Milestones

When your life changes, there is before and there is after. The after is made up of milestones, some big, some small, some joyous, some not, that remind you that you're not the same. First Mother's Day after your baby is born, first job after you graduate, first Christmas in your new home, first positive pregnancy test after your miscarriage -- what is just an ordinary Tuesday to you may be a major milestone for someone else. 

When you are diagnosed with cancer, you are introduced to a whole new set of milestones. Anniversary of being diagnosed, number of treatments, end of treatment, test results, tumour marker levels, remission, etc. It is consuming and then all of a sudden it isn't. Real life starts to creep back in and you can go weeks, or months, without thinking about what milestone you've reached. 

I had been doing a really good job at not thinking about milestones, until I was not doing such a good job. I have a big milestone coming up; this spring will mark five years since I was diagnosed. Five years is a big deal. At five years, I will graduate to once-per-year appointments at the cancer centre. It is exciting and nerve-wracking and also terrifying. I will have one more surgery before I get my five-year-all-clear. I'm looking forward to getting it out of the way but I'm also scared. 

The night before my first surgery, I did not sleep. I held baby Grady all night long and stared at his beautiful sleeping face and cried silently for hours. He was in that sweet spot of toddlerhood where he wasn't a baby anymore but he wasn't old enough to remember me if something went wrong. Poppy is the same age now that Grady was when I was first diagnosed and it is messing with my head. It's a milestone that came out of nowhere and I wasn't prepared for how it would make me feel. 

This surgery will be my sixth surgery in the last five years. There's nothing about it that should feel ominous; it is an item that needs to be crossed off the cancer checklist before my oncologist will release me into the world of annual monitoring. It isn't nothing, but it doesn't have to be a *thing*. It doesn't have to fill me with dread. But it does. As I get closer to my five year milestone, I'm scared something is going to come along and screw it up. I could use some positive vibes is what I'm saying. (Also therapy. I could use some therapy. But there are only so many hours in the day.)

Four

Four years ago I had my followup appointment with my surgeon. My appointment was on Friday evening but that morning they called and asked if I could come in the afternoon instead. Shawn had planned to meet me at the surgeon's office after work. I told him not to bother to try to get off work early; I'd go by myself. Fortunately, Shawn and his boss were smarter than I was, and he was there when my surgeon told me the mass they'd removed from my neck was cancerous. 

Poppy is nearing the age Grady was when I started to get sick and it's affecting me in ways I didn't expect. When I was diagnosed, I went into action mode. We made treatment plans and nutrition plans and try-to-enjoy-life-even-though-it's-difficult-right-now plans. There wasn't a lot of time for reflection. Or rather, I didn't let myself delve too deeply into the emotions attached to being diagnosed with cancer while 30 years old with a 1-year-old baby. I distinctly remember telling my family to feel their feelings, just not on, or near, me. 

But now Poppy is a similar age and she's so small. You guys, Grady was so small. It all could have been so much more terrible. It's messing with my head. (I'm also spending today at the cancer centre for my routine tests so my head isn't in the best place to begin with. Scanxiety is a thing and it's a bitch.) 

Today is my fourth cancerversary. I have an excellent support team (both of the family / friend variety and the medical variety). I have a number of promising scans bolstering me as I trudge toward my 5-year mark. I have gratitude for what cancer has given me (an appreciation for what I have, and a severe decrease in my level of give-a-fuck for the minutiae of life) and optimism for what's to come. I still struggle sometimes (like today, when my head is full of angry bees and I feel like I need to itch myself out of my skin) but overall, four years after my life imploded in my surgeon's office, I'm just happy. Happy to be here. Happy my life is so full. Maybe it's boring or silly or weird to mark a cancerversary but to me, it's a celebration. I've come a long way in four years. Here's to many more.

Boobyball Mini with Rethink Breast Cancer

Rethink Breast Cancer is bringing Boobyball Mini: A Next Gen FUNdraiser to Vancouver this Saturday, April 22nd. This fairytale bash has been planned with kids and parents in mind. Kids are welcome to wear costumes and will be entertained thanks to activities planned by sponsors such as Gap Kids, Indigo, and Panago. Parents will enjoy complimentary cocktails and Kim Crawford and Meiomi wines. As my friend so succinctly put it: think of it as a toddler gala...with an open bar.

Rethink Breast Cancer is the young women's breast cancer movement. Young adult cancer is generally thought of as cancer that is diagnosed in people between the ages of 20 and 39. Think of what you're doing in your twenties and thirties. Going to school, starting a career, buying a home, finding a partner, having babies. (Listen. I'm not saying you should be doing all or any of these things. If you don't want to buy a home or find a partner or have babies, more power to you. I'm making some generalizations for the sake of my post, cool? Cool.) Young adult cancer can derail these plans. The treatment options for a woman in her sixties, who is done having babies, should be different than the treatment offered to a woman in her twenties or thirties who may want the possibility of children after cancer. Rethink Breast Cancer offers age-appropriate support and resources for young women with breast cancer.

“Boobyball Mini: A Next Gen FUNdraiser is headed to Vancouver!

The afternoon affair will be a one-of-a-kind event with great entertainment, music and décor set to an enchanted forest theme. Mingle over cocktails while kids explore our fairy-tale forest.

All proceeds from this event will go directly to Rethink Breast Cancer’s mission to empower young people worldwide who are concerned about and affected by breast cancer including some resources for families dealing with cancer.”

— rethinkbreastcancer.com

Vancouver Boobyball Mini: Enchanted Forest tickets are available here.

Use code BBMTEAM for 25% off ticket prices.

Saturday, April 22nd, 2017
3:00 - 6:00pm

Heritage Hall
3102 Main Street
Vancouver, B.C.

Cancer is an insidious disease. I genuinely don't think any of us can say that cancer hasn't touched our lives in some way. Whether it's a family member, friend, co-worker, or that crazy blogger who won't shut up about thyroids, we all know someone who has been diagnosed with cancer. My hope is that we can move away from the traditional fear-driven, commercialized cancer support (don't even get me started on pinkwashing), and start to provide resources, education, and community for specific groups. Young adult women who are diagnosed with breast cancer face unique challenges. Supporting them specifically doesn't take away from the support available to other groups. If you're in Vancouver, I hope you'll consider attending Boobyball Mini this weekend and showing your support for young adult women facing breast cancer.

Pregnant after Cancer

The cancer centre I go to is divided into different clinics. When I arrive for my appointment, I check the main board in the lobby and head to the clinic where my oncologist is working that day. Sometimes I'm lucky and I'm in clinic A. Sometimes I have to walk through A and B to get to clinic C.

The clinics each have their own waiting room full of patients in varying states of health. It's difficult to not feel observed when walking through the clinics. The waiting rooms are full of silver-haired patients and patients who were bald long before cancer took hold. Young adult cancer is not rare but it's rare enough to warrant curious glances. I don't begrudge the looky-loos. Whenever I see someone in my age bracket I turn into a looky-look myself.

I've passed the "maybe she just ate a burrito?" stage of pregnancy. My belly is round and the pain in my hips forces my gait into a slow-and-steady-almost-waddle. I am unprepared for the barrage of sympathetic looks directed at me as a pregnant woman in a cancer centre and it makes me mean. "I'm not one of you," I want to hiss. I earned my NED. I'm here for monitoring and more tests and poking and prodding and reassurance. I'm not here because I'm sick. I'm here to put another notch in my five-year-clock bedpost, to move one step closer to being officially declared "cured." Feeling defensive is not productive or particularly healthy but it's the protective cloak I wrap around myself to survive the (slow) walk from the main lobby to my clinic. I realize as I check in and sit down in the waiting room that I am one of them. We're all here for monitoring and more tests and poking and prodding and reassurance.

Being pregnant after cancer messes with your mind. I have spent the past few years willing things not to grow in my body. My blood has been tested and my hormones levels have been watched religiously. And then I got pregnant and all of a sudden the things I wanted most in the world were for something foreign to grow in my body and my hormone levels to change. Being pregnant after cancer is a gift so many are not lucky enough to receive and I don't take it lightly. But I'd be lying if I said it was easy or even enjoyable. Being pregnant after cancer feels like a science experiment. A drawn out science experiment where you have to wait 40 weeks for the results.

Patience is not something that comes easily for me. I like plans and decisive action. "Watch and wait" is torturous. But I will wait and I will breathe through the anxiety and uncertainty and in the spring this broken body of mine will deliver a baby. I've never felt so lucky.