The Diagnosis

The speed with which my life changed after my cancer diagnosis was nothing short of astounding. I felt a lump in mid-August 2018. Two days later, I was at my doctor’s office to see what was wrong. My doctor was reassuring, given my age (34 at the time), my medical history, and my relatively healthy lifestyle. She wasn’t too worried during that visit, even commenting on the fact that it didn’t feel like cancer. Nevertheless, she ordered the necessary tests. I was at the ultrasound lab later that afternoon, and had results a couple of days after. Inconclusive —more testing needed. My doctor emailed a requisition for a mammogram, and I went straight away. Having heard many horror stories about this particular test, I was not looking forward to undergoing it, but I was beginning to worry. Truthfully, as soon as I felt the lump, “cancer” flashed in my head in big, bright, and red neon lettering. A quick Google search informed me that most lumps are benign, but it did little to assuage my fears, as I knew it was a possibility.

Having my mammogram results come back as “suspicious” left me with a sinking feeling. I was at the supermarket in the ethnic aisle when my doctor called to let me know I had to do a biopsy. A feeling of dread, quite like no other, came over me. If I wasn’t out of the woods at this point, then the signs were pointing in that direction. I hung up the phone and made calls to my family and close friends with the update. The intervening days as I awaited my biopsy can only be described as a waking nightmare. A phrase that to me meant awaking from sleep to a reality that was horrific. I would open my eyes, stare at my bedroom door, the events of the previous days would come rushing back, and I would feel as though I was stuck in a bad dream. My biopsy was scheduled for September 6th with results expected on September 7th. The morning of my biopsy came, I showered, looked in the mirror and there was now a clear distortion in the skin around where my lump was. How did I not see this before? Why didn’t I notice something was wrong sooner? I cursed myself. I blamed myself. I was angry at myself. I left the house already somehow knowing what the ultimate results were going to be, but still held onto a shred of hope.

My biopsy was quick and painless. I inquired of the technician what her thoughts were. She explained, based on her experience, that it did in fact look like cancer. My heart sank. I went home, I cried, I called my sisters, I told friends. Everyone sent their best hopes and well wishes but deep down I knew. The following day I returned for my official results, supported by my partner at the time. He was convinced that it wouldn’t be cancer. I was a lot less optimistic. We waited with baited breath for the oncology team and when they arrived, the dreaded words were finally uttered, cancer of the breast. I watched my partner’s shocked face, very rarely had I ever seen him look scared. I, on the other hand, had already reached a place of acceptance. It was the worst news of my life and the last thing that I wanted to hear, but my mind was at ease because the anxiety, dread, fear and nervousness that came with not knowing, had finally abated.

The Treatment

Decisions around my treatment were made. During this period, I felt like I couldn’t quite grasp hold of what was taking place. Everything was moving at a pace unfamiliar to me, I struggled to process, the gravity of the situation weighed heavily, and I felt alone. I had the support of my sisters, my moms, my aunts, my friends, my partner, yet I felt isolated throughout the experience and extremely lonely.

Over the course of the month while I awaited surgery, I went through a battery of tests and made decisions around freezing my eggs. Three trans-vaginal ultrasounds and 15 injections later, I was officially over needles. By the time of my mastectomy, I was too used to cold gloved hands touching my intimate places. I became numb to the feeling of hands on my body, later numb from surgery and eventually numb to simply being touched. What followed after surgery I can only describe as the worst period of my life. I don’t know what I thought chemotherapy was going to entail but it was much worse than I ever could have imagined. My introduction to what the cancer community calls “the red devil” (Doxorubicin/Adriamycin) left me shuddering, moaning, nauseated, and in such a weakened state that I was forced to consider the alternative. By the end of it, I welcomed radiation therapy, the charred skin and general malaise much preferred.

The Aftermath

I felt like my body had betrayed me, I was left with trust issues. Scanxiety became a very real phenomenon to me and there was a fundamental shift in my being. Despite being five years out of treatment, the shadow still haunts me. In thinking about what “Living Well” beyond cancer looks like. It’s difficult to define. I am still mourning the parts of me that I’ve lost to this disease. It’s difficult to feel beautiful and accept my body in a loving and kind way. Sex is often difficult, and my desire is suppressed from being medicated. Many things that I took for granted have become a tiresome struggle. There is a sadness in me that never existed before. I spent a great deal of time escaping into myself, curling up and hiding away inside myself to keep myself safe, to cope. Some parts of me became dormant and are now only re-awakening.

I set out to write an inspirational piece about wellness, mindfulness and yoga and the lessons I’ve learned. Ultimately, what has come up for me is a desire to be honest about my experience. A desire for women going through this experience to know that they’re not alone and that sometimes it’s OK to not be OK. To not be a warrior, a fighter, a survivor. Because sometimes making it through that singularly difficult day is enough. There are times that I am joyful and there are days that I struggle with this reality. I’m learning to cultivate an awareness of my physical, mental and emotional state so that I can honour what I am feeling and experiencing on a given day. I’m learning to be okay with not having all the answers and not knowing the path forward. I am learning to create something new. I’m learning what living well means to me.