Category Archives: After treatment

Your Freeze Frame Moments

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Treatment by

The freeze frame moments – moments so good, so wholly, purely, simply good, you’d like to stick a pin in them and keep ’em forever. Those are the moments I try to remember; sitting here, laying there, holding my dog when she was a puppy, celebrating the publication of an article, cuddling up to my husband, walking through a warm sun shower, meeting up with friends, feeling good just because . . . those are the freeze frame moments I’m sure everyone can relate to.

Dr Alexandra Ginty tweeted me, Katie and Terri this week about a freeze frame moment, saying she was enjoying a beautiful wine while at the cottage. And I thought, “what a fantastic expression, ‘freeze frame’.”

The only problem with trying to remember those moments as vivid recollections is that so often the mind moves on, the goodness  slips away, and while we might want to re-submerge ourselves into ‘that time when everything was wonderful’ it instead becomes a shadow of the past.

During treatment I longed for those memories to feel real. After my third or fourth treatment of the ‘really intense’ chemotherapy (with over ten more sessions to go), as determination began to subside to exhaustion, more often than not I found myself dreaming of better times. Better times in the past, and better times to come.

Maybe you are right there, right now, fighting through the shock, the physical changes, the strangeness of seeing a different person in the mirror (you, but not you) . . . and all around life goes on, and you go on too. Sometimes you have the strength and find those moments of goodness, other times (quiet times, when hardly anyone is looking) you break down and just wish – wish so hard – that you could return to one of those freeze frame moments.

I think everyone remembers differently, but whenever I was longing for a bit of goodness, here’s what helped me. Maybe it could help you too? And really, I think this is applicable far beyond a cancer treatment. Anyone can call upon their favourite moments to help alleviate a down moment.

Write it down. When things are good, write them down. Describe how it felt. Tell yourself a story in that moment so when you read it over later (years later, days later) those emotions can be regained.

  • Draw a picture. Just doodle it on a piece of paper – doesn’t have to be good, and you don’t need to show it to anyone. Drawing taps into a different sort of memory, and coupling that with the movement of your hand and texture of the page, it becomes in itself a wholly, purely, simply good freeze frame moment.
  • Tell a story. This is what you do when out for tea with friends, or lying in bed, or having someone who loves you rub your feet: tell them the memory that’s floating through your mind. Don’t worry about it making sense or sounding eloquent – just tell them about that time you laughed till you cried, or felt totally happy and the world was just perfect.
  • Look at pictures. There’s a great way to trigger lost memories. Have a photo book on hand and flip through, taking time to enjoy the memories that you had forgotten. Zsolt and I print out photo books after our adventures; it’s a fantastic way to make sure the good times never fade.
  • Make a plan. This is a BIG deal, and basically one that will carry you out of that slump. Make a plan to go somewhere you love, do something you love . . . even if you are in the  middle of treatment, make a plan. Whether or not your follow through might depend upon your determination and energy levels, but don’t give up if it’s at all possible. Heck, I dreamed of going home for Christmas despite chemo, setbacks, and the general opinion of its impossibility. And guess what? It happened. And honestly, being at home was one of the most healing times during my entire journey through treatment. So if you remember being happy by the lake, or with some friends, or whatever, make a plan – believe in that plan.

Happiness is a huge bit of ‘awesome’ in life, and goodness knows it can be challenged and withheld at times. During my chemotherapy (and a little bit afterwards too) I experienced depression for the first time in my life. Thank God that passed, but I cannot forget what a sluggish, discouraging, deep situation it threw me into. . . and during those times, all I could do was remember those freeze frame moments. Since those times, since coming through treatment and trying to regain my life – I’ve lived those wonderful experiences, and plan on living a whole lot more.

(This is also a great way to establish what matters most in your life, don’t you think?)

What were your freeze frame moments that helped when things were discouraging? Is there a particular feeling,value or memory you like to recall?

Anyhow, there’s my list of ways to recall the good times. If you yourself have any ideas, please share them in the comments section. My list was quite ‘Catherine’ centric (i.e. focused on what I love) and you may have a way to remember that’s completely your own – do share. If nothing else, I’d just love to hear all the different ways people enjoy themselves.

Until later! 🙂 Catherine

BRCA genetic testing result

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs by

Well we have arrived, it is the end of another week. And this week was particularly interesting not only for having done some volunteering, seeing my (i.e. Facing Cancer Together’s) PSA advertisement hit the electronic news stands – see page 31 for me and my very white teeth, or trying to arrange a photo shoot (an attempt to describe my current state of hair may not have been so clear, as they kept asking me to bring along my wig), but also because this is the week of my BRCA results.

Genetic testing has been done. And I’ll get straight to the results, then talk about their meaning. Basically – for the two BRCA genes where they have identified a known mutation linked to high probabilities of cancer – I am A-Okay! No mutation. Everything works tick-a-dee-boo.

WooooHooo!!!

(Insert here the happy dance that Mom, Dad, Zsolt and I did this afternoon after sharing the news. Dad cranked up Depeche Mode’s Question of Time and made us all dance around the kitchen in celebration. And you are welcome do dance as well, if you’d like.)

So while the mystery of ‘why did you get cancer’ remains unsolved, I’ve nevertheless been spared this additional weight in my journey. What that means is I am lucky, very lucky, to not have to consider removing my ovaries and uterus due to high risk . . . and my left breast is also giving a sigh of relief.

None of this means I cannot be vigilant – checks, scans, tests must all be done regularly. After all, I did have cancer, and yeah, that doctor in the UK quoted me at fifty percent of a pizza . . .so yes, I need to remain on guard.

But I guess my chances of developing a second cancer are not drastically high. The genetic consultant did this lovely test for me where she calculated the likelihood of my developing a second cancer . . . she arrived at a life-time risk of 16%. But that is when I’m eighty. Right now, here in my thirties, it’s like from less than zero to one percent.  

They did, however, find a bizzaro mutation on my BRCA1 gene that cannot be identified. Generally speaking, they feel it’s not pathogenic (i.e. not cancer causing) but they cannot be positive. This means that every three or five years, I’m meant to call into the clinic and check to see whether that particularly (currently mystery) mutation  has been linked to cancer. Hopefully it becomes confirm as ‘not a bad thing’ as the gene is further investigated.

Honestly, I am thankful to not be identified as having hereditary breast cancer. I am thankful for myself, and my body/baby related choices, but also for my mother, my cousins, my family, and – hopefully – my future children. I am very, very thankful.

People who are diagnosed with the messed up BRCA genes live incredible lives beyond cancer (or even without cancer!) – think about Terri from a Fresh Chapter, for instance. But nevertheless that’s a heavy slice of knowledge about a body that could potentially turn on you. (Of course this is the case for everyone, not to be too ‘doom and gloom’, but imagine having a doctor say, “there’s a 80% chance you’ll get cancer if you don’t remove those breasts.) I cannot speak for their journeys, but I do know they are journeying despite a certain monkey on the back, and that in itself is hugely admirable.

Anyhow, today was a relief and I am thankful, very thankful. It’s such good news . . . I don’t want to boast, but it’s such very, very good news.

And for today, that is all I’ll write about that.

My American Idol eggs

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Fertility by

“What a beautiful uterus,” says Shannon the technician. “All dressed up in her Sunday best.”

Yep, that’s my uterus – a real girly girl, getting all dolled up before trips to the fertility clinic. I tell her it’s no big deal, just wear sweat pants like me and my lulu’s – but no, she likes turning heads when she leaves the house.

So my uterus is on the display screen and looking good. Having established that ( and having taken a picture with her fancy machine) the technician takes a short break in her ultra sound scanning so I can go to the washroom. One hour before the appointment I drank about half a litre of water. Zsolt was pushing for the full litre, “Come on, drink more!” and I pushed back, saying, “I’m full! I can’t manage another drop!” What I didn’t mention was that I was mainly full because (only two minutes before) I’d stuffed two cookies down my throat in a bit of a ‘need a snack, oh, there’s a snack’ quick-fix indulgence. But nevertheless, I drank the minimum required amount of liquid one hour before my ultra sound, which meant by the time we arrived at the fertility clinic and were escorted in for the scan, I was bursting to use the washroom.

A minute later and I’m back in the scan room, relieved of holding it in, and with a sheet wrapped around my lower body (trousers and pants removed) as the technician has me sit back on the table.

Earlier, as Zsolt and I waited to be called for the test, Shannon (the technician) came out into the waiting lounge and asked, “Catherine?” To which I replied, “That’s me!” and hurried over to her side. She then asked, “aren’t you taking him with you?” So Zsolt, who is used to not accompanying me on my tests because generally speaking, nurses at the hospitals here in Ottawa are not keen on a second person in the room, put away the Playbook and joined us for the scanning. Today he was allowed to hold my hand as Shannon investigated the status of my ovaries, and I’m really thankful for that. It means we both know more about the situation.

(I’m strong in my belief that a patient ought to be allowed a source of support during tests and procedures. Even if they are sitting across the room, it so helps to have a loved one nearby during those challenging moments.)

So I’m on the table, and we’re getting down to the real stuff here. In goes the ultra sound wand. (In where? You guess.) After a few uncomfortable attempts to capture my left ovary, where she pushed down on my abdomen and prods upwards with the wand, we have a clear picture.

Basically, we are examining my ovaries today to learn about the eggs. Now, Shannon is not a doctor, so the results of my scan cannot be 100% confirmed until someone trained for years up on years in ultra sounding has examined the images, but she does explain what she sees.

“Basically your eggs are like contestants for American Idol. There are so many, that you can’t see the individual people (i.e. eggs) on a scan. But every month there are try outs, and the people who succeed for those try outs (i.e. eggs that try to ovulate) and get through to the competition are given costumes and makeovers – and then we can see them. (i.e. the follicles change in a way that makes them apparent in an ultra sound).”

So, looking at my left ovary . . . not too many contestants made it to the try outs. The blob that represents my ovary is small, and she counts only three follicles. That is a low number. (But better than zero, in my opinion.)

Onto Ms Right. Moving to the other side, with more compression and squeezing of my abdomen, she takes a picture of my right ovary and then explains what she sees.

“See how it’s so much larger?”

And it is – it’s like three times larger than my left ovary. Apparently, according to Shannon, the left ovary often takes the hit when it comes to declining fertility. Mine certainly has. But in my right there are seven follicles. That’s not horrible.

Apparently, the minimum number of follicles (eggs that made the competition) the doctors are happy to see in women when combining numbers from both left and right is eleven. Eleven. My combined number was ten. Ten.

Therefore, I have low fertility levels . . . but . . . well, ten is almost eleven, right?

“You might have to get on that earlier than other women,” she suggests. What Shannon means is, I ought to be trying for a baby now as opposed to later.

Which is more easily said than done, considering I’m only one year out of treatment. But Zsolt and I have a plan, and it involves waiting at least another year before trying. And in the meanwhile, I’m on tamoxifen and trying to keep this body healthy.

The truth is, there are more tests they could run, more scans they can take – because knowing the state of my eggs is really only a starting point. But I promised Dr Canada to abstain from the fertility yellow brick road . . . and though I agreed to have my eggs tested (because I WANT to know), there will be no further investigations for quite a while. Yes, I have to go back and get my blood taken on day “21” of my period, so we can know whether I’m actually ovulating those American Idol eggs . . . but that’ll be the end of things for now.

Fertility can become so confusing, so overwhelming, and so panic-inducing after having had chemotherapy. Last summer when I thought I couldn’t have children, that was totally crushing. This past Autumn when the doctor gave me some hope – that was relieving. But one way or another, things are going to work out, and I have faith in that eventuality. Chasing down this information is a good thing: I look forward to learning the results because then, finally, I can plan for the future with a clear picture of the options. But there are times to step back too, and after this upcoming consultation – that’ll be my time to step away from the babies and just focus on here and now.

Maybe you know what it’s like to run this fertility race? If you want to share, please do  – it will help others reading this post who are hoping to learn what comes next.

What was your experience?

And in the meanwhile, have yourself a lovely loved-filled day. See you next week.