wherein we begin chronicling cancer

Incredibly, it will be almost two years since my last post. How unfortunate that it is having breast cancer that is what prompts me to actually do it again. I love writing so much, especially when it is about something endearing that Mountain Dad has done; it seems a shame I don't do it more often.

I've decided to try and write more frequently now, both as something cathartic to do and also to aid in communication. I know so many people want to keep tabs on what is happening and it might be helpful to use this as a go-to for updates. It's late in the evening as I write this so it will be short one tonight.

For those of you who we haven't had a chance to connect with, Shea and I found out in December that I had breast cancer. It was bit of a shock and projected us into this unusual zone of feeling mostly normal but being on the receiving end of a tsunami of love and good wishes from our immediate community, as well as that in extended countries. It's been so humbling. And kind of odd, given that we really felt pretty normal.

I feel less normal now, having had a mastectomy and breast reconstruction last week. I'm in Vancouver with Mum and Dad while Shea has remained in Whitehorse to keep life as stable as possible for the kids. My time in Vancouver has been rather exceptional; I've had a gamut of blood tests and radioactive tests in addition to the breast surgery and another one to put in a port-a-cath for my upcoming chemo. I feel thoroughly poked and prodded and cut and stitched. Yet the time between  has been relaxing and lovely as my parents spoil me completely. Our days are dictated by the caprices of my body and soul. It's been, unbelievably, quite relaxing.

In a month I will begin chemo and then radiation will follow and then a year of another intravenous drug every three weeks (though I am told it is not as gruelling as regular chemo). Because my breast cancer was of a particular kind, it gets it's own particular drug that my oncologist says is a game changer.
"Twenty years ago," she breezily told me, "you would have died of this cancer. But not anymore." Marvellous. How lucky for me.

Really though, Shea and I do feel lucky. That we're surrounded by this huge wrap around support network. The medical system so far has been amazing. Our friends and family won't leave us alone, they're so present with their support. We think we're in the best possible place to kick this thing.

This afternoon, while Mum and Dad met up with some friends, I went for a stroll around our neighbourhood here. I wound up at a cafe and while waiting to order, noticed a woman about my age,  chatting with a friend. She was completely bald. I craned a look at her face and saw she had no eyebrows or lashes. And she looked beautiful. She was totally at ease with herself, completely oblivious to my less than subtle staring. She was in a loose tank top with dangling ear-rings and totally engaged in whatever her companion was telling her.

Now, I know I'm assuming, but this is my version of her. She too has breast cancer, or some kind of cancer that has required her to undergo this wild thing called chemo. She's lost her hair because of it. She has some really shit days but she also has good ones and that was what today was. She was out relishing the rare Vancouver sunshine and the warmth of a good chat with a good mate over a good coffee. She felt great and while she considered the curious looks that others may shoot her way, she didn't let that inhibit her. This cancer-thing won't stop her living her life. It just becomes another aspect of it. But it certainly doesn't define her. She is beautiful.

No guesses as to my aspirations of how I hope this will pan out for me.

Photo's from Tagish Lake weekend the weekend we found out. We scuttled away and hunkered in as a family, even staying an extra night, just because. We told the kids and they have taken it in; Laide has lots of questions and is processing it by telling all and sundry, Lox just wants to know when the lump is out and who will pick him up from preschool.