I initially started this blog to document my cancer journey, thinking it would have a clear beginning and end. Spoiler alert: cancer had other plans. When we found out my cancer had already metastasized and...
Give a gift of hope
I am deeply grateful for any support you can provide—it truly means the world to me. As a terminally ill single mom to two energetic kids and a rambunctious Jack Russell, life is incredibly challenging....
In the news
I’m a natural sharer, and I’m always ready to speak out about the challenges I face as a cancer patient. Below is a collection of interviews and media pieces where I’ve used my story to...
My story
In February 2019, I found a lump in my breast while showering. Four weeks later, after seeing my GP, getting a mammogram, ultrasound and having a biopsy of my breast and lymph nodes, I heard...
My blog
I initially started this blog to document my cancer journey, thinking it would have a clear beginning and end. Spoiler alert: cancer had other plans. When we found out my cancer had already metastasized and would stick with me for life (literally), this blog became so much more. Now, it’s a space where I share almost everything—from the side effects of treatment to advocating for better cancer care and increased research funding, and even my random musings. It’s a way for friends, family, fellow cancer patients, and caregivers to stay in the loop about how I’m doing and how I’m using my voice to make life just a little bit better for those touched by cancer.
Yes, it shows my vulnerability, but I also try to keep things real with a touch of humour—because, let’s face it, telling people you have cancer (let alone terminal cancer) can be the ultimate conversation killer. I hope my posts take away some of the awkwardness that comes with being an “expert cancer maker.”
If you think someone could benefit from this blog, feel free to share the link! To make sure you don’t miss any new posts, you can sign up to follow my blog, and you’ll get email notifications whenever I post something new. Don’t worry—while palliative treatments aren’t exactly a paying gig, I promise never to sell your email to the highest bidder. It’s strictly for blog updates.
PS: if you enjoy what you read and want to show your support, feel free to buy me a coffee. Your kindness and encouragement mean the world to me—plus, caffeine always helps!
Give a gift of hope
I am deeply grateful for any support you can provide—it truly means the world to me. As a terminally ill single mom to two energetic kids and a rambunctious Jack Russell, life is incredibly challenging. Balancing life-threatening health issues while trying to make ends meet on a fixed disability income has been nothing short of overwhelming. Your generosity isn’t just a helping hand; it’s a lifeline that keeps us going.
Here’s how you can make a difference in our day-to-day lives:
Fuel my mornings: A little coffee and a treat make a huge difference. My favorite pick-me-up from the local coffee shop is around $10—and trust me, the world is a better place when I’m caffeinated!
Fuel my car: With $20 a week, you’re not just putting gas in my tank—you’re helping me get to critical medical appointments and cancer treatments.
Fuel my family: Feeding two rapidly growing kids (who eat like they’re preparing for the NFL!) costs about $200 a week. Your help keeps us nourished and strong.
Fuel my fight: Life-saving medications that aren’t covered by insurance cost a staggering $400–$500 a month. Every contribution helps ease this burden and keeps me in the fight.
If you’d prefer to help with gift cards instead, I do most of our grocery shopping at Real Canadian Superstore, and I rely on Amazon Canada for clothing and household essentials.
Thank you for being part of helping my kids and I turn my lemons into lemonade.
In the news
I’m a natural sharer, and I’m always ready to speak out about the challenges I face as a cancer patient. Below is a collection of interviews and media pieces where I’ve used my story to advocate for better cancer care and increased research funding. It may be too late for me, but by shining light on these critical issues, we can help ensure others won’t have to endure the same fate.
OncoDaily Medical Journal. (2024, February 22). Paula Gordon: If Just One Woman Advocates for herself, and gets an early diagnosis, you’ll have done a mitzvah. OncoDaily Blog. Retrieved from OncoDaily Medical Journal
Tomlinson, J. (2024, February 14). “Younger and younger”: Radiologist calls for updated cancer screening. Retrieved from Global News
CBC News: The National. Ontario to lower age for regular breast cancer screenings to 40 [Video file]. (2023, October 30). Retrieved from CBC News – The National’s YouTube Channel
CBC News: The National. Breast cancer screenings should start at 40, medical task force says [Video file]. (2023, May 9). Retrieved from CBC News – The National’s YouTube Channel
Why we Boobyball and why you should too. Rethink Breast Cancer. (2020, January 3). https://rethinkbreastcancer.com/why-we-boobyball-and-why-you-should-too/
If I had to sum up 2024 in a single word, it would be dichotomies. This year was a relentless seesaw of challenges and triumphs, sorrow and joy, hardship and resilience. It tested me in every way possible, yet it also unveiled moments of profound pride, beauty, and love. Turns out, life really is a mixed bag, or in this case mixed drink—equal parts sour lemons and sweet lemonade, shaken up into an unintentional mystery smoothie.
The lemons of 2024 🍋
Last year served up its fair share of sour lemons. It started with the unrelenting progression of my cancer. For the third time, the disease found its way to my hip, leaving me reliant on crutches and a cane for over a month. New tumours appeared in my upper left lung and pre-vascular and supraclavicular lymph nodes, close to very important blood vessels. A nerve-wracking biopsy targeted a node near my jugular vein—an option slightly less risky than one closer to my carotid artery. Because who doesn’t love choosing the “slightly less terrifying” option?
With this progression, a scan of my hip revealed a potential “hip hardware” malfunction—one that carried the terrifying risk of severing my femoral artery. Needless to say, my oncologist immediately sent me to the ER, initiating a grueling 17+ hour marathon of uncertainty and worry. Meanwhile, adjustments to my treatment—switching from Tamoxifen to Letrozole—brought their own challenges. I found myself grappling with the unsettling possibility that if this hormonal therapy failed, the underlying issue would point to my HER2-targeting immunotherapies. In that case, lifelong chemotherapy would be my only option—an outcome that honestly sounds worse than a life sentence in prison. And then there was the weight gain. Let’s just say the bathroom scale and I are no longer on speaking terms—a mutual breakup for the sake of my sanity.
The fun never seemed to stop. In late June, I faced a life-threatening bilateral pulmonary embolism (PE) while walking our Jack Russells. A good Samaritan found me sitting on a rock outside a stranger’s house and called an ambulance, quite literally saving my life. After three nights in the hospital, I discharged myself earlier than advised because, as any mom knows, sometimes “mom duty” trumps even life-threatening emergencies. Superheroes wear capes; moms leave hospitals early to welcome their kids back home. Weeks later, similar pains sent me back to the ER. Although already on blood thinners, I learned how cancer significantly increases the risk of deep vein thrombosis (DVT), which caused the PE. July added another ER visit to my repertoire, this time for a DVT in my leg. Though the treatment didn’t change, the ER team’s vigilance and care reminded me of the life-saving importance of small decisions—like simply seeking help when it’s needed. Spoiler alert: stubbornness doesn’t actually cure anything.
The tell-tale signs of a DVT.
September and November brought yet more challenges. My daughter and I first caught COVID. The anti-viral infusions left me too weak to resume cancer treatment for six weeks. In November, H1N1 took me down before I could get a flu shot, resulting in yet another ER visit. Clearly, my immune system and I were not on the same page about vaccinations this year. I was finally able to get my jabs in December, which will hopefully shut down any viruses looking for a date in 2025.
The hardest goodbye of the year came when we lost Skoki, our spirited Jack Russell. He declined quickly, losing weight and appetite, leaving us no choice but to let him go. On his final day, we surrounded him with love, captured keepsakes like paw prints and fur clippings, and let the tears flow freely. Jon’s support during this heartbreaking time was everything to the kids and me. Skoki may be gone, but his spunky spirit remains a cherished part of our family. I imagine him now, chasing endless tennis balls, chewing on rocks and reuniting with Murano—his half-brother—in doggy heaven, where the treats never run out, and the rabbits and magpies are just slow enough to catch.
2024’s best lemonades 🍹
One of my proudest moments this year was watching my kids, with the unwavering support of family and friends, raise an impressive $23,150 for their Terry Fox School Run. This brings their cumulative total to nearly $59,000 since kindergarten—a figure that could make a corporate fundraiser blush. Their passion for raising money for cancer research never ceases to amaze me. This year, they upped the ante by personally inviting Darrell Fox, Terry’s younger brother, to visit their school. My son, never one to miss an opportunity, had a specific request for Darrell: to make sure everyone knew exactly who had invited him. Darrell, clearly charmed by their enthusiasm, flew out to speak about Terry’s Marathon of Hope and didn’t miss the chance to fulfill my son’s cheeky request. Seeing their dedication fills me with immeasurable pride. My kids are living proof that even in tough times, hope runs strong—both figuratively and literally.
Since extensive travel isn’t feasible due to my treatments, we embraced the magic of staycations. We spent most of the summer in Radium, soaking up its natural beauty and creating cherished memories. Cousins Paul and Shawn visited for a long weekend and Jon spent considerable time with us over the course of the summer. Just before school started, we treated ourselves to an unforgettable adventure at the Golden Skybridge, home to Canada’s two highest suspension bridges, zip lines, and breathtaking views. Jon and my son cheered my daughter and I as we faced some of our fears. The laughter and joy of that day will stay with me forever. It turns out screaming “Don’t look down!” is a great family bonding activity.
Time to face our fear of heights!
This summer also wowed us with wonders in the skies, marveling at the aurora borealis on several magical nights. As fall set in, we camped out in our backyard, creating cozy, unforgettable moments with flashlights and layers upon layers of clothing. Who needs five-star hotels when you’ve got a tent and flashlights?
I can’t close without highlighting something I’m incredibly proud of: advocating for better cancer care in Canada. After years of sharing my breast cancer diagnosis story, this year was marked by a deeper level of involvement with politicians at both the provincial and federal levels. Through multiple news interviews, social media posts, email exchanges with the Public Health Agency of Canada’s leadership, and testimony briefs submitted to the House of Commons Standing Committee on Health, I felt my voice was heard. A powerful moment came when my testimony briefs were footnoted twice in the Committee’s final report, Saving More Lives: Improving Guidance, Increasing Access, and Achieving Better Outcomes in Breast Cancer Screening. It was such a moment of validation, knowing that my efforts were making a difference, that I dedicated a blog post to it.
So here’s what 2024 taught me: even in the midst of sour lemons, there’s always the potential for sweet lemonade—sometimes with a twist of humour and a generous splash of gratitude.
Cheers to welcoming 2025!
As you’ve read, 2024 has been a challenging year, though I’ve chosen not to dwell on the financial struggles it’s brought. In a recent City TV News interview, I shared some of the tough decisions I’ve faced. If you feel moved to make a difference, I invite you to send a gift through my Gift of Hope page. Your support would have a tremendous impact to our family.
Over the past five years, I’ve gained a great deal of experience advocating for change with politicians. But this year, for the first time, I truly felt that my voice was heard—and today, I saw firsthand how it can make a tangible difference.
In my previous post, I shared that I submitted two briefs to the House of Commons Standing Committee. The first was in January 2024, where I detailed how the 2018 Breast Cancer Screening Guidelines failed me. I explained the physical, emotional, and financial toll it took on me and my family, and concluded by proposing two key changes I hoped to see in the updated 2024 guidelines. In June, I submitted my second brief, focused on specific concerns with the proposed updates, offering practical recommendations to address them.
While the report doesn’t fully address all of my concerns, it does tackle many of them. As an individual patient, it’s encouraging to see that my voice has contributed to this shift. However, the report is only as meaningful as the actions that follow. It’s now up to the government to implement the changes outlined within it.
If we want to see real change, we must continue to advocate—not just for ourselves or for those who will be diagnosed with cancer in the future, but also to honour those who have paved the way but are no longer with us. Their efforts, too, deserve to be recognized and carried forward.
As I sat at home this weekend, knowing the hearing at the House of Commons starting today, regarding the newly proposed Breast Cancer Screening Guidelines. …
Learn how my two immunotherapies work together to extend my life.
My story
In February 2019, I found a lump in my breast while showering. Four weeks later, after seeing my GP, getting a mammogram, ultrasound and having a biopsy of my breast and lymph nodes, I heard the words:
“You have cancer.”
My oncologist at the Tom Baker Cancer Institute
It couldn’t be true. I was healthy. I was in shape and competed for Team Canada’s snowboarding race team. I never smoked. I ate well. I had everything going for me: an incredible family with an amazing husband, two young children and two dogs, a new job Vice-President job, teaching part-time in university and part way through a Masters of Science degree from HEC Paris. Unfortunately, my oncologist told me my life would be paused. I have triple-positive breast cancer, which is considered to be one of the more aggressive types. Treatment was to start right away.
Part-way through my chemo treatments, I found out the cancer was actually in my bones. It had been there all along. I have stage 4 breast cancer. There is no cure for it; it is terminal. My prognosis is grim, with only 22% chance of living the next 5 years and an average life expectancy between 2 to 3 years.
My estimated “expiry date” is somewhere between February 2021 and February 2022.
But I try not to think about that!
I went through five months of aggressive chemo, a mastectomy, radiation to my chest followed four weeks later by spinal radiation. I also began daily hormone therapy and hormone therapy. The treatments, combined with my pre-existing narcolepsy was horrible and I was bedridden from mid-November 2019 until mid-February 2020. There were days that I was so weak, it terrified me. I truly thought that I would fall asleep to never wake up again. I now receive palliative care, which continues to include daily hormone therapy, two targeted therapy infusions every three weeks as well as a quarterly bone modifying agent infusion quarterly.
Just as I started regaining my energy back in March 2019, COVID-19 lockdown was announced. The stress of homeschooling and the inability to attend my regular physical and lymphatic therapies set me back in my recovery. The pain, exhaustion and stress on my body was unlike anything I ever experienced. And that doesn’t factor in the innumerable appointments with my oncologists, various specialists who deal with treatment side effects and the quarterly CT, bone and MRI scans. Being a terminal cancer patient is truly a full time job.
My view in life is to find the silver linings in things. I’ve been given some rotten lemons, yet I am finding ways to turn them into lemonade. I won’t let cancer ruin the little time I have left with my family.
