Category Archives: Treatment

Chemotherapy is OVER

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

DONE! WOOHOOO! AHHHH! YEAH BABY! YES YES YES! OKKKKAY! And a big thumbs up! Ahhh – no cause for another infamous swearing streak, today is only for happy words. HAPPY! JOY! RELIEF! RELEASE!Mom and I went in for chemo today. The hospital called our house at 7.30 am inquring whether we’d like to push our appoitment forward. Seven thirty felt a bit too early, so we arranged it for sometime before 11. “Any time before 11.”

So, at about 10 am we rolled into the deluxe chemo clinic. Again, things went well. That is a pattern I’m glad to have maintained during the paxlitaxel. The nurses seemed in a fine mood (but they would, as of the 25th they’ll have a 4 day weekend), one was even dressed in red with an elf hat. Very festive.

Chemotherapy took two and half hours, pretty normal. Afterwards the nurse removed my picc line. Let me tell you – removing a picc line is no big deal. Inserting the thing is a procedure (needles, x-rays, heart a pounding – though worth every second) so comparatively this was a walk in the park. Here is what they do: a heat pack is placed on the arm to ‘relax the vein’, the picc bandage is removed, and then the nurse gently pulls the line centimetre by centimetre till out, after which she presses down with gauze for a few minutes so the hole seals and no air can enter my body. Actually, I only realized half way through that she was pulling the tube from my vein. It was hardly noticeable. Why can’t all procedures be like that?

After my arm was released, we packed up the standards (oranges, pretzels, sweater) and GOT OUTTA THERE. Eighty sixed it – outtie five thousand – see you later alligator – hasta la vista – let’s blow this pop stand – I’m gone! High fives for everyone.

At the house Mom and Dad had a surprise gold star waiting for me. It’s a helium balloon in the shape of a star and is currently floating beside their bed. Pretty clever. Also there were lovely gifts from a few friends, and that was a wonderful surprise too.

Now I’m in the kitchen. Daniel and JP dragged the mattress upstairs so I could sleep yet still hang out. I’d tried sitting in a chair before but ended up sliding my tired ass onto the ground for a nap. This, clearly, is better. Mom just finished making red onion preserve and Daniel is sterilizing some jars. There’s festive music in the background and I’m sitting (sleeping) pretty. Lovely.

Sixteen down and no more to go. Over. Good bye Chemotherapy. Let’s never meet again. Never.

Next up is a vacation, followed by radiotherapy. After that it’s all about reclaiming my life. We’re starting now, which is a great reason for my being here. Marcelle is making sure I eat properly, Tony is treating me, and JP is putting me through a chemo-recovery routine.

If Zsolt were here it’d be absolutely perfect.

About 15 treatments ago I looked at the chemo schedule and thought, ‘how can we get through this?’ Talk about your obstacles; treatments felt like an uphill battle. But look where we’ve gotten – look at the view from the top of this mountain. Big goals were set (are set), and afterwards life became about the baby steps. One week at a time and you can survive. Survive to thrive. This next part (after the radiotherapy) is all about getting better.

I’m so thankful for everyone’s support. Thank you thank you thank you. Your thoughts, prayers, words, and food have been wonderful.

Right – time to lay down. Someone break out that cake! WOHOO!

Night before Chemo

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

Thanks to the writer of The Night Before Christmas, which my Dad used read me and is a wonderful story. I’ve totally ripped it off, but all in the spirit of good fun. There are many original lines within this version, and they are – of course – the most beautiful.

Tomorrow is my very last chemotherapy. WoHOOO!

The Night Before Chemo

Twas the night before chemo and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

The picc line was wrapped on my arm with great care

In hopes that a nurse would soon make it bare


My parents  were nestled all snug in their bed

As wheat-free cookies danced in their head

And me in my pyjamas, bald head in a cap

All settled and cozy for a long winter’s nap


When out on the lawn arose such a clatter

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter

Away to the window I moved in a flash

Tore open the shutters  and threw up the sash


The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow

Shone like the hospital scrubbed to a glow

When what to my wandering eye should appear

But a glimpse of the future, now approaching so near


With a sack full of hope, packed full and so thick

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick

More rapid than eagles his courses they came

And he whistled and waved and called me by name


“Now Catherine, now girl! Now don’t give up fighting.

Life is a changing and that’s right exciting!

To the end of tomorrow, to the end of the year

And into the future, you’ll live with no fear!”


He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf

And I laughed  when I saw him, in spite of myself

A wink  of his eye  and a twist of  his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread


“Your chemo is coming and nearly is done.

Life is  now waiting and it’s promised good fun.

Let Christmas release you from this long test

As the new year Catherine, holds only the best.”


He sprang to his sleigh, to his deer gave a whistle

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle

But I heard him exclaim , as he flew high out of sight

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”


And good night to you – I’m up way too late considering it’s chemo tomorrow!

Small things for now

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Life, Treatment by

When mortality is thrust into your face like a lemon cream pie, a certain heaviness descends with that awareness. It’s a cloud, or maybe better – it’s a fog: thick, obstructing, enveloping. And that fog is what gets me on the bad days.

Somehow with all this cancer crap, it feels like I’ve aged about 30 years beyond my time. Or maybe 20. Before the bump (btb) there were no aching joints, no grey hairs, no empty nest to trigger a life crisis . . . now, however, I’m a 28 year old who is far too aware.

It’s funny how you read in the news about breast cancer survivors. We’re all survivors so long as we’re here, survivors and fighters, but the threat of breast cancer doesn’t disappear. Women can have reoccurrences (granted it becomes less likely as more time passes, but we’re still checking over our shoulder for quite a while – plus there’s that bloody 50% stat which the doctor was so kind to gift me with). I self-examine my boob every day because of the paranoia.

But even worse than the awareness is how it creeps into the good times – that fog of mortality, of possibility, of reoccurrence. Totally ruins the picnic.

So, talking this all over with my mom I’m telling her how it’s difficult to enjoy like I once did. Sure, I can enjoy a conversation, a cup of tea, a lovely day etc., but when thinking about the present those past enjoyments don’t seem relevant. The real question is: How am I feeling now? And when it’s bad, it’s bad. And when it’s good, I worry about losing everything.

My mom works with many people who have gone through cancer. She says the fog is something everyone struggles with, something we need to work through.

She’s absolutely right. I’d rather be living than worrying. Not only physiologically living (because yes, I like living in the physiological sense too), but LIVING – steeped into the world, feeling the vibes, sharing the love, dancing in pyjamas.

First however, I need to manage this fog. Anyhow, it’s a big goal and won’t happen immediately. However, Marcelle suggested a first step: little pleasures.

Therefore, while typing this post, I’ll ask: What am I enjoying right now?

Answer: Typing – love to type! Sitting – this sofa is amazingly comfortable. Talking – I love talking with you, those who so kindly read this blog.

Here is another question worth asking: What can I do to enjoy this moment even more?

Answer: Open the front windows.

And so I have. Outside it’s white and beautiful; a very perfect Canadian Christmas.

When that heavy fog rolls it can feel nearly impossible to clear my head. Things are difficult, fears are strong and it’s damn hard. But this is a start. Micro steps to bigger goals – and my ultimate goal is to be happy, healthy and living well. In the meantime I’ll look out the window.

PS  – secret pleasure for the NOW. Eating from the hidden stash of mocha chocolate pecan ice cream. With three men in the house, it’s good to hide these sort of things.