Category Archives: cancer treatment

World Mental Health Day: Depression Blahs

10 Oct

So I spend a whopping load of time online chatting and poking and liking and sharing, etc., and today it was brought to my attention that October 10th is indeed World Mental Health Day, and the theme for this year is Depression. This topic makes me shake my head; depression is so prevalent, and so often left without discussion. . . and after having cancer touch your life, there’s pretty much a giant whopping chance depression is going to touch it as well, at some point.

I can remember feeling entirely depressed. It was bizarre.

Okay, so I’ve known people who wrangle with ranging depression, so I’ve seen how a low day can change their behaviour and reactions. (No names, of course, because that their personal journey and they handle it accordingly.) And going through life I’ve tried to have compassion towards people whenever I realized that they were in fact coping with their own depression – but I didn’t exactly get it. You know? I couldn’t emphasize because I’d never been so incredibly down. My character tilts the other way, toward the consistently optimistic . . . I can’t help it, I just tend to paint things in a brighter picture. Luckily for me, I’ve had the lifeline of always deep-down feeling like everything would work out. (And yes, it’s been a lifeline, particularly these past three years.)

So when cancer happened, chemo happened, medication happened, mortality happened – oh s*t, you could have knocked me over and called the fight. It was shocking to suddenly feel so sad all the time.

And you know what is incredible? If I hadn’t had people like my mother working with me & giving me coaching – I would have thought this sadness and desperation was just that: utter sadness and total desperation for the worst to be over.

Chemo was really something. I tell everyone this story, but I’ll share it once more as an example of the chemo & medication inspired mood swings:

So Zsolt and I are in our flat in Southampton, he’s in the living room and I’m in the bedroom feeling crappy since chemo had been that Friday. And I’m lying there when all of a sudden a feeling overcomes me. Maybe it was hunger, or exhaustion . . . I can’t quite tell you . . . but my mind began to think: ‘How come he hasn’t checked on me in a while? If I were him, I would check on me. I’d be taking better care of me. He hasn’t even asked if I want a cup of tea. I’m so freaking hungry and he hasn’t even asked if I want tea!’

You can see where that was leading. . . suddenly I was fully frustrated with my unsuspecting husband, and basically dragged myself out of bed to launch upon him about why he should be making me tea, and why I shouldn’t have to even ask.

And there were plenty of other times too  . .

  • I felt abandoned when Zsolt was at work.
  • I burst into tears while in Canada and was overcome with hunger (while my Dad rushed to the kitchen to bake me some sweet potato fries – poor guy)
  • I stopped taking showers and got so grossly dirty that my skin was stained with sweat and ick.
  • My diary was full of the pain I couldn’t even blog about, basically begging for everything to just stop being hard.
  • I began physically getting sick at even the thought of treatment.
  • Months after treatment I was still feeling scared and full of fear.
  • I’d look in the mirror and feel absolute disconnection with the person looking back.

And the thing is, if I hadn’t been warned – and if I hadn’t watched out and kept track . . . I might have thought these feelings were the real me.

So why am I sharing with you about my poor hygiene and crying fits? Because today is World Mental Health Day, and far too often I hear from women who are struggling in big ways with these sinking emotions . . . and wondering if it will ever end.

For me it is ending. There are times when I get low, but they don’t stay and they aren’t extreme like before. And mixed into these hard times were good ones too – hope floats, like they say, and when I wasn’t deep-deep into that depression, I was clinging to the hope that everything was going to work out. The harder I clung to that belief, the higher up it lifted me from the crazy crap my body was taking on.

If you feel depressed, or sad, or like everything is suddenly impossible – let people know and ask for help. You can get help whether it be meeting with a counsellor, going to yoga, seeing a nutritionist, or even taking medication if you and your doctor think it’s needed. (I was offered some anti-anxiety drugs to stop my physical reaction whenever I entered the hospital, but instead ended up sucking back orange slices – since it was really the smell and the treatments that were triggering me.)

There are options, and most important to remember is that depression is kinda normal in our situations. I’m not saying it’s good, but it happens to many and is no reason to feel shame.

I’m really glad to hear that depression is being focused upon this year for World Mental Health Day – because it’s a sneaky little feeling that takes people over before they even realize what’s happening. But it’s not you. It’s the hormones, the drugs, the experience – which means steps can be taken to help make things better.

And that’s all I’m going to say about that. Geez! Someone get me a pink popsicle or something, I need to go do something HAPPY!

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, finding support, healing, life after cancer | Tagged , | 4 Comments

Keep Calm and Carry On

3 Oct

There is a canvas bag I bought while in England, and now happen to carry everywhere. If you’ve ever met me in person, you’ve probably met my bag as well. (Whether you realized that or not!).  Back when I was diagnosed . . . geez, well . . . back when life was flipped upside down and began spinning out of control, it took every ounce of determination and desperation to keep going. So when I saw this bag online (Yes, I like to shop online) from John Lewis, I knew it had to be mine. The words are so simple, but so incredibly important.

Keep Calm and Carry On.

I’m sure you know it. It’s absolutely everywhere, including on my bag, and whenever I get a glimpse of this slogan it reminds me to slow down, take a breath, and then move another step forward.

The Canadian Career Gal shared this video (see following link) on her blog, and I’ve got to say, it’s lovely to learn the background of a simple phrase that has given me strength. Here’s the video for you to enjoy: The Story of Keep Calm and Carry On

In your time of crisis, what is your special talisman, purse, blanket, dvd, sweater, picture, (etc) that reminds you to carry on?

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, finding support, life after cancer | Tagged | 2 Comments

Regulation Thermography Testing

24 Sep

Let me tell you a story in the continuing adventures of my breasts. (Yeah, one of them was removed, but nevertheless I still feel that somehow I have two boobs. Weird, or what?) Okay, here it goes:

Last week I went off for some regulation thermography testing, which is screening based on body temperature – it essentially looks for areas of your body that are more hot or cold than would be expected, which could indicate an issue at play.  I think recently thermography was studied and found to be an unreliable screening method. (i.e. This is NOT a screening option, and NOT a substitute for proven methods like mammograms, MRIs, and ultra sounds.)

But I went ahead and tried it anyhow – not as an alternative, but just as something extra to do. (This post is about my experience only, and is certainly not a recommendation.) Now, that having been said . . .

I’m down to yearly breast screenings. On top of this, no one seems to want to give me anything more than a mammogram. Forget that dense breasts don’t jive well with just mammogram screening – that’s only one point that really gets me frustrated. . . the even bigger annoyance is that this is radiation being shot repeatedly into an area of my body I already 100% know is vulnerable to cancer.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to go crazy, it’s just the lack of options – I mean good options that doctors are actually willing to prescribe without fear of it hurting the budget, are very limited.

Wow. I’m getting off track. Let’s try again. Last week I went for regulation thermography testing, because I wanted to peek in on the ladies and surrounding areas for an update. There’s a clinic in Carp that takes readings of your entire torso, and it’s quite interesting to see how the varying temperatures are interpreted.

What happens for this type of thermography testing? You don’t get light or heat shot through you, instead they take many, many, many temperature readings across many, many, many points on your body.

First, they get you cozy. I had a skirt on, so was given a blanket to wrap up in.

Then, they measure some points for temperature.

Next you take off your clothes and sit there in the cold. Well, you take off all your clothing minus some underwear. I borrowed Zsolt’s loose boxers for this occasion – they did the trick and didn’t cut off any circulation (since no tight clothes were allowed)

Once cooled, you temperature is taken again all over the place: point after point after point. I wonder if these correspond to acupuncture points?  Anyhow, once the test has finished, there’s a print out.

The technition said she needed to look at it in detail, but reviewing it quickly, she told me that my breast looks fine though it seems I’m having some kind of digestive reaction to something. Yeah, that just about sounds right, my GI has been messed up for a while and I’m still on the long road of fixing that up.

It was a good scan, and I’ll likely get it done again. I like that it’s non-invasive, not done in a hospital, and the lady was really compassionate. I like the results too – particularly that she noted my digestive issues. Now, of course, I’ll have to consider mammography, ultra sounds, MRIs etc in the future . . . but for now, I’m just glad to have been reviewed in a way that doesn’t leave a footprint on my body.

And that is the story of regulation thermography testing.

(P.S. It’s raining cats and dogs today, though my mom always points out that above the clouds the sun is shining, and we’re going to start packing our stuff tomorrow for next week’s move. We are getting outta my parent’s house. Happy days and exciting prospects ahead!)

(P.P.S. This entire post (and entire blog) is just a recounting of my personal experiences, not a recommendation of any kind for any sort of treatment, screening, whatever. I just wanted to share, is all. If you have questions, take them to a professional.)

(P.P.P.S. I am currently living in Ikea while preparing to move to our own place in Ottawa. I’ve been stocking up on their fabrics and sewing like mad. I think this is called ‘nesting’.)

(P.P.P.P.S I have a sense my storytelling was rather flat this post. Can we please blame that on the weather? Thanks.)

Posted in cancer treatment, healing, health, life after cancer | Tagged | 3 Comments

The Resolution List – what’s your list?

21 Jul

Today the sky is grey, I’m about to get my period (so guess what my mood’s like. Or rather, ask my husband), and this room is rather dark. Having described all that, I’d like to talk about the bright side of things.

(And I’d like to turn on a light in this place. One moment please.

Okay, better.)

Right. So being diagnosed with cancer absolutely and undeniably sucks. I will never be a person to argue against the position, and don’t wish the illness (in any of its varieties) on anyone. Not even the horrible of horrible people, because chances are someone loves them nevertheless, and cancer is most certainly terrifying and devastating to the ones we love.

(Okay, so I warned you already. I’m about to get my period and am therefore sliding toward the moodiness – but it’s not all bad, because I KNOW I’m a little moody, and can therefore attempt to apologize whenever things get a little too dark. Unfortunately there are no more lights to turn on in this room – oh! But there another widow shade that could be opened. Excuse me.

Better. Much better. Oh, hello natural lighting.)

So we’ve established that caner is bad. But here is another thing – a potentially good thing. It’s also like the BIGGEST perspective-whacking-stick you could ever have, well that and I guess maybe an out of body experience where ghosts of Christmas past, present and future visit you with each stroke of the clock.

And if you had anything in the way of a similar experience to myself (though fair enough if you didn’t, because everyone’s journey is unique), you most likely found yourself making resolutions. These aren’t New Years Eve’s resolutions where you give up chocolate, or promise to go to the library more, or aim to lose five pounds. These are “if my life is at risk, and my mobility and health could end at any time – these are the things I’d wish for most before any more of this crazy shit happens”. So there’s a lot of honesty and desire behind these feelings. These are the resolutions that tap into what it is you want most – or need most.

So I’m challenging you to make a note and keep it someone. To share it with us. To write it in your diary. To stick it on your fridge. Whatever. If you have been here – if you are here in now in treatment, or where here sometime in the past, then I’m challenging you to sit down and make a list. Get it together in one place.

Back when I was diagnosed my initial and strongest desire was to return back home to Canada. Ultimatly we waiting things out, and I’m glad that we did, but cancer firmed me up – Zsolt would immigrate, we were going to move.

Whether this is/isn’t a good thing in our lives remains to be seen. (It’ll be a great thing just as soon as a few strings get tied up . . .) But I can tell you this. While I miss my incredible friends in England, I no longer have this feeling that I can’t go home. You know? Like, before diagnosis it dawned on me that Canada and I may be permanently parting ways, and that was totally crushing. Crushing. It broke my heart. This was realized after getting married and setting up life in England. Canada was not in the cards. Crushing.

But then I made a resolution based on a deep, demanding urge. It uprooted everything, but I have to say that this past July when Zsolt and I boarded the plane to travel to Europe and spend the summer – I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel sick. I was nothing else but happy to be going. And that is really new.

Resolution = accomplished.

Other resolutions were to spend a summer in Balaton and Pecs, which we did last year. It was one of the most healing things I could have chosen. The fact that we are lucky enough to do it again this year is just a freaking miracle. (See, my perspective is brightening, along with the lighting.)

I yearned to travel. After treatment we fly to Portugal and I went in a bikini on the beach. Sure, I don’t have a right boob – but we were on a beautiful beach! The water was gorgeous. The markets were busy (don’t get me started on that awesome cheese) and it was just so freaking fun. Next up! The Atlantic ocean for 7 nights! Resolution = done. And will do again.

I wanted to buy a canoe. How ridiculous for someone who doesn’t even own a car. But guess what, this past June we bought that damn canoe – and even though it’s currently waiting at home in Canada – the pleasure of paddling with my husband on a quiet and lazy river has been huge. Yes, we spent money at a time when it was really stupid to do so (kinda like this trip), but screw it. I used to sit in that chemo chair with those drugs dripping in, and imagine the rivers in Canada – imagined showing Zsolt a loon, and splashing water onto our faces. Resolution = owned.

And yeah, there are BIG resolutions too. Moving to Canada, as I said, was one – and that’s still proving difficult. But my gut took us there, and my gut says this will work out. Having a baby is like the biggest, more life changing resolution ever – but it will happen, and we will get there. Being a professional writer, one step at a time. . . resolutions = still in progress!

It’s not easy.

But it’s good to reflect on the big and the small, and one-by-one tick off the list of chemo/cancer resolutions.

So what are your resolutions? I dare you to look back (or look around) and write them down – make them real on the page, and then see what can happen next.

My List:

-travel

-go home

-write more & publish

-have a family

-get a canoe

-go to Hungary for the summer

-buy real estate (and a cottage in Balaton)

-split time between Canada and Hungary,

-bring food to those who need it

-dress well/stand out

-eat good food

-be with family

-be with friends

-make this work

Posted in breast cancer, cancer, cancer treatment, healing, life after cancer | 4 Comments

Wanting better options

24 Jun

Thursday was a heavier day, and not just because of the heat. Every six months, now moving forward to every year, it’s scan time. Thursday morning I had a mammogram, and I was meant to also have an ultrasound.

Anyhow. We go to the hospital. They squish my breast till I’m standing at the machine (as the nurse move it ever so much tighter, and tighter, and tighter) making rude faces at the wall. But apart from the ridiculous compression of flesh, it goes smoothly.

It should be said that I’m not crazy for mammograms mainly because I’m only thirty (in about 2 weeks), and to receive this sort of scan every year, with all that radiation, really annoys me. I was hoping very much that ultrasounds would be an alternative to the mammogram.

Except after I get the mam done, the radiologist tells me he doesn’t want to do the ultrasound. He thoroughly believes that ultra sound screening produces too many false positives, and he’d have to do a biopsy, and I’d be left on ‘stand by’ (monitored) for six months at a time for years to come.

“But if you really want to do it, we can do it.”

Not. He didn’t really mean that. You should have seen his face when I said, “Well why don’t we just do it?” It was a ,”not a good idea” kinda face. And maybe he’s right?

I became an emotional puddle. (Darn tootin’ emotions! They make it impossible for me to express any words except for, “sorry,” which I shouldn’t even be in that situation.) Zsolt started asking questions about lymph nodes and such, and the doctor was answering his questions. So a mammogram, of course, is a reasonable way to screen . . . not perfect, but I suppose less false positives than an ultrasound. Fine.

But I don’t want to be shot with radiation for forty some years in an area that I already know is sensitive to cancer. I just don’t want to do it – even this incidence was a twist of the arm following my oncologists request to get “at least one mammogram.”

Anyhow. The radiologist said that MRIs would really be the best option, if I have an overall lifetime risk of breast cancer that is greater than 25%. (i.e. we can’t justify spending the money otherwise.) Frack. You know what the oncologist in England told me about my more immediate odds (as I made the decision to do chemotherapy), he said I had about 50% chance of not having reoccurrence if I had the treatment.  Of course, that number changes over time . . . but right now, I’m really pissed about the 25% lifetime crap when I had breast cancer in my body and lymph nodes only two damn years ago. And I know we all face this screening abyss, and I’m not entirely sure if I have a right to be so annoyed, but I am. So there.

Right. Bright side of things: I learned a lesson. My options as a young woman aren’t fabulous in terms of breast cancer screening. I need to become more proactive in choosing my screening, even I need to pay for it myself.

Oh Geez – even brighter side! I didn’t get my results, but the radiologist looked at my mammogram and didn’t order any additional tests, which I take as an awesome sign. Next day or two I’ll call the doctor for the official reading of the correspondence between specialists (results). It’s not really stressing me out, because if he’d seen a lump, I’m sure the ultrasound (to a specific area) would have been done. I suppose it was just such a frustrating feeling, being told I didn’t have the power to choose my screening, that really left me in such a lurch today.

That being said, there has to be a better way. Mammograms for decade upon decade? There just has to be a better way.

(And I’m not going back to ask again for an ultrasound. I do believe that the mammogram is enough, but that’s not the point. The point is, I don’t think it’s the healthiest option for a woman at my age in terms of long-term health. Maybe I’m wrong, but going forward I’d really love to explore other options, whatever those may be.)

Posted in breast cancer, cancer screening, cancer treatment, life after cancer | 3 Comments

Proactivity for the reluctant patient (I’ve been there)

11 Jun

A few weeks back I read this great post about pro-active care by Dr. Rob Lamberts regarding assumptions made by patients that are not to their benefit. Now, I don’t reckon patients mean to make assumptions, but we can get overwhelmed or tired or freaked out in general, and sometimes it’s just easier to trust that the hospitals have it under control.

But more than once it has been to my benefit to actively collect my medical information and ask questions in regards to my treatment. Moving between countries, managing chemo and planning radiation was all done by asking, knowing, and understanding how the treatment would unfold. Not to forget the fertility stuff, which is basically an exchange with me and the doctors on when and how long I’ll try for a baby vs. stay on hormone therapy.

(Doctor Canada’s words: “Just let me know before you start trying and I’ll order scans. We’ll get you checked out first. “ I was almost in shock by his understanding. . . )

Anyhow. Following on Dr. Lambert’s concept and adding in my own perspective, here’s a quick list of ideas for getting proactive with your treatment despite feeling overwhelmed. When first diagnosed you might not want to deal with this extra stuff and I totally get that. That’s why this is a fairly simple list o things you can do to help make that process of self-managing easier.

1. Ask for copies. Blood tests, scans, diagnosis, imaging, reports – You have a right to it, and there’s no problem with collecting this information. I’ve not met a doctor yet who said, “no way,” when I asked for a copy of the results. If you move or change doctors, having this packet of information at the ready makes life much easier. You can bring these results with you to appointments too.

2. Assign a data manager. This really only works with a spouse or partner who is willing to go with you for most of your appointments/be the one who asks for more details. When I was exhausted and couldn’t think beyond my nausea, Zsolt would pick up the slack and come prepared with a list of questions. (2.5, arrive with a list of questions and work through them, and don’t feel bad about taking that time.) If you have someone how can strategize like that, they are an awesome help.

[Zsolt was a results analysis machine. When my mastectomy happened with the tumour being removed, he analyzed the resulting reports with a fine tooth comb. He was asking the doctors such intelligent questions about membranes and margins .  . . I had no idea what they were talking about, but was glad it was all being discussed.]

3. Enjoy the complimentary. Part of self-managing your treatment is to take care of your body & mind beyond hospital appointments. Get to your nearest cancer support centre and speak with some of the facilitators or administrators there. (For me it was a BIG, scary deal to walk into any sort of cancer-centre looking for help. I was freaking nervous, totally uncertain, and not yet accepting my ‘cancer patient’ status. A good support centre gets this experience, and will help you feel comfortable.)

There’s so much you can do to help restore yourself – think gentle yoga, acupuncture, massage therapy, counselling, art classes, Look Good Feel Better, physical training, etc. Much of it is complimentary, and while hospitals don’t often say: GO TO THE CENTER AND GET EXTRA HELP, this is something you can do for yourself.

4. Never hesitate. Don’t feel embarrassed if your side-effects are so wild that your quality of life has evaporated into nothing: instead, contact the hospital, raise the issue and ask for help from your nurse or doctor. Just forget about the embarrassment of being the ‘nagging patient’. You are not nagging, you are actively working with the medical team to ensure your experience is as okay as possible. Go on, call the nurse and tell her the nausea isn’t subsiding . . . see if they can help. (Because they won’t call you first.)

And lastly, though I know it can be so uncomfortable:

5. If you’re feeling uncertain, get a second opinion. If you’re not certain and your doctor is a reasonable person, this shouldn’t be a big deal (despite our fears of insulting people). Back during my treatment I was recommended a ‘gold standard’ of radiation, but upon getting a second opinion, decided to go for a different sort of radiation that meant less time at the hospital (Because I couldn’t stand it any longer!!). The original doctor was enough of a pro that he didn’t mind my looking for possibilities.

So there you have it. The ‘easy on the pressure, just to cover your bases’ list of actively engaging in your care. Once you gain your strength or begin to feel confident within the system, or if your curious right now, do check out Dr Lambert’s list as well.

Have yourself a lovely week – I hope the weather is as good for you as it’s been for me. Gorgeous!

(Plus I just purchased about 3 meters of fabric from IKEA and am super keen to reupholster some kitchen chairs . . . just as soon as I deal with the hundred of staples that are stopping me from ripping off the original fabric, which looks like pea soup.)

Enjoyed the post? Well, maybe you could relate to these too – fumble along with me at bumpyboobs.wordpress.com, or even better, say hello on Twitter or hang out on Facebook for some like-minded fun. :)

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, finding support, healing, health | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Photoshooting for Lives Affected by Cancer

22 Mar

Okay, I’m here at my cafe and ready to write. The weather outside is bizarrely fine considering it’s still March, and I’m dressed in an outfit that my husband would 100% hate (I look like a neon pink hippie). So, the time has come to relive yesterday in the written form, and it involves owl eyes, bright yellow dresses, and throwing flowers in the air.

Doesn’t that sounds quite idyllic. Actually it was a photo shoot in Toronto (not exactly idyllic, but still good fun) for the Look Good Feel Better 20th anniversary magazine, Lives Affected by Cancer. As mentioned, I’ve written an article for the issue that dips into the impact of cancer and treatment on a couple’s love life, which is huge, freaking huge, and ripples out into everything, then ripples back in upon itself . . . like some freaking never ending cycle of crabbiness and – !!!! A man in the cafe just unleashed a hurricane from his mouth – Where was I? Oh, it’s a difficult situation that hardly ever gets discussed. So we’re discussing it.

And it’s a tricky concept to photograph as well. But wisely the art direction choose to work with the idea of flowers and lightness – and hey, how brilliant? While sex is SEX (Wohoo!), it’s also sweetness, gentleness and romance. Flowers are very appropriate.

So yesterday morning I go up way too early and joined the art director (I so want to say his name, but lately I’m not really sure if I’m able. Am I able?) as we took a cab across Toronto and arrived at the studio. We initially arrived at the wrong studio, a few buildings down and only realized this upon knocking on the wrong apartment door, which sheds some light on how tired we felt.

But eventually we made it.

Unlike the first photo shoot for Glow, this place had a completely different vibe. Firstly, it was empty except for the photographer and her assistant. Secondly, it was a huge space. Big windows and 30 foot ceilings, white painted everything and pillars so large I couldn’t wrap my arms around them. Why, why, why don’t they make these buildings anymore? It was magnificent.

People began to trickle in. And in. And in. Seems to me these photo shoots are highly complex – not to mention the editing and planning of a magazine. The magazine designer was explaining how much work went into the project, and it sounds nearly endless. No wonder every little job needs to be considered, and it’s incredible to watch them integrate their roles like clockwork.

So we stared with makeup and a lovely man helped me look natural, fresh and beautiful. He took the curlers to my lashes and gave them a good pinching (during which I was frozen – mannequin like), then added mascara and a tiny bit of shadow at the edges of my eyes. Sexy! Yet sweet. Way more make emphasis than I’d ever dare to use, but the result was striking.

And then came the dress. Think of something from the 1960s that a woman would wear to lunch out with the girls . . . think lemon drops and traces of white flowers . . . think about Jackie Onassis and Audrey Hepburn. That was my dress.  (It was too large so they clipped it at the back, and I wore my hiking socks since they weren’t photographing my full body. Ridiculous yet comfortable.) The makeup artist (and he was certainly an artist) touched up my lips with a bit of pink that popped against the yellow.

And then the shooting began. Goodness me. I am NOT a model – it makes me wonder, why is it easy to look interesting and friendly in front of the mirror at home, but when people are watching and the camera pops, and someone says “Happy! Be happy” . . . why is it suddenly so darn awkward?

But I did my best. The previous Glow shoot photographer had me saying, “Ha ha ha!” so I tried it here : “Ha ha ha!” And then other people started saying “Ha ha ha!” along with me . . . we were all standing there saying, “Ha ha ha!” and it was quite surreal.

Ha-ha-ha.

Surreal, but fun. The makeup artist came over and fixed my hair constantly, thank goodness for that because often times he’d give me little tips on how to move or what to do with my legs which was really helpful.

Along the theme of flowers, I threw petals into the air, picked at a bouquet, and smelled the chrysanthemums. It was all very light and fun. Really fun, despite my nerves.

And then there was the video. Talk about uncomfortable! You see, during the shoot not everyone came round to watch – just the photographer, the prop stylist, the clothing stylist, the assistant, the makeup artist and the designer. There were a ton of other people hanging around too. But with the video EVERYONE had to watch.

Basically this video is going to be shown around the web and at events. It’s about Look Good Feel Better and Facing Cancer Together – my particular bit was mostly about blogging and the online community. (Hello community!)

Therefore, the light switches were flipped off and spot lights were turned onto my face (“Good lighting” assured the makeup artist, which somehow made me feel comforted – not that lighting worries had ever entered my mind . . . but nevertheless, I felt better.) and everyone had to be quiet. No mobiles. No moving. No talking. No light (except for the spotlight.)

So basically it was impossible to not watch the filming. However, while the idea intimidated me, the actual execution was alright. When bright lights get shot into your eyes, the watching crowd disappears.  Hopefully I was coherent – sometimes I’d use the wrong word and catch myself about ten seconds later, way after the sentence had passed by and couldn’t be corrected. But whatever. It was the real, second-guessing, me, and I reckon that translates okay onto film. (Or at least, I hope!)

The truly remarkable thing about this photo shoot was how smoothly it ran. With so many people criss-crossing one another, and so many aspects of the production collected in one room – it’s a miracle of good planning and professionalism that the project ran so smoothly. I’m truly impressed with each person in that room and the role they played.

Despite being nervous – totally nervous – about getting my photo taken . . . it was great to be in such a capable crowd, and supported 100% by their kindness and vision for this magazine. The upcoming issue of Lives Affected by Cancer will be hitting stands (as an insert in fashion magazines – how exciting) come next August. Judging by the way things went yesterday, it’s going to be an outstanding issue.

Sometimes you get lucky, eh, and get to be part of something great. Yesterday was something great, and I know Look Good Feel Better and Facing Cancer Together are programs that certainly deserve greatness.

So keep an eye on those newsstands. But don’t let this weather trick you, it’s not August yet.

P.S. I met Michael Carrera – blogger at Facing Cancer Together and personal trainer extraordinaire. But you know what, I’ll write more about that later, because I feel quite strongly about the usefulness of getting a physical trainer post chemotherapy, and it deserves a separate post.

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca, finding support, healing, life after cancer | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Reach for those healing moments

10 Mar

The freeze frame moments – moments so good, so wholly, purely, simply good, you’d like to stick a pin in them and keep ‘em forever. Those are the moments I try to remember; sitting here, laying there, holding my dog when she was a puppy, celebrating the publication of an article, cuddling up to my husband, walking through a warm sun shower, meeting up with friends, feeling good just because . . . those are the freeze frame moments I’m sure everyone can relate to.

Dr Alexandra Ginty tweeted me, Katie and Terri this week about a freeze frame moment, saying she was enjoying a beautiful wine while at the cottage. And I thought, “what a fantastic expression, ‘freeze frame’.”

The only problem with trying to remember those moments as vivid recollections is that so often the mind moves on, the goodness  slips away, and while we might want to re-submerge ourselves into ‘that time when everything was wonderful’ it instead becomes a shadow of the past.

During treatment I longed for those memories to feel real. After my third or fourth treatment of the ‘really intense’ chemotherapy (with over ten more sessions to go), as determination began to subside to exhaustion, more often than not I found myself dreaming of better times. Better times in the past, and better times to come.

Maybe you are right there, right now, fighting through the shock, the physical changes, the strangeness of seeing a different person in the mirror (you, but not you) . . . and all around life goes on, and you go on too. Sometimes you have the strength and find those moments of goodness, other times (quiet times, when hardly anyone is looking) you break down and just wish – wish so hard – that you could return to one of those freeze frame moments.

I think everyone remembers differently, but whenever I was longing for a bit of goodness, here’s what helped me. Maybe it could help you too? And really, I think this is applicable far beyond a cancer treatment. Anyone can call upon their favourite moments to help alleviate a down moment.

  • Write it down. When things are good, write them down. Describe how it felt. Tell yourself a story in that moment so when you read it over later (years later, days later) those emotions can be regained.
  • Draw a picture. Just doodle it on a piece of paper – doesn’t have to be good, and you don’t need to show it to anyone. Drawing taps into a different sort of memory, and coupling that with the movement of your hand and texture of the page, it becomes in itself a wholly, purely, simply good freeze frame moment.
  • Tell a story. This is what you do when out for tea with friends, or lying in bed, or having someone who loves you rub your feet: tell them the memory that’s floating through your mind. Don’t worry about it making sense or sounding eloquent – just tell them about that time you laughed till you cried, or felt totally happy and the world was just perfect.
  • Look at pictures. There’s a great way to trigger lost memories. Have a photo book on hand and flip through, taking time to enjoy the memories that you had forgotten. Zsolt and I print out photo books after our adventures; it’s a fantastic way to make sure the good times never fade.
  • Make a plan! This is a BIG deal, and basically one that will carry you out of that slump. Make a plan to go somewhere you love, do something you love . . . even if you are in the  middle of treatment, make a plan. Whether or not your follow through might depend upon your determination and energy levels, but don’t give up if it’s at all possible. Heck, I dreamed of going home for Christmas despite chemo, setbacks, and the general opinion of its impossibility. And guess what? It happened. And honestly, being at home was one of the most healing times during my entire journey through treatment. So if you remember being happy by the lake, or with some friends, or whatever, make a plan – believe in that plan.

Happiness is a huge bit of ‘awesome’ in life, and goodness knows it can be challenged and withheld at times. During my chemotherapy (and a little bit afterwards too) I experienced depression for the first time in my life. Thank God that passed, but I cannot forget what a sluggish, discouraging, deep situation it threw me into. . . and during those times, all I could do was remember those freeze frame moments. Since those times, since coming through treatment and trying to regain my life – I’ve lived those wonderful experiences, and plan on living a whole lot more.

(This is also a great way to establish what matters most in your life, don’t you think?)

What were your freeze frame moments that helped when things were discouraging? Is there a particular feeling,value or memory you like to recall?

Anyhow, there’s my list of ways to recall the good times. If you yourself have any ideas, please share them in the comments section. My list was quite ‘Catherine’ centric (i.e. focused on what I love) and you may have a way to remember that’s completely your own – do share. If nothing else, I’d just love to hear all the different ways people enjoy themselves.

Until later! Catherine

P.S. If you want to come hang out on Twitter there’s plenty of room :) You can find my Twitter home here or Facebook home here. Come enjoy a little bit of conversation and fun.

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, chemotherapy, finding support, healing, life after cancer | Leave a comment

Learning options at the Fertility clinic

26 Jan

One year after chemotherapy and I’m back at the fertility doctor. This is because I pressed my oncologist for the referral, though he insists – absolutely insists – that I wait at least two years with my hormone therapy before doing anything in regards to having a baby. If I can have a baby. . .

Let me catch you up, real quick: Before chemotherapy I was given the option to freeze an embryo. I said no, because my tumour was estrogen loving, and goodness knows IVF involves a lotta estrogen. Therefore, we took a chance on Zolodex. For the five or six months that was chemotherapy, I had the Zolodex pill (and that GIANT needle) inserted in my belly each month which repressed my ovaries and stopped all periods. But then after the chemo and Zolodex were over, I still hadn’t gotten my period. Waiting, waiting, nothing . .. doctor orders an AMH test, the results of which are very bad – i.e. low. Nurse tells me on the phone that I don’t qualify for IVF, I realize my eggs are super low, and extreme panic ensues because – what the heck? Do they mean I can’t get pregnant? And then, a few months later, my period returns. I am confused.

Fertility becomes so stupidly confusing after having had chemotherapy. We’re all told it can strip our eggs, throw us into early menopause (now that I’ve had  my taste of menopause, I’m in no hurry to revisit that hot-flashing experience again, though it is inevitable.) and just make things difficult. Alternatively, it might not. But if you are like me and want a family one day (or want to grow your family), there are questions that need to be answered.

So we go to the fertility clinic in Ottawa. This place is located at the back of a business park complex, and it’s a freaking miracle that we found it. Zsolt and I were working from a map when we pulled into a random parking lot (I almost freaked out without my GPS, but Zsolt is actually quite competent with a map) . . . we pull into this parking lot and stare at all the ‘you must have a blue pass’ signs for parking, and we’re about to turn back out onto the main road when I figure, ‘Hey, let’s just drive around this place and then loop back . .. what’s the building number again?’ Zsolt digs out the address number and reads it aloud as we’re passing through the back of that labyrinth lot and – hello!—there is the building, and –look!—there’s a parking spot for visitors.

How perfect is that?

We park. We go in. It’s not like the hospital with narrow halls and florescent lighting. Instead there’s an indoor rainforest, and the fertility clinic is carpeted, with curved reception desks and a sofa-filled waiting room. (The waiting room is huge, by the way, like three little rooms divided by Ikea bookshelves, and I wonder how many people do they normally expect? At that moment, it’s just Zsolt and I waiting.) We sit down, ready to wait the standard 1 hour. In England, we always waited approximately 1 hour. But instead the doctor comes out and calls my name immediately – I haven’t even finished filling my form!

Another good sign.

We follow her into her office. She has one of those giant screen computers that I’d like to eventually purchase myself. This Doctor is quite young (or at least, young looking) and I like her calmness. She has us sit down, and begins to ask questions . . . you know, all those personal things you need to divulge to every new doctor at any initial visit.  And once the history and physical stuff is filled out on her computerized form, we start to talk about babies.

[This is approximately the conversation. I can’t remember the actual words spoken, so if you’d like real medical advice for fertility, definitely go and speak to a real doctor.]

“So you want to meet today, but not actually do anything for about 2 years?” she asks.

“That’s right,” I answer.

I’ve told her about my previous AMH test in England, and the terrible result. I’ve also told her I’m getting regular menstruation every thirty days. (And now you know too!)

“Well the AMH is more a test to see if IVF would be an option for you. With results like yours, it may not be, but something is likely there if you are menstrating. Basically you could still get pregnant naturally, even if we’d have trouble with the IVF.”

“WHAT THE HECK?!”

I don’t really say that, but I feel it. All the freaking time I think I’m eggless – even having my period didn’t convince me to anything different . . . girls can get their period without ovulating . . . but . . .they still have eggs, don’t they? Hmm.

So I’m all – what the heck, how come no doctor ever mentioned this? (Well, my mother who is a naturopath and chiropractor mentioned it, as did my acupuncturist in England, but not once did I hear it from one of my medical doctors until this wonderful lady.)

And she’s all – hey, that’s how it works. You may get pregnant naturally, I’ve seen it happen.

While I’m doing a happy dance in my head, and we can assume Zsolt was too, she begins to discuss egg donation. Get these numbers:

If you find a donor here in Canada, because there is no egg bank, the process costs ~ 15,000 dollars.

If you go to the USA, where women get paid for their eggs, and therefore candidates are plentiful, the process involves six tries and costs ~ 34,000 dollars – money back guarantee if you don’t have a baby. (Money back guarantee! I thought that sort of thing only happened in retail.)

If we adopt, she thinks it costs about 20,000 dollars and can take several years.

With egg donation they’d have the donor take the IVF hormones but I’d also have to take hormones . . . I’d be taking estrogen and progesterone to sync my period to that of the woman who is donating. (Why can’t we just share tea and bond? We’d sync up naturally.) Meaning I’m still exposed to that excess estrogen. Alternatively they could create embryos and then freeze those little guys to be de-thawed when my uterus is ready. . . that’s one way to avoid the extra hormones, but not all embryos can withstand the freezing, and I could possibly have less chances of success.  The final alternative would be to have a surrogate, but I’m not hot on that.

And there are my options. Now come the tests.  (MORE TESTS)  Two blood tests to see if I’m ovulating, another shot at the AMH, plus . . . wait for it . . . a sperm test. Zsolt is about to become involved. :) Apparently he’s to stay out of hot tubs beforehand, since they slow the boys.

Okay, this is a long post. All this to say, really, that I might get pregnant naturally – so that’s something I’ll definitely try doing in another year or so when I’m still totally healthy and cancer free and have been on Tamoxifen for 2 years. Assuming I am still menstruating regularly, we can give that a shot and see what happens. If nothing happens, then I’ll likely go back on the Tamoxifen and wait for the 5 years to finish. After that we can break our piggy bank (if necessary – fingers crossed we get preggers naturally) and go to the USA, or something.

So, if you’ve been through chemo and want to know your options . . . why not ask? At the very least they can paint you a picture, and for me, though I expected anxiety, it’s actually left me optimistic.

First a great parking spot in front of the building, and then not waiting for the doctor – good signs, I think. So who knows what else might be possible? :)

(Plus I’m working with some alternative health doctors to help with my fertility and ovulation, much like I’m also working on staying HEALTHY. These are good things, and I pray pray pray it all amounts to me going on to live a long, happy, successful and most certainly family-filled life.)

P.S. Want to say hello and meet in virtual-person? You can find my Twitter home here or Facebook home here. Maybe we can have a virutal tea, and sync-up our virtual periods. ;) Wohoo!

Posted in cancer treatment, chemotherapy, fertility, life after cancer | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Genetics consultation for BRCA screening: Q&As

4 Jan

Sooo…today I did two things. One: tobogganed behind the house and slide into the school wall several times. (Does that make sense? There’s a school behind my house at the bottom of a hill. We slid down the hill. We slid into the school’s brick wall – our sleds were just that fast.) Two: went to the CHEO hospital in Ottawa and had a visit with a genetic consultant.

Let me tell you how it went.

Having braved the Canadian winter morning and arrived at the hospital, we headed up to level three and checked in. Apparently there was some blip with my health card, I have no idea what was wrong, but as the receptionist frowned at the screen I waited patiently. In my opinion when things go wrong, so long as I know I’m in the right, there’s really no reason to worry.

Eventually she fixed the problem. Something about the number being entered improperly.  And were escorted into a small office.  In came the genetics consultant – a very pretty woman about my age, and so we had our meeting.

Q) She asked me who my doctor was and why they referred me.

A) My doctor is Dr Canada, and he referred me because he reckons I ought to be tested (see my Queen Victoria connection for the reason why).

Q) And having had no history of cancer in my family, why do I want to get tested?

A) So I know. Once I know, I will know. I get why people delay getting tested for the BRCA mutation when they’ve had it in their family . . . say you are told you have it, then what? Then you need to make some huge decisions. Personally, I’m in absolutely no rush to cut off any more body parts, but nevertheless, knowing one way or the other would be useful. I guess.

Q) Did I study biology?

A) Yeah . . .

Zsolt was with me, holding my hand. He had also studied biology in high school. Therefore, everything seemed to make sense as the pretty consultant took out a binder and gave us a page-by-page presentation on how cells have genes, and genes have two bits (like shoelaces have two bits that tie together) that spell out who we are and sometimes those genes can have a mutation. The more mutations, the worse off the cell . . . worse off, as in, cancerous.

Did you know that the BRCA gene is a GOOD thing? It PREVENTS tumours? And here I was thinking it was a bad old gene that caused a lotta trouble. Nope. Not at all. It’s when both dangly bits in the gene have that bad mutation (effectively stopping BRCA from killing weird cells) that things become a lot more risky.

Q) And have you considered the implications of this test? On your well-being, your treatment options, your life insurance [by the by, my life insurance is essentially shot – except I may already have some thanks to Mom and Dad – but otherwise ticking that box of ‘cancer’ on an application isn’t going to get me anywhere too quick. Mind you, the consultant did say that if I get this test and it comes back negative for the mutation, there are some Canadian life insurance companies that will take that into consideration. ]

A) Yes I have. (Well, kinda.) Please give me the test.

Well heck, like I said in a previous post – what am I going to do? Having already gotten sick once, I’d be crazy not to investigate further. And my well-being has already been challenged. Fact is things are as they are; knowing or not knowing isn’t going to change the way things are. Therefore, I choose to know.

Maybe that’s why Eve ate her juicy Red Delicious. She figured, hey, what’s the harm? And then – BAM – kicked outta paradise!

Ignorance is bliss to a large degree. Not knowing I had cancer was easier than knowing. But it certainly didn’t do me any favours. Sometimes (rarely) I imagine what it would have been like to have found my bump earlier. Would I still have a right breast? Would I have needed months of chemotherapy? Anyhow. I want to know – regardless of the possible difficult decisions that may or may not follow.

I have decided. Give me the test. I want to know.

(And in four months I’ll get the results. Talk about building the suspense.)

(OH! And good news for Zsolt and I, the test is covered by OHIP because I’m absurdly young for this disease. My ‘freak of nature’ status has worked in my favour this time. Fantastic.)

(One final thought. Please keep your fingers crossed that result come back negative: nothing found. I’d rather still wonder, “why the heck did I get cancer,” than know a BRCA mutation was at the root. Much rather.)

And hey – I love talking and meeting new people, particuarly those who can relate to this blog, this site, and what we’ve all been through. So do  say hello on Twitter, eh? You can find me here. :) I look forward to meeting you!

Posted in Uncategorized, breast cancer, cancer screening, cancer treatment | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment