Cancer can suck my lemons!
If you are following this page, you clearly know my story and are following my trials and tribulations of living with Stage 4 cancer.
The Alberta Cancer Foundation has been a great resource for me over the past 1.5 years. If you have the ability to donate today, all donations will be matched, so you will be making double the impact!
Here is the second part of my post. This portion talks about how I processed and eventually came to terms with knowing that seeing my kids grow up is statistically not in the cards for me.
Coming back to the evening of September 11, 2019, the day I found out my cancer had spread to my bones, I reached out to a friend who also has breast cancer. Even though I called right before dinner, she took time away from her husband and two young kids to speak with me. I talked and cried. She listened compassionately and then reminded me of another friend of ours had Stage 4 breast cancer with a similar diagnosis to mine. Between the three of us, we talked and texted for hours that night.
Over the course of the next week, I spoke to my medical oncologist, my surgeon, was referred to a neuro-oncologist and had more scans than I can remember. I was started on a hormone therapy that made sure that my chemo-induced menopause continued for life. I also started on a second targeted therapy called Perjeta, which in combination with Herceptin, binds to the protein receptors of the breast cancer cells, preventing them from receiving growth signals.
Typically, someone diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer would not get a mastectomy. There were now questions as to whether or not my surgery would proceed as planned. However, new research indicates there may be an advantage to removing the primary source of the cancer. Two weeks later, I had my mastectomy and said goodbye to one of my breasts and 6 lymph nodes. Chemo had already taken away my hair, eyelashes and eyebrows, which are important to my appearance, but at least those grow back. My right breast, however, was gone forever. It’s a scar that reminds daily of how fragile my life is.
Even though family, friends and community members were helping me every step of the way, I still felt isolated and alone. I was terrified. My emotions were following the ups, downs and twists of the wildest roller coaster ride imaginable. One day I thought I was fine and coping well and the next day I was sobbing hysterically. Working with a counsellor from the Psychosocial Oncology team and my GP Oncologist, I slowly regained control of my emotions.
Next up was radiation. I thought chemo was hard, but I had no idea how debilitating radiation would be. My first round of radiation was delivered with a Linear Accelerator (LINAC), one of the most commonly used machines for external radiation therapy. By my third of my 16 radiation fractions of my treatment, I was sleeping between 12 to 14 hours a day. By the time I was done my treatment on December 10, almost three and a half weeks later, I was virtually bedridden. And, side effects hadn’t hit their peak. It usually takes approximately three weeks for the full effects to hit, which meant I spent Christmas and New Year’s in bed. [Read my blog “What I’m doing about the cancer Grinch who stole my Christmas” here.]
My time to recuperate was short. On January 3, 2020, I had the radiation mapping for my spine. Less than three weeks later, I underwent two fractions of Stereotactic Body Radiation Therapy (SBRT) to my T11 vertebral metastasis (mets). This is a relatively new type of radiation therapy, which delivers very high doses of radiation to specific tumours that are in difficult or hard to reach areas. Because a higher dose is used, fewer fractions are needed. Don’t be fooled! It doesn’t mean the side effects are any less miserable. While SBRT didn’t leave me with burned and bleeding scars like LINAC did on my chest, nor did leave my back “tanned” in the same was my face was after my chest radiation, it caused other side effects. With the dosage I received, I now have ~15% risk a spinal compression fracture to my treated vertebrae. I also experienced unbearable exhaustion.
Because I hadn’t been through enough, I still needed more treatment. A final palliative treatment that was added to my regimen in January was a bone metabolism regulator, given to me via IV infusion (just like chemo) every 12 weeks. This treatment aims to slow the destruction of my bones by the cancer and to reduce the speed of my morbidity progression. On one hand, I want to live as long as possible. On the other, it’s still hard for me to think that the longer I live with breast cancer, the more likely I am to have debilitating pain from the bone mets. I try not to think of my life in a long-term setting anymore. I have decided to look no further than 3 months out.
It took me 6 months to get through “grieving” my old life. It was only in March that I truly came to terms with the fact that I would never work or teach again, wouldn’t finish my second Master’s degree, nor do sports or travel as I did before. I reluctantly accepted that and that I possibly would not see my son turn 5 and most likely not see him turn 6. It became increasingly clear I have a limited time to spend quality time with my family and friends. My epiphany was that I need to do exactly that while I have my health. I’ve come to realize that I don’t know how I will feel or what I will be able to physically 6 or 12 months from now. Once I accepted this new reality, I was finally able to redefine how I fit into a world where my life had completely changed. Now that I am focusing on having meaningful experiences, I know I am building lifelong memories. That’s what drove my blog’s rebrand a few months ago.
Did you find the post useful for yourself or a loved one? If so, feel free to buy me a coffee or contribute towards some of my uninsured medical expenses.
September 11, 2019 will always be etched in my memory. I was walking downtown, returning from an appointment, when I began feeling chest pains, my heart was pounding, heart rate spiked to 144 beats per minute and I could barely catch my breath. Something was very wrong. I happened to be across the street from the Calgary courthouse, where I knew they would be able to call an ambulance for me. I walked inside of the courthouse entrance, sat on a bench and then slumped to the ground. Within seconds, security was attending to me and called 911.
I was on a stretcher outside the ambulance bay waiting to be admitted, when I saw a friend of mine. She is an EMT and was talking to her colleague. I updated her on what was happening and told her my husband was on his way. She promised to come find me as soon as she returned from her next call.
In the meantime, my husband arrived and waited with me as I went through multiple tests: ECGs, urine tests, bloodwork and a chest x-ray. It was nearing the end of the school day, so my husband had to leave to pick up our 5 year-old from the bus stop and our 3 year-old from daycare. Shortly after he left, I was taken in for a CT scan to rule out a pulmonary embolism, which can be a life-threatening side effect of the chemo drugs and targeted therapy I was receiving.
When the doctor came back with the results, he sat down. I immediately knew it going to be a longer conversation than “everything looks good”. Just as he started walking me through the radiology report, my EMT friend popped her head into the room. She saw the ER doctor sitting with me, apologized and was about to leave. I called her back in and told her my husband had left to pick the kids up and that I believed I would need a friend in the room for the news I was about to receive. The doctor nodded, she sat beside me and held my hand as the doctor let me know my cancer had spread to my bones: my T11 vertebrae, fifth right rib and sternum.
My heart sank and my eyes swelled with tears. The oncology department had just closed for the day, so the ER doctor sent a note to my oncologist to follow up with me in the morning. I was then discharged.
My head was spinning and I couldn’t think straight. I texted a friend of mine to see if she could pick me up from the hospital. I also texted her I had no clothes.
If you are wondering about the “no clothes” text I sent, you aren’t the only one. Imagine being my friend who was at the hairdresser when received my text message. She didn’t know why I was at the hospital and to top if all off, she was wondering why I was there with no clothes!
Before my husband left to pick the children up, he thoughtfully asked me if I wanted him to take the bag that was sitting on the floor beside the hospital bed so I’d have less to carry back with me. I said yes. When I was discharged and attempted to get dressed, I realized the bag I told him to take had my bra, top and sweater in. I only had jeans, my socks and my shoes left with me! Thankfully, my EMT friend was still with me in the room and was able to find me a white t-shirt, which apparently hospitals usually have on hand in case they have to cut a patient’s clothes off. Despite how horrible a day that was for me, this part of my story always makes me giggle.
When I got home, I told my husband I simply couldn’t face the kids without crying. I was too shaken up and everything around me seemed surreal and moving in slow motion. That night, after the kids went to bed, my husband and I talked.
“Maybe it’s a mistake.”
“Maybe it’s something else.”
“It’s too early to tell. You are still getting chemo.”
I wished that was the case, however the words on the oncology report were very clear: . My husband urged me to not panic until I heard back from my oncologist the next day. I wasn’t panicked, but I needed to understand. I spent the evening on the phone with two incredible women I met in a local cancer group, emailed my oncologist and surgeon to let them know about my ER visit and then spent most of the night learning about Stage IV Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC). It’s incurable. It’s terminal.
At 8:15 am, my oncologist called. Although she wanted to do a full body bone and chest and abdominal MRIs, she told me that now that they know where the bone metastases were, they are faintly visible on my baseline scans taken just before treatment started.
“Natalie, It doesn’t look good.”
After reviewing the scans from ER, she suspected I was Stage IV all along. She wants going to request a second opinion on my from baseline scans done just before I started treatment earlier that year to and have them compared to the new ones I was about to have done. In October, at my regular oncology appointment, we reviewed the scan results. As she suspected, I was already Stage IV when I found my lump eight months earlier.
The median survival after receiving a metastatic breast cancer diagnosis in 2019 is three years, up from 18 months in 1970. Click to see stats from the Metastatic Breast Cancer Network
It was terrifying knowing that I was already eight months into what was most likely the last 24 to 36 months of my life. My treatment was adjusted from one that was with and intent to cure to palliative with the hopes of extending my life as long as possible.
I’m leaving you on a heavier note than I normally do. I need to set the context as to why I went silent and haven’t posted a blog yet this year. As we near the one year mark of finding out my real prognosis, I thought the timing was appropriate.
Part 2 of this blog will be posted shortly.
Are you following my journey and wonder how you can help? If so, you can always buy me a coffee or contribute towards some of my uninsured medical expenses.
Thinking back to this past year, I realize how much my family and I have been through. As a result of my cancer diagnosis, our lives will never be the same. Ever. However, it should get better, but medically, it doesn’t seem like it will slow down very much, even as I stabilize and get into a routine. I expect 2020 will still keep me very busy on the medical front and I need to plan my new life accordingly.
Before jumping into how I think 2020 might play out, I looked at what I went through, and what I think the next year will look like based on routine appointments. It’s not hard to figure it out when everything is in a digital calendar!
Before starting thinking about what the next year might look like so that I can set a few goals, I decided to reread my initial consultation notes with my medical oncologist. In those, I made two lifestyle commitments to her, which I will continue doing in 2020. With that, I set myself three goals for the upcoming year.
We discussed the benefits of exercise in breast cancer patients. I am also enrolled in two exercise. In a previous blog, wrote about the Alberta Cancer Exercise (ACE) study that I am enrolled in. You can read it here. I also was recruited into the Alberta Moving Beyond Breast Cancer (AMBER) Study. While this study does not require participating in exercise, as an active person, I will continue to follow the guidelines I was given when I was initially diagnosed with breast cancer: at least 30 minutes (ideally 60 minutes) of moderate to intense physical activity, 5 times a week, though daily activity was highly recommended.
Because I have triple positive breast cancer, I need to eat a balanced diet, though there are items that I need to avoid entirely, either because they interfere with the drugs I am using to stop estrogen, progesterone or the HER2 protein receptor from binging to my cancer. And, by doing that, it allows food to promote my cancer’s growth. So, I am committed to ensuring I continue to see my oncology dietician when I start new treatments or before adding new foods or supplements to my diet.
This will likely be the most difficult aspect of my upcoming year. How to live life within my new reality, where I will be getting ongoing treatments every 3 weeks, understanding my new limitations, building up my strength so that I can living life to its fullest and enjoy a quality of life with my family and within my new boundaries.
I don’t expect 2020 to be perfect by any stretch. I’ve lost too many things for that. However, I do expect to be able to find some peace with what I’ve lost and look for different ways to fill those gaps.
Do you find my posts inspiring? If so, feel free to buy me a coffee or contribute towards some of my uninsured medical expenses.
Segal, R. et al. Exercise for people with cancer: a clinical practice guideline. Current Oncology, [S.l.], v. 24, n. 1, p. 40-46, feb. 2017. ISSN 1718-7729. Available at: <https://current-oncology.com/index.php/oncology/article/view/3376>. Date accessed: 31 dec. 2019. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.3747/co.24.3376.
Tello, M. (2018, June 7). Exercise as part of cancer treatment. Retrieved from https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/exercise-as-part-of-cancer-treatment-2018061314035
I love Christmas. I always have. I love the eggnog, decorating the tree with the silver ornaments my parents gave me as an annual Christmas gift, listening to holiday songs. My daughter was also born on Christmas Day, so it’s an important holiday for me! But this year, cancer is my Grinch, preventing me from having what I consider a traditional one. I simply am physically unable to do it. And that is taking a huge emotional toll on me. Regardless, I’m looking for ways I can be involved by accepting my limitations this year and working within those new boundaries.
Throughout my entire treatments so far, which started in April, I never imagined having a Christmas like this one. Chemo went fairly well, and while it was hard on my body, I was usually strong enough to exercised daily. Everyone said radiation was a breeze compared to chemo, though admitted fatigue was toughest aspect of it. Based on the type of radiation, number of fractions (i.e. sessions) and dose I would be receiving, I was told my side effects would peak approximately two weeks after my last treatment. Since my radiation was scheduled daily from November 19 to December 10, I’d likely experience the worst of the side effects around Christmas Day. I’d have plenty of time to get ready for Christmas before the worst hit me. I had a plan!
For those who don’t know me, in addition to fighting cancer, I also have narcolepsy. As a result, I have been living and managing overwhelming fatigue daily for decades. In fact, I have even found times where my ability to adapt to life as a narcoleptic was actually a benefit. I never experience jet lag! The exhaustion women talk about during pregnancy and post-partum were some of the best times I had felt unmedicated. And, during chemo, I managed to exercise daily because I knew when my optimal times were. So, why wouldn’t I assume that I couldn’t tackle life during radiation like I did in times where I was told I’d be exhausted? Well, you know what they say about people who assume…
Having narcolepsy makes me part of a rare “club”. Only 0.07% of the population is estimated to have Narcolepsy.
SOURCE: Smallwoood, P., Quinn, D. K., & Stern, T. A. (2010). Ch. 22 – Patients with Disordered Sleep. In Massachusetts General Hospital Handbook of General Hospital Psychiatry (6th ed.). (p. 294)
Approximately 2,700 women were expected to be diagnosed with breast cancer in Alberta.
SOURCE: Canadian Cancer Society, Statistics Canada, & Public Health Agency of Canada. (2019). Canadian Cancer Statistics 2019. Canadian Cancer Statistics 2019. (p. 28) Canadian Cancer Society. Retrieved 20/12/2019 from https://www.cancer.ca/~/media/cancer.ca/CW/cancer information/cancer 101/Canadian cancer statistics/Canadian-Cancer-Statistics-2019-EN.pdf?la=en
That means that only 2 women diagnosed with breast cancer in all of Alberta will potentially have narcolepsy. It’s therefore no surprise that not one of the oncologists on my medical team has ever treated a narcoleptic patient before.
Three days after starting my radiation treatments, I had my first follow-up with my Radiation Oncologist. As soon as he asked how I was doing, I burst into tears, explaining that I was knocked out by the radiation and already sleeping 12-14 hours a day. And, that when awake, I simply didn’t have any extra energy to expend outside of getting myself to/from treatment. I was lucky if I could get a 15-minute walk in addition to getting myself from my bed to treatment and back. He confirmed that this was absolutely not normal, and after much deliberation, we are chalking it up to my radiation and narcolepsy not playing nicely together. Upon consulting with my Narcolepsy Specialist, it appears the one potential option that I had interferes with my hormone therapy, so it would be potentially life-threatening for me to take it.
With my best laid Christmas plans now unrealistic, it has taken me a while to come to terms with Christmas 2019. I cried when it was time to put the Christmas tree and decorations up in late November. They understood I was very tired, so we did it in stages over several days. I was wrecked but my kids were so excited and I’m glad I got to see the wonder and joy that Christmas brought to them.
But decorations are only the beginning of. In my state, online shopping was my only option. As I lie in bed typing this, I am looking at the oodles of boxes that need to be unpacked and wrapped. I am too tired to even see if we have wrapping supplies left as that requires me to walk to the basement. The thought of having to it makes me cry and want to vomit. The reason for so many boxes is that six of my in-laws are spending Christmas here from Ontario. I will enlist my sister- and mother-in-law to do the wrapping for me.
My parents-in-law have been here since December 14. Thank goodness! They have been taking a load off my husband by driving me to appointments, making meals and helping with the kids. Since their arrival, I have managed to sit through half-of a dinner with the family. I have eaten virtually every other meal in bed. If someone doesn’t bring me my food, I won’t eat. I’m too tired. As for Christmas events, I watched some videos my husband took of my son’s Christmas Concert as I simply couldn’t muster the energy to go. I did manage to attend my daughter’s one since it was early enough in the day and lasted less than an hour.
I started writing this blog December 7, when I realized how anxious I had become when the gift packages started rolling in. I knew then I had to reset my expectations for Christmas 2019, as well as manage my family’s expectations of me. I anticipate I’ll have to spend the majority of my time in bed and will socialize if I feel energetic enough to. I will participate in gift opening as best I can, but likely I won’t be able to be there for all of it. If I can sit down for a meal, I will. And, there won’t be any home cooking for Christmas dinner. We need to cater. I’m too wiped to even think about the details, however I believe my mother-in-law has taken this on. If she hasn’t, we will order pizza.
I’ve never had such mixed feelings about Christmas. My love for the holiday is still here. It’s perhaps buried under lots of emotions It makes me incredibly sad knowing that everyone came to celebrate. We expected my treatments to be over and back in April, I anticipated going back to work in the new year. My reality is quite different now and I am slowly accepting how Christmas 2019 will play out. Instead of being part of the action and celebrating, I will make an effort to soak in the kids giggling and the family laughing from my bedroom, where I will likely be drifting in and out of sleep.
Initially I was upset, but I realize that I shouldn’t be. I have an amazing and supportive family who will work Christmas around my ability to participate. I also know that by this time next year, I will look back and recognize that my body needs this rest so that 2020 can be a year I enjoyed.
Did you like this post? If so, feel free to buy me a coffee or contribute towards some of my uninsured medical expenses.
These were the words my five-year-old daughter (identified as V) was subjected to on her bus ride home on the first day of school this year. The morning school bus didn’t show up, so in a mad rush, I dropped her off in the schoolyard, without a hat or makeup. Thinking back, I must have looked scary to children who had never seen anyone going through chemotherapy.
My daughter was quite upset that evening and told me she tried to defend me by explaining that I had cancer and my medications had made me lose my hair. She tried assuring her bus-mates that it was temporary, and my hair would grow back. She told they continued to make fun of me, so she simply ignored them. I told her that I was very proud of her sticking up for me, especially in front of many older students and I told her ignoring them was an appropriate response.
That night, I wondered what I could do to prevent address this. After mulling through many different scenarios, I called the school the next morning and asked if they would be hosting a Terry Fox run as they had last year. The Vice-Principal confirmed they were. I explained what had happened to my daughter on the bus and wanted to turn it into something positive. I asked the school would consider having me as a guest speaker. I was hoping to explain what it is like to go through cancer treatments and how it affects everyone around me. I ensured her it would be a positive approach to living with cancer. She liked the idea, so we sprang into action. Her Terry Fox lead coordinated time with the students and I contacted the Alberta branch of the Terry Fox Foundation to see if they had any materials, information or facts I could use. They did. We met, they provided me what I needed to be successful, and just like that, I became a Terry Fox Ambassador!
My approach for my presentation was to talk about Terry Fox and how I remembered watching him as a child. Then, I would talk about my experience with cancer. I thought I was as prepared as I ever was to do these presentations at my daughter’s school. Who better knew my story than me? I since I was a national team snowboarder who represented Canada on the World Cup Circuit for 3 years, I thought this “cool factor” would make me more interesting to the students. Armed with a visual presentation and numerous interactive props that I could use with the children (my wigs, head scarves, a split pea in a bag (to show the size of my lump when I found it), and the best part… a replica of Terry Fox’ artificial leg! I was ready!
So much for that theory. I quickly learned in my first presentation that the hook wasn’t the snowboarding career I thought they would be attracted to. It was the two pictures of my family: one with hair from December, a few short months prior to my diagnosis, and one from August, fully bald in the thick of my diagnosis. That wasn’t the case. What captured their attention was V. If they didn’t know her personally, they had seen her around, so they knew of her. What they cared about was I was the mom with cancer of a student they were going to school with. That was what made me relatable and the presentations more interesting to them. So, I adapted accordingly.
My next incorrect assumption was that the younger kids would have the easiest questions and the older ones would possibly be more challenging. I started all my presentations that I was open to all the questions they had. Let me tell you, the youngest children definitely put me to the test. I realized afterwards that the children in the lower grades tended to be the most curious. And, since they do not necessarily understand social norms, they had no filters with their questions. The oldest students were the ones that require a bit more prompting to open the door for conversation. These students took their time thinking about every word they were using. You could almost see the “hamster wheel turning” as they decided whether or not a question was appropriate and how to ask it without upsetting or offending me. As someone who does a fair amount of public speaking in my professional life, I was surprised at how unpredictable questions are in developing young minds. Some of the questions that stick out in my mind are:
By the time I had done my presentations on the third day, some students were approaching me in the hallway to ask me questions they thought after I spoke to them. Some called out my name and waved to me as I was leaving the school and they saw me walking on the sidewalk beside their playground. V also told me that the two students who had made fun of her stopped being mean to her.
The following week, I ran the Terry Fox Run with my daughter. Every student had been given a sticker that identified who they were dedicated their run to. I noticed many students had written V’s name down. Initially, I thought it was only her classmates who had done this, but as we ran, many students who weren’t in her class stopped us to show us who they were running for. While some were for me, many were for V. That’s when I realized that the students understood that even though I am the one with cancer, the disease also impacts my family, my friends and our community. And I couldn’t have asked for a more rewarding validation of the impression left by the presentations I made.
If you found this post insightful, please feel free to buy me a coffee or contribute towards some of my uninsured medical expenses.