we wouldn’t have a lot to say to one another. Phone calls were about the weather and neighbors that I didn’t know. We might as well have lived on separate planets, our lives were so different.
After I found out that the breast cancer I had in 1998 was back and had spread to my lungs, I decided I needed to go home to Halifax to be near the ocean, to mentally prepare myself to start chemotherapy again. My son Adam flew from the Netherlands to be with me and we planned to meet my dad for lunch. Adam hadn’t seen his grandfather since he was about 13.
During the visit, my dad didn’t mention the cancer or ask me about my treatments. Instead, he brought up something that happened between him and my mom when I was a child, something that didn’t involve me but painted my mom in a negative light.
I lost it. My emotions were on the edge and all of the hurt I had been feeling about our relationship started spilling out of me, like a time bomb that had been ticking for longer than I can remember. I hadn’t really cried since I found out that the cancer was back, but the floodgates had been opened and there was no turning back.
I stood on the sidewalk outside of his car and yelled at him, tears streaming down my face. “Why haven’t you asked about my treatments, how I’ve been feeling, if there’s anything I need? Why are you talking about things from 40 years ago that no longer matter? Why can’t you ever just be there for me?”
I can still see the look of shock on his face. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there. Finally, when I thought I had nothing left to say, he hugged me. As I sobbed on his shoulder, I said something that I hadn’t said to anyone else. “I’m scared. I’m just so scared”. I felt like a child again, a child who needed her daddy to make everything OK.
That was the last time I saw my dad alive. A little over a month later he went into the woods to hunt and never came home. He died the way he lived much of his life, alone. He sat down under a tree, waiting for the ducks to fly over, and he had a heart attack.
To say that my relationship with my dad was complicated is an understatement. I’ve spent my life missing the father-daughter relationship that never was. Part of me feels angry that when I finally found it in me to tell him how I felt, he died. Part of me feels guilty that I hurt him. Part of me feels sad that I didn’t tell him sooner, while we might have had the chance to change some things.
At least that was my fantasy: that we could change things and have the kind of relationship that I longed for my whole life. But the reality was that even if I had told my dad how I felt years ago, I don’t believe that he was capable of being the father that I needed. I know he never wanted to intentionally hurt me; he just didn’t seem to know how to be any other way.
I miss what might have been and never was. I’m not a religious person but I like the idea that if there is something beyond this life, that maybe we’ll have another chance to get it right. Maybe I’ll be small again and my dad will lift me up in the air and twirl me around. Maybe he’ll protect me and keep me safe from harm. Maybe he’ll ask about my dreams and fears, and he’ll listen to my answers. Maybe he’ll hold me and tell me that everything will be OK.
Maybe I’ll get to do something that I never did in this lifetime: dance with my father.
I think back to a day when I was about ten years old, before my parents divorced. My mom told me that Daddy would be coming home soon for supper (as we always called it in the Maritimes) and I decided to walk down Herring Cove Road towards the Armdale Rotary to meet him.
I remember walking along the gravel shoulder of the road, watching for my dad’s car in what was probably considered rush hour traffic in those days, feeling the coolness of the spring ground through the rubber soles of the sneakers that my mom bought me every year from a bin at Lawton's drug store. I imagined that my dad would stop and pick me up; he would be so happy to see me. I would get to sit in the front seat with him, listening to the radio, and we would arrive back home together.
He never came. I walked for what seemed like a very long time before I turned around. He probably took an alternative route home, or maybe, because my parents’ marriage was already in trouble, he didn’t come home at all that night; I’m not sure. What I do know is that it was the start of a lifetime of missing my father.
I left home when I was only seventeen and lived most of my life in Ottawa. When I decided to get married, my dad didn’t attend the wedding. He said he couldn’t afford to travel from Halifax to Ottawa.
I longed to hear him say “I’ll find the money somewhere, don't you worry about it. I’ll take a second job. I’ll drive all night. I’ll do whatever I have to do to be at your wedding, because I’m your father and that’s what fathers do”. The marriage didn’t last and it was a lifetime ago, but it still causes me pain when I remember that my father wasn’t at my wedding to walk me down the aisle.
In the years since I moved away, my dad only came to visit me once. I was in my twenties and my son Adam was only a few years old. During the visit I developed an ear infection and the doctor prescribed drops that had to be put into my ear canal. My dad offered to help me and I still remember how it felt for him to touch me, to take care of me, to cradle my head in his hand while he put the drops in my ear.
I’ve seen pictures of me on my dad’s knee as a baby, but I don’t’ remember him ever touching me or holding me. The only memory I have is of him putting those drops in my ear when I was a young woman and it has stayed with me for thirty years.
Time went by and I usually went home to Nova Scotia every year or two. I always went to visit my dad when I was there, sometimes reluctantly. Usually the visit would be awkward and we wouldn’t have a lot to say to one another. Phone calls were about the weather and neighbors that I didn’t know. We might as well have lived on separate planets, our lives were so different.
After I found out that the breast cancer I had in 1998 was back and had spread to my lungs, I decided I needed to go home to Halifax to be near the ocean, to mentally prepare myself to start chemotherapy again. My son Adam flew from the Netherlands to be with me and we planned to meet my dad for lunch. Adam hadn’t seen his grandfather since he was about 13.
During the visit, my dad didn’t mention the cancer or ask me about my treatments. Instead, he brought up something that happened between him and my mom when I was a child, something that didn’t involve me but painted my mom in a negative light.
I lost it. My emotions were on the edge and all of the hurt I had been feeling about our relationship started spilling out of me, like a time bomb that had been ticking for longer than I can remember. I hadn’t really cried since I found out that the cancer was back, but the floodgates had been opened and there was no turning back.
I stood on the sidewalk outside of his car and yelled at him, tears streaming down my face. “Why haven’t you asked about my treatments, how I’ve been feeling, if there’s anything I need? Why are you talking about things from 40 years ago that no longer matter? Why can’t you ever just be there for me?”
I can still see the look of shock on his face. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there. Finally, when I thought I had nothing left to say, he hugged me. As I sobbed on his shoulder, I said something that I hadn’t said to anyone else. “I’m scared. I’m just so scared”. I felt like a child again, a child who needed her daddy to make everything OK.
That was the last time I saw my dad alive. A little over a month later he went into the woods to hunt and never came home. He died the way he lived much of his life, alone. He sat down under a tree, waiting for the ducks to fly over, and he had a heart attack.
To say that my relationship with my dad was complicated is an understatement. I’ve spent my life missing the father-daughter relationship that never was. Part of me feels angry that when I finally found it in me to tell him how I felt, he died. Part of me feels guilty that I hurt him. Part of me feels sad that I didn’t tell him sooner, while we might have had the chance to change some things.
At least that was my fantasy: that we could change things and have the kind of relationship that I longed for my whole life. But the reality was that even if I had told my dad how I felt years ago, I don’t believe that he was capable of being the father that I needed. I know he never wanted to intentionally hurt me; he just didn’t seem to know how to be any other way.
I miss what might have been and never was. I’m not a religious person but I like the idea that if there is something beyond this life, that maybe we’ll have another chance to get it right. Maybe I’ll be small again and my dad will lift me up in the air and twirl me around. Maybe he’ll protect me and keep me safe from harm. Maybe he’ll ask about my dreams and fears, and he’ll listen to my answers. Maybe he’ll hold me and tell me that everything will be OK.
Maybe I’ll get to do something that I never did in this lifetime: dance with my father.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Definitions
Aromatase inhibitors (AI): a class of drugs used in the treatment of breast cancer and ovarian cancer in postmenopausal women that block the aromatase enzyme. Examples: Aromasin, Femara. I was on both of these drugs and they eventually stopped working for me.
Bone scan - A technique to create images of bones on a computer screen or on film. It can be used to detect cancer in the bone.
CT scan [also called computed tomography, computerized tomography, computerized axial tomography, and CAT scan] - A series of detailed pictures of areas inside the body, taken from different angles, created by an x-ray machine linked to a computer.
Chemotherapy - Chemotherapy, in its most general sense, refers to treatment of disease by chemicals that kill cells that divide rapidly, one of the main properties of cancer cells. It also harms cells that divide rapidly under normal circumstances: cells in the bone marrow, digestive tract and hair follicles. This results in the most common side-effects of chemotherapy: decreased production of blood cells, inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract and alopecia (hair loss).
Estrogen receptor: A protein on the surface or inside a cell that the hormone estrogen binds to.
Estrogen receptor positive [also called ER+] - Breast cancer cells that have estrogen receptors. Breast cancer cells that are ER+ depend on estrogen to grow.
Femara (chemical name: letrozole) - A drug that lowers the amount of estrogen made in the body after menopause. This can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. It belongs to the group of drugs called "aromatase inhibitors".
Fulvestrant (brand name: Faslodex) - A drug used as a "second-line" hormonal therapy for women after menopause with advanced breast cancer that has hormone receptors. This means it is used after other hormonal treatments (e.g. Tamoxafin, Femara, Aromasin) have stopped working. It can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. This is the drug that I am receiving now.
Incurable – There is no chance (or in the case of metastatic breast cancer, a 1-3% chance) of a cure. The person has a chronic disease that can be managed for long periods of time with chemotherapy and other treatments. This is where I classify myself.
Lung metastases - Cancer that has spread from the main (primary) tumor to the lung. If breast cancer metastasizes to the lung, the secondary tumor in the lung is made up of abnormal breast cells, not of abnormal lung cells. The tumor in the lung is then called metastatic breast cancer, not lung cancer.
Metastatic (plural: metastases): Metastatic breast cancer is the spread of cancer from the breast to another part of the body. When this occurs, the new tumor is called a secondary or metastatic tumor, and its cells are like those in the original tumor. (Although the cancer is in my lung, it is not lung cancer. It is metastatic breast cancer in the lung).
Oncologist - A doctor who specializes in taking care of people with cancer. Some specialize in one type of cancer treatment. For example, a radiation oncologist treats cancer with radiation, and a medical oncologist treats cancer with medications. I am currently seeing a medical oncologist.
Palliative therapy - Treatment to relieve symptoms caused by advanced cancer. Its purpose is to improve the quality of life. (I have trouble with this one. According to my medical file, my treatment is considered 'palliative'. I think of palliative as what they do when you are dying. And I'm not dying!!!)
Port-a-cath [also called port] - A small device placed under the skin. It empties into a blood vessel and makes it easier to give chemotherapy and to take blood for tests.
Recurrence - This is when a cancer comes back after treatment. It can come back in the same place as the original one (local recurrence) or in a different part of the body (metastatic recurrence).
Stage IV breast cancer - invasive breast cancer in which the cancer has spread to other organs of the body -- usually the lungs, liver, bone, or brain. Once the cancer was found in the lung, I was classified as Stage IV.
Tamoxifen - A drug used to fight breast cancer cells that have hormone receptors. It blocks estrogen receptors on breast cancer cells. This can slow down or stop the growth of cancers that need estrogen to grow. It belongs to the family of drugs called "selective estrogen receptor modulators," or "SERMs."
Taxotere (chemical name: docetaxel) - A type of chemotherapy drug that kills cancer cells by stopping their growth. It can also make it hard for cancer cells to repair themselves. (Taxotere is the chemo drug that I just completed 8 rounds of).
Terminal – I couldn’t find a definition online. While people use this term to describe incurable cancer, my definition is: There is nothing more that can be done and the person is dying.
Bone scan - A technique to create images of bones on a computer screen or on film. It can be used to detect cancer in the bone.
CT scan [also called computed tomography, computerized tomography, computerized axial tomography, and CAT scan] - A series of detailed pictures of areas inside the body, taken from different angles, created by an x-ray machine linked to a computer.
Chemotherapy - Chemotherapy, in its most general sense, refers to treatment of disease by chemicals that kill cells that divide rapidly, one of the main properties of cancer cells. It also harms cells that divide rapidly under normal circumstances: cells in the bone marrow, digestive tract and hair follicles. This results in the most common side-effects of chemotherapy: decreased production of blood cells, inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract and alopecia (hair loss).
Estrogen receptor: A protein on the surface or inside a cell that the hormone estrogen binds to.
Estrogen receptor positive [also called ER+] - Breast cancer cells that have estrogen receptors. Breast cancer cells that are ER+ depend on estrogen to grow.
Femara (chemical name: letrozole) - A drug that lowers the amount of estrogen made in the body after menopause. This can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. It belongs to the group of drugs called "aromatase inhibitors".
Fulvestrant (brand name: Faslodex) - A drug used as a "second-line" hormonal therapy for women after menopause with advanced breast cancer that has hormone receptors. This means it is used after other hormonal treatments (e.g. Tamoxafin, Femara, Aromasin) have stopped working. It can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. This is the drug that I am receiving now.
Incurable – There is no chance (or in the case of metastatic breast cancer, a 1-3% chance) of a cure. The person has a chronic disease that can be managed for long periods of time with chemotherapy and other treatments. This is where I classify myself.
Lung metastases - Cancer that has spread from the main (primary) tumor to the lung. If breast cancer metastasizes to the lung, the secondary tumor in the lung is made up of abnormal breast cells, not of abnormal lung cells. The tumor in the lung is then called metastatic breast cancer, not lung cancer.
Metastatic (plural: metastases): Metastatic breast cancer is the spread of cancer from the breast to another part of the body. When this occurs, the new tumor is called a secondary or metastatic tumor, and its cells are like those in the original tumor. (Although the cancer is in my lung, it is not lung cancer. It is metastatic breast cancer in the lung).
Oncologist - A doctor who specializes in taking care of people with cancer. Some specialize in one type of cancer treatment. For example, a radiation oncologist treats cancer with radiation, and a medical oncologist treats cancer with medications. I am currently seeing a medical oncologist.
Palliative therapy - Treatment to relieve symptoms caused by advanced cancer. Its purpose is to improve the quality of life. (I have trouble with this one. According to my medical file, my treatment is considered 'palliative'. I think of palliative as what they do when you are dying. And I'm not dying!!!)
Port-a-cath [also called port] - A small device placed under the skin. It empties into a blood vessel and makes it easier to give chemotherapy and to take blood for tests.
Recurrence - This is when a cancer comes back after treatment. It can come back in the same place as the original one (local recurrence) or in a different part of the body (metastatic recurrence).
Stage IV breast cancer - invasive breast cancer in which the cancer has spread to other organs of the body -- usually the lungs, liver, bone, or brain. Once the cancer was found in the lung, I was classified as Stage IV.
Tamoxifen - A drug used to fight breast cancer cells that have hormone receptors. It blocks estrogen receptors on breast cancer cells. This can slow down or stop the growth of cancers that need estrogen to grow. It belongs to the family of drugs called "selective estrogen receptor modulators," or "SERMs."
Taxotere (chemical name: docetaxel) - A type of chemotherapy drug that kills cancer cells by stopping their growth. It can also make it hard for cancer cells to repair themselves. (Taxotere is the chemo drug that I just completed 8 rounds of).
Terminal – I couldn’t find a definition online. While people use this term to describe incurable cancer, my definition is: There is nothing more that can be done and the person is dying.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
My decision to take the first-best medicine
My oncologist once said she'd worry if my tumour marker count doubled, but not if it just crept up point by point. Well, it quadrupled over a little more than six weeks. And a CT scan confirmed that the cancer has spread beyond my vertebrae and femur. It looks like the endocrine therapy I've been on for a while - the "mouse poop" shots and Tamoxifen, which together moved me into hot flash city - isn't working so well.
So a decision had to be made. Do I try another hormone therapy such as an aromatase inhibitor, which tries to further eliminate the availability of estrogen to my cancer cells, or do I skip that and head directly to chemo therapy?
Given that my cancer hasn't responded that well to hormone therapy, an aromatase inhibitor is a possibility, but unlikely to be effective. And given that my cancer is chemo-naive (I wish I could go back to being chemo-naive), walloping it with a combination chemotherapy might halt the spread of cancer cells and actually reduce the tumour burden I now have.
I've always had mixed feelings about chemotherapy. For that matter, I 've a lways had mixed feelings about taking any sort of medication. But chemotherapy carries with it an especially large amount of baggage. I don't like the idea of beating down my immune system just when I need it most. I don't relish the injection of stuff that's so toxic, health-care providers have to protect themselves from being in contact with it. And I don't think too positively about the chance of experiencing intense side effects that could well make me weaker, not stronger, in the face of a terminal illness.
I've also read a lot of journal articles that suggest chemotherapy often doesn't significantly prolong the lives of those of us with metastatic breast cancer.
Researchers in Canada and Australia have come up with a decision aid for people facing these sorts of choices. It is in the form of a workbook in which information and questions are presented, and a decision-making structure is suggested. This structure is based on identifying positive factors, such as the possibility of living longer (and why this is important), an improvement of symptoms and a sense of empowerment in terms of doing something to actively fight the disease. One's responses to these factors can be weighed against what many of us see as the negative aspects of chemotherapy - such as uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous side effects, needing tests and having to go to the hospital frequently - and the fact that there is no guarantee the treatment will actually work.
While I haven't seen the actual workbook (it is still being evaluated in anticipation of its adoption by at least some oncologists), I have read a discussion about it in the journal Health Expectations. It helped me organize my thoughts, and it was useful to put myself in the larger context of other women with metastatic breast cancer facing this sort of decision.
Even given all this, though, it really doesn't feel like I have much of a choice. I could stop all treatments and let the disease run its course. I could try an endocrine therapy that is unlikely to work. I could pursue alternative treatments, such as following the raw diet that is all the rage in a lot of popular cancer literature or taking lots of supplements and "natural" remedies when none of these has been proven or supported in the medical literature. Or I could pursue the treatment that represents the current paradigm in cancer medicine. And that's what I've decided to do.
I never thought I would agree to chemotherapy that is unlikely to cure my disease. But now that I have, I'm pretty committed to this course of action. Those of us born under the Aries horoscope sign tend to look for, and thrive on, challenges. My favourite astrologer, Jonathan Cainer, says that us Rams have the "tendency to create a life full of difficulty, just so that ... [we] ... always have something to sort out" ( www.cainer.com). He goes on to say that "there's nothing ... [we] ... can't tackle if ... [we] ... try." I'm now at a time when these traits, long bemoaned by those around me, should come in handy.
It feels like a fortuitous coincidence that, on the night before this challenge was presented to me, Dr. Robert Buckman was featured on CBC Radio's Ideas series. He is an oncologist who also lectures, and he wrote the book Cancer is a Word, Not a Sentence. Laughter, he says, is the second-best medicine. What is the first-best medicine, in his view? Medicine.
I'll have to remember that during my chemotherapy sessions, and as I try to keep my sense of humour intact throughout the next few months of treatment. My friend Margaret's daughter Anna has already offered to draw green eyebrows on my face to replace the ones I'll be losing. Maybe that will help in the humour department.
* Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
http://www.kingstonwhigstandard.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=1342637
So a decision had to be made. Do I try another hormone therapy such as an aromatase inhibitor, which tries to further eliminate the availability of estrogen to my cancer cells, or do I skip that and head directly to chemo therapy?
Given that my cancer hasn't responded that well to hormone therapy, an aromatase inhibitor is a possibility, but unlikely to be effective. And given that my cancer is chemo-naive (I wish I could go back to being chemo-naive), walloping it with a combination chemotherapy might halt the spread of cancer cells and actually reduce the tumour burden I now have.
I've always had mixed feelings about chemotherapy. For that matter, I 've a lways had mixed feelings about taking any sort of medication. But chemotherapy carries with it an especially large amount of baggage. I don't like the idea of beating down my immune system just when I need it most. I don't relish the injection of stuff that's so toxic, health-care providers have to protect themselves from being in contact with it. And I don't think too positively about the chance of experiencing intense side effects that could well make me weaker, not stronger, in the face of a terminal illness.
I've also read a lot of journal articles that suggest chemotherapy often doesn't significantly prolong the lives of those of us with metastatic breast cancer.
Researchers in Canada and Australia have come up with a decision aid for people facing these sorts of choices. It is in the form of a workbook in which information and questions are presented, and a decision-making structure is suggested. This structure is based on identifying positive factors, such as the possibility of living longer (and why this is important), an improvement of symptoms and a sense of empowerment in terms of doing something to actively fight the disease. One's responses to these factors can be weighed against what many of us see as the negative aspects of chemotherapy - such as uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous side effects, needing tests and having to go to the hospital frequently - and the fact that there is no guarantee the treatment will actually work.
While I haven't seen the actual workbook (it is still being evaluated in anticipation of its adoption by at least some oncologists), I have read a discussion about it in the journal Health Expectations. It helped me organize my thoughts, and it was useful to put myself in the larger context of other women with metastatic breast cancer facing this sort of decision.
Even given all this, though, it really doesn't feel like I have much of a choice. I could stop all treatments and let the disease run its course. I could try an endocrine therapy that is unlikely to work. I could pursue alternative treatments, such as following the raw diet that is all the rage in a lot of popular cancer literature or taking lots of supplements and "natural" remedies when none of these has been proven or supported in the medical literature. Or I could pursue the treatment that represents the current paradigm in cancer medicine. And that's what I've decided to do.
I never thought I would agree to chemotherapy that is unlikely to cure my disease. But now that I have, I'm pretty committed to this course of action. Those of us born under the Aries horoscope sign tend to look for, and thrive on, challenges. My favourite astrologer, Jonathan Cainer, says that us Rams have the "tendency to create a life full of difficulty, just so that ... [we] ... always have something to sort out" ( www.cainer.com). He goes on to say that "there's nothing ... [we] ... can't tackle if ... [we] ... try." I'm now at a time when these traits, long bemoaned by those around me, should come in handy.
It feels like a fortuitous coincidence that, on the night before this challenge was presented to me, Dr. Robert Buckman was featured on CBC Radio's Ideas series. He is an oncologist who also lectures, and he wrote the book Cancer is a Word, Not a Sentence. Laughter, he says, is the second-best medicine. What is the first-best medicine, in his view? Medicine.
I'll have to remember that during my chemotherapy sessions, and as I try to keep my sense of humour intact throughout the next few months of treatment. My friend Margaret's daughter Anna has already offered to draw green eyebrows on my face to replace the ones I'll be losing. Maybe that will help in the humour department.
* Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
http://www.kingstonwhigstandard.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=1342637
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I Like My Eggs SunnySide Up
Eggstra, Eggstra read all about it!!!!! ....the new e-book by Heather Pardon....
Are you feeling a bit scrambled in the frying pan of life? Feeling a case of the winter blahs? It's time to get crackin' and inject some fun and positivity into your life.......
On January 31st, Heather Parden (Urban Poling Coach, owner of the Wild Daisy B&B, Personal Trainer, and a familiar face at Bushtukah), will be ‘hatching’ her new book “I Like My Eggs Sunnyside Up – One Dozen Tips for Cooking up Positivity in the Frying Pan of Life”.
This book contains one dozen tips to help you live a positive life, including chapters such as Get Crackin', Managing Your Eggdom, Master Your Circle of Eggscellence and What to Do When Your Eggs Flip Over. You'll also learn about the previously unwritten and unknown story of Humpty Dumpty.
There are also bonus recipes and serving suggestions for enjoying your sunnyside up eggs. This book will be available in downloadable pdf format from Heather’s website as of Jan 31st. Cost of the book is $20 Cdn (payment via Paypal or payment via cheque details below) and during the month of February
I'll be donating 50% of proceeds to CHEO, the Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario. You will also receive regular fundraising updates throughout February as well as additional tips and fun egg-related, positive photos and stories to help you keep things on the sunnyside. You are also invited to join the Facebook "I Like My Eggs SunnySide Up".If you wish to pre-purchase a copy of the book which will be sent to your inbox on Jan 28th, before it hatches publicly on Jan 31, or pay via cheque..... you can do so by sending a cheque (payable to "Wild Daisy") to:
52 Lorne Avenue
Please mark in the memo field "Eggs Book" and be sure to include your name and email address with your cheque so that you can be sure to receive the newsletter updates.
I hope this book helps you lead a positively sunnyside up eggsistence and that together, we can make a positive impact to benefit CHEO and the kids in our community,With warmth and thanks,
Heather Pardon
Wild Daisy Adventureprises
wilddaisy@rogers.com
My new website www.awilddaisy.com will be up and live as of Jan 30th.
Are you feeling a bit scrambled in the frying pan of life? Feeling a case of the winter blahs? It's time to get crackin' and inject some fun and positivity into your life.......
On January 31st, Heather Parden (Urban Poling Coach, owner of the Wild Daisy B&B, Personal Trainer, and a familiar face at Bushtukah), will be ‘hatching’ her new book “I Like My Eggs Sunnyside Up – One Dozen Tips for Cooking up Positivity in the Frying Pan of Life”.
This book contains one dozen tips to help you live a positive life, including chapters such as Get Crackin', Managing Your Eggdom, Master Your Circle of Eggscellence and What to Do When Your Eggs Flip Over. You'll also learn about the previously unwritten and unknown story of Humpty Dumpty.
There are also bonus recipes and serving suggestions for enjoying your sunnyside up eggs. This book will be available in downloadable pdf format from Heather’s website as of Jan 31st. Cost of the book is $20 Cdn (payment via Paypal or payment via cheque details below) and during the month of February
I'll be donating 50% of proceeds to CHEO, the Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario. You will also receive regular fundraising updates throughout February as well as additional tips and fun egg-related, positive photos and stories to help you keep things on the sunnyside. You are also invited to join the Facebook "I Like My Eggs SunnySide Up".If you wish to pre-purchase a copy of the book which will be sent to your inbox on Jan 28th, before it hatches publicly on Jan 31, or pay via cheque..... you can do so by sending a cheque (payable to "Wild Daisy") to:
52 Lorne Avenue
Ottawa, ON K1R 7G7
Please mark in the memo field "Eggs Book" and be sure to include your name and email address with your cheque so that you can be sure to receive the newsletter updates.
I hope this book helps you lead a positively sunnyside up eggsistence and that together, we can make a positive impact to benefit CHEO and the kids in our community,With warmth and thanks,
Heather Pardon
Wild Daisy Adventureprises
wilddaisy@rogers.com
My new website www.awilddaisy.com will be up and live as of Jan 30th.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Yolaine's Memorial Service, by Elaine Scarboro
NOTES FOR YOLAINE’S MEMORIAL SERVICE
I am very pleased to share with you today my personal memories of Yolaine. I met her at a dragon boat practice and my first impression was that she was a calm and private person, but more importantly, determined and competitive.
She suddenly resented being in the back rows of the boat as she had just found out that’s where the inexperienced paddlers sit and wanted to know what she had to do to move up! I knew right away by her accent that she was a francophone, we hit it off immediately, I guess opposites do attract in this case too, she was far more serious and quiet and I’ve always been a Carol Burnett want a be comedienne. She always laughed at my antics, said it made her feel good which always pleased me.
Her calm and faith always impressed me, despite her diagnosis of metastatic cancer in 2005, she continued to be positive, strong and often told how her father was her guardian angel and watched over her from heaven. He gave her strength to fight. Yolaine loved angels, there is even a special room with a lovely fireplace with angels everywhere in their renovated home, barely completed, where she used to go to meditate and regain her inner strength. Every time I see an angel I think of Yolaine.
As someone else so eloquently put it Yolaine spoke her life, not through words, but by action. In 2006 she just decided one day to train on her own and do a half marathon, for those who don’t know that’s 21 kms and she was very proud to have achieved this goal. Very few people knew. She had the same devotion for dragon boating; even the last few years when she was not feeling her best, she would go to practices and smile radiantly, with the pleasure of being in the boat. That’s passion for life, that’s determination.
Last year at the Ottawa dragon boat festival, she was the Busting out Team’s honoured speaker at the flower ceremony. She came with her children to whom she was such a devoted and ever present Mom and spoke very movingly of her hope that her two daughters may live in a world without breast cancer. In the fall of 2007, between treatments, she found the strength to encourage my fundraising efforts for Breast Cancer Action by coming to my Halloween Costumed dance. I saw an angel from the corner of my eye and new instantly it was her, it brought tears to my eyes to know she was there. Kevin could not keep up with her requests for dancing so she danced with the wild Busting Out gang. She had a wonderful time!
In 2008 we had several lunches and time together. I seemed to always have the nack to call just when she got some bad news, or that her morale was low. I think her father conspired with God on that one! Miraculously, I always managed to make her laugh, and I truly feel blessed to know that I could comfort someone with so much courage and perseverance with my comedy.
One of the fondest memories those of us who attended the 2005 Breast Cancer Survivor festival in Vancouver have of Yolaine and the thousands of women there, is the life filled eyes and smiles, the sea of pink boas and a force united in survivorship. Her smile on that photo says it all, she was dancing, she was happy and that’s how she would like to be remembered.
Elaine Scarboro
I am very pleased to share with you today my personal memories of Yolaine. I met her at a dragon boat practice and my first impression was that she was a calm and private person, but more importantly, determined and competitive.
She suddenly resented being in the back rows of the boat as she had just found out that’s where the inexperienced paddlers sit and wanted to know what she had to do to move up! I knew right away by her accent that she was a francophone, we hit it off immediately, I guess opposites do attract in this case too, she was far more serious and quiet and I’ve always been a Carol Burnett want a be comedienne. She always laughed at my antics, said it made her feel good which always pleased me.
Her calm and faith always impressed me, despite her diagnosis of metastatic cancer in 2005, she continued to be positive, strong and often told how her father was her guardian angel and watched over her from heaven. He gave her strength to fight. Yolaine loved angels, there is even a special room with a lovely fireplace with angels everywhere in their renovated home, barely completed, where she used to go to meditate and regain her inner strength. Every time I see an angel I think of Yolaine.
As someone else so eloquently put it Yolaine spoke her life, not through words, but by action. In 2006 she just decided one day to train on her own and do a half marathon, for those who don’t know that’s 21 kms and she was very proud to have achieved this goal. Very few people knew. She had the same devotion for dragon boating; even the last few years when she was not feeling her best, she would go to practices and smile radiantly, with the pleasure of being in the boat. That’s passion for life, that’s determination.
Last year at the Ottawa dragon boat festival, she was the Busting out Team’s honoured speaker at the flower ceremony. She came with her children to whom she was such a devoted and ever present Mom and spoke very movingly of her hope that her two daughters may live in a world without breast cancer. In the fall of 2007, between treatments, she found the strength to encourage my fundraising efforts for Breast Cancer Action by coming to my Halloween Costumed dance. I saw an angel from the corner of my eye and new instantly it was her, it brought tears to my eyes to know she was there. Kevin could not keep up with her requests for dancing so she danced with the wild Busting Out gang. She had a wonderful time!
In 2008 we had several lunches and time together. I seemed to always have the nack to call just when she got some bad news, or that her morale was low. I think her father conspired with God on that one! Miraculously, I always managed to make her laugh, and I truly feel blessed to know that I could comfort someone with so much courage and perseverance with my comedy.
One of the fondest memories those of us who attended the 2005 Breast Cancer Survivor festival in Vancouver have of Yolaine and the thousands of women there, is the life filled eyes and smiles, the sea of pink boas and a force united in survivorship. Her smile on that photo says it all, she was dancing, she was happy and that’s how she would like to be remembered.
Elaine Scarboro
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Meridy
When was your original diagnosis?
January 23, 2008
When did the cancer return and how?
While undergoing chemo from March 2008 - July 2008, I had an MRI which showed "lights" on the liver. After I finished chemo, I had a liver biopsy which confirmed these were cancerous and so I assume I had the metastacies simultaneously with the breast tumour.
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally)
After being told by the oncologist I had a life expectancy of between 1 and 2 years, I was stunned for about two weeks, and couldn't stop thinking every waking minute that I was going to die. This affected my plans for the future, my interest in current events, my ability to concentrate or care about trivial matters.
What changes have you made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
After the initital shock, my optimism returned and I have spoken to some people who are living with metastatic cancer, much the same as mine (breast to liver), who have been maintaining a good quality of life for 4 or more years. I now find that I am not constantly thinking about it. I am also devouring books by Bernie S. Siegel MD, about the mind/body connection. I think his approach of self healing - positive thinking, visualisation, guided imagery, avoidance of stress, relaxation - and partnering with the medical profession, is the route I believe is possible for me to follow, rather than making huge changes to my diet or lifestyle. I am undertaking sessions with a Social Worker at the Cancer Centre. I fully intend to discuss all options with my oncologist, rather than accepting the severe medical solution, and I am not accepting the prognosis but am determined to be one of the people at the good end of the spectrum.
Where do you draw your strength from? How do you look at life today?
I get my strength from my friends and the goodness that people display, especially those who have been on this journey. It is easy for me to be positive today because I feel well; it is harder to be optimistic when dealing with side-effects.
I have a one month plan, a one year plan and a five year plan. I try to stay very focussed on the next goal - a trip to Florida in February, a trip to Italy in September.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
Read Bernie Siegel's books. Know that cancer has become a chronic disease, and patients can be treated for years, thus buying time for a cure, or better/kinder treatment options and procedures. Be kind to yourself, do not repress emotions - find an outlet (counselling, support group). Do not give up hope.
Anything else to add?
A quote I read in my new best friend's (Bernie) book: "When I found out I was going to die, I began to live."
January 23, 2008
When did the cancer return and how?
While undergoing chemo from March 2008 - July 2008, I had an MRI which showed "lights" on the liver. After I finished chemo, I had a liver biopsy which confirmed these were cancerous and so I assume I had the metastacies simultaneously with the breast tumour.
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally)
After being told by the oncologist I had a life expectancy of between 1 and 2 years, I was stunned for about two weeks, and couldn't stop thinking every waking minute that I was going to die. This affected my plans for the future, my interest in current events, my ability to concentrate or care about trivial matters.
What changes have you made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
After the initital shock, my optimism returned and I have spoken to some people who are living with metastatic cancer, much the same as mine (breast to liver), who have been maintaining a good quality of life for 4 or more years. I now find that I am not constantly thinking about it. I am also devouring books by Bernie S. Siegel MD, about the mind/body connection. I think his approach of self healing - positive thinking, visualisation, guided imagery, avoidance of stress, relaxation - and partnering with the medical profession, is the route I believe is possible for me to follow, rather than making huge changes to my diet or lifestyle. I am undertaking sessions with a Social Worker at the Cancer Centre. I fully intend to discuss all options with my oncologist, rather than accepting the severe medical solution, and I am not accepting the prognosis but am determined to be one of the people at the good end of the spectrum.
Where do you draw your strength from? How do you look at life today?
I get my strength from my friends and the goodness that people display, especially those who have been on this journey. It is easy for me to be positive today because I feel well; it is harder to be optimistic when dealing with side-effects.
I have a one month plan, a one year plan and a five year plan. I try to stay very focussed on the next goal - a trip to Florida in February, a trip to Italy in September.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
Read Bernie Siegel's books. Know that cancer has become a chronic disease, and patients can be treated for years, thus buying time for a cure, or better/kinder treatment options and procedures. Be kind to yourself, do not repress emotions - find an outlet (counselling, support group). Do not give up hope.
Anything else to add?
A quote I read in my new best friend's (Bernie) book: "When I found out I was going to die, I began to live."
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Susan
I was diagnosed in August 2003 with sarcoma, which is a fairly rare cancer of the soft tissue and the bone. The cancer was in the quad muscles of my right leg. In 2003-04, I was treated with surgery, radiation and chemo and told that I had a good prognosis. But in October 2005, the cancer reappeared in the same place.
In Kingston, where I live, they said they'd have to amputate, but they referred me to Toronto to see if the doctors at Princess Margaret could save my leg. At Mt Sinai Hospital, in a complicated 13-hour operation, they removed the cancer, leaving the leg. Just six weeks later, however, they told me the cancer had spread. They removed a lot of tumours from my lungs shortly after.
Almost immediately, the cancer recurred in the lungs and they operated several more times. Then, in mid-October 2007, they discovered a tumour in a "tricky" place - near the heart, etc. - which they could not remove. They offered me palliative chemo to"stave off the symptoms". But the chemo worked "dramatically" and I'm still alive. I'm back at work.
My tool for living with this situation is meditation. I took a ten-day Vipassana course in March 2004 before my first chemo because I needed a tool to deal with the anger and resentment I had about being sick. I've practised meditation even since. I've done five more ten-day courses to learn to focus my mind. My mind is all I have to respond to this ongoing situation. I am happy to see the beginning of 2009, something I did not expect one year ago.
I'm grateful for this to Drs. Blackstein, Catton and Ferguson at the Sarcoma Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. I do not think about 2010. I don't look forward or back, and I live my life simply, ordinarily, for what I have at the moment.
Read more from Susan at Simplicity and Silence.
In Kingston, where I live, they said they'd have to amputate, but they referred me to Toronto to see if the doctors at Princess Margaret could save my leg. At Mt Sinai Hospital, in a complicated 13-hour operation, they removed the cancer, leaving the leg. Just six weeks later, however, they told me the cancer had spread. They removed a lot of tumours from my lungs shortly after.
Almost immediately, the cancer recurred in the lungs and they operated several more times. Then, in mid-October 2007, they discovered a tumour in a "tricky" place - near the heart, etc. - which they could not remove. They offered me palliative chemo to"stave off the symptoms". But the chemo worked "dramatically" and I'm still alive. I'm back at work.
My tool for living with this situation is meditation. I took a ten-day Vipassana course in March 2004 before my first chemo because I needed a tool to deal with the anger and resentment I had about being sick. I've practised meditation even since. I've done five more ten-day courses to learn to focus my mind. My mind is all I have to respond to this ongoing situation. I am happy to see the beginning of 2009, something I did not expect one year ago.
I'm grateful for this to Drs. Blackstein, Catton and Ferguson at the Sarcoma Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. I do not think about 2010. I don't look forward or back, and I live my life simply, ordinarily, for what I have at the moment.
Read more from Susan at Simplicity and Silence.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Brenda
When was your original diagnosis?
Dec. 18, 1997
When did the cancer return and how?
May 1999 - another lump same breast. Sept 1999 - lump on chest wall after mastectomy and while still on chemo
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally)
Second reoccurence was more devastating than the first as I had done everything I had to do - chemo & radiation - and handled it well. The third reoccurence was less devastating and more of "what do I need to do now" and "please tell me there is a treatment you can offer me".
What changes have you made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
More positive outlook and not so stresed about the things in life that are not life-threatening. Regardless of the weather - I am always happy to see each day.
Where do you draw your strength from?
Internally - I always asked myself what would be more difficult to handle. I am very thankful that it was not my children that diagnosed - that would alot worse. It was not my 14 year old daughter's hair that was falling out. I was always thankful that I was not in pain like so many people with other conditions/diagnoses.
How do you look at life today?
Life is to be respected and lived. Live in the moment and not in the future. Sometimes we miss the present as we are striving to get to the future where we think it will so much "greener". We know where we are now but not where we will be tomorrow. Don't miss today.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
First, give yourself time to grieve and do not feel guilty. If you do not grieve you cannot move on. You also need the time to absorb and sort it all through in your mind. People cannot do that for you. Tell well meaning people that you need some alone time to get used to the whole ordeal.
Secondly, do not get stuck in the grieving phase. Do not feel you have to continue grieving - move on to helping yourself. Do what you have to do to get your life back. Remember this is your life and if you are going to go through chemo and radiation again, it is because you want your life back. When you are unwell, rest and ask for help. When you are feeling better - live your life and continue to do for yourself. Think positively and live everyday as if it is your last (although it isn't).
Anything else to add?
Cancer is a very devastating disease but it does not need to be a life sentence. The support you can receive from other breast cancer survivors is amazing - these are wonderful strong women who are the best people one can ever know. Use their strength and support until you are strong enough to help other women. Do not ever give up.
Dec. 18, 1997
When did the cancer return and how?
May 1999 - another lump same breast. Sept 1999 - lump on chest wall after mastectomy and while still on chemo
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally)
Second reoccurence was more devastating than the first as I had done everything I had to do - chemo & radiation - and handled it well. The third reoccurence was less devastating and more of "what do I need to do now" and "please tell me there is a treatment you can offer me".
What changes have you made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
More positive outlook and not so stresed about the things in life that are not life-threatening. Regardless of the weather - I am always happy to see each day.
Where do you draw your strength from?
Internally - I always asked myself what would be more difficult to handle. I am very thankful that it was not my children that diagnosed - that would alot worse. It was not my 14 year old daughter's hair that was falling out. I was always thankful that I was not in pain like so many people with other conditions/diagnoses.
How do you look at life today?
Life is to be respected and lived. Live in the moment and not in the future. Sometimes we miss the present as we are striving to get to the future where we think it will so much "greener". We know where we are now but not where we will be tomorrow. Don't miss today.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
First, give yourself time to grieve and do not feel guilty. If you do not grieve you cannot move on. You also need the time to absorb and sort it all through in your mind. People cannot do that for you. Tell well meaning people that you need some alone time to get used to the whole ordeal.
Secondly, do not get stuck in the grieving phase. Do not feel you have to continue grieving - move on to helping yourself. Do what you have to do to get your life back. Remember this is your life and if you are going to go through chemo and radiation again, it is because you want your life back. When you are unwell, rest and ask for help. When you are feeling better - live your life and continue to do for yourself. Think positively and live everyday as if it is your last (although it isn't).
Anything else to add?
Cancer is a very devastating disease but it does not need to be a life sentence. The support you can receive from other breast cancer survivors is amazing - these are wonderful strong women who are the best people one can ever know. Use their strength and support until you are strong enough to help other women. Do not ever give up.
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