Staring down cancer with aplomb

Kate Warner recounts the bravery, humour and determination of a friend’s battle with breast cancer

IWOULD like to share the story of a close friend and colleague whose cancer story and grim diagnosis is so inspiring.

It illustrates how advances in medical science are constantly improving the survival rate for those diagnosed with metastatic cancer.

And it demonstrates that it is possible to make the most of life despite facing an uncertain future.

It is now six years since Julia’s shocking email informing us that she had cancer.

Because she was interstate, I have an amazing trail of email correspondence from her which preserves her story of the rollercoaster of diagnosis and treatment.

Her courage, determination and humour never cease to amaze me.

And make me grateful to know her.

When I was grumbling to her about struggling with a software upgrade a few weeks ago, she told me a good day for her was when she did not have to have a liver scan or a staff meeting!

The emails began with a message sent on Friday 8 July 2011 at 3.12am, telling me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer that day and adding:

I will try to ring you to talk when I feel up to it. It has been hard telling the family, so I need a little break from the telling. Please forgive me for using the email to pass on such bad news. Two days later, 10th July: Dear Kate,

I had a bone scan and chest x-ray on Friday and they came back clear, which is kind of funny in a way: they tell you on Thursday night that you have breast cancer, and you feel very unlucky then they send you off to see if it has spread to your lungs and bones and then when it has not spread you are thinking on Friday less than 24

It is now six years since Julia’s shocking email informing us that she had cancer.

hours later: Hooray. I only have breast cancer how lucky am I?

After talking about our conference presentation scheduled in Sydney for the following week she added:

I am very pissed off about this cancer thing aside from my eyes, my bust has always been my best feature and most of my clothes have been chosen to show it off! So I guess I will have to use my nice scarf collection to cover the missing bits. I remember that one of my first [student evaluations] came back with an answer to the question “Was there anything you particularly liked about this staff member’s teaching?” that said “Yes, cleavage.” At the time it was annoying, but I wish now that I had kept it!

Then on Tuesday 19 after the conference she wrote, Dearest Kate, Thanks for the good time in Sydney … I am in between scans. They have agreed that one “area of concern” is not a problem but I have to go back soon for yet another look at the bloody liver, because even this morning’s ultrasound did not make them look cheerful. I have faced my pajama phobia and now have two pairs! The comforting hospital pamphlet reassures me that I will be able “to do light housework within two weeks of surgery”. Great. Later that day she emailed that as a result of the CT liver scan she needed a liver biopsy. Then after the liver biopsy an email on 27 July reporting that the liver biopsy showed the cancer had spread to it.

On 5th August, she reported: Dearest Kate, The weird thing is that I am walking around looking the same as ever, with copious amounts of cleavage on display and no plans for surgery, yet I am telling everyone that I have breast cancer! I feel like a bit of a fraud, but the irony of my situation is that the worse the news is, the less likely surgery is.

We have it so ingrained that breast cancer = mastectomy, that it is hard to get it clear in the mind. What a waste of front opening pyjamas! So, we live with uncertainty, cleavage, and other odd things!

I am doing the best I can, not to turn either into a doomridden misery or into a “cancer saint” but to be as normal and ordinary as possible. I am swearing a lot and looking on the bright side and making the most of life. We are about to head off for a drive into the hills, which will be lovely.

In another message she said: I am adopting the philosophy of enjoying what is good and dealing with what is bad.

By October that year, the toxic chemotherapy treatment had finished and a scan showed that the liver lesions had responded to treatment and reduced in size.

Instead Julia had Herceptin drips every three weeks in the oncology ward at the hospital and gradually the side effects of the toxic chemo subsided.

In 2012, Julia was back at work, she had a book published in February and that year we applied for two Australian Research Council grants, putting aside what the prognosis meant for the threeyear project plans.

In August a scan showed the lesions had reduced still more and her prognosis had improved to 60-70 per cent for