A letter to cancer

Dear Cancer:

I hate you! I can't believe you've come into my life to create chaos and fear. I know you've taught me a lot, but you create a lot of misery, so the lessons are hard to learn. I've discovered more about myself and improved how I live my life, which is good. But it's been at a high price.

When you came into my life I was career and family focused. I took great pride in being extremely busy and valued. My list-making and organizational skills reigned supreme, and I raced around to get everything accomplished. In the evenings, I ferried my children to activities and helped with homework. This hurry-scurry lifestyle produced a lot of stress, which I admit, I created for myself.

In the spring, before you revealed your presence, I was also in great shape. I was training for a tri-triathalon and took up running (the activity that makes me feel like an elephant on a treadmill), dove into the pool regularly and cycled my little heart out. I also regularly attended other fitness classes. I could step, kick, crunch and lift iron with the best of them. Rarely a work day would pass when I wouldn't make a foray into the welcoming gym in the basement of London Life.

I ate fairly well, drank only occasionally and was fit. As a result, I never believed you would come into my life. Cancer was something that happened to other people - most of whom I don't know. I also thought, for the most part, you were a disease that afflicted older people. I didn't think you'd make your home in me during the prime of my life.

I was so shocked when my doctor told me you were here I could barely cry. I sat at my desk and felt I was being squeezed. Time around me seemed to slow, yet at the same time, I was super-sensitive to all the office sounds around me. I sat immobilized for a few minutes, wondering what to do. Then I picked up the phone to break the news and rally my supporters. I called on my family and friends to be there for what I knew would be the hardest job of my life.

I can't believe you're so underhanded that you don't reveal many symptoms of your presence. You're a nasty bugger for that. Sure, the ascities continued to make my belly grow, but I believed I was gaining weight and then thought I was suffering early stage irritable bowel syndrome. As a result, I thought I needed to be more disciplined and I could take care of it myself. Little did I know.

While you probably knocked on my abdomen with some small seemingly insignificant signs, you just sat there growing and spreading while I obliviously continued my life. A life I want to keep, damn you. You should have shown yourself sooner and made your presence known with more obvious signs. But you slunk into the shadows of my belly, hiding, so I wouldn't try to eradicate you.

While I now know you were eventually going to find me because I carry the horrific BRCA-1 gene mutation, I wish I had forewarning you were gunning for me. Believe me, I would have sought the medical big guns to work their magic and form a protective barrier around my body. But hindsight is 20-20 and I can't change the past. I can only move forward with you in my life.

You scare me and you terrify my husband. You make us face mortality. Now there isn't a day that passes where I don't have at least a fleeting thought about dying and what that will mean for my family and all those I leave behind. I'm not afraid to die, I'm afraid to leave. I truly believe I'll go on to an unbelievably better place that God has waiting for me, but I'm not ready to leave everyone in this world. They need me. I want to be with them. I want to watch my children grow up, and grow old with Michael. I haven't finished all I want to accomplish in this world - and that includes simple things like sitting on a porch in Port Franks and enjoying the sun.

To fight you, I've had to endure unbelievable pain and prolonged misery. The surgery ripped open my body, left me with an enormous and ugly scar, produced scar tissue in my abdomen, created a hernia and cyst in my body (which I now worry about) and eliminated the abs I'd worked so hard to develop. In the flash of a scalpel, my body is irreparably different.

Then I suffered the onslaught of the chemotherapy every three weeks, which dropped me into a pit of depression and fog, and produced stabbing pain in my bones. Chemo made me shrink into myself, oblivious to the world around me. Each session wore on my spirit and assaulted my mind. But I said, "bring it on" because I wanted everything in my arsenal to fight you. I envisioned you writhing in agony every time a new infusion entered my body. The pain was worth it if it caused your death.

But I don't know if you're gone. You may still be lurking in the recesses of my body or you may decide to reappear like an unwelcome visitor armed with a gun. I want to slam the door in your face, gather my family lovingly in my arms and scream, "go away and never come back." But I worry every day you won't listen to my vehement request. I worry that I'll have to live the nightmare again. I worry you'll win the fight.

But like an abusive boyfriend, my relationship with you taught me a lot about myself and how I want to live my life. Your attack opened my eyes to negative or insignificant behaviours I'd been living. As a result, I've slowed down and become more patient. I'm more conscious to partake in activities and conversations with people I enjoy. I stop to appreciate the small wonders handed to me every day. I forgive others, and more importantly, myself more easily.

Your visit also improved my relationship with many people. I've discovered during the fight that I've been lucky enough to surround myself with an incredibly large group of very supportive people in my life who stepped in to help when you knocked me down.

My husband, Michael, continues to stand by my side, propping me up when my strength waivers. I am now closer to my sister, who walked step by step with me during my journey with you. I have repaired or improved relationships with friends and family who've jumped in with support, food, painting skills, prayer and company. You opened my eyes to the wonderful people in my life who, in some ways, got lost in the busy shuffle I'd been living.

You've also allowed me to give myself permission to put me first. When I was actively fighting you, I had no energy to do anything but battle. I had to focus on me. In the past, I always took my role as wife, mother, daughter, friend and employee too much to heart and as a result, often took second place. You made me realize I have to put myself first sometimes and I have the right to say "no." I realized people aren't going to hate me if I do (or I realized that if they did, they were the wrong people to have in my life anyway). When I put myself first, I make myself a better wife, mother, daughter, friend or employee because I recharge my batteries and have something to give others.

Because of you, I now know myself better than ever. Over the many months of our fight, I had plenty of time alone to think. You abruptly made me consider my mortality and as a result, I explored the corners of my heart and mind to figure out what really matters to me. I'm lucky enough to say, I like a lot of aspects of myself and my life. Oh sure, there are lots of activities I'd still like to do and places I'd like to explore, but if you were to beat me today, I'd say I'm pretty darn satisfied with my life. I'm a lucky woman.

Despite the benefits you've given me and the lessons you've taught, it's time for you to excuse yourself. Trust me, I can continue to live my new and improved life without your presence.

But I have to admit that even though I'm physically ready to let you go, you've still got a strangle hold on my mind and emotions. It's like I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, into the shadows, to see if you're following me. Every ache and twinge in my body reminds me of your presence. I'm so afraid you're not really gone or you'll return.

Perhaps over time, as I physically repel you, I can sever those mental and emotional ties. I so want to break them now, but our relationship is too fresh and new, and you're too strong and persistent. But I can see a future without you, cancer, where I live a thankful, emotionally rich, personally satisfying life. I see my children growing up, making their way in the world. I see retiring and traveling with Michael. I see holidays and visits with family and friends where we share stories, laughs, tears, aspirations and perhaps even a glass of wine or two.

I'm ready to leave you behind because I've learned my valuable lessons. I'd like the opportunity to put them into practise and enjoy the people and experiences in my life for many, many years.

So I hope I'm saying good bye to you, cancer, and good riddance (don't let the door hit you on the way out). I have way too much living yet to do.

Tina