If this isn’t the perfect metaphor for survivorship (in likely all its forms) I don’t know what is. On the outside, all looks well. On the inside, you’re always a little bit bloodstained.

You know what sucks? Having cancer. You know what sucks even more? Having cancer during a global pandemic. Although now that I’ve returned to the cancer centre post COVID I am deeply grateful to have had peak pandemic, pre-vaccine cancer because I don’t think I could’ve handled the extreme loudness of the waiting rooms now. Waiting to get your blood taken to be cleared for chemo only to find there are no seats because half of them are taken up by loud caregivers not wearing masks coughing all over the place and watching videos on their phones at top volume. My question for anyone who does this in public — why? Why why why why do you insist on watching your shows / videos / movies on your tiny screen at insanely high decibels without headphones? Perhaps notice there are other people in your direct vicinity. In the cancer centre instances, all of whom are insanely vulnerable. Looking at the bald, beanie wearing current cancer fighters navigating these full chairs being the only ones with masks on fills me with a quiet rage. How are they the only ones preserving their immune system? The lack of awareness (or perhaps care for the community around them) boggles my mind and in the end… makes me glad to have had my cancer at an all-time inconvenient time.

This is all to say cancer sucks. But cancer besties? Cancer besties are the best.

Sometimes you just need to get it all out.

It’s coming… the two year anniversary. I try to put it in a little box inside my brain and lock it up, but turns out, I’m no Houdini.

Two years ago today I was on the way to get an x-ray, after a failed attempt to be admitted to the hospital with an entire swollen body, face, difficulty breathing and the inability to walk up a flight of stairs without nearly passing out. 

It would be less than 24 hours before my doctor would call me back and say they found something, they didn’t know what it was, but what was certain is I would need a CT scan with dye — immediately. 

It’s been a weird year.

Last year was all illness, gratefulness and WTF now? 

This year was a lot of going through the motions. Getting back on my feet. Learning how to just be again. How to parent. How to work. How to live. How how how. 

It has been 1 year, 1 month and 10 days since I was officially declared in remission. And I have promised to write about that day every moment since, but the weirdest thing keeps happening, life gets in the way, or the creative spark doesn’t hit, or I just can’t figure out how to put it into words. So today, on August 10, 2022, I’m going to do my best to tell my story.

Well, I lied again. I promised the next post would be about remission. And it’s still, not really. I mean, a little, but it doesn’t dig into the moments following the good news. Below is something I wrote yesterday that was too long for Instagram. The portrait series continues every day, despite how hard it is to see some of the photographs for myself, my family, my friends, I’m glad I had the instinct to take and follow through with the daily self-portraits throughout my cancer treatment. I’m thankful Willis would nudge me awake from the couch at night and say “it’s time.” We’d walk over to the same spot every day and snap. Then I would smile, or laugh, or stare blankly, brush my teeth and fall back to bed for another full night’s rest.

Writing comes easily to me, it always has. I used to start essays at 2AM the night they were due, spit it all out and be in bed by 5AM. I’m not advocating for procrastination, and I’m only slightly humble-bragging, but it’s how I’ve lived my life. And most of the time, it works for me. But now, I’m staring at the “write here…” prompt from Squarespace and I’ve got nothing. Just sitting here, watching the cursor blink.

This morning my husband said “Happy Anniversary” and I said “thaaannnk youuu?” and said “I’m not sure that’s what you say.” We both shared an “oh well” look. Today is the anniversary of my diagnosis. Today I have known about cancer, officially, for a whole year. This is my inaugural diagnosis-aversary. And it. Is. Weird.

It’s been 365 days since I was discharged from a 60-hour hospital stay.

367 days since I was admitted to the hospital.

367 days since I walked 90 minutes home from the same hospital after a CT scan with dye. Thinking, of course, that walking was helping my swelling. When nothing was really helping the swelling because my body was trying to kill me.

This time last year my body was in so much pain I couldn’t properly climb the stairs. At bedtime, I would wait for Willis and the kids to go up first. Once they were all in a room, I would crawl up the stairs – slowly – on all fours so they couldn’t see. Get myself to my feet. Walk 10 steps to Etta’s room and collapse on her bed. From there, I’d read bedtime stories and tell myself it would all be okay. My pain had prompted me to contact my dear friend and Osteopath on January 4th, who wasn’t working at the time, remember the pandemic… that we’re still in, to plead for help.

I have little recollection of my final chemo, number 6. For reference, it’s been five months (yesterday) since I found out I was in remission. I’ve officially been out of treatment longer than I was in it. That’s strange to say. And stranger to feel. 

What follows is what I remember before it’s all a complete haze: there are two sides to the chemo floor. For three rounds, I had the side with the windows, for three rounds, I didn’t. Not consecutively. 

My last chemo took place in the windowless area. It was particularly busy that day and the nurses were under staffed. The way chemo goes, at the Cancer Centre anyway, is that you almost never get the same nurse twice. Today was no different, I had someone I hadn’t had before. 

In no particular order, here is a list of all the side effects chemotherapy, immunotherapy — and all their meds — blessed upon me…

Back to the hard parts before they disappear entirely from my brain. Humans are good at that. Erasing traumatic parts. Making life more palatable. 

Remember last time when I mentioned I was cold because I had no hair. Yeah, I was wrong. I was cold because I was having fevers and didn’t realize it. Between round two and three, I had fevers. And I mean FEVERS. Over 40 degrees, for several days, fevers. All the cancer package stuff says “IF YOU HAVE A FEVER CALL YOUR TEAM.” “IF YOU HAVE A FEVER AFTER HOURS GO TO THE HOSPITAL.” Turns out, it can be a sign of sepsis. And do you know who survives sepsis? 1/3 people. You know who probably wouldn’t? A cancer patient. 

Between my first and second session of chemo a few things happened… 
1. I buzzed my hair. 
2. I introduced the new do to the people who love me. 
3. The cough that I’d gotten many weeks before got worse and worse until my voice was literally squeaks.

As I type this, I’m waiting for Willis and the kids to come pick me up after Chemo Number 5. It’s a weird feeling to be nearing the end of this journey as I reflect on the beginning — plus I’m a little loopy from the meds. On chemo days I have to take five pills (orally) before I get to the hospital. Four are steroids, one is an anti-nausea drug (thank you anti-nausea pills, I love you.) Then, once I’m in the chair before the infusions, I get two Tylenol and a Benadryl. This is followed by four IV drips — the C-H-O-R in CHOP-R (which is the treatment I’m on for all you cancer people in the know). 

Now that we know where I am, let’s rewind to February 23, 2021. 

My first full day home from the hospital was Sunday, February 14. I was so grateful to be A) not swollen and B) decorating cookies with the kids from Three Little Bears (thank you, Jacqueline). We took a video to send to people showing the fun we were having.

I woke on the morning of Saturday, February 13 and went for a walk to my private bathroom. When you’re the only mobile person on the unit, you get a private bathroom, which let’s be real, is great at any time but especially during a pandemic.

Compared to the day before, I was on Cloud 9. Yes, it’s still only Friday and I had just had the CT Scan Thursday morning at 8:30 AM even though 109, 283, 308 things happened to our heroine since then… sorry, I had to, seemed like a good spot for a comic book aside.

As suspected, things were brighter in the morning. Despite the fact I only slept about 4 hours (so much tossing and turning in that Godforsaken hallway bed) and the lights were on at 6:15 AM. I went to the bathroom where I pitied myself because my face was still swollen.

After I showered and dressed, I gave Willis and the kids a big hug each and we piled in the car to drop me off. This time, I really wasn’t sure when I’d return. It wasn’t the false alarm the previous Sunday had been. We pulled up to Emergency at Juravinski, I told them I loved them and I hopped out of the car.

If you don’t know me I’m sure you’re thinking “well, that’s a swollen face.” If you do know me, I invite you to pick your jaw up off the floor. To quote a friend “your beautiful face!”