Category Archives: Uncategorized

Sole Searching and Long Haul Flights

15 Jul

(This post was written about 2 days ago, but I’m still jetlagged (legged? Do jets have legs?) and feeling a bit too knackered to dive deep right now. So here is the start of the adventure. More to come soon.)

As I sit here in the airport lounge, waiting for my flight to London to board (with Zsolt beside me trying to sleep), I’d like to stop a moment and consider my footwear: the sandal with socks.

Blue strapped Birkenstocks with a sole shaped to my foot from seasons of wear; thick hiking socks for the winter with heel, toe and arch support. The whole is more powerful than the parts. Put together you not only have a great sandal and warm toes – you have the ultimate source of comfort that your feet could ever enjoy, just short of a pedicure massage with that scented oil mixed with salt. You have, ladies and gentlemen, the perfect compromise.

Support from the study cork sole mixed with security of the leather straps. But unlike a shoe the sandal is an open forum of air, sweat, and exchange. “My feet will get cold!” you say? Meet the sock – the thick multi-coloured hiking sock: often found ‘too warm’ within the conventional shoe, coupled with a sandal, the warmth provided is of the perfect temperature – moisture is whisked away from the body, preventing stink, and air conditioning can’t get at you with its chill.

Okay, so people – some people – hate the combination. But I would say they’ve never really given it a good shot. Just spend a full afternoon in the mix, and you’ll be a convert.

Socks and sandals are totally cool. They’re cool because they’re quality. What else really matters?

So on that note we are flying off to England, then on to Austria, then on to Budapest (a la bus), then Erd (a la car). It’s a lonnnnnnnng trip. So long, I had to insert those extra ‘n’s just so you could get a sense. But the end will be totally worthwhile. Visiting family is always fun, plus a change of scenery never hurts, and I happen to be a great big fan of Lake Balaton (where time stands still and the sun always shines).

This week I’ve heard some hard things – not related to me directly, but with people I know both online and in the real world. Hard, stupid things that made me stomp my feet and say ‘what the frack’. Unfortunately, that’s the way it is and in these situations it’s out of my hands.  Maddening stuff – infuriating stuff – heart-breaking stuff. It’s really hard to be diagnosed with cancer, really freaking hard, but also even more heartbreaking with people you care about suffer the same fate.

But I read something this week that struck a chord and made me think: ‘yes.’

It was a plea from one of the bloggers online who has been told some very rough news. She asked us to enjoy the moment. Do it for her. Do it for yourself.

So here we are in the moment. My feet are comfortable. The plane is loading. I’m married to an incredible man. We are okay. We are a-okay. And despite all the stress of jobs and hospitals and doctors and whatever . . . we are about to have an awesome adventure. Despite all the crap, good things can happen, and it’s not worth feeling guilty over. Is it – no, it’s not. It’s worth celebrating, and appreciating . . . cause you never know when the party ends.

Sorry – my light hearted post about footwear just turned sombre. I’ll stop. The thing with writing these posts is all kinds of emotions can pour onto the page. (And honestly, I’ve got the stopper in pretty tight, so this is just some of the really determined stuff getting through.)

It will be good to eat goulash. Good to sit by the water. Good to go for bike rides. Good to escape the stressors. Good to eat a langos. Good to see Zsolt’s family. Good to meet with friends. And SO good to sail across the Atlantic.

Look out – there’s a heck of a great summer on the way so we may as well enjoy it. Here, in the moment,  life can be so good. (Thank goodness.)

P.S. No time for spell check! Boarding!

Posted in Uncategorized, cancer community, finding support, life after cancer | Leave a comment

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

Entering the Pleasure Zone: Glow and Canada

30 Aug

Here I am at the rental cottage along the St Lawrence in the 1000 Islands, hiding in the musty and dark bedroom while fighting off jetlag with a hearty infusion of nap – but my head is still buzzing and it won’t let me sleep. Why? Cause I wanna write this blog post.

Two fabulous things happened this week.

(Oh my goodness, I feel like I’m floating up and down, up and down. It’s from the dock. You know, sort of like when you step out of an elevator and can still feel the motion? Well I just came in from the dock and crashed into bed – and my world is going up and down, up and down. )

First fabulous thing to happen this week: Glow magazine.

A long, long time ago . . . okay, several months ago, but even that feels long to me . . . I was asked to write an article about what it’s like to be part of the FCT community. Now if you’re reading this post then I assume you already know what it’s like to participate in this unique forum. But my article talks about the transition I’m sure so many of us experience; from the shock of diagnosis, the initial desire to hide, and the eventual ‘coming out’ to a community of fellow fighters – finding support and joining the conversation. Honestly, I think sharing the experience, having a place to express what’s going on . . . I think it’s crucial in coping with the difficulties that follow a diagnosis. Stress busting through online support. And writing, commenting, connecting – those are icing on the cake to better peace of mind.

So it was really exciting to write this article. My first piece of published, hardcopy work.

Geez, I do love to write. Writing and sharing and connecting with people – that’s where the joy comes, you know? That’s my pleasure zone. It’s a dream of mine to be able to write for a living. And this article (hope I’m not going on too much. Frankly, it’s this community that anchors the article. So without the comments and conversations I’d have very little to say – your reactions and your input, that’s what makes this site work.), this article is a great start.

Anyhow, it’s on magazine shelves now. I know for sure Shoppers Drug Mart carries it, cause I just went out and picked up about five copies. Very exciting indeed. (Though very strange to flip through a glossy paged mag and see a picture of myself – do I look like that, really? – smiling back as my words fill the page.)

Second fabulous thing to happen this week: CANADA!

WOOOHOOOOOOOO!

Aiiiii!

Woooot! Woooot! Wooot!

And a whole lot of happy dancing. We are here. We have arrived. After an entire weekend of travelling and a few nervous moments before the big immigration for Zsolt, we have entered the country and are ready for this next life. What that exactly entails still remains to be seen. It’s kinda like that moment in The Graduate where they are on the bus as it drives away from the church, and you can tell as the camera lingers on them that a question is forming in both their minds: “What comes next?”

I don’t know. But whatever it is, I’m so pleased to be home. There is, as you know, no place like home. And hanging at the cottage this weekend is an incredible reminder of how much I love this country. The water, the animals, the outdoors – ah! Wonderful.

And now that I’ve gushed, I think my pillow is calling for me. “Catherine, come and sleep on me.”

Must . . .not. . . fight . . . it. Must . . . fall. . . asleep. Must. . . save. . . blog . . . post. Must . . . stop. . . typing.

Good night, good day, and have a wonderful labour day weekend.

Pssst! Check me out on twitter (follow) and facebook (like). To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit www.bumpyboobs.com.

Posted in Uncategorized, facingcancer.ca, healing, life after cancer | Tagged , , | 6 Comments

The story you never want to hear – in memory of Jack Layton

22 Aug

You know I turned on the computer this morning just for a little entertainment before I started the big pack for Canada. We’re moving this week, finally, after over a year of planning and longing to be closer to my family. On the day I found out about my breast cancer, I said to Zsolt  – “I want to go home.” But life isn’t always that straightforward. And so we waited. And filled out paperwork. And defended a thesis. And visited his family in Hungary.

But now. . . now we are going home – Canada is calling.

So I turn on the computer this morning for a little entertainment, logged into Twitter – and what do I read? The crushing news that Jack Layton has passed on. This is not a political thing, not for me . . . it’s about surviving and fighting and being inspired by stories like his – fighting through the disease for a cause he believes in, and not letting cancer stop him for one moment from living and loving life.

It never helps when people tell you they know someone who passed away from Cancer. It hurts. It’s scary. It’s the story you never want to hear. And perhaps today – maybe like many of you who are watching the news or flipping through the internet – maybe Jack’s passing scared you like it did for me this morning.  But then I read his ‘Letter to Canadians’ and decided maybe it’s not worth being scared today. Sad, yes. Hopeful and determined, always. Scared . . . not today.

I’ll leave a slice of his letter below – because it’s touching and it’s for us. The rest you can read for yourself if you like. I’m sure in about ten minutes it’ll be all across the internet. Jack’s message:

“To other Canadians who are on journeys to defeat cancer and to live their lives, I say this: please don’t be discouraged that my own journey hasn’t gone as well as I had hoped. You must not lose your own hope. Treatments and therapies have never been better in the face of this disease. You have every reason to be optimistic, determined, and focused on the future. My only other advice is to cherish every moment with those you love at every stage of your journey, as I have done this summer.”

Which is another reminder of why I’m going home and why Canada means the world to me. For a year I have fought, and this summer I’ve rested. Now I want to have family near – to go for tea with my mom, dance with my friends, tease my little brother, listen to Dad’s fish stories, and meet my older brother’s girlfriend while he cooks us some soup. I want to visit my grandmother too. Every moment is to be cherished, and every day is an opportunity. So let’s be determined today, okay? Let’s be full of hope and ass-kicking gusto.

I’d like to say that my heart goes out to Jack Layton’s family. And I wish them all the love and support possible in this difficult time.

And Canada – I’m coming home. Oh, I’ve missed you terribly. I am coming home this very week. How wonderful is that?

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

Time for common sense, no?

14 Mar

Last week I opened my twitter account to find a message from an old friend. She forwarded me a link (this link, in fact) to a Globe and Mail article discussing how a woman, Jill Anzaru who has breast cancer is not eligible for the needed medication coverage. Why? Because her tumour was too small. The cancer in her breast was too small. . .still cancer, but small. Less than 1 cm. My head is shaking.

Yes, I understand lines need to be drawn – but you would think that cancer would be more black and white. Did you get cancer? Okay, here’s the treatment. I’m in a similar situation; at the moment while living in the UK, my tamoxifen is covered. Tamoxifen is a drug that significantly drops the likelihood of reoccurrence in breast cancer patients (like Herceptin, this lady’s needed med). In the UK I am covered because I had cancer. In Ontario I’m not covered.

Why?

Because I’m under 65 years old. Yes, I had breast cancer – but too early for coverage. Luckily for me, Tamoxifen is an affordable medication. Unlucky for Jill and her too-small CANCER tumour, her medication costs a whack load of cash (if you even have a whack load of cash to spend, apparently Herceptin costs about $40,000/year for treatment).

Fighting cancer is expensive, and with so many patients I understand that guidelines need to be drawn. Right. But with that said, common sense has got to be employed. A thirty-five year old woman gets cancer. One of the first things they tell you as a young BC fighter is  that, ‘considering your age the doctor is likely to recommend an aggressive therapy,’ because we have a long road (i.e. life) ahead of ourselves, and we need to fight with all possible weapons. Obviously, that includes medication.

I’m sorry to hear this woman has been turned down for the second time having taken her appeal to Ontario’s exceptional access program and been rejected. So it sounds like she’ll have to cover the costs herself, which is simply another stressor as she embarks on chemotherapy (and everyone who’s been there knows you just don’t need any more trouble than chemo provides).

Anyhow – Jill, if you can hear me : I’m wishing you loads of courage, strength, and determination. I’m sorry common sense  failed to grant you the medication. But I am glad to hear your cancer was caught early. Despite all these troubles, that in itself is a very good thing.

Quick aside: Obviously there are pros and cons to every medical system. While the UK covered my drug costs, in Ontario they have some of the most fancy spa-like chemo centres I’ve ever seen. Back in the UK it was me and the broken down lazy chair. In Canada it’s beds and large windows and Enya in the background (joking about the Enya, but it would suit the atmosphere). Where should the money be spent and where should the lines be drawn? Those are hard questions to answer. But when it comes to the personal stories, and particularly personal disappointments, it would certainly seem that some things are due for improvement.

To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit me at www.bumpyboobs.com and check me out on twitter.

Posted in Uncategorized, breast cancer, cancer medication, finding support | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

My post-diagnosis guilt of cancer

10 Mar

At the very end of Margaret Atwood’s Edible Woman there is a scene where Marian bakes a cake. Her entire apartment is catastrophic with mess, mould and disarray. Instead of cleaning the place, she buys new ingredients (flour, sugar, salt, etc), a new baking tray, new cake moulds, new measuring cups – new everything. Then, finally she bakes her lady cake. And somehow in that mess, (once the cake is iced and womanly/edible)  she finds her freedom from the madness.

This is how I feel in my apartment. For the past three days I’ve had one slipper missing, so have been walking around the flat with double layer socks on my right foot, and a moccasin slipper on my left. There is a constant pile of dishes across the counter, and the mite protection sheet of my bed (which last week I washed) has been sitting on the sofa waiting for me to strip the mattress – in the meanwhile it’s attracted my handbag, backpack, toque, apron, headphones, sweater, jeans, trackpants, running shoes, jacket, blanket, scarf and shall. The floor needs a good vacuum. The bedroom needs to be tidied . . .  the bathroom is okay, so at least there is that.

So here is the logical question : why so lazy, lazy-pants?

And here is the logical answer : Give me a break, I’ve only just finished radiotherapy.

But logical doesn’t always factor into cancer recovery. Instead, guilt turns up for the party.

Also, my husband is so absorbed by his thesis writing even he’s ignoring the mess – and that normally never happens. It’s almost like living the twilight zone, and some tidy-loving aliens have abducted my Zsolt (husband) to clean their spaceship, and replaced him with a thesis-thinking, non-cleaning version. No good!

A recent question of the week on facingcancer.ca was: “Is guilt part of your cancer experience? In what way?” to which women have responded with emotional and raw honesty. Here is a bit of my honesty (not so raw, but still honest), I feel guilty for the effects of cancer, rather than the cancer itself. The tumour that grew in my breast was beyond my knowledge and control. But, what happened after its discovery was entirely of my choosing. Essentially, after diagnosis – with the armpits and the shock and the sweating profusely – there followed nine genuinely exhausting months. (Inspiring months, but exhausting nevertheless.)

And now the kitchen is a mess, the living room is a wreck, the bedroom is untidy, and I cannot bring myself to clean it. So for that I do feel guilty.

Radiotherapy is tricky because not all of the side effects are pronounced. Frankly, my chest is red, sometimes sore, but little else. The mastectomy last June made the area mostly numb, so I don’t even feel much pain. And during the day the treatment becomes forgettable, particularly since the hospital visits have finished.

The logical response here would be: Don’t feel guilty. Let the mess be, your husband can clean it later (which would always be the ideal response in the ideal world – he,he,he).

And yet, what’s logical about cancer? I’m only reminded to slow down, accept my new pace when reading other’s experiences and writing about my own difficulties. Call it writing therapy, like Both Sides does in her blog. Sometimes I think we need to remind ourselves – however you find easiest – that guilt isn’t a logical response and others won’t blame us for what happens post-diagnosis.

It is okay to be tired. It is okay to get emotional. It is okay to let yourself recover.

And I’m trying to be okay with that not just some of the time, but rather ALL of the time. Maybe writing in my blog (rather than baking a women shaped cake) is my way of cutting through the crazy. No tasty cake to eat, but good results nevertheless. However, before anything goes further – I really need to find my other slipper.

To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit me at www.bumpyboobs.com and check me out on twitter.

Posted in Uncategorized, breast cancer, chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca, life after cancer, radiotherapy | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Why the Tell Her Movement makes sense

5 Mar

If you’ve tuned into twitter, facebook or facingcancer.ca lately – then you must have noticed the Tell Her Movement. And if you’re just tuning in and wonder ‘what’s all this buzz about?’ then click here for an explanation. Everywhere you look someone is telling somebody that they are thinking about them, keeping them in their thoughts, hoping for the best, and so on. The Tell Her Movement is the essence of what cancer forums provide: care, thoughtfulness and above all, support.

I think as patients, fighters and women recovering from cancer, we know how far a few kind words can stretch. Having written a blog during the past year while coping with chemotherapy, radiotherapy, surgery, ETC, people would reach out through the comment fields and tell me of their support. It’s one thing to review a blog’s weekly statistics, it’s entirely another to read messages from people who’ve been moved by your battle.

I have been told.

Now it’s my turn to tell others.

From the groups who prayed for me, the relatives who sent emails, the friends on facebook, the people at my door, the husband by my side: THANK YOU! I would like with all my heart to say that it’s been a turbulent journey, and without your thoughtful reminders of care and support things would have gotten a lot more bumpy.

This past Monday was my final dose of radiotherapy. Key word: FINAL. With that last shot of radiation, I arrived at the end of my breast cancer treatment (and hopefully the end of all breast cancer dramas). Now, apart from the little pill I take each evening after dinner, my days are not filled with hospital visits, consultations, waiting rooms, chemo chairs, radio beds, old magazines, paper gowns,  or – thanks goodness – needles.

True, my journey has only started, but at least this first part is over.

When initially diagnosed with cancer (once I settled down), the breast care nurse patted my knee as I sat on the examination table and said, ‘it’s going to be a difficult year’. Yep. That pretty much summarizes it. And one of the first things I did – okay, first thing I did was cry and cry and cry. But tears don’t last forever. Second thing I did was tell my family. Third thing I did was this: – I went on facebook and sought support.

Linda  (not her real name) was diagnosed with breast cancer ages ago. She lost her breast, went through the traditional cancer-battle, got divorced,  and left her job. When we met she was incredibly good fun, but simultaneously it was clear she was on a journey and needed life to provide some answers. She never explicitly said all this to me, but these sort of things just can’t be hidden. Anyhow, I think she was struggling.

Fast forward several years, she was promoted and had met a man. Jump ahead a bit further, she’s now living a better life, seems far more happy, and considers herself totally clear of cancer. Because of social networking, I was able to find her (despite being in England and her in Canada) and ask all the questions that came to mind. Cancer throws people into a world where everything is new, reality becomes drastic, and nothing is expected. Connecting with someone who had ‘been there, done that’ was amazingly valuable. Her advice was solid gold.

So when I finally finished treatment (phew) and read about the Tell Her Movement, I immediatly thought of Linda and sent a note of thanks to say she’s been an inspiration, and to let her know I was thinking of her. Just a simple, quick message.

Words have power, and so does the internet. Mixing the two together and reaching toward those who really need support is a brilliant idea that should be encouraged. So – anyone you want to tell something to? Why not take a second and write that message?

A big YESSSSSS! for finishing treatment. And a big THANKS!!! to all the people who told me they cared. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: compassion is the strongest form of treatment, better than anything else on the market. When people care, they help to heal. That’s powerful stuff.

PS – catch the twitter party on March 7th at 9pm EST.  With me being in England and it being a very British 2.00 am when things get rolling, there’s a great chance I’ll miss the fun. But that doesn’t mean you should. Be there or be square! (or be asleep, like me).  Hash tag: #tellhermovement

To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit me at www.bumpyboobs.com and check me out on twitter.

Posted in Uncategorized, breast cancer, facingcancer.ca, finding support, life after cancer | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Asking for help is a good thing

27 Feb

A large box full of goodies has arrived on my doorstep. They are frozen meals from a company that claims to be ‘just like homemade’, which is good because at the moment a little homemade comfort is exactly what the doctor ordered.

Radiotherapy is nearly through, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, I’m also beginning to feel some of the side effects like tiredness and wheezy chest. Neither of these things are terrible, but they slow me down. And with my husband currently in the last weeks of his thesis writing (he is glued to his computer with papers scattered all around) it would be too much to ask him for a homemade dinner. Besides, the man is incredible but he cannot cook.

So what do you do when there’s no one to cook, clean, and bring you tea in bed?

[Zsolt can bring tea – he’s good at that. But not everyone has a tea buddy for that bit of comfort.]

I guess there are three things you can do.

One: Do things yourself. This has some benefits like pushing yourself, but I think the drawbacks can potentially outweigh the whole ‘in it to win it’ idea. Back during chemotherapy days I wasn’t against pushing. It was because of pushing that I managed to re-train my legs how to walk after those AC treatments, and it was because of pushing that I was able to attend my book club and writing group. It’s good to push. However the pressure did inevitably build into a wee little break down of spirits. Even if you’re the toughest, strongest, most determined cancer-fighter who ever existed, there will come a time when ‘on your own’ isn’t good enough. That’s when a cup of tea in bed, brewed and delivered by someone who cares, is really the best medicine.

Two: Buy some help. This option only applies if you can afford to buy some help. Today I received six premade meals and three side dishes. My husband and I are not rich (we’re rich with love, but the banks at present won’t accept that as credit). However, with him finishing the last treads of his thesis and me finishing the last stage of radiotherapy, we decided that spending a bit extra on meals that are healthy, premade, and actually quite tasty (a rarity in frozen foods), was worth the extra pennies. Now if I could only convince him that a housecleaner would work wonders  . . . but I think that’s a splurge too far.

Three: Ask for help. It’s funny because while this option brings the most incredible results, it’s hard to ask for help.  What’s your general response when someone asks: ‘How are you?’

You: ‘Fine, thanks. How are you?’

Them: ‘Great.’

You: ‘Good.’

Them: ‘Great.’

And everyone goes on with their business. It is generally expected that we suck up our problems rather than pass them on to others. When people started hearing I was diagnoses with breast cancer, they would ask me, “do you need any help?” but that was before chemotherapy had begun. So, by the time chemo actually started, the moment for helpful offers had already passed. It was difficult to contact people (Quick aside: Zsolt’s family are all in Hugary, my family are all in Canada – we are on our own in England while Zsolt pursues his PhD, and while I get treated for breast cancer.) . . . it was difficult to contact people and say, “Please make me food, because I can’t handle this.” Asking for help can be hard.

Which is a shame, because once I became so desperate that I finally asked for help, the results were amazing. People want to help. Organizations are created to help. Charities are run so that we can find HELP. But sometimes we need other people to start the ball rolling, to ask us, “How you doing?” and probe further for a real, honest answer.

I am 100% thankful to all the people who helped me through chemotherapy. And I’m 100% thankful that I’ve learned to get help before a breakdown erupts. Today I felt ill at work but didn’t work on. Instead I came home and got into bed. Cancer taught me that. This week I’m feeling tired, but didn’t keep that to myself. I’ve warned my husband of the change and we ordered meals for the week. Cancer taught me that too. Zsolt knows to come into the room if I’m unwell and ask how I’m doing, maybe bring me a drink. Cancer taught him that.

When this is all over I’d like to give back. There are people out there who need to be asked more often, ‘how are you doing?’ and ‘do you need help?’ There are people who don’t have others who can offer their services (or at least, they think they don’t). There are people out there who I now understand a whole better, a WHOLE lot better, for having been in the same situation. I get the pride. I get the exhaustion. I get the reluctance to raise and hand and say, ‘help me’.

Anyhow. Two more months in England, then three in Hungary to relax and rehabilitate with Zsolt’s family. After that it will be back to Canada, meaning it’ll be a good time to look up ‘meals on wheels’ or a similar organization and start passing forward what others have so kindly given to me: support, attention, healthy meals,  and a cup of tea when most needed.

To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit me at www.bumpyboobs.com and check me out on twitter.

Posted in Uncategorized, breast cancer, chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Facing the fear of recurrence

18 Feb

Quick catch up: Over the past 2 months I had been feeling some changes in my left (remaining) breast, and they were getting me worried – like, extremely worried. I’d sit up crying as my husband tried to reassure me this was nothing, and no amount of logic could settle my mind that the cancer hadn’t returned, despite chemo only finishing about 1.5 months ago.

And yet – can you believe it – I felt too embarrassed to arrange an ultra sound. Suddenly I’d become one of those patients who run to the hospital for every tiny bump, lump, or change, and that embarrassed me. But you know what, I was being stupid. If you get cancer, you ought to be entitled to proactivey (perhaps sometimes verging on paranoia). So finally, after my third night-time breakdown, I went to speak with my doctors. Here is what happened:

On Monday I went to my GP and asked her to refer me to the hospital. Apparently this was an unnecessary step – I could have contacted a breast case nurse at the hospital directly, but it was good to catch up with Dr Kind (plus I needed to refill my prescription).

Tuesday morning I had a call from the hospital, “Hello Mrs Brunelle, we’ve got a space for you tomorrow morning. Can you make it?”

Yes, I could make it. This call came just as I was entering my acupuncturist’s office, and not even she could get me to stay relaxed after that point. (There was something she did with my eyebrows that was divine and always knocks me out, but five minutes later I was thinking about that breast exam and getting wound up again.)

Anyhow! It was nerve racking. My body revolted against me later in the day and served up a killer stomach ache, which was subsequently blamed on a leftover Valentine’s day dish of cabbage and pork, but was likely also due to stress.

Wednesday I went to the hospital. They sent me to the clinic that contains all things cancer – this is where the oncologists, surgeons and radiation doctors meet to mingle. Passing us in the waiting room was my surgeon who nodded to Zsolt (I was absorbed by my magazine), and as we were shown into a consultation room my oncologist passed by and waved hello too.

Again the nurse asked me to remove my top and put on the cape. You do not have to put on that terrible cape. Maybe if it takes five minutes to remove your clothing, do what they ask, but so long as you can whip off your shirt – why bother with an ugly, cold, and awkward cape?

Generally we wait about 30 to 45 minutes in those consultation rooms, but this time things were quick. In walked a doctor, a student (baby doctor) and – ugh! – the same breast care nurse who was in the room when I was first given my diagnosis. Panic threatened to set in, but then I thought to myself, ‘why would they bring a baby doctor along if they had bad news?’ which was logical. It turned out they couldn’t have given me bad news, because they literally had no idea why I was there. A file had landed on their desk (with most of the contents missing because my original file was lost) and they knew I was worried about lumps. But that was all.

After retelling my breast cancer story, showing off the tidy scar, and having my breast checked by yet another doctor, I was assured this was probably nothing, ‘but we’ll send you for a scan anyhow.’

The breast care nurse was very generous in telling me that my fear was normal. ‘If you didn’t feel this way, then we’d be worried.’ I suspect that isn’t true, but it was kind of her to say.

And one hour later I had my ultrasound.

Fast, no?

Again they shot cold gel onto my chest. Again some slippery rubbery thing glided around my breast. Again it probed the lumps. ‘I can feel the lump you mean,’ said the doctor, ‘but everything looks normal.’

Whew. This was a relief. One – I hadn’t imagined the lump. Two – it wasn’t cancer.

Awesome!

And now I can finally enjoy how much better my body feels. Wednesday afternoon I ran up the stairs at work, and only realized half way through that I was RUNNING. My face has regained colour (blood), and my energy is picking up.

There’s so much to look forward to now; the next six months will be wonderful. Hard in some ways because we’ll leave our home, but amazing in others (travelling, spa-going, resting, hanging with husband, graduation, Zsolt turns THIRTY).  I’m finally free to enjoy, boob bumps and all.

So there you have it! I admire women who get past the fear of recurrence. It’s something that I need to learn. But at least until my next scan I have this release. It feels really good, amazingly good, and I’m thankful.

To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit me at www.bumpyboobs.com and check me out on twitter.

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Slick pits and facing cancer

14 Feb

When the doctor stuck his fingers in my armpit and announced that I had cancer (he was checking my lymph nodes at the time, and all I could think of was, ‘my God, my armpit is sweaty – why am I so sweaty? Do I smell? Gross!) my life came to a screeching halt. Who cared about slick pits? I had breast cancer.

Breast cancer. At twenty seven years old. What the puck?

And for a while,  before I revealed the truth to family and friends, blogging was my support group.  Which is why I’m here today with you at facingcancer.ca (facing cancer and everthing else) because sharing is an incredible help in our journey. Sometimes, you need to reach out to those who empathise. Don’t you think?

Forums, blogs, tweets, Facebook and internet searches are my lifeline: Midnight reaction to medication? Google it! Sex drive reduced to nothing? Forum search! Lonely for a chat? Skype home!

Kicking cancer-ass 21st century style. It’s really incredible.

Like the tag lines says, ‘for everything else you’re going through with cancer’ (because we all know it rocks our world beyond just lump-in-tissue management) this blog is about life with cancer, life after cancer, and life away from cancer.

My name is Catherine. I’ve had one breast removed. My hair is gone. Chemo is finally over, and radiotherapy is half way through. Life is coming back to normal – but I’m taking a step further. Because normal obviously wasn’t working for me. This year, 2011, will be about change and growth and pushing boundaries.

Please join me for the adventure. I’ll keep you posted and would, of course, love to hear how you’re doing. Wherever you are in your journey that load becomes lighter when shared, so don’t be shy.

Bye for now – actual life-as-it-happens posts soon to come!

Catherine Brunelle is an aspiring writing who clings to her passion during hard times. To read about her craptacular adventures in cancer land, check out her blog at www.bumpyboobs.com (promised to be light, fun, and descriptive. Plus, I draw pictures!).

Posted in Uncategorized, breast cancer, chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca, life after cancer, radiotherapy | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment