For This Next Dance With Chemo, I’ll Be Wearing My Blue Suede Shoes

About three weeks ago I started getting winded on the elliptical and even climbing a single flight of stairs left me out of breath; soon after I noticed my right leg looked and felt noticeably larger than the left. I went to the ER, where they ran bloodwork, an ECG, a Doppler ultrasound, and a chest CT, but nothing obvious turned up. I was sent home with instructions to keep my leg elevated and to return if my swelling or breathing worsened.

Fast forward to four days ago: the swelling intensified dramatically and my right leg gained about 2.5 kg in a couple of days. My GP ordered urgent imaging, and when the earliest Doppler appointment was six days away, I returned to the ER. A CT of my abdomen and pelvis revealed the cause: two enlarged lymph nodes were compressing my inferior vena cava (IVC), creating back pressure into the common iliac veins and causing massive swelling in my right leg that was now creeping into my abdomen. Without treatment to restore IVC blood flow, I faced the risk of blood clots that could lead to pulmonary embolism, kidney failure, or cardiogenic shock, so time was critical.

Hospital logistics were difficult. After admission I was placed in a makeshift room near the ambulance bay — out of sight and, it seemed, out of mind. My IV never flowed properly, I became dehydrated, and I went more than 12 hours without being seen by a doctor. When my partner Jon visited the next morning and realized what had happened, he advocated for me while I was too exhausted and weak to push, and finally an Internal Medicine physician arrived and set the plan in motion. Thirty-three hours after my ER visit, I was transferred to the Arthur J.E. Child Comprehensive Cancer Centre for an abdominal angioplasty, radiation planning, and a meeting with my medical oncologist.

The EMTs who transported me were a hoot, which helped—humour is underrated in stretcher-side company. Once I settled into my new room and learned surgery was scheduled for the next day, I promptly ordered dinner; I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in over 34 hours and was starting to fantasize about all types of dessert. Clearly, those weren’t on the hospital menu.

Yesterday I underwent angioplasty. I’ll admit I was anxious. I mean, who wouldn’t be when someone is shoving tubing down your neck to your heart’s biggest vein, which was described to me by the surgeon as being a strong as a wet paper towel, compared to arteries which are stronger, like dry paper towel. Even though the team were lighthearted and funny, I still asked for some “happy juice”. The surgeon measured a 12 mmHg pressure difference across the IVC narrowing, well above the usual intervention threshold of about 3 mmHg. He first tried a 10 mm balloon, then a 12 mm balloon; each inflation produced referred pain low in my abdomen and back, a surreal and immediate reminder of how the body communicates (and how it likes to send strongly worded feedback). The angioplasty reduced the pressure but could not fully restore flow without unacceptable risk, so they stopped when the differential reached 7 mmHg. The surgeon considered this a successful outcome. Not only do I already feel some relief, and notice a difference in my leg’s size, I came away with some pretty fun photos of the experience!

My medical oncologist visited the same day and explained that I will be adding a HER2-targeted antibody-drug conjugate called Enhertu to my treatment, administered intravenously alongside my two existing immunotherapies. An ADC attaches a chemotherapy payload to a targeting antibody such as Herceptin, delivering the drug directly to the cancer cell’s HER2 receptor; this approach kills cancer cells faster than immunotherapy alone and generally has somewhat milder systemic effects than traditional chemotherapy. Still, common side effects include nausea and hair loss, and there is a serious risk of interstitial lung disease, so I cried when we discussed it. I’ve come off my hormone therapy as it has failed me. My first Enhertu treatment is scheduled for March 3, 2026.

This morning, I had radiation mapping. It is my fifth course of radiation to various parts of my body, and I received the new “tattoos,” little purply-black dots inked into my skin to ensure perfect alignment in the radiation machine. They’re not glamorous, but they are precise. I will receive 5 rounds of high-dose radiation, which will start roughly one week after my first chemo infusion.

The hardest part of all this was telling the kids. Jon and I planned an age-appropriate conversation; he explained the surgery and radiation before visiting me in the hospital, and they had several questions, especially about the one‑inch incision in my neck visible beneath a clear dressing. I also showed them the photos of the OR as they were prepping for the procedure, so between seeing those pictures and seeing me awake, mobile, and in minimal pain, they felt somewhat better.

After answering their questions, I told them I would be starting a chemo given with my other immunotherapies and that I would likely lose my hair. They both teared up briefly, but Victoria immediately asked if I would donate my hair to a charity that makes wigs and even produced a measuring tape from her purse to confirm it was long enough. Nicolas asked if he could help cut it, and I told him he could assist once the hair was properly prepared for donation. Jon joked that once my hair fell out, they should wax my head to make it shine like a bowling ball, and by the end of the conversation I somehow had agreed to let the kids “bedazzle” my bald head. Their strange, tender humour steadied me.

This afternoon I received a summary of next steps and was advised of who was joining my medical team. This included the radiation oncologist I met earlier, and referrals were also made to a vascular surgeon, an interventional radiologist, and a lymphedema therapist. I feel well supported. Along with my discharge papers, I was given a “Green Sleeve,” Alberta Health Services’ medically recognized pouch containing my Personal Directive, which should now be displayed on my fridge for EMTs in the event of an emergency, and brought to any medical encounter. It was a stark reminder of how fragile my life is.

In a few minutes, I turn 53. It’s almost seven years to the day when I was first told I had cancer and had my first “dance” with chemotherapy. Now, I am getting ready to step back onto the floor; the choreography is different now—an ongoing duet with cancer—but I refuse to sit out. I am lacing up my metaphorical blue suede shoes, tying my hair into a last ponytail, and choosing songs that help me stand taller and face this challenge, such as Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” and Keala Settle’s “This Is Me.” (Read my This Is Me! blog if you haven’t already!) I will keep dancing until research taps me on the shoulder, takes the lead, trips cancer, and makes it fall. Until then, I will move to the music, surrounded by the people I love and the medical team helping me keep the beat.

Did you know that it’s my birthday? You can send me a gift here!