10 Days

The twins posing in their epic snow fort.

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. We made some valentines for Marcelle and dropped off some cookies for her and Jules. It was so nice to see her happy, smiling face from the stoop with the kids and Willis waving and saying thank you from the car. I still can’t say how much seeing her makes me smile.

On the Monday I spoke to Robin on the phone, one of my best friends now for 20 years. She said I sounded good and we talked it all out. As I watched my kids play in their epic snow fort that Willis had made them over the weekend, all I felt was gratitude and serenity. There’s this amazing thing that happens to you when you get a cancer diagnosis, all the worries you had before, all the anxieties, they suddenly just disappear. You can feel grateful for the sun beating down on the snow. For your kids laughing and playing. Being warm in snowpants supervising and talking to one of your closest friends (another sister, really). I told Robin that I felt like I was preparing my whole life for this. All the hardships and difficult situations I’d been in had each taught me a valuable lesson. Losing my aunt, and then three years later, my uncle, both to cancer when I was 13 and 16 changed me forever. From then on I always had an ache and an understanding that you have no idea what someone else is going through, so be kind.

When I was 19 someone close to me became ill. It’s their story to share, so I won’t, but it deeply affected me. In my first year of university (already a time of tumult, excitement and change) it really turned my life upside down. That was the year I started talk therapy. It was 2004 and I have turned to therapy at every monumental life change since. When Willis and I moved in together. Which, let’s be real, those first six months of living with someone are a learning curve. Especially when one partner (Willis) had been out of the house since they were 18 and one partner (me, 26) had only lived alone for a year and had pretty much zero dishwasher loading skills. I’m sad to report, my dishwasher loading skills have only improved minimally. When I changed jobs, when I had the twins. Therapy is always there to help me redirect and find my new self, whoever that is at each milestone. I’m a firm believer we would have a much better world if everyone went to therapy. A world where you owned your shit and didn’t hurl it at others, or even if you did, you knew why and could rectify it. It could be, dare I say, peaceful? I know my triggers, good and bad. I know who I am and why. I have boundaries and I’m not afraid to use them. I protect my mental health first. I can’t lead my family, help my kids grow, be a good partner, family member, friend and business owner if I’m not putting myself first. All these lessons learned = a woman ready to take on cancer. Without fear. Without doubt. With only the sense of “I have been through hard things before, what’s one more?”

As the first days passed, I started to feel a little nervous. My hematologist had said at the hospital on Saturday that I would be in the clinic by the following Friday or Monday and that we would hear from them on Wednesday. When Wednesday came, the phone rang and my appointment was scheduled for the Monday. Exactly ten days from my discharge date.

As the week went on, things took a dive. I started waking at night coughing because I couldn’t breathe. At first it was just once or twice, but as the days went on, it was several times a night. I hadn’t really had a full night’s sleep since January at this point. Then the coughing started during the day, too.

I was intent on going by myself to the doctor because I figured I already knew what he was going to say and we didn’t have any childcare. I couldn’t ask my parents to watch the kids while we went to the appointment because I knew they’d be too consumed with worry (understandably). But on Sunday, I turned to Willis and said “I don’t think I can go by myself tomorrow.” So my wonderful in-laws came over on Monday and watched the kids play from outside, masked of course.

On Monday afternoon we went together to the Juravinski Cancer Centre (how lucky am I to have access to such an amazing facility just over ten minutes from my house?). We were told the formal diagnosis: Aggressive Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. The full pathology (there are 60 subtypes of lymphoma. A fun fact you wouldn’t know unless you have lymphoma) we wouldn’t know for several weeks. Instead of an oncologist, I have a hematologist, he specializes in blood cancers, of which lymphoma is one. Aggressive sounds scary, but it’s actually the “good kind” of Non-Hodgkins because it grows really fast (they estimated my lymphoma had been growing only for a few months) and it’s very receptive to treatment. God willing, it is sometimes considered cured. I’m praying with every fibre of my being I will be lucky enough to end up in the cured category.

So, here we are in one of the rooms at JCC, my doctor and his resident in the room with us. They’ve told us the diagnosis. Chemo is the next step. Maybe in a week or so. I knew I couldn’t wait that long and so did Willis. We asked that they bump that up because I’d been struggling to breathe. Just walking from the bathroom back to the examination room earlier had me winded. It felt like my heart was going to beat out of my chest and it was maybe 20 steps. I said things weren’t going great. Willis, who if you know him you know he only says something when it’s necessary piped up and said “she’s deteriorating every day.” They left the room and returned with an Oncology nurse and low and behold my chemo would now start tomorrow, Tuesday, February 23 at 8:30 AM. How grateful am I for our universal health care Canada? Um… SO GRATEFUL. When it needs to work, it works. She brought with her a bag that said “new chemo patient” on it and had a stack a mile high of pamphlets to read. And what your treatment means. I would be on 6 cycles of CHOP-R. All the hilarious side effects, some drugs cause constipation, some cause diarrhea. I joked that wouldn’t they just even each other out? The nurse laughed and later I would learn, no, they do not.

After the nurse gave us the low down on what chemo was, when it started and everything I needed to know, the resident said they’d like to take a bone marrow sample — to make sure the lymphoma hadn’t spread to there. I’ve never had a bone marrow sample but I have heard they hurt like hell. The resident asked if I would be able to sit still for 30 minutes to do it now. I said yes. At this point, I could only lie on my right side, but that would do. I asked for a gown because I stupidly wore a jumpsuit and I quietly thanked the lucky stars that I changed into half decent underwear. Look, it had been a solid 8 weeks since I’d felt well and yes, my laundry situation was suffering. If I’m honest, I think I was down to fancy underwear so the team must really have thought how put together I was. HA! Fooled!

They asked if Willis wanted to stay. He said yes. They told him to sit on the stool by me and to let them know if he was sure. Sounds like a lot of people can’t handle watching this procedure. Willis and I aren’t particularly queasy people. After all, Willis held my hand through hours of pushing Etta (and then Clark) out of my body while I squeezed his wedding ring into his finger so hard, it cut him; witnessed the birth of the twins; got to see the two placentas our midwives showed us and watched me shaking uncontrollably on the operating table from shock at losing all the blood, babes, sacs, placentas, etc. that comes post-delivery. I had no doubt he’d be fine.

After we established Willis would be fine, two nurses came in. One to assist and one as my moral support. So this whole bone marrow sample thing, they take this huge needle and jam it into your hip bone. So… that’s not fun. Yes, of course, first they freeze it with a huge needle. But you’re not supposed to move. At all. The whole time. For 30 minutes. With a huge tumour in the middle of your chest. Fun fact: when someone jams your hip bone with a needle, your body says NO THANK YOU and tries to make you inadvertently leap off the table. After the initial hip move, I stopped moving. I squeezed the living hell out of Willis’ hand, this time sans wedding ring, for 30 minutes. It is not pleasant having a bunch of huge needles jammed into your bone. Even though you’re frozen (ish) it is the weirdest, most uncomfortable sensation. The needle has a chisel thing on the end and the doctor moves it back forth to literally SCRAPE SOME OF YOUR BONE MARROW out. In the end, they showed us the pieces in the sample jar and it did look pretty cool. But 10/10 I do not recommend this procedure. My butt hurt for days, like I’d been kicked by a kangaroo or a horse or something. And you have this little puncture wound with bruising around it full of blood that you have to change the dressing on. A friend of ours is a doctor and when I told her I had to have a bone marrow sample taken these were her exact words, they make me chuckle every time I read this:
”Holy Fuck — I have only watched one bone marrow biopsy and that was bad enough. I actually fainted! It was a very embarrassing story — it was my first day on a rotation in the UK, I didn't know anyone, I was a first year med student, and the hematologist had to turn away from the patient to catch me. So I am so glad you had Willis there for hand squeezing.”
I’m so glad I had Willis there for hand squeezing, too. I would not have wanted to do that solo.

Now onto more not fun steps. Since my chemo was scheduled for the next morning, I had to get blood work taken and … this might be might least favourite thing … a COVID swab. Willis held my things while a bunch of my blood was taken and a nurse dug into my brain with a long Q-Tip and asked if I needed a tissue after because there might be some blood. Yes, thank you. A tissue would be heavenly. My 6 cycles of chemo means I have treatment one week, then three weeks off, six times. At JCC all the chemo patients have a COVID test a few days before treatment begins. Each time IT SUCKS. There are no words to describe how much I hate the COVID swab. My eyes water involuntarily. It feels like someone is jabbing into my brain. I can’t wait to be done with them and if you’ve never had to have one, consider yourself very lucky. For many reasons. Among them, that you don’t have COVID because let’s all agree this virus can go right ahead and fuck off. Mini-virus-tangeant-over.

After the bone marrow sample, blood test and COVID swab, Willis and I went home with our new “So… you have cancer” bag with its 1,802,973 sheets for us to read before 8:30AM the next day. When we got home we told my in-laws the news (away from the kids) and thanked them for staying so long. We thought we’d be about two hours, but we ended up being four hours. I blame the bone marrow sample.

As my mother-in-law, Cindy, went to leave she turned to me and said “I wish I could do this for you, kiddo.” It was the first time that day I felt like crying and oh, how badly I just wanted to give her a hug. I can’t wait until I can hug all the people who love me again. It would be so much easier if I could fall into your arms. And I get it, if Etta was going through this, I would want to take it on for her. I know the older folks who love me have really struggled with that emotion. Why me? But it’s okay, I’m strong. And brave. And I can do this. And it’s just a blip in the road. But, man alive, I wish I didn’t have to.