The truth is, I don’t know how to feel…
This Feb 22 (2025) we were in Niagara Falls for a hockey game. We’ll always stop to take the time to appreciate the wonder. Lucky to be Etta’s mom. Lucky to be here.
Four years ago what I knew in my brain and my body was confirmed, I was officially diagnosed with cancer. Aggressive non-Hodgkins Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma to be specific. A blood cancer. Essentially an immune system cancer in the middle of a worldwide pandemic when a healthy immune system was, well… helpful.
My face was swollen. My tumour was the size of a grapefruit in my chest and I had a bone marrow sample taken to make sure it hadn’t spread to my bones. For roughly 10 weeks my body (and my mouth via my words) were sounding alarms to my doctor, nurses, ER units and phlebotomists all over the GTHA. Each of them saying “your blood work is pristine.” Each time, going back home to shrug my shoulders at my husband as he watched while it became harder and harder for me to walk up stairs, to sleep through the night without waking out of breath, to wake in the morning with my face and body swollen beyond anything my peanut allergy has ever seen.
February 2021. This wasn’t the worst of it. Not by a long shot. This person feels so far away. Four years can bring so much healing. So much shedding and so much love. There are days when I sleep too long or too something and wake to find my left eyelid a little swollen. I would be lying if I didn’t say my heart skips a beat (or twelve) every time. Love you old me. It’s better over here on this side. <3
In these past four bonus years I’ve had the opportunity to see cool things and do fun shit. I’ve let go of things that don’t serve me (for the most part). I’ve said goodbye to people who aren’t really on my side (and probably never were). I’ve made amends where amends were needed for a piece of my soul to heal. I’ve reunited with my half-sister, half-brother and their kids and I’ve continued to do my best to be a bridge to healing for myself, for my family and for our little slice of the world.
I wish I could say I’ve cherished every sunrise, every day, every moment. At first, I did. And slowly, as time passes, you get further and further away from that feeling of almost dying. That feeling of being grateful to listen to the birds and to watch your children grow.
That feeling where you are absolutely positive there are very few things that actually matter in life. One of the biggest cancer blessing is knowing and have seeing the absolute best in humanity. When the going gets real tough, people band together and will be there.
Political stripes? They don’t matter when a 36-year-old mother, wife, friend, human being, is down and out in the middle of a global pandemic. Things in common matter less, too and suddenly it’s our common humanity that comes knocking. The knowledge that we’re all looking for the same things: love, kindness, understanding and compassion.
Four years deep and the kindness I witnessed hasn’t left me. Sometimes it’s fleeting. There are flashes of doubt. There are flinches of anger. But in all, I know what yoga philosophy taught me all those years ago, I Am That. And so are you.
So when I look back on today, I hear the resident explaining that yes, it is blood cancer. I hear him requesting we wait three weeks for at pet scan, to see how far along the DLBCL really is. How many lumps are wreaking havoc on me internally. And I hear my, often silent, always strong husband pipe up and say “she can’t wait that long. She’s deteriorating by the day.” I see the resident look to my hematologist and hear a “let’s see what we can do.” When a nurse walks in she confirms I will begin chemotherapy the next morning at 8:30AM. Willis and I breathe a sigh of relief. The relief I’ve breathed so many times since being grateful for our universal healthcare system. That we didn’t have to go bankrupt to save my life. That when you’re at the top of the triage list, shit moves fast.
It will be a few days until a nurse offers me oxygen and I decline, thinking “I’m young and healthy” and then realizing I am only one of those things and yes, please, I’ll take it. Within moments I can breathe. I can breathe like I haven’t been able to since November 2020. And I curse that no one thought to ask me if I needed this sooner. Maybe that should be the first question when a patient comes in with a tumour in their chest. You want some oxygen? Um… fuck yes, thank you.
Four years ago today, I didn’t know if I would live. Four years ago I thought my family should still book our annual summer cottage trip with my parents, sister, brother-in-law and nieces because they’d need something to look forward to if I didn’t make it. Four years ago I didn’t give a fucking damn if I lost my hair, or my eyebrows, or the feeling in my fingers, or the ability to open a chip bag without the reminder that chemo destroyed parts of me. Four years ago I learned when your body stops working; when your cells mutate in an attempt to kill you — only one thing matters: give me the life-saving poison. Hit me, to my veins, immediately. I don’t care what damage it does, I’m not ready to go there are too many moments I haven’t seen. There are too many people that depend on me to see it through.
In no particular order, here’s a list of all the crazy things that have come in these last four bonus years (some good, some bad, but all human):
– Rode a horse.
– Watched my kids’ hockey games.
– Made a bunch of new friends (cheers to hockey moms and dads).
– Taken 5+ primary COVID shots (bless you, science. Having immune system cancer in the middle of a global pandemic was scary to say the least.)
– Helped a best friend say goodbye to her father and honour his wonderful life.
– Helped a best friend say goodbye her mother.
– Jumped off a dock into a cold Ontario lake with no hair or eyebrows or immune system and watching it inspire my sister to do the same.
– Watched my niece graduate from high school.
– Grew my business (a lot).
– Took a chance on bidding for new design work while I was sick and having it turn into many years of collaboration, friendship and a celebration of the arts that I am so lucky to witness (thank you Fringe and Telling Tales).
– Watched our best man marry the love of his life.
– Watched my dad turn 80 and see his eyes light up when he realized it was his surprise party.
– Watched my cancer bestie turn 40 and cheered along with the drag queens as they wished her a happy birthday.
– Hugged my brother, sister and their kids.
– Taken my little family to Newfoundland where after one cancer year and many COVID years I finally got to hug my family there.
– Held my Aunt’s hand as tears streamed down her face because she was so happy to get to hug me again.
– Saw a fuck ton of whales and whale tails with my kids and watch their awe and joy.
– Snowmobiled across a frozen lake.
– Accidentally tip a snowmobile, but somehow tipped it back over and lived to tell the tale.
– Wallpapered my bathroom (IYKYK).
– Watched my friends turn 40 and celebrate each of them.
– Witnessed the love of a best friend and her new husband fill our eyes with tears that she finally found someone who could love her right.
– Dual birthday spa celebrations with my bestie that I never ever want to end.
– Laughed. Hard. Until tears streamed down my cheeks and my face hurt for days.
– One on one coffees and lunches with cousins and sisters and friends.
– Threw my sister a 50th birthday party and watched her shine, shine, shine.
– Got a dog, who has quickly become my favourite being.
– Get to speak (annually) to nursing students at McMaster to show them what cancer really looks like and who is on the line every time. It is never just one person. We are not just bodies, we are connected units that people love and depend on. We all deserve to be seen as individuals, not statistics, not x-rays and pet scans and CT scans, individuals who need to be here.
– Joined a global council on DLBCL to give a voice to all of us to the drug companies that keep us alive. Learned how insane it is that life-saving drugs cost so much financially for patients in the US and how some are barely scraping by and frankly, some just die because of it.
– Made more time to do things without the kids with Willis.
– Learned that I look cool as fuck with a buzz cut (and pretty great with super short hair, too).
– Had a total hysterectomy because my body loves making pre-cancerous cells and I do not need that shit again.
There are many, many, many things I’ve forgotten. Things I’ll remember in the middle of the night. And the more memories I pile on, the more I forget how hard it was to walk up the stairs. The feeling of the needle piercing my bone. The time I couldn’t walk to the mailbox. The exhaustion of cancer treatment. The fucked up miracle of the first year of survivorship.
Perhaps the biggest gift I received is reaching a new decade.
In November, I turned 40. A milestone in any life, but particularly in this one. I’ve been unable for months to find the words to go along with it. I’m starting to feel like I never will. What it was like to have a house full of well wishers watching me blow out my candles. To take a shot on Church St with my niece in celebration of her 19th. To be… here. For 40.
Fuck, I’m grateful for this lucky little life. To have made valleys of the many mountains in my rear view. To know how brave, strong, resilient and courageous I have been, and continue to be. To toot my own fucking horn. Not only because I’m 40 and could give a fuck what you think of me. But because even as a child I had to start over and over and over again. As a pre-teen, over and over. As a teenager, a 20-something, and a 30-something there are so many events that should have crushed my spirit. So many incidents that should have left me angry and bitter and mean. But through it all, I still feel light. My heart isn’t hardened, it’s soft and I do my best to spread that light wherever I go. Sometimes that light is fury and rage, but in the end, it’s still a bright light fuelled by joy and wonder.
Sometimes you need to sit with yourself and recognize, you did it. And you’re doing it. It might not always look exactly the way you wanted or dreamed, but it still looks pretty damn good. And that’s what being here is really about. Spreading as much fucking joy to the people in your little world as possible. A constant reminder that only light can push out darkness.
In this world, there is no shortage of darkness. This has always been true. But some of us are here to remind you the light will always win.
As I quote on my work site and in my heart whenever I feel it:
“And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.’” Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Don’t forget it. Not you. Not me. Not any of us.