How To Talk to Someone With Cancer

As the holidays approach, here's what your friends with cancer need to hear -- and never want you to say

BY MARY ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

The holidays can be a social minefield under the best of circumstances. It’s as if, in the last two weeks of the year, all the dramas of the past 12 months get together for one last hurrah. Now, add to all that the eminently likely scenario that someone you know has been diagnosed this year with cancer. How do you interact with that person now — not just over the eggnog at that caroling party, but from here on in? What do you say that’s genuinely helpful when the whole situation is freaking you out?

I know that it’s hard for you too; I really do. In addition to dealing with my own Stage 4 melanoma, I have in the past year watched one of my best friends endure an astonishing roller coaster of ovarian cancer, and lost a family member to stomach cancer. It’s no picnic loving someone whose life is on the line. But you’re not helpless. And if you’re wringing your hands wondering how to handle yourself, Cancer Lady is here to offer a few simple guidelines. (And lest you think that people with cancer never trip up socially, au contraire. I’ll be back tomorrow with an etiquette guide just for them.) But first, let’s talk about you, friends and family. I’m sorry you’re going through this. It feels overwhelming and complicated. But it’s not, I promise. When in doubt about how to behave, stick to the basic rule of thumb that a) It’s not about you, and b) It’s about them, you’ll be golden. Let me expand.

Rule 1: This is a bad time to be emotionally needy.

This is going to kick up all your issues. Trust me, I have cried my eyes out during a whole lot of car rides home. So go ahead and bawl, and complain loudly to your private support network. You can  certainly be honest with the person with cancer about how ticked off you are that this happened. But remember that it’s not her job to make you feel better about anything. People with cancer have got plenty of their own fears going on – they don’t need yours. That’s why the relative who called me after my initial diagnosis to insist, “Tell me you’re going to get better. I need you to say you’ll get better,” is the person whose calls now go straight to voice mail.

Rule 2: It’s a very bad time to disappear.

You say you’re not good with hospitals, or you’re sensitive because of your tragic family history, or this is really inconvenient because you’re going through your own problems right now? Yeah. Suck it up. I recently had a now ex-friend say, after a year of near total silence, “I’ve been thinking of you so much.” And if I’d been a mind reader, that might have meant something.

It doesn’t take big gestures. It takes less than a minute to send an email or a text or pick up the phone or walk over to someone in the supermarket and say, “How are you?” That’s all it takes to let someone know you’re still on her team. And that minute can be the difference between a miserable, scary day and feeling supported and reassured.

Rule 3: Someone else’s dramatic life event is not your opportunity for closure.

If you think this is a good moment to crawl out of the woodwork to say hi to your ex- with breast cancer or express a few things you wish you’d said after a long ago family falling out, it’s not. And if you insist on reaching out to someone who is otherwise not in your life anymore, be holding a nice big present.

Rule 4: Remember it’s a fine line between curiosity and finger-pointing.

I don’t know anyone with cancer who hasn’t heard a version of, “Did you smoke? Did you sunbathe? What happened?” To people with cancer, this sounds an awful lot like, “Tell me how you screwed up so I won’t make the same mistake.” Similarly, don’t bother telling them about how Louise Hay would say this happened because they thought bad thoughts, or how they’ll get better if she just has a positive attitude. Cancer happens to Marlboro-devouring rock stars and it happens to little babies. So keep anything that sounds like blame to yourself.

Rule 5: Similarly, don’t tell them how to fix this.

Whether they’re doing intensive chemo or copper bracelets and colonics, remember that’s their choice. If you’ve read of a promising trial or know the best specialist in the field, you can ask if they’d like the info. But don’t tell them that they have to move to the country or go macrobiotic, Helpy Helperton. Don’t even, in fact, tell them lame things like, “Take it easy! Get some rest!” Because unless you’re coming over to clean the house while they get in a nap, you’ve basically ordered them to do something else in a likely already full day.

Rule 6: Don’t be hasty with the best-case scenarios.

People with cancer appreciate your positivity and encouragement. They don’t need someone not standing in their shoes to make sweeping pronouncements about the future. They might not appreciate your vision that “we” will “battle” this. (Fun fact: plenty of people with cancer hate the word “battle.”) And if the prognosis is bad, they don’t want you to tell them that no, it’s not. I hate to break this to you, but here’s the thing about cancer – some of us are going to die. Not because we’re quitters, but because that’s how it works. If someone with cancer is telling you that, shut up and hear it.

Even if things are going well, let it go at its own pace. I can’t count the number of times people have called me a “survivor” or said things like, “So, are you cured?” This happens a lot to those of us in the club. It makes us feel a little rushed here. Like you’re so eager to wrap this thing up and move on already.

The era when a person might get cancer and then either promptly get the right treatment or be dead within six months is over. People go through varieties of treatments before hitting something that works. They are declared “clean” and then are rediagnosed. They live with their disease for years on end. Please, be patient with them.

Rule 7: On the other hand, don’t be a downer.

You don’t need to quote harrowing statistics right now. Or mention your neighbor who was in so much pain at the end. I say this because people have pulled this crap on me. If that’s your idea of small talk, you really need to pick up some other conversation points. And know that being sympathetic does not mean telling people that you don’t know how they’re possibly coping right now (hint: they don’t have a choice), or what a grueling ordeal it all must be.

Rule 8: Your Aunt Betty’s cancer is not all cancer.

Cancer is a wide, wide world of diseases that behave in unique and specific ways. Nobody expects you to be an expert. Just bear in mind that your prior knowledge may have absolutely nothing to do with anybody else’s situation. Not everyone with cancer gets chemo and loses hair and throws up a lot. Not everyone has surgery. Not everyone gets that miraculous drug. Go ahead and ask what the treatment is before authoritatively assuming your friend ought to be bald by now.

Rule 9: Be useful.

This does not mean calling up and saying, “I wish I could do something,” or worse, promising, “I’m going to baby-sit the kids or make you dinner” and then never doing it. This is not your big chance to feel pleased with yourself and your good, empty intentions.

So use your ingenuity — and don’t wait around for a request. It’s not that the person with cancer is necessarily shy; he or she may just be a little preoccupied lately without having to come up with errands for you run. Bake a potpie. Or knit a cool hat. Or ask, “Do you want to come over on Tuesday and watch a movie?” Specificity is good. The words “sometime” or “tell me what to do” are not.

Rule 10: And this is the most crucial – be guided by the person’s cues.

Some people will gladly tweet updates from their chemo treatments. Some will demurely prefer not to talk about it. Respect their limits — it’s their cancer party, and they get to call the cancer shots. You don’t have to cure anybody. You don’t have to cheerlead. You don’t have to do very much at all. Just be a friend. Just stick around. Just let them know they are not forgotten even if they’re not around as much lately. They are not scary because they look different. And that if they can handle this, you love them enough to handle this too.


Amen Mary. Amen. Preach. 

Audios 2011!!

It's the holiday season (Mother Nature, would it be so hard to give us some snow?), and it's that time when people reflect on the past year.  So here are my reflections: 1. 2011 was the year I got brain cancer. Go me. 2. I have an amazing family - immediate and extended, 3. I love my Ryder puppy, and 4. I have some (key word) shitty, shitty friends.

Now number 4 is probably one of the hardest lessons cancer has taught me.  It may seem harsh.  But that ladies and gentlemen is the truth.  Let me explain.  First of all this makes me angry.  So angry in fact that I could just punch someone.  I've learned that in times of crisis, you learn what people are really made of...who they really are.  And I'm not sure I like what I see.  I've read countless cancer survivor stories, and there's a common theme:  Every single one of them learned the true value of friendship, and were forced to re-evaluate the people in their lives and their priorities.  And it's no different for me.  The people I thought were going to really be there for me weren't, and then there were those people who came out of the woodwork, surprised me, and stepped up to the plate.

So dear friends: While I respect that everyone deals with a cancer diagnosis differently, I don't think asking for friends to be friends is all that much to ask.  I'm not asking for people to drop everything for me, to come spend every waking moment with me, or anything else completely ridiculous.  Just be a friend you know?  I also respect that people are busy, and maybe cancer isn't on their radar.  Completely fair.  But cancer is on my radar, and that deserves equal respect.  And my point still stands.  Life is about priorities, and I've learned that in some cases, I'm not one of them.  I guess you can't control the choices people make right?  And if those people aren't going to show up, then ditto baby. Ditto.

For instance, how many of my friends really, truly know how I'm doing? The answer to that would be 2.  Maybe some people think because I'm done chemo the race is won? Well it's not.  Here's some cancer fun facts: I'm more terrified now then I've ever been.  I have to figure out how to live with cancer... and what I'm learning is that it's damn tough...I'm only 26.  No I'm not dying today... but I also would prefer not to die young.   Sometimes I still get angry over the whole thing...like sit on the shower floor and cry kind of angry.  Sometimes I get so tired of constantly having to rebalance my life. Sometimes I want my old life back so badly it hurts.  Oh, and it's likely my cancer will come back.

If you ever have a friend that faces a crisis, my advice would be to be there. Really be there.  Let that person know you're in their corner.  That you have their back.  Hell, sit down with that person and tell them exactly that.  Actions speak louder than words.  

To those people that have really been there, and stepped up, I'm so so grateful for you and I love you.

Another question for the masses: Do I say I have cancer or I have had cancer?

Update: First post-chemo scan is Jan. 21st.

Cancer-versary

Happy Cancer-versary to me!!  I remember Nov. 23rd 2010 very well.  That was the day I found out I had a brain tumour.  I was supposed to go for a mid-morning run with my bff Michele, but my brain had other plans.  A seizure.  After an abnormal CT, and a very traumatic MRI, I learned there was a likely malignant tumour in my left frontal lobe.  I had brain surgery on Nov. 26, 2010.  And the rest is history.

This blog as been all about me.  But cancer isn't a one woman show. So this post is my heartfelt thank you.

First and foremost I'd like to thank my family, who made countless sacrifices during my treatment.  Thank you to my Dad, who shared my "it is what it is" attitude, and helped keep my fighting attitude alive.  Thank you to my brother Matt, who could be counted on for comic relief.  And last but not least, thank you to my Momma - even though you're a little crazy, and went ballistic with all your "research", I realize now that that's how you coped.  Your tireless effort to help me get through my treatment is something that has left a mark on my heart.  And thank you for my puppy Ryder, who is so much more than just a dog to me.  I truly believe he kept me healthy  - dog tired (hahaha) but healthy.  Cancer has taught me a lot about the strength and love of my family.  I could not have done this without you.  I am endlessly grateful.  I love you.

To my extended family, thank you for all your support, concern and encouragement.  It was nice to know all of you were rooting for me!

Cancer has also taught me the meaning of true friendship.  Thank you to all my friends who hung in there with me, and fought along side with me.  I couldn't have done this without all of you.

I was able to be strong because my family and friends were strong.  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

<3<3<3<3

I am A Survivor

A survivor, as defined by Webster's Dictionary is "a person who continues to function or prosper in spite of opposition, hardship, or setbacks."

According to The National Cancer Institute Office of Survivorship says "an individual is considered a cancer survivor from the time of diagnosis, through the balance of his or her life."  Others say a survivor is someone who is still alive five years from last evidence of disease. 

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be a survivor. I don't know if I'm thankful for cancer, I'm not sure I believe cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me, and if I could rewind my life and live it without cancer? Well...that's a tough call.  What I do know about cancer, is that it's been the greatest teacher.   Going through cancer and surviving cancer does something to you.  It forever changes the landscape of your life.  I've learned hard, tough lessons about fear, death, strength, and fighting to overcome the odds. My perspective on life will never be the same.  I've learned the best moment, the best time is right now.  And if you want to go do something do it.  No excuses.  Although it sounds cliche, life is short, so get busy living it. So while, I'm not overly thankful for cancer, and I'm not sure cancer is the best thing that's ever happened to me...I am thankful for it's lessons.  I'm thankful to have this hard-earned new perspective on life - a perspective that most people don't get in their entire lifetime. 

I've also learned there's a fine line between being positive and being realistic.  Cancer can and does come back.  As my oncologist said: "It will continue to become more anaplastic as time goes on, that's just the nature of this disease.  So what do you do now? Live your life."  There's a balance between attacking life without living in fear that the cancer might come back.  You can't live your life in cancer's shadow.   Cancer can and does end lives.  So will I die from brain cancer? Maybe. But maybe not.  Maybe I just won't let it.  So yes, there is a chance my cancer could come back, but I can still live my life and be positive in-spite of that.  Some people have said to me that if you think your cancer might come back, or you think that you might die from cancer that that's being negative.  For me, it's liberating.  Yes, both are possibilities.  I acknowledge that, and I move on.  Am I going to live my life thinking that I'm going to die from cancer? HELL NO.  I've also learned that people overcome remarkable odds. Overwhelming odds.  So if they can do it, I can do it.  I can hope against all odds.  I realized that living my life in fear of cancer, in fear of dying is no life at all.  And if I let that happen then cancer hasn't taught me anything at all...in fact it has won.   

My oncologist also said that these tumours (with favourable genetics) can behave themselves for several years before treatment is needed again.  And that's what he's expecting.  So boo-yah!  He obviously doesn't know who cancer is messing with here!  

For a long time, I wondered what I am going to do once treatment is done?  This past year I've just focused on staying well and getting through the treatment.  And sometimes I feel like I've been given a pass, but it expires at some point.  But then I realized, that I'm going to just simply live life.  You know, business as usual.  And because of cancer, everything I do from here on out, will be more meaningful, even more special, and even more of an accomplishment.  

So cancer, hi, it's me Sarah.  I think we should break up.  It's not you, it's me.  It's just really not working out.  You're kinda controlling and selfish.  Frankly, I don't think we're right for each other.  

"Cancer changes your life, often for the better.  You learn what's important, you learn to prioritize, and you learn not to waste your time.  You tell people you love them.  My friend Gilda Radner (who died of ovarian cancer in 1989 at age 42) used to say, 'if it wasn't for the downside, having cancer would be the best thing and everyone would want it.'  That's true.  If it wasn't for the downside." - Joel Siegel

I am a survivor. 

           

Sometimes Life Isn't What You Think It Ought To Be

One more chemo cycle to go.  I will officially be done a year of treatment on Nov. 21st.  Well the 21st is the last day I take a pill....so technically I guess the 22nd?? Stay tuned for party details.  :)

My 9 mos MRI revealed that everything is still stable. I have another MRI in January. The 21st I think.  I also saw my neurosurgeon, and he had a look at my scans and has cleared me to drive.  I will be seizure free for a year this month.  So I've had my family physician write a note to the ministry of transportation.  Whoohoo for that!!

For all of you who want to know what now....I don't really know.  Medically, since my tumor has responded well to chemo, it's very unlikely they will opt to put me on maintenance chemo.  It's preferable to give my body a rest.  Plus, maintenance chemo has a whole list of nasty side effects.  I will continue to have MRIs every 3 mos.  If I'm clear for a year, then MRIs every 6 mos for a year, and then every year.  Life-wise, I'm still figuring that out, and what it means to have cancer, to be off chemo, move on....am I in remission, can I even say that?? I don't think it's really sunk in that I only have one more cycle to go....I will say this, I am 100% a survivor.   

Finally, my friend Larry passed away on October 27, 2011 after a year long battle with brain cancer.

Even though I did not know him or his family very long, or very well, I felt like we had known each other forever.  Saying goodbye to him was really emotional...he was my buddy...my fellow warrior.  Larry taught me about courage.  True courage.  The kind you can have only if you're faced with a life-threatening illness.  Even when his situation took a turn for the worse, he kept fighting.  He never lost his sense of humor, and his courageous spirit never failed him.  At his funeral, I learned what type of person he was before he got sick, and he was definitely a cool guy....everyone loved him, and had a story about him to share.

So to Larry: wherever you are, I hope you're enjoying a OV, and continuing the party up there. You're funeral was beautiful, I think you would of liked it.  And I know you're so proud of Louise, Luke and Jake.  There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about you...and thank you.  Rest in peace my friend.

Some people come into our lives and quickly go.
Some people move our souls to dance.
They awaken us to new understanding with the passing whisper of their wisdom.
Some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon.
They stay in our lives for awhile, leave footprints in our hearts,
And we are never, ever the same.

And Then There Were Three!

Holy $#&* it's October.  How did that happen??!!! Yes, people, summer is in fact over. Finito!  In case you haven't noticed the balls out chilly mornings, and the smell in the air.  That my friends is fall. And before we know it it'll be full blown winter, and we'll all be wishing we hadn't complained about the hot weather. I must admit though, I love fall.  Excellent running weather :)

I finished round 8 last week and all is well. I'm feeling a bit more tired now that we're getting near the end. I was supposed to start my hardcore fitness training/workouts last week, but I slept for four days instead.  Ah well.  I also had a MRI in September, and the results were good - stable.  No change. My oncologist is really pleased with that, and if he's happy, I'm happy.  So now I only have 3 more mos of treatment to go, finishing up in December. Merry "Cancer-Free" Christmas to me!! (Disclaimer: Susan would like me to point out that I'll never be cancer free. As if I didn't know that. Wouldn't want to have any misconceptions on that crucial point, so there it is). I also plan on having a huge party in January, and get me some tattoos. Yup, that's right Mom, you read that right. A tattoo.  I mean really, not only did I “beat" cancer, and survive a year of treatment, but I managed to keep my kick-ass sense of humor, intelligence, and stunning good looks in tact! And that's awesome!

As my year of treatment comes to an end, I keep thinking what the F am I going to do now?  Like any 26 year old, I'd like my own life, my own house...Susan says: "Sarah, you need a job before you can get a house."  Yes, Mom, thank you, I know. Geez.  Although living downtown Toronto would be phenomenal....my 85 + lb dog would take up the entire condo.  So I've had to rethink my plan: get a cute little country house with lots of land.  I also plan to get another golden when Ryder is older, so having some land would be ideal.  The only problem with that is the commute to TO.  Which brings me to my next dilemma. A job.  Here's the 411 on that:  I got accepted into UofT nursing for Sept. 2012.  Pros: It's a two year program, and I would go into oncology or cardiology.  I think being a nurse would give me an opportunity to really make a difference.  I have a strong research/science background, and I've also been a patient. Good money, good benefits, hot doctors...Perfect right?!  Cons: I would be pushing 30 when I graduate (old balls in other words), and I wouldn't have an income for another two years. Oh, and it's another two years of school annnddd it doesn't start until 2012.  So what am I going to do until then?  I could get a position in clinical research at one of the major hospitals downtown.  That'd be pretty sweet.  And I could either, keep my job, or quit and go be a nurse. Hmmmmm.  Thoughts anyone??  I'm expecting you all to weigh in here since I suck at making decisions.

Also, has anyone seen 50/50? I'd like to go see it, but I don't wanna spend 2 hours balling like a baby.  I've heard the guy who wrote the screenplay had cancer, so mad kudos to him.  That gave it a few more points in my books.  If it was some random guy trying to tell me what having cancer at 26 is like, I'd have some choice words!!

On a much more serious note, my friend Larry, whom I've mentioned quite a few times in my posts, has decided to stop treatment.  The IV chemo he was given resulted in blood clots, and the family has decided that that's enough and to give Larry the best quality of life that they can.  There's not a day that goes by that I don't think of him and his family.  It's brutally unfair...that his cancer could just take so much from him and his family.  But there's one thought that keeps running through my head and it's that we're all living, breathing, we're all alive...We can all enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning, a summer sunset, sand between our toes, a fire on a cold winter's day, a good, nice long run, the sound and smell of the ocean, or dangling your legs in the water while sitting on the dock...whatever it is, it's all these simple little things that no one thinks twice about.  But we should think twice and take nothing for granted....because some of us don't have that chance...And to me, the only way to maybe justify the shittyness of it all, is for me to grab life by the balls and live it.  In some way, I guess I owe to it Larry to really live my life and do the things on my bucket list...So people, what I'm saying is stop and enjoy that summer sunset, or marvel over how delicious that cup of java really is, or how good it feels after a good, long run...whatever rocks your boat, make sure you really rock it.

There are only two ways to live your life.  One is as though nothing is miracle.  The other is as though everything is a miracle.  - Albert Einstein.

Time Flies When You're Having Fun??!

Hiiiiii!!!!! I'm back everyone! Miss me??! I know you all did!!

I am currently writing this post from the cottage - I'm in my pjs, curled up in a mukoka chair on the screened in porch with a blanket and a green tea (with lemon!) in hand.  Oh, I also have a spectacular view of Lake Joseph. Sounds nice doesn't it?? It is. For those of you who have never experienced Muskoka, you're missing out. It's magical.  I'm enjoying Muskoka until Sept. 11th.  How sweet it is.

I'm sorry I missed last month's post. I know, I know this is long overdue.  The truth is I've been crazy busy.  As most of you know I recently got a golden retriever puppy, Ryder.  He's like a 12 month old baby, I've got to watch him 24/7.  When he naps, I nap.  I'm up at 6:30-7pm, he plays, sleeps, plays, sleeps...and that's pretty much his schedule until he goes to bed at 10:30pm.  I'm constantly following him around to make sure he doesn't chew, eat, anything he's not supposed to.  He's absolutely adorable though. He loves to play!  He was finally allowed outside just last Wednesday, so he's had so many new things to experience in a short time.  He's finally adjusted to the cottage and all the visitors coming and going. He's been on the boat, in the water...it's a lot for a little puppy!! So Ryder has been keeping me from my blog!

Last month's cycle went fine.  I was on chemo and adjusting to having Ryder around, so I was a bit more tired than usual.  My oncologist decided to wein me off dilatin.  My dilatin levels have been low (below therapetic range) since January.  So finally they decided it wasn't working, and I should stop taking it.  My oncologist was also pretty casual about the possibility of me having another seizure: "Oh, don't worry Sarah, if you have another seizure, I'll put you on something else."  Ummm, k, great??!! Thanks so much??...I guess?!  Easy for him to say.  Coming off Dilatin also means I'm going to have to wait until December before I can drive.  A full year.  My oncologist wants to make sure that I'm stable and seziure free off dilatin.  Here's the thing though:  Dilatin was never working in the first place, my levels were always well below therapetic range. So I've been seizure-free (knock on my wood) without Dilatin for a looooooonnnnggg time now. Are you all seeing where I'm going with this?

I'm starting cycle 8 tonight.  Nothing new to report.  My blood counts last month dropped a bit (nothing serious, and not enough to delay a cycle), probably due to my cottage diet and lack of exercise :D :D.  But my counts yesterday have rebounded. So all is well.  I think my appointment lasted 30 seconds? And I've learned that that's a good thing.

Alright, well the sun has decided to join us, so I have a hot date with the dock. Ahhh cottage living. Sorry to those of you stuck in the city.  That sucks. I'm off for a swim, hopefully the lake doesn't claim any more of my stuff!!   

Happy Long Weekend!

HAPPY CANADA DAY EVERYONE!! I don't know about everyone else, but I am damn proud to be a Canadian! Canada is pretty legit. So cheers to that!

 Phew.  Is it just me or has June flown by?  I don't even remember what exactly I did. Hahaha. Obviously I kept myself busy enough not to remember what I did.  OH! There was the Stanley Cup.  My thoughts on that are: Vancouver went into the playoffs as the favourite - they were the number one ranked team. But, they played like shit, and let's be honest, I was cheering for the Canucks too, but Boston danced circles around Van.  Van got seriously outplayed. Seriously. 4 goals in 4 mins??!! Really?? Really?? So I wasn't overly upset when Boston took the cup: 1. Thomas was spot on every game, 2. They outplayed Van and 3. There are more Canadians on the Bruins than the Canucks...so its kinda sorta like the Cup coming home to Canada. Kinda.  I'm not going to even talk about the riots. All I'm going to say is what a bunch of goons.

I also traveled to Ktown for some shenanigans with some of my favourite people.  Theme for the trip? Chocolate cake and grab somebody sexy tell 'em hey! Duh. Good times!

Today I went to the 5 wk puppy visitation! For pictures, see facebook.  I bring my "first born" home the week of July 18th. SO EXCITING!! And tomorrow, I'm headed up to the cottage till the 16th.  There is nothing like summers in Muskoka. My happy place. MD, you feel me on that? OH, I almost forgot! I also bought a road bike! I am now the proud owner of felt bike!  I signed up for the 2012 Ride to Conquer Cancer - 230 K from Toronto to Niagara Falls. Training starts immediately.  Hey, it's all coming back to me now - I also volunteered at the 2011 Ride.  It was like nothing I have ever experienced - the vibe at that ride is unreal. It's so inspirational.  I highly recommend getting involved. It was awesome! I think $17.5 million was raised? Amazing!

Ok, now on a more serious note.  My 6-mos MRI results were unchanged from March.  I was a bit thrown off by this as I was hoping it would shrink some more, just like my 3-mos scan.  I quickly learned that when you're dealing with brain cancer, unchanged or stable is very, very good news.  My oncologist said the MRI results were very good, and he also mentioned that it may not change from now until I'm done treatment.  He also added that if it doesn't change in size then the treatment is working.  The MRI results might as well be written in Greek, but from what I gather the bottom line is: no change since my last MRI.  And the unchanged activity they do see (which flares or is highlighted by the contrast dye) is either due to residual tumour or postoperative changes (which basically means they can't tell the difference whether it's the tumour showing up or postoperative changes).  So all in all excellent news, and I started cycle 7 yesterday.  In other news, my oncologist decided to pull me off Dilantin since apparently it's not working anyways - my levels are at 7, and they are supposed to be at 40. Hahaha, ya I'll say it's not working. I also asked about my drivers license. What a damn saga.  I can't drive yet because he wants to see if I'm stable off Dilantin - even though it hasn't been working for a good few months anyways - say what??!!  He also said "Sarah, as a brain tumour patient, you may never drive again, and you should adjust your life accordingly".  Does anyone else see anything wrong with this picture? Adjust this buddy.  He should be telling me the opposite. You just do your job so that I CAN drive again.

I haven't heard from or seen Larry lately.  I hope he's doing ok.  Stay strong.

I also have some sad sad news.  A dear friend, Laurie Clement, passed away recently from ovarian cancer.  She battled bravely for over 4 long years. Our family have been summering with the Clements for 21 years, and I know the family well - we practically grew up together.  It always hits a little closer to home when cancer takes another life. To Andrea, Sam and Ted: You are all in my thoughts and prayers during this difficult time.  I am sending you strength and love.  I have so many wonderful memories of Laurie and your family up in Muskoka. I look back on all those summers with a smile.

Someone once asked me if the fear of walking a tight rope ever gets easier.  The answer is no. No it doesn't.  I still think about my own mortality...about the what ifs.  I can't help it...Part of the job description I guess.  I still feel like I'm balancing on a dime, against shitty odds.  Cancer harshly reminds us all of the fragility of life.  It does not discriminate by race, gender, or age. Even though my cancer journey is going as well as could be...it's still cancer, and I still experience the roller-coaster of emotions, fears, and uncertainty that goes along with the c-word.  But as Lance Armstrong said: "...When you think about it, what other choice is there but to hope? We have two options, medically and emotionally: give up or fight like hell".  Fight like hell. Fight. Like. Hell.

Half-Way Mark

Well folks this marks the half-way point of my cancer treatment.  Another 6 mos to go.  And all I can say about that is: THANK GOD. A lot of people have been telling me: "You're almost there Sarah, another 6 mos to go."  Although this is true...those are going to be the longest 6 mos of my life.  I can't wait for all this to be behind me. "Hi, I'm Sarah, and I'm a 26 year old brain cancer survivor."  That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?  Pssshhh, who am I kidding?  I already consider my self an ass-kicking cancer survivor.

My appointment on June 1st was routine.  I've learned that the shorter my oncologist spends in the room, the better.  So let's keep it like that.  I'd rather not be bffs with my oncology team.  My blood work was adequate, no seizures, and so onto round 6.  Same dose.  Minimal nausea - it's the bloody cold that is not helping the situation.  Since I'm already on 30 something pills/day during chemo week, I've opted not to take any drugs for the cold.  I remember the days of my youth when I used to take Advil Cold & Sinus and the cold was gone in 2 days.  Those days are gone friends.  So I'm going to just wait it out! Aren't summer colds the best?!

A huge shout out to my wonderful Grandparents who kept my Mom and I company.  Thank you both for all your support and love.  I'm not sure what you got out of the day, but I hope you took something away from it at least. Love. xo.

In other news, my golden retriever puppy - Ryder - was born on May 28th!  Sooo exciting!! On July 1st (at 5 weeks), I am going to visit the breeder to pick him out! There are 5 boys to choose from, which is super exciting, and he'll come home the week of July 18th. A puppy! FINALLY!!

As for my travels, they are done for now.  In the past few months, I've been to Kingston, Florida, NYC and Vegas.  My summer is going to be spent up north at the cottage with my family and my puppy! There's nothing on earth like summers in Muskoka.  In the fall, I think there's talk of flying down to San Diego California to visit my Uncle Mike and his family, and then driving up the coast.  Everyone that has done this drive has raved about it!  And I think we're hoping to do a cruise in February!

I have a 6 mos MRI on June 21, and then my next appointment on June 29th.  Until then friends.

Apologies for this utterly boring post and the lack of humour.  My cold has turned me into a grumpy old bat.

One Big Happy Family: For Larry

So as most of you know by now (and if you don't then you haven't been paying attention), I have my monthly appointment the first Wednesday of every month.  Write that down.  My appointment was fine. Blood is "normal" (from all the veggie juice Nurse Rachet has got hooked up to my IV), and so onto round 5.  My oncologist was actually friendly.  He came into the room, and sat down.  He physically sat down.  Whoa.  We waited at the pharmacy and that was it. Almost half way through this BS.

Hospital days are always long.  I am usually non-functional the next day, and spend the next two days recovering.  I just can't bounce like I used to when I was younger. And this Wednesday was no exception. To break up the day a bit, my Mom and I went to Vegan Haven, which is right behind Mount Sinai.  It's a small restaurant, but the food there is absolutely delicious.  And if my travels in Europe have taught me anything, its the smaller places off the beaten path that often have the best food.  I then made my way to the blood lab...I was number 79, and they were currently on 20. Typical.

The CNS clinic was an hour behind.  But no matter, because I have made friends with everyone who has an appointment at the clinic on Wednesday - because we are all on the same chemo cycle.  One big happy family.  So I killed time chatting up my brain cancer family.  My closest buddy is Larry. He's 52, diagnosed with GBM at the same time I was.  I walked into clinic one day wearing my "F---- Cancer" shirt, and he had mentioned how badly he wanted that shirt, and we've chatted every Wednesday since.  So this time around, I had brought him a shirt just like mine.  His wife, Louise and his boys were there too, and there were tears all around.  Emotional - because even though I'm 25 and he's 52, we're both brain cancer survivors.  Louise, if you ever come across this blog, you are one of the sweetest women I have ever met.  Truly.  Actually, I think his boys thought I was certifiably insane.

Louise told me that Larry was getting his MRI results.  Before they all went into exam room, I caught Louise's eye.  No words.  But she knew.  My pulse went through the roof.  I was so nervous for him.  I felt the same as I did when I get my own MRI results.  After all, we're family now.  Going into clinic for MRI results is friggin' shitty.  Your heart is beating way to fast, you're sweating, your mind is racing.  Everything stops.  We found after that Larry's tumour had grown slightly, and he's on chemo for a month straight.  I could feel for him as no one else could. As always, I wished them well, that we would see them next time, and to stay strong.  Larry was showing the whole staff his t-shirt, and it occurred to me that I had made his day.  Something so simple.  As I was leaving the hospital, I fought back emotion, and I thought about my friend all the way home.

To Larry and the rest of brain cancer family: "Those of us fighting the brain tumour beast are a band of brothers and sisters.  None of us want to be on this journey, but we are, and so we fight, side by side, helping each other with love, information and support" - Mike Gabriel (Brain Cancer Patient)

So somehow I've managed to inherit this family.  My brain cancer family, but a family nonetheless.  Because at the end of the day the best medicine is hope.

Against All Odds

Wednesday April 6th 2011 was the scheduled date for my monthly appointment for round 4 and my 3-month MRI results.

So before we talk about yesterday, let's just have a little recap on what's been going on in my corner of the world.

Last month's chemo cycle was a little rougher - I felt yucky.  And by yucky, I mean nauseous.  Nauseous like I've never had before.  I didn't actually feel like I was going to vomit, but at the same time, I didn't want to put anything in my stomach just in case I'd see it again.  It took me over an hour to eat a tomato sandwich, that was cut up into fours.  You know the way little kids have their sandwiches...ya.....I kept eating though, because not eating = stopping chemo, and we can't have that now, can we? I think feeling nauseous is worse than actually vomiting. Sorry to get graphic here for a moment.  But at least once you vomit, it's out of your system and you usually feel better.  With constant nausea, I didn't actually vomit (thank god), but it's one of the most unpleasant feelings. I decided right then and there that I was going to seriously, seriously going to think hard about my decision to have kids.  Can you take the serious anti-nausea pills (gravol is for wussies) when you're pregnant? I'm going to look into it.

Other than absolutely not wanting to eat anything, last month went as well as expected.  I went to Kingston for four days, where I caught up with old friends, and danced until 3 am.  Awesome weekend.  On March 23rd I had my 3-month MRI.  So back into the space capsule I went.  Only this time I got the luxury MRI machine.  I got ear plugs and everything.  Score.  It's like going to the worst rock concert you've ever been to in your life, you're in the pit, and your head starts ringing.  Some of the pictures last up to 6 minutes...longest 6 minutes of my life. If it lasted any longer, I swear I'd have a seizure. Then they'd have a real problem on their hands.  Another little side note, the tech, was a very strange bird.  I always drug up before going into the space capsule, and I bring my blindfold. I indicated I'd taken drugs on my form, but for the first time, the tech decided to inject the contrast die while I was standing up!!! Standing up!!! Woah, whoah, whoa, let's not get crazy.  And then I was off to sunny Florida to visit my grandparents in Rotonda.  Hello beach, palm trees, and the ocean.  It was a really nice break from the city, considering Mother Nature dumped 6 inches of snow the day before I flew out.  I managed to get a bit of a tan, swim in the ocean, and soaked up the heat. I love Florida.

Now for my appointment yesterday.  I arrived at the blood clinic a little late, and of course the place is packed.  Great.  They were on number 18, and I was 43. Fab.  I wore my Livestrong "Pick A Fight" t-shirt, and the blood tech says to me "Pick a fight? With who?" It's a good thing this lady is only responsible for taking blood.  Lady, everyone in this hospital is picking a fight, probably with cancer. Duh, look around you. The CNS clinic was actually on time. Miracle.  I knew this appointment would be a milestone in my treatment: What did the MRI show? Was the chemo working? To be completely honest, I'd haven't even thought about it at all.  The first time I thought about my MRI results was while I was sitting in the waiting room, and I was too nervous to read my book.  The resident came in, asked how I was feeling, and told me there was good news, the MRI results were positive!!!  My Mom teared up, and I looked at her and said to her "I told you Mom, I told you".  I quote: "Reduction in the amount of abnormal tissue in the left frontal lobe as compared to the pre-operative examination".  In this business, most patients hear "stable", so to hear that the cancerous area(s) in my brain are shrinking, is nothing less than remarkable.  Remarkable.  In the back of my mind, I know cancer follows no rules, and this is a dirty, messy business. The scale could tip at anytime.  But for the first time since this whole thing began, I really, really feel that I have a chance. I'm going to do this.  Although, I finally felt that going to this appointment was more routine, I never, ever get used to the faces I see there.

Just to let everyone know, if I don't blog it's only because everything is fine. No news is good news.

Also, it's Young Adult Cancer Awareness Week! Please read, ask, research!!! I'm going to do a blog about this soon.

It's April people. Daffodil month.  Every 3 minutes a Canadian is diagnosed with cancer. Join the fight. Wear a daffodil.

I'd also like to thank all my wonderful family and friends.  The support from all sides has been overwhelming and much appreciated.  Thank you to all those who have supported my spring sprint for the Canadian Brain Tumour Foundation.  The Ride to Conquer Cancer (benefiting PMH) is also coming up in June, so check that out!  I will be volunteering at the event!

On a final note, I don't like to use the word "luck" when I talk about cancer. Cancer and luck don't really go together.  It's hard to believe in something like luck.  This may be a hard thing to explain, but I'm going to try anyways - I do consider myself extremely lucky that my cancer is responsive to chemo, and the MRI results are positive.  But it's more than just luck, it's about something, a feeling perhaps, deep down, that I can't quite explain, that drives me, against all odds, to hope, to fight hard, to fight strong, to fight like hell.  "We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey." - Kenji Miyazawa.  I did get good news, but if you have cancer, I know that good news is rare.  So to all the cancer patients out there, who are on the front lines, my wish for all of you, is hope. Never lose hope. Fight hard, and fight strong, because everytime one of us loses hope, or refuses to fight, cancer wins.

"Success is not measured by what you accomplished, but by the opposition you have encountered, and the courage with which you have maintained the struggle against overwhelming odds" - Orison Swett Marden.

Pharmacy Pile-Up

And I'm exhausted. Story of my life or what?!  So today was my monthly follow-up and super elusive, member-ship only, round 3 clearance.  I seem to have an executive membership to all things hospital.  Go me.

Blood work was scheduled for 12:30pm, and was uneventful.  Easiest part of my day. My oncology appointment wasn't until 2:15pm, so my Mom and I killed sometime by hitting up the hospital cafeteria, and by that I mean Druxy's.  This place makes the most magical salads ever - next to Freshii of course. Yummy! I also came prepared for this long day at my second home, by bringing reading material.  Sometimes I'm such a genius it's unreal! Right now, I'm reading 'Eat, Pray, Love".  Read it people.  It's really good. 

3:00pm: I finally get to see my oncology team.  Nothing really super exciting to report there.  I did get tons of compliments on my shirt!!! The woman at the front desk of the brain centre said to me: "F---Cancer? What is that?" I replied "it's exactly what it says it is, it's self explanatory!" Isn't it obvious?? Then one volunteer said: "How about fun, or fabulous?" Has this lady been drinking? Heavily? Cancer is a lot of things, but it sure isn't fun or fabulous! Oh, another funny tidbit.  My chemo drugs comes with a stack of reading material, and in there it says, don't touch the chemo pills, don't handle them, wash your hands, if you've handled the pills, don't rub your eyes or touch anything.  I find this absolutely hysterical. So lemme get this straight, I'm allowed to ingest it, but I am absolutely not allowed to touch the drugs, and I must wash my hands immediately.  It's like car battery fluid or something.  The package also says, I  can't give my pills to my friends, even if they have the same symptoms as me.  Sorry guys, I know you're disappointed, but no chemo drugs for you. 

In both my previous cycles, I had this super weird rash.  It usually appeared during day 3 or 4 of my cycle, was aggravated by heat, and disappeared about 4 or 5 days after I was done with chemo.  I thought it was a chemo rash. No big deal.  I was told today, however, that it was actually the anti-puke meds. So my oncologist prescribed me an anti-histamine.  More drugs...I think I'm up to 35-40 a day? But who's counting.  But then, get this, the anti-nausea pill that was causing my rash was discontinued, haha, hilarious.

I also tried to get my license back.  First let me be clear that I would never drive if it was unsafe, and I was not at all demanding that I get my license back that day.  Since my license was officially suspended, I haven't been able to get any clear answers at all.  My oncology team was telling me no driving for a year, and the Ministry was saying that all I needed was a letter from my oncologist.  Huh??!! Ridiculous.    All I wanted was some answers, an explanation. I kept telling them that I've only had 2 seizures, pre-diagnosis. Key word here being PRE.  Their answer was total bullshit.  They kept telling me I have brain cancer, as if I hadn't read that memo.  So I asked more questions.  They told me I'm at a higher risk for seizures (ok fair, that's a given), and that I can be seizure-free for years and then have a seizure.  What about epilepsy patients? Aren't they at equal risks for seizures if not more so than I am? Couldn't they go years without having a seizure, and then have one??  It doesn't make sense.  After I explained what I was trying to say for 15 minutes, we decided to wait a little longer and make sure my disease stabilizes. "We will revisit the issue Sarah".  Ok, fine, whatever. At least I finally had some sort of answer.

The other thing that made me angry was every time I go into that place, I get a different story about what's going on in my brain.  And the truth of the matter is, they don't know. At first they told me the tumour has been fully resected, and there was cancerous activity still in the brain, and so hello chemo.  Then they told me today that these types of tumours are never fully resected and there are always tumour(s) present in my brain.  Well what the hell does this mean?  Obviously this is some cancer dialect that I haven't learned to speak yet.  Lingo aside, there is some serious lack of open dialogue going on.  The only open dialogue we had was joking about my oncologist's recently acquired dry cough, which he said was due to hormonal changes. Hormonal changes??!!  HAHAHAHA pal, we're just joking!! These oncologists are waaay to uptight.  Try some tequila. That ought to do to the trick. Hahaha, hormal changes. That's awesome. 

I also read about the newest clinical trial.  They are looking at my exact tumour type.  There are three groups: 1) Radiotherapy alone, 2) Radiotherapy + chemo, and 3) Chemo alone.  They are doing the study because they don't know which treatments are better.   The study will take 6.5 years, and the results will be ready in 15.  I was so enraged by this, I had tears in my eyes.  Even though I'm not formally part of the trail, I look around the room, and half of the patients might not have 15 years.  15 years?? Are they serious??!! 15 years is precious, precious time to a cancer patient.  I understand that clinical trails are a must in order to further medicine.  I get it.  The scary thing about cancer is that they actually just don't know.  I read all the crap about the study, and all I could think about was, this is bullshit, they are gambling with people's lives.  It's just a bunch of fluff, and at the end of the day, it's not good enough, and this time it's personal.  And even though I'm not officially part of the trial, I have this exact tumour, and I'm taking chemo only.  I am in group 3, and so they are gambling with my life.  I'm 25 people.  I think what if one of these people loses a loved one because they didn't get the best treatment regime? "Um yeah, so we found that radiation and chemo is the best treatment, sorry about that everyone."  We're all guinea pigs.  And maybe some people have different opinions about clinical trials, and I'm all for research, but it's different when it's personal. 

To the last part of business. My blood counts are so so.  My neutrophils and white blood cells tanked.  For those of you who don't speak cancer, that basically means I don't have an immune system. I need to get myself a bubble.  So my oncologist had to reduce my dose.  Let's just be clear here, since they botched my weight last time I was there, they overdosed me, so that's why my levels plummeted.  Such brilliance, it boggles the mind.  But I got cleared for round 3...so here we go again.  Then we waited for what seemed like an eternity at the hospital pharmacy.  I have filled a prescription there before, twice to be exact, and it still takes 2 hours.  They have like 20 people back there, and we're at Princess Margaret, the cancer mecca of the world, it's a jackpot for chemo drugs!!  I have half my brain missing, and I swear to god, I could have done it faster. And by 5:30, I was finally on my way home. 

I also just want to give a shout out to everyone that has been following my journey and reading my blog.  I know some posts are a little on the long side! :) Thank for all the love and support.  You keep me strong. Love to all. xo

Round 2

I knew the dreaded date: Feb 2 was coming up soon.  I thought maybe we'd just skip it.  In fact, we almost did skip it because of the so-called snowstorm.  The day started off well.  I got up to a winter wonderland, and was feeling pretty damn good.  I had survived my first month of this BS pretty well, so I was gearing down for this month.  I actually wore jeans to the hospital.  For those of you who know me well, that was miracle in itself.  I also wore my "Fuck Cancer" shirt.  Well it actually says "F--- Cancer".  Same difference.  Some people gave me strange looks...and others (especially in the brain centre)  thought it was awesome.  The social coordinator pointed out her bracelet, which says: "Fucking Cancer".  Amazing. I'm getting one. Maybe a tattoo.  Anyways, I wore that shirt (my little bro gave it to me <3), so here we go!


Before I go into my day, I first walked into PMH, and there was a little show going on - piano, singer and all these chairs set up for patients.  Ok, it was a nice touch, but do they think that's going to make people forget they have cancer?! Whatever.  Anyways, when we got to the hospital, the lineup for the blood lab was short.  Another first.  I was also getting only one vial drawn for the blood count.  I've never had one vial drawn in my life.  Ever.  I'm feeling like this is going to be a good day.  I put pressure on the gauze as always, and as I'm making my way back over to my Mom, I notice that I've bled right through the gauze.  Mayday. What the hell is going on??!!!  As a science student, I've studied what happens when your platelets tank, but never experienced it.  Until today.  Platelets tank = you bleed!! So I knew before I saw the oncologist that my platelets had tanked.  Common bone marrow.  That's when things went down hill.

I made my way up to the brain tumour centre, which looks seriously like a hotel lobby.  Hardwood floors, plush furniture, two waiting rooms complete with TV, oh, and a tea/coffee bar, and mood lighting. I'm sitting, watching the snow fall, waiting for my 2:15pm appointment, and I begin to realize why I hate my visits.  First, going back to the hospital for an MRI, blood work or an oncology appointment is like a slap in the face.  Reality hits you like a mac truck.  Possibly 10.  You go on with your life as "normal", and you feel fine, except it's all a lie.  I'm not fine, and so each month when I have to go back, I feel the weight of the fight I'm supposed to battle.  I fight I feel should not be mine.  And I begin to wonder if I can make it through the next 10 cycles.  And of course, I know I have too, because I have no other option.  Second, I take a glance around the room, and there are some very sick people at the brain centre.  Some are dealing with treatments like heroes, some you can see are struggling, others are proud of their new hair, and some are just shells of the person they once were.  I begin to wonder who these people are, what there lives are like, are they married, do they have children...and how we sadly all share something in common: cancer.  Fucking cancer.  Excuse my french.  

The secretary weighed me (they base the chemo dosing on weight), and apparently I've gained 8 lbs.  8 freakin' lbs???!!!! I think the secretary might have been drunk.  It's not the weight that bothers me, I've never  been a chick who was OCD about her weight.  What bothers me is that I've always been fit, I've been running and gymin it for years.  I felt fit.  I felt good.  And for those of you who understand the running addiction, you understand that if you don't run for a week, you feel gross. Like you've gained 600 lbs.  However, it seems unreasonable to have gained 8 lbs in a month.  I eat broccoli and drink green tea, gimme a break!

I wait forever to see my oncologist, who has the emotional capacity of a pea (My Mom had to clarify that I spelt this p-e-a, not p-e-e!! Hahaha!).  Finally, he comes in and says "Hi, feeling good through the last month? You're blood work looks good, we're going to start round 2. Any questions?" Umm ok wow.  Thanks.  He increased my Temodar dose to 310mg this month (from 235mg last month). Well hold onto your hats! Oh, and my driver's license has been officially revoked for a year. O-M-G.  I'm going to go freakin' IN-sane!  I feel like a 17 yr old teenager, asking their parents to drive them to the movies. Lame.  All my blood work was good, my levels had all dropped, but still within the normal range.  My platelets tanked approximately 200 something in a month.  If they drop another 200 this month, I'm going to have negative platelets.  A medical miracle no doubt.

Finally, filling prescription at the PMH pharmacy is an administrative nightmare.  My insurance plan doesn't cover chemo drugs because they cost a gazillion dollars, so I had to apply for more coverage.  Apparently, a letter needs to be sent confirming I've maxed it out or something like that.  So I couldn't get my drugs covered. Pain in my ass.  Nurse Ratchet aka Mom is going to get on that.

That was my day.  I'm exhausted.  I start round 2 tomorrow. Let's do this.

Point for Sarah

I finished my first cycle of chemo (Temodar: 235mg for 5 days - 75% of the maximal dose) on Monday.  Other than my digestive system being really pissed off, some nausea and being tiiireeeeeddd, it went as good as could be expected and I have to say I'm a little relieved.  Cycle 1 down.  11 more to go.

The C-Word: A Rant

I was inspired to write this blog by two other posts I read on PC that really hit home.  Ok, so I know I’ve been positive Sally up to this point.  But I need to get something things off my chest. As a 25- year old cancer patient, there are a lot of things I think about but don’t necessarily say, because it's kind of depressing.  So I’m just going to throw them out there, and hope that maybe some of you can relate.

Some people have said it’s easier if you’re the patient, because as a patient, you do whatever it takes, you find the strength, because at the end of the day, what choice do you have? Cancer is a disease that strips away any sense of control, and I know my family feels helpless.  Like any parent, they wishthey could change it, switch places, or control it, and I’m sure this is not at all what they had in mind.   Although itmay be “easier” to be the patient, I also indirectly carry the weight of my family.

I have THE greatest friends any girl could ask for.  Hands down.  However, I feel completely isolated from my closest friends.  I feel like I’m on another planet – Planet Cancer. Hahaha. Some get it, and others miss the point entirely.  It’s frustrating when I feel like I have to spell it out (to anyone) at least 15 times: “I have cancer. I can’t take an advil, and be better in 3 months.  I’m fighting like hell, because cancer CAN kill, and my cancer is aggressive.”  Maybe I should get a t-shirt or something, or tattoo it on my forehead.  I know everyone is well intentioned, but as a cancer survivor put it so perfectly, I find myself praying they never do have to know.

My friends are going to bed at night thinking about school, exams, and boys, and I’m going to bed at night thinking whether or not I’m going to be around to raise my kids.  At 25, who the hell wants to munch on that pleasant tidbit?  Simple pleasures in life that everyone takes for granted: Having a career, a sweet ass condo, getting married, having kids, grandkids…are now precious life milestones.  If someone would have asked me a year ago, do you plan to have kids? I would have said of course, duh.  Just like other girls my age.  Now that has become a fight.  At 25, cancer is trying to take things from me.   Let’s take a beak from doom and gloom for a moment, I’m not saying I’ll never have a career, get a sweet single-lady pad, get married, or have kids. In fact, I've already decided that cancer is not going to take those things from me. I will have all those things.  My point is I have to fight like hell for them. It’s just more complicated now.

Another sore spot: healthy people with normal lives.  I’m at that age where it seems as though everyone and their dog are moving on with their lives: getting jobs, buying, houses, getting engaged, and getting married. Blah, blah, blah.  This makes me angry, and sad.   This may sound harsh, but of course I am genuinely happy for them.  Of course.  I am a nice person, really.  And it’s not so much an issue of jealously, it’s about me missing, mourning my old life.  Before cancer, I wanted, and was looking forward to all those things too.  Before cancer, I was focused on getting a job, moving out, getting a puppy (a life long dream!), and hitting the town with friends, and soaking it all in…talk about back burner.  My focus now is beating cancer. My “new” normal now consists ofMRI scans, being bffs with my oncology team, and taking 28 pills a day. Who in their right mind would want that?  Forget it! I know eventually I’ll get back there.  I’ll get back to “normal”.  And I know I’ll have all the things I had planned before all of this.  And I look forward to that.  But I still get angry over a life that so quickly changed – cancer didn’t even ask my permission.  Rude.

So to all of you “normal, healthy” people: take nothing for granted. Don’t waste time being angry about the small things – it’s not worth it. Ever. Trust me.  Be thankful for your health, because without it, you have nothing. Tell the people closest to you that you love them.  And every time you do something as simple as brush your hair, go for a run, or have beer at the bar, take a moment.

To be clear: I AM getting on with my life.  I AM looking for a job (I’m thinking Peter Munk Cardiac Center). I AM going to get a condo (I’m thinking Toronto Beaches).  I AM going to get a dog (Feedo – My Mom thought this was the correct pronunciation of “Fido”).  I AM going to get married (Groom: TBA. Now accepting applications) and I WILL have kids (dependent on previous).  Cancer will not bring me to my knees. FigNewton, in case you didn’t know, you’re not paying rent, so get the %&*$ out! Much appreciated, Sarah. 

I’d like to end this rant by saying that I know I have a good prognosis, and I am beyond thankful.  I’m thankful for that everyday.  I know there are people out there who are battling and fighting much worse, and that keeps me fighting.  I’m lucky to have the chance at a “normal” life.