Uncle Jimmy handed the cane back to me. I took it and felt how strong it was. I knew that it would last through the years and hold me up when I got old. As I held it, I thought, Happily ever after. And I knew that although my journey in life had already taken me down some dark paths, there were also lovely surprises. And my life was carrying on.
EPILOGUE
T here were days on this journey that were horrible—unthinkably so. The worst days were those surrounding my diagnosis, the first days of my hair loss, and those extremely nauseating times during my first four rounds of chemo. To say that those days scarred me would be an understatement. But there weren’t many moments when I revealed the true depth of my emotions to friends—even to my family. It felt as though I could count those moments when I exposed how I was truly feeling on a single hand. One was when I was diagnosed; another was when I saw my grandmother and realized how ill she was. I tried so hard to be strong for everyone, to make what was happening easy for them, even at my own expense.
But I knew I was like my grandmother. My mom told my grandmother that as long as she wasn’t able to move around independently, she wouldn’t be discharged and allowed to go home. So at mealtimes when the nurses tried to coax her into a wheelchair to make the trip to the cafeteria, Grandma refused to get into it and insisted on walking down by herself. The nurses didn’t like that, because it took Grandma longer, but Grandma’s stubbornness paid off and eventually they discharged her. (Either that or they didn’t want to deal with her anymore. I loved that about her. And I took inspiration from her.)
I wouldn’t choose to go back to life before cancer. I remember reading a book by a well-known athlete who had survived the disease, and he said that he felt lucky to have been diagnosed with cancer, that he never found himself wishing it hadn’t happened. I never understood that notion before—found it inconceivable—but now I do understand. Having to struggle with this disease changed me in ways that were unthinkable. I am stronger. I am resilient. I have met amazing people I wouldn’t have met otherwise. And because I have seen some truly dark days, every day since then has been that much brighter.
Things have changed in other ways I could never have imagined before all of this. Greg and I moved into our new house, but we didn’t live together there for long. I wanted to get out into the world and do things with the rest of the life I’d been granted. Greg, meanwhile, had found his spot to settle in and relax after such an ordeal. We were there in that house, but we had started to grow in different directions.
I took on some other jobs. During our first summer in our new home, I started waitressing a couple of evenings during the week and working at a winery on Sunday afternoons. Money was tight with this big new house. And Greg and I started spending less and less time together. I couldn’t help but think that our relationship just wasn’t what it was supposed to be. That I didn’t want to spend any of the extra time I’d been granted in an unhappy marriage. Before we’d lived in our new home for even a year, it was up for sale. We divorced after a couple of years of separation. We co-parent Charley and Rudy as best we can—but we’re on a new journey now, each of us going our own way.
I continued to have follow-up appointments. The first was three months after the last chemo appointment, the next was six months after, then nine months after, then just once a year. After five years, I’d be discharged, but I always joked with the doctors and nurses that I wouldn’t let that happen—I felt great comfort knowing they were watching over me. Even still, I was anxious before each appointment. I was terrified they were going to tell me that the cancer had come back. But every time, they gave me the all clear.
About six months before my five-year checkup, Helen, the metformin trials nurse, called me in. She told me they were stopping the trial because they weren’t seeing any benefit for women with my type of cancer. Then another blow landed. My oncology team was discharging me early. I started crying. I was scared. They were my security blanket, and I didn’t know what I would do without them. They explained that what was happening was a good thing: it meant that I was okay, that I didn’t have cancer anymore.
I knew that I needed to embrace that and be happy, but it was a sad day for me. I wasn’t ready to let go of a piece of my life that forever changed who I am. But I hugged everyone and said my good-byes.
I am much happier now, six years down the road, although it’s not all rainbows and unicorns, of course—that’s just not realistic. It’s hard being a single parent. It’s hard not having someone to help around the house. Some of my friends have fallen by the wayside—I’m a different person than I was six years ago. I didn’t choose this path, it chose me, and I became the only person that I knew how to be after going through such a traumatic life event.
I have learned that I can’t make everyone happy. I am in control of nothing but my own happiness. And so that’s what I try to focus on: my happiness and the happiness of my kids. I still think about my kids not having me around should cancer ever creep its way back into my life. And I immediately start to sob. Then I have to regroup and think of something else, because I simply cannot bear the thought of them alone in the world without a mother. I keep doing what I do: I keep busy. More busy than I have time for: I teach full-time, I sell real estate on the side, I write, I’m Dance Mom and Hockey Mom. And I console and embrace every new person who approaches me or gets directed my way because they just got diagnosed with cancer. I don’t ever say no; I won’t ever say no. I just can’t, because no one ever told me they didn’t have time for me when I was struggling with cancer.
I have to preach the positive because that allows me to not think about my own fate. Every time I meet someone in the same situation, though, I get jolted back to when I was diagnosed, and it’s incredibly hard—I know what they’re feeling and I can see the fear in their eyes. I tell them that it’s all going to be okay, but I really don’t know if this is true. We are all just doing the best we can.
I had this realization when I watched my friend Talia having the same experience I’d had. When I was a four-year survivor, Talia had been diagnosed with the exact same thing I’d had. She was thirty-eight years old, twenty weeks pregnant, with a nine-month-old daughter at home. I consoled her, coached her, and told her that it was going to be okay. Just one year after she was given the all clear, the cancer spread to her lungs, and there was nothing the doctors could do. Less than a year later, she passed away. Going to the funeral home was one of the most difficult moments in my life. I had told her it would all be okay. She was gone and I wasn’t, and I felt guilty. Why not me? Why her?
To this day I don’t know the answer, and I never will. But I do know that I have to make the best of every moment, every single opportunity, enjoy my kids every single second I can, because she can’t. It’s not fair, but I can’t change it.
There are days when I’m having a plain old horrible day, and then I think of Talia, and I know that my horrible day isn’t so bad. I am in a place in my life where I feel blessed. My mom is my rock, and always will be. I look at Charley, and while she is only ten years old, I see the beautiful, talented and fiery young woman she will become. And I look at Rudy, whose quirky ways make me laugh, and who at seven makes me stand back in awe of his natural athletic talent. I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss any of this.
And so I can’t help but think, often, after all I’ve been through and after all this time, back to when I was asked for a favor by a former student. He was playing for the local Junior B hockey team and wanted me to drop the puck at a hockey game in support of breast cancer research. It was just after all of my treatments and surgeries were done, and I was so honored. It was October. The players all wore pink, and I felt a little like a celebrity, and more important, like an advocate. I had survived and I had stories to tell that could maybe help other women.
It was an incredible experience. I drove home after the game elated and rejuvenated. Before I jumped in the shower that night, I noticed the stamp I’d
gotten on my hand when I entered the arena. It was the word Believe. I thought about the hats I’d had made, about my determination to get through everything, to be positive, to survive. To me, that stamp wasn’t just a coincidence; it was an affirmation that I was going to be okay. That everything was going to be okay.
Believe.
Here I am at the hair studio. I’m not sure I liked the look of this wig—it just wasn’t me.
Charley is having fun while I try on a head scarf as an alternative to a wig.
Charley decided to join me while I was getting my hair cut.
Here’s the first chunk of my hair that Lepa cut off.
My mother got her hair cut as short as mine. She looks great!
This photo was taken before my third chemo treatment. My hair had completely fallen out by this point, but I was still feeling decent.
A typical morning often began with Rudy on the rampage in the kitchen, emptying out the cupboards, happy as can be.
Charley and I are all bundled up at the outdoor ice rink down the road from where we lived.
On the morning before I left for my last chemo appointment, my sister, Erin, brought me boobie cupcakes to share with the nurses. Chemo had definitely taken its toll on me—I look more sickly in this photo than I did at any other time.
This is a sign my niece and nephew, Erin’s kids, made for me to celebrate my last chemo session. I cried. I was happy to be finished but sad there were so many people who weren’t close to being done. A small part of me felt ashamed to be celebrating in front of them.
Here’s a selfie of Rudy and me at home. My hair was starting to come back, and I was slowly starting to feel better.
At home with the kids. My hair was getting long enough that I didn’t feel the need to wear a toque anymore.
This X-ray of my chest reveals my expanders, metal valves through which saline could be injected into my implants. The expanders gave the X-ray technician a bit of a shock.
KIM CARTMELL, FOCUS ON YOU PHOTOGRAPHY
My friend Kim, who was my wedding photographer, felt it was important to document the changes in my appearance. At times the last thing I wanted was to be photographed, but I’m grateful to have these pictures to remind me of the battle I endured and how much stronger I am because of it.
My grandmother, sister, mother and I celebrating my grandmother’s ninety-first birthday. This photo is in my living room in a frame with the words “Home is where your story begins.” I am proud of being the woman my grandmother and my mother helped me become.
My two loves, Charley and Rudy: they are the two reasons I never gave up.
Believe—my motto throughout my entire illness. This was stamped on my hand after I dropped the puck at a hockey game to support breast cancer research.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful for the people in my life who dropped everything to help me during my illness. I never imagined cancer would take me down the paths that it did, and in many ways I am grateful for the opportunities my illness presented me with, but I couldn’t have done it without the support of everyone in my life. There are so many people who believed in the possibilities of this book before I even believed in it myself. I didn’t think I had time to write a book, much less the ability, but they all helped make it happen.
Charley and Rudy: You are the reason I fought every single day. You are the reason I went to every single chemotherapy appointment even though I didn’t want to endure the side effects. You are the reason I was so aggressive with my treatment schedules and so assertive with my doctors. You are the reason I decided to have a mastectomy, because I didn’t want you to have to watch me ever go through that again. And you are the reason I wrote this book, because in the end, if I wasn’t able to tell you this story in person, I wanted you to know without a doubt that I fought every single second of my illness for you. You are my world. You both amaze me every single day, and I don’t want to miss a single minute. I love you!
Mom: You are my rock, my strength and my battery when I need recharging. You taught me how to fight like a warrior. You were there as my advocate whenever I needed you, and you were always willing to drop everything to help. You gave me the self-confidence in life to believe in the impossible and to believe that I can conquer anything. And I did. I aspire to be the amazing woman and mother that you are.
Dad: Thank you for being there for me when I was feeling my worst. You allowed me to see your fear, and I appreciated that because you were honest enough to reveal how tough this was for you. And that made me all the more determined to survive.
Erin, Doug, Jack and Natalie: Thank you for being there for me in so many ways, from the drives to and from appointments, to the leg massages when I was too achy to sleep, to the celebratory signs, balloons and cupcakes at the end of chemo. I couldn’t have done any of this without that.
Braden: Even though you were far away during this time, I felt as though you were with me because of all the phone calls and e-mails from you, Erin, Isabelle, and Thomas. I know you were sending good vibes my way.
My grandmother: I miss you and think of you every day. You were the one person around whom I could let down my guard. I inherited my strength and zest for life from you. Thank you, Grandma!
Greg: It certainly has been a bumpy few years for us. Although things weren’t perfect before I was diagnosed, having cancer put a strain on our relationship that we just weren’t capable of handling. Thank you for trying to be there for me when I was sick; I know that being the spouse of a cancer patient was tough on you. I’m sorry you had to go through that. However, on the bright side, Charley and Rudy are who they are because of both of us, and I don’t regret one bit that you are their father, because without you, they wouldn’t be here, and I can’t imagine life without them.
Michael and Andre: You hopped on board with the haircutting party without thinking twice. You threw one hell of a party, you had my back, and I will never forget that.
The Dinner Club: You know who you are. What a wonderful, generous, thoughtful, practical and delicious way to help someone who is going through an illness such as cancer. Kelly, you spearheaded it, and I so appreciate all of the thought and time that went into feeding me and my family. To other friends and family who dropped off meals, I cannot thank you enough.
Lepa: Thank you for cutting my hair at the party and for helping me to get it back to where it is now. You wanted me to be comfortable and to still feel like a woman. You had a profound effect on my self-esteem through the bad times, and I am so appreciative.
Kyla Gutsche: You are the most talented, meticulous and generous woman I have ever met. You made me feel confident and gave me back something I never imagined I could have. I simply cannot express what you have done for me. You changed my life.
Kim Cartmell from Focus on You Photography: Thank you for believing in the possibility of a story, and for wanting to document my journey through photos. I am so grateful for those images. Without them I wouldn’t be able to reflect on those darker times; they now often seem like a distant memory, but when I look back using them, every day seems so much brighter.
Paul Tritton from Brock University Printing and Digital Services: You were so supportive of this book from the very beginning. You were always available, and I very much appreciate the time you spent on it.
Julie from Vander Brand: Thank you for your incredible attention to detail and the time and energy you put into helping me on the early incarnation of this book. Your work is unparalleled.
Talia: I think of you often. You were the bravest woman I have ever known. It’s not fair what happened. The only thing that I can take from this is that I will not let a second of my life pass by unappreciated. I know you would have done the same, had you been given the opportunity.
Jeremy (Captain) Cammy: Thank you for believing in me. You didn’t have to. You could have pushed me away. But you saw something—exactly what I wanted the world to see—and I am so grateful that you took that leap of faith.
Or maybe I was just driving you nuts with my frequent office visits! But thank you for the conversations and the direction, and for giving me the opportunity to pitch my story to you. I am forever grateful.
Bryce, your patience and support have been paramount. You believed in the possibility of this book from the first time I pitched it to you, and you supported my quest every single second—even though I was often in need of reassurance, which you were always quick to provide. You kept me focused and positive when I needed that, and I appreciate more than you can imagine that you believed in the possibility and that you believed in me.
I would like to extend a huge thank you to Kevin Hanson and Nita Pronovost and the team at Simon & Schuster Canada. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to get this story out to as many readers as I truly believe it should get to.
To my right-hand girl, Laurie Grassi: What better editor could a writer have asked for? To say that it was a perfect fit would be the understatement of the century. Your vision for this book has been everything I could have imagined and more, and I can’t thank you enough for enabling my voice to come through. You encouraged me to expand when I didn’t think I had more to say, and helped me make it just right. Thank you for everything. This book wouldn’t be what it is without you.
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