MY CANCER JOURNEY
Postmedia columnist Licia Corbella returned to work this month after a more than two-year battle with breast cancer. The experience, she writes, changed both her body and spirit.
My straight hair is now curly, my once-full eyebrows must now be drawn in with an eyebrow pencil and my eyelashes — which were never the envy of anyone — are even shorter and sparser than before. Despite these changes, from the outside I am recognizable; from the inside, however, I am transformed. As much as I try not to give cancer the credit for anything good, that’s what this now two-year-long journey has done — it’s changed me.
While my myriad physical changes are all negative, many of the more intrinsic aspects of my being have blossomed and flourished. The way I look at the world has been recalibrated. My seemingly mundane moments are more often moved into mindful marvellousness. I cherish smiles and waves more, dogs playing, and sitting with those I love.
So, how did it all start? It was Friday, Jan. 30, 2015, and as I got out of the shower I noticed a rather large bump at the 12-o’clock-position on my right breast. I had brought this same lump to the attention of my then-family physician one year earlier and she said, “It’s nothing; cancer is sticky and this lump isn’t sticky.” She didn’t order a mammogram and being the opposite of a hypochondriac I didn’t bother to seek one out either. Silly me. Something, however — maybe it was the lighting in the bathroom that accentuated the sheer size of it — made me call the doctor that day. Thankfully, my now ex-family doctor was away and I got her partner instead. After a brief examination, he booked me a diagnostic mammogram for later that same day.
At work, I was short-staffed and Fridays were my busiest day of the week as I edited and wrote parts of Saturday’s and Monday’s editorial pages. Nevertheless, I drove across town and was greeted by a brusque, but not rude, technician. Once she started the mammogram, however, her voice became very sweet. That’s when I first knew that I had cancer. The radiologist came into the room afterward and said: “I’m going to be straight with you … You have cancer.”
According to the Canadian Cancer Society — which has been an invaluable, trusted resource for me — those three terrifying, dreaded words — “you have cancer” — are words that two-infive Canadians will hear at some time in their lives. One-in-four of those people will die from it, making cancer the leading cause of death in Canada. Every day, more than six of my fellow Albertan women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. One in 30 of those women will die from the disease.
So, if you, dear reader, glean nothing else from my story, please be skeptical of medical studies that claim mammograms (and PSA tests) aren’t very helpful and lead to too many false positive alerts for breast and prostate cancer. Better a false positive than a missed positive. If you haven’t had one of these tests in a while, go get one and soon. Had I done that, perhaps I could have avoided chemotherapy and the ongoing side-effects I have suffered as a result.
After learning I had cancer, I went to my car and called my husband, Stephen. I was in a daze. Stephen immediately wanted to pick me up and bring me home but I had too much work to do, so I worked through a sustained adrenalin rush for hours until I rushed off, ironically, to my dear friend Bill Brooks’ annual prostate cancer benefit, my favourite fundraiser of the year. Despite seeing many beloved friends, I did not have a good time. I left after about two hours at 11:30 p.m.
As my friend Cheryl — who has survived both breast and ovarian cancer — told me, ‘Cancer will pull you off the merry-go-round and shift your priorities.’ In my case, the effects of my cancer treatments felt more like being flung off a bucking bronco smack into a wall.
In other words, on the day I found out I had cancer I started work reading the papers at 6:30 a.m. and put in a 17-hour day. I have since come to recognize through my arduous two-year cancer journey that my life was terribly unbalanced. One of the more profound lessons I’ve learned is there’s a reason we’re called human beings and not human doers. As my friend Cheryl — who has survived both breast and ovarian cancer — told me, “Cancer will pull you off the merry-go-round and shift your priorities.” In my case, the effects of my cancer treatments felt more like being flung off a bucking bronco smack into a wall.
Following a core biopsy, I was officially diagnosed on Feb. 11 with Triple-Negative, Grade III invasive ductal carcinoma. I didn’t even know there were different kinds of breast cancer but when I started reading about triple-negative breast cancer (TNBC), I didn’t like what I read. I also learned Grade III is the highest and most aggressive type of cancer cell.
Only 15 to 20 per cent of breast cancers are triple-negative and the five-year survival rates for TNBC are lower at 77 per cent, than for so-called “hormone positive” breast cancers at 93 per cent. I was abruptly confronted with the real possibility that my expiry date may be changing — advancing dramatically.
Nevertheless, I felt like I won the surgeon lottery when I was assigned and met Dr. Daran Austen. He was only 47 at the time, the head of general surgery at Calgary’s Rockyview General Hospital, and he looked a bit like a rock star. I had to decide quickly whether to have a mastectomy (a complete removal of my right breast) or a lumpectomy (the removal of the tumour and surrounding tissue).
It was an agonizing decision made through the haze of melancholy, anxiety and incomplete information. It wouldn’t be until after surgery that I would find out what stage my cancer was and whether it had spread or not. The up side of having a mastectomy is there would be no need for radiation. The downside is obvious. As I often quipped, “We get attached to our breasts and more importantly, they’re attached to us!” Eventually, I opted for a lumpectomy.
Following surgery on March 11, a beaming Dr. Austen told me that the initial pathology showed the margins around my 2.2 cm long tumour were clear of cancer and that the nine lymph nodes removed from under my arm showed no sign of cancer either. I was giddy at the news and at having that damned tumour out of my body. Stephen and our two sons, Tyrone and Nolan, were ecstatic at my bedside when I relayed Dr. Austen’s account.
A few hours later I was good to go home. As we drove out of the hospital parking garage, Stephen marvelled at the world-class care I received — from a top-notch anesthetist, pathologist and surgeon, to fun, caring and competent nurses.
“It’s amazing,” Stephen exclaimed. “The only time we had to pull out our credit card was for parking — $14.75. What a bargain!” Our gratitude for Canada’s health-care system is enduring.
I felt blessed again getting Dr. Sasha Lupichuk as my medical oncologist. Her knowledge is expansive and her compassion is boundless. For me, surgery was a breeze so I assumed the rest of my cancer treatments would be the same, despite the sobering information sessions Stephen and I attended at the Tom Baker Cancer Centre.
My first chemo session was on May 5, 2015 — the day the Alberta NDP knocked the 44-year-old Progressive Conservative political dynasty out of power. That day also knocked me out — literally. Six days after receiving the chemo drugs Fluorouracil, Epirubicin and Cyclophosphamide (FEC), my temperature spiked and I was hospitalized. My neutrophils (the white blood cells that fight infection) — which were below normal even before I started chemo — dropped to zero.
When Stephen and I arrived at the emergency room at Rockyview Hospital, I was rushed into a private room within 11 minutes of arriving, despite the posted four-hour wait time. Every doctor, nurse or visitor who came to see me for the next six days had to don a gown, mask and gloves to protect me from infection.
I eventually got a private room on the cardiac unit and within my first hour there, a young nurse entered my room with a clipboard and asked if I wanted to be resuscitated should I succumb to my illness. I informed her that I was not a cardiac patient. We stared at each other briefly. She just nodded and waited for my answer, which was: “Yes! Our sons are graduating from high school soon! Please! Resuscitate me!”
Until that time, I had never suffered so much in my life. Many of my nights were simply excruciating. My veins, made weak from the harsh chemo drugs, would leak intravenous antibiotics into my flesh. I thought how terrible it must be for babies and children to have this experience. On top of that, my scalp grew so itchy I actually couldn’t wait for my hair to fall out.
My last three chemo sessions were with the drug Docetaxel. This now became the most harrowing time of my life. The codeine I was prescribed to help me deal with anticipated bone pain still kept me writhing in agony at night as I soaked my pillow with tears. Thanks to Dr. Lupichuk’s treatment, with prophylactic antibiotics and Neulasta (which is truly a miracle drug) I stayed on schedule with my chemo and could still attend my twin sons’ high school graduations.
I was only hospitalized once more, and only for one day. As each round of chemo came around every three weeks, Dr. Lupichuk would study my blood test results and find a way to keep me out of hospital — which included lowering the dosage of chemo I received.
Each new side-effect was upsetting, but effects like losing all my hair were temporary. Besides the nausea, my toenails fell off and my fingernails (which I iced during and after chemo) turned white. I lost the feeling in some of my fingers and toes (neuropathy) and my mouth is still so dry three teeth have broken.
I also gained 30 pounds as a result of the steroids that are given to prevent allergic reaction to chemo and nausea, an added insult.
I also suffered from depression for the first time in my life. I cried constantly. Other more lasting side-effects happened as well: My vision deteriorated almost overnight and I developed lymphedema (the painful swelling of my right arm, caused by the removal of the lymph nodes), as well as rheumatoid arthritis and hypothyroidism.
But, the worst side-effects by far are the least visible. Cancerrelated fatigue is defined, in short, as fatigue that cannot be alleviated by sleep. At one point, my fatigue was so extreme that I recall having an itch on my nose and I had to order my arm to move in order to scratch it. It is paralyzing. On many occasions I’d drive to the supermarket just three minutes from our home and have to sleep in the parking lot before returning home to bed, without the groceries. The fatigue is so deep it feels as though it’s cellular.
Cancer-related brain fog was the most distressing of my numerous grievous side-effects. Prior to receiving chemo and after leaving work on March 3, 2015, I was devouring books stacked by my bed. My diary was rich with insights and detail. That richness stopped on May 11, when I was hospitalized. A couple of weeks after my first chemo, I had trouble retaining what I read.
Oddly, typos and spelling errors would still jump off the page at me, but I’d get to the end of an article or chapter and realize I had no clue what I’d just read. Stephen joked that my most used phrase became, “the whatchamacallit.”
The brain fog challenged my very identity. Suddenly, I couldn’t read or write and I was reliant on everyone — especially my husband, kids and friends — like never before. Before cancer, I enjoyed other people, but I didn’t need them to help me do simple things. After chemo my friend Sandra, for instance, would have to come over to help me pack a suitcase if I had to travel. I just couldn’t figure out what to take or stay on task.
While diarizing essentially stopped dead, I made a point of keeping a gratitude journal along with the seemingly countless medical appointments that had to be kept track of. Every day I thanked God for my husband Stephen, who kept me laughing throughout this ordeal and never left my side. He attended ever single chemo and 20 daily radiation sessions at the Tom Baker, along with every scan and important medical appointment I had — sometimes as many as four appointments in a day.
The kindness and love I received from family, friends — particularly from our church — and from medical professionals has been breathtaking — and manifested itself in so many ways — from countless flower arrangements, stacks of cards, emails, nutritious frozen casseroles and fresh home-cooked meals to invitations to cottages and vacation homes. It has really been incredible.
For those who are starting or are in the midst of their own cancer journeys, I encourage you to actively use the plethora of resources available to those of us in this club that no one wants to join.
Will I ever be the same? No. Would I want to be? Physically, yes, spiritually, no.
My dependence on God expanded and He met me in such a profound way through the most difficult times. I also now better understand what it means to suffer and how, therefore, to minister to those who are in all kinds of pain.
As Dr. Ardythe Taylor (one of the founders of the not-for-profit Breast Cancer Supportive Care Centre and one of the many fabulous health-care professionals I encountered on my journey) has said, “Cancer is such a devastating experience, but the suffering it induces can be formative.”
When I’m too tired to do much, I am grateful for simple things — for the bird on the branch, my husband’s humorous story, the tenderness my sons have shown towards me, my loving friends, doctors, nurses and technicians, and my faith.
Oh yeah, and my curly hair — a daily reminder that I am a changed person.
The worst side-effects by far are the least visible. At one point, my fatigue was so extreme that I recall having an itch on my nose and I had to order my arm to move in order to scratch it. It is paralyzing.