Category Archives: Bumpboobs

That is enough of that

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs by

This past weekend involved my travelling to Toronto to meet, share and learn with a group of ladies who had in the past been diagnosed with cancer (A bitter sweet experience. On one hand, it’s amazing to get together with women and chat-chat-chat ourselves silly about fertility, chemo, treatment and diagnosis . . . on the other hand, stepping back from the tea and biscuits, it’s also a little bit sad so many wonderful people had to have gotten sick.). The idea here (and in this case, it’s specifically a breast cancer charity, though similar sorts of support are offered through many cancer centers, such as Wellspring.) is that those newly diagnosed can reach out for information or a quietly listening ear from those who have ‘walked that walk’ before.

Really, it’s all about the sharing. There are times when we desperately need to share, to reach out, to connect. Personally, I had a negative first experience in terms of finding support. I’ve told this little story before, and now I’ll tell it again: when I asked the breast cancer nurse (moments after being told about the cancer) if there were any breast cancer support groups in the area, she basically said:

“Not for a women your age, at your stage of treatment.”

Gag. Really? Really? Then she went on to tell me that I was in an exceptional position, and the last time a woman around my age was diagnosed was maybe two years ago. I guess considering the surgeon performs several mastectomies and bilaterals a week . . . this ‘one every few years’ thing was small peanuts.

But I digress.

Support is a great thing. Before finding Facing Cancer Together (my first and still very important experience of peer support within Canada), I guess there was the blogging. To share, even with just my family and the people they referred Bumpyboobs to, was alleviating.

It wasn’t because people could write back with all the answers, and it wasn’t because writing would carry away my problems . . . it was because . . . . . . because I could share.

Release that ball of pressure. Let others know how I felt without having to make things ‘nice’.  (Or at least, not too nice. My grandmother was reading that blog, so I’d be lying if I said there was no censorship . . . but it was, on the whole, a very honest medium.)

So there I was last weekend ready to volunteer my time and energy to a program I think is essential (i.e. Peer Support for Young Women with Breast Cancer).

And here we go – into training! Friday starts with some emotional ‘what inspires me’ stuff, then Saturday rolls into picking apart pity versus compassion, and all the while we eat-eat-eat (sushi & Thai food for lunch . . . ahhh, so good. I made some Thai last night just to recreate the experience.) and as we eat, we chat-chat-chat.

“Fertility. Babies. Children. Drugs. Surgeries. Options. Chemo. Radiation. Depression. Exercise. Side Effects. Projects. Reconstruction. Discovery. Advocacy. Research. Doctors. Diagnosis. Family. Energy. Nausea. Work. Sick Leave. Hair growth. Marathons. And so on!”

I really should have known better. Saturday night following the training, I ought to have curled up in the hotel room with room-service pizza and ordered some stupid movie for distraction. But instead, since this was a great opportunity to meet people (and it was, which is why I couldn’t say no), I went out for dinner with the ladies. We ate this gorgeous pizza, and we talked-talked-talked.

“Babies. Children. Drug Plans. Lymph nodes. Prognosis. Treatment. Studies. Genetics. Birth Control. Fertility drugs. Family planning. Tamoxifen. Herceptin.”

Listening-listening-listening. I felt my head get heavy and the room tilt sideways.

What the heck was happening?

This is what happening: I suddenly had had enough. Exhaustion replaced interest, and I basically fell asleep in my pizza before interrupting the conversation and asking to be taken home. The following Sunday involved a lot of role-playing (very useful but also intense) and I think everyone had had enough of ‘cancer’ by the time the weekend was over.

Which is why I think, really, sometimes it’s better to focus on the “Everything else we go through” as opposed to the cancer. Yes, sharing is incredible. Meeting like-experienced others is confirming in the ‘you are not alone’ sense. This is all so very good, so very supportive, so very helpful.

But it’s also a wonderful thing to breath and be quiet. To remember that the sun is shining. To lose yourself in a book. To run that mile alone. To just let yourself be everything and anything except a person who has had (or has) cancer.

Stepping away is a wonderful thing.  So for me, this week, I’ve tried my best to step away. This post speaks otherwise . . . but along with writing this post, I’ve been working on Narrative Nipple, looking at places to move, applying for jobs, and arranging a reading group. Not bad, eh? :)

So, here’s to stepping away and letting it go. Those are the best moments, after all. The moments where you’re nothing but yourself, and the pressure is forgotten. Just let it go. Once in a while . . . just let it go.

Choo-Choo! Chuga-Chuga.

Posted in Bumpboobs, Canada, Finding Home, Fun by

Sitting on the train: rocking and rolling toward Toronto for a weekend of peer support training with the classy organization, Rethink.  Frankly, I find train prices in Canada to be drastically more expensive than the European (or US) system . . . but hey – at least there’s internet. Though I’d rather save half the price of a ticket and not be able to check my email.

Zsolt is at a bus station as I type this waiting for the Greyhound. He’s coming down to Toronto to meet me later in the day. (Why aren’t we travelling together? Well, my trip was arranged by Rethink,  and Zsolt’s was arranged by Zsolt . . . bookings did not coincide. Plus, when paying out of pocket, the bus is way, way less expensive.) The poor guy was dropped off this morning at about 7.15am for a 9.30am ride to Toronto. Goodness knows what he’s been doing these past two hours.  But I imagine it involves the playbook, and a whole lot of Fruit Ninja.

This weekend we’ll be on hiatus from Ottawa. While Zsolt visits the Royal Canadian Museum (or something like that) to learn about the Mayans and their pyramids . . . I’ll be hanging out with other young breast cancer ass-kickers, being trained on how to give support to those newly diagnosed. Rethink is this entirely cool, flashy, worthwhile organization that supports young women diagnosed with BC. They are the folks who put out  the ‘Your Man Reminder’ app/you tube video. You can get a sense of their philosophy by watching that piece of work. (However, I cannot include a link because apparently VIA rail discourages streaming, and won’t let me access youtube to find the video. But seriously, it’s easy. Just search ‘Your Man Reminder Video’ in the search engine.)

Sitting on the VIA train reminds me of high school. Maybe it ought to remind me of Europe since Zsolt and I rode the train all over, but no – high school. Back in the days of awkwardness and poor fashion choices, I was a debater. Our club would take the train to tournaments held at U of T, Queens, Waterloo, McGill . . . and let me tell you, if you’re looking for great company, look for a pack of debaters. Generally you’ll find people who are full-on convinced of their opinion and perfectly capable of discussing it to death (followed by going out to a bar , having pillow fights, or riding around in the back of taxi’s with their legs sticking out). Frankly, I don’t even know how I managed to keep up . . . but it didn’t hurt to be one of the only girls. It never does. J

All that to say I’m on a train. Zsolt is still waiting at the bus depot. And there’s no snow on the ground in Toronto.

Let the weekend of adventure (and 9-3.30 training) begin!  

Fertility Clinic Surprise*

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Fertility, Life by

 One year after chemotherapy and I’m back at the fertility doctor. This is because I pressed my oncologist for the referral, though he insists – absolutely insists – that I wait at least two years with my hormone therapy before doing anything in regards to having a baby. If I can have a baby. . .

Let me catch you up, real quick: Before chemotherapy I was given the option to freeze an embryo. I said no, because my tumour was estrogen loving, and goodness knows IVF involves a lotta estrogen. Therefore, we took a chance on Zolodex. For the five or six months that was chemotherapy, I had the Zolodex pill (and that GIANT needle) inserted in my belly each month which repressed my ovaries and stopped all periods. But then after the chemo and Zolodex were over, I still hadn’t gotten my period. Waiting, waiting, nothing . .. doctor orders an AMH test, the results of which are very bad – i.e. low. Nurse tells me on the phone that I don’t qualify for IVF, I realize my eggs are super low, and extreme panic ensues because – what the heck? Do they mean I can’t get pregnant? And then, a few months later, my period returns. I am confused.

Fertility becomes so stupidly confusing after having had chemotherapy. We’re all told it can strip our eggs, throw us into early menopause (now that I’ve had  my taste of menopause, I’m in no hurry to revisit that hot-flashing experience again, though it is inevitable.) and just make things difficult. Alternatively, it might not. But if you are like me and want a family one day (or want to grow your family), there are questions that need to be answered.

So we go to the fertility clinic in Ottawa. This place is located at the back of a business park complex, and it’s a freaking miracle that we found it. Zsolt and I were working from a map when we pulled into a random parking lot (I almost freaked out without my GPS, but Zsolt is actually quite competent with a map) . . . we pull into this parking lot and stare at all the ‘you must have a blue pass’ signs for parking, and we’re about to turn back out onto the main road when I figure, ‘Hey, let’s just drive around this place and then loop back . .. what’s the building number again?’ Zsolt digs out the address number and reads it aloud as we’re passing through the back of that labyrinth lot and – hello!—there is the building, and –look!—there’s a parking spot for visitors.

How perfect is that?

We park. We go in. It’s not like the hospital with narrow halls and florescent lighting. Instead there’s an indoor rainforest, and the fertility clinic is carpeted, with curved reception desks and a sofa-filled waiting room. (The waiting room is huge, by the way, like three little rooms divided by Ikea bookshelves, and I wonder how many people do they normally expect? At that moment, it’s just Zsolt and I waiting.) We sit down, ready to wait the standard 1 hour. In England, we always waited approximately 1 hour. But instead the doctor comes out and calls my name immediately – I haven’t even finished filling my form!

Another good sign.

We follow her into her office. She has one of those giant screen computers that I’d like to eventually purchase myself. This Doctor is quite young (or at least, young looking) and I like her calmness. She has us sit down, and begins to ask questions . . . you know, all those personal things you need to divulge to every new doctor at any initial visit.  And once the history and physical stuff is filled out on her computerized form, we start to talk about babies.

[This is approximately the conversation. I can’t remember the actual words spoken, so if you’d like real medical advice for fertility, definitely go and speak to a real doctor.]

“So you want to meet today, but not actually do anything for about 2 years?” she asks.

“That’s right,” I answer.

I’ve told her about my previous AMH test in England, and the terrible result. I’ve also told her I’m getting regular menstruation every thirty days. (And now you know too!)

“Well the AMH is more a test to see if IVF would be an option for you. With results like yours, it may not be, but something is likely there if you are menstrating. Basically you could still get pregnant naturally, even if we’d have trouble with the IVF.”

“WHAT THE HECK?!”

I don’t really say that, but I feel it. All the freaking time I think I’m eggless – even having my period didn’t convince me to anything different . . . girls can get their period without ovulating . . . but . . .they still have eggs, don’t they? Hmm.

So I’m all – what the heck, how come no doctor ever mentioned this? (Well, my mother who is a naturopath and chiropractor mentioned it, as did my acupuncturist in England, but not once did I hear it from one of my medical doctors until this wonderful lady.)

And she’s all – hey, that’s how it works. You may get pregnant naturally, I’ve seen it happen.

While I’m doing a happy dance in my head, and we can assume Zsolt was too, she begins to discuss egg donation. Get these numbers:

If you find a donor here in Canada, because there is no egg bank, the process costs ~ 15,000 dollars.

If you go to the USA, where women get paid for their eggs, and therefore candidates are plentiful, the process involves six tries and costs ~ 34,000 dollars – money back guarantee if you don’t have a baby. (Money back guarantee! I thought that sort of thing only happened in retail.)

If we adopt, she thinks it costs about 20,000 dollars and can take several years.

With egg donation they’d have the donor take the IVF hormones but I’d also have to take hormones . . . I’d be taking estrogen and progesterone to sync my period to that of the woman who is donating. (Why can’t we just share tea and bond? We’d sync up naturally.) Meaning I’m still exposed to that excess estrogen. Alternatively they could create embryos and then freeze those little guys to be de-thawed when my uterus is ready. . . that’s one way to avoid the extra hormones, but not all embryos can withstand the freezing, and I could possibly have less chances of success.  The final alternative would be to have a surrogate, but I’m not hot on that.

And there are my options. Now come the tests.  (MORE TESTS)  Two blood tests to see if I’m ovulating, another shot at the AMH, plus . . . wait for it . . . a sperm test. Zsolt is about to become involved. Apparently he’s to stay out of hot tubs beforehand, since they slow the boys.

Okay, this is a long post. All this to say, really, that I might get pregnant naturally – so that’s something I’ll definitely try doing in another year or so when I’m still totally healthy and cancer free and have been on Tamoxifen for 2 years. Assuming I am still menstruating regularly, we can give that a shot and see what happens. If nothing happens, then I’ll likely go back on the Tamoxifen and wait for the 5 years to finish. After that we can break our piggy bank (if necessary – fingers crossed we get preggers naturally) and go to the USA, or something.

So, if you’ve been through chemo and want to know your options . . . why not ask? At the very least they can paint you a picture, and for me, though I expected anxiety, it’s actually left me optimistic.

First a great parking spot in front of the building, and then not waiting for the doctor – good signs, I think. So who knows what else might be possible?

(Plus I’m working with some alternative health doctors to help with my fertility and ovulation, much like I’m also working on staying HEALTHY. These are good things, and I pray pray pray it all amounts to me going on to live a long, happy, successful and most certainly family-filled life.)

 *No, this is not a type of cassarole.