How I Live with Cancer

I have been living with cancer for 8 years. At first, I thought I was going to die. Then it became about survival; this mad panic to try to save my own life. After that first year, I realized I was still here. Alive. Maybe this wouldn’t kill me.

It all began with these words: you know you have a lump back here, right? What?! No! No, I didn’t know, and just no! Instant denial. This can’t be. Alarm bells were going off in my head as I tried to crane my head around to see. My mind was racing. Why was a chiropractor finding something in the back of my right thigh? Don’t they work on backs? How can you have a lump in your leg? What does that mean?

How It Started

The lump was maybe 2.5 centimeters in diameter. Think of making a circle with your thumb and forefinger. About that size. The chiropractor pushed it around a bit, like a glob of jelly. He thought it was probably a lipoma. What’s a lipoma, I asked? It’s a benign tumour made of fat. My doctor later concurred. He referred me to a surgeon to have it cut out. Not urgent; months to wait.

Six months later, it had grown to 12 x 5 x 3 centimeters, about the size of a pop can. By now, I had been referred to an orthopedic surgeon, a specialist. They didn’t tell me he was a cancer specialist. I was still in the dark about that. Still in denial, really. Something big was happening and I was oblivious.

The Diagnosis

I go in to the specialist, not particularly worried. It’s a benign fatty tumour, right? Wrong. It’s probably a sarcoma. What’s a sarcoma, I asked? Cancer. Cancer?! It was the first time I’d heard that word directed at me.

I was still reeling from that when the surgeon advised he would cut out the bulk of my hamstring muscles – basically the whole back of my thigh – to ensure he got it all. I’m sorry, what? My ears were ringing in shock. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How would I toboggan with my granddaughter, I thought? How would I dance, I thought? How would I even walk, I asked aloud? Oh, your other muscles would take over, the surgeon said, with a dismissive motion of his hand. Like he was sweeping aside my concerns. I felt a swell of rage and resisted the urge to reach out and break those fingers. His implication was clear. He would be saving my life, wouldn’t he? What else mattered?

There were more blows to come. After the surgery, he would send me for radiation, from belly button to knees. An acquaintance of mine had just lost her bladder to radiation. I felt a sympathetic quiver in my own abdomen just then. But the news wasn’t quite over. He gave me a 5-year survival rate. Five years?! But I was only 50 years old! How could it be that I might only live 5 more years? I was shocked to the core.

Wait. Let’s backtrack. It’s probably a sarcoma? Typically, only cancer grows that fast, the surgeon said. A biopsy may or may not identify it. The only way to know for sure was to cut it out and send it to the lab. Sarcomas tend to be well contained and they tend not to spread, he went on. And if it spreads, I asked? How would I know? It would go to my lungs and I would develop a cough like I’d never had before, he told me. Oh, is that all? I thought to myself sarcastically. Yikes.

The Need for Hope

Stop. Let’s just stop here and breathe for a minute. I need to think. Sarcomas tend to be well contained and they tend not to spread. What I took from that? Hope. I have some time. I don’t have to rush into anything. That was my takeaway from that appointment. It might not have been everyone’s point of view, maybe not even most people’s, but it was mine.

The next morning, I was sitting on the floor in Chapters bookstore, reading cancer books. (They were on the bottom shelf.) One thing struck me. Several of the alternative treatment books seemed to think that 80 – 90 percent of cancer patients had a major trauma 1 to 2 years before their diagnosis. Huh.

Is It Curable?

Getting into therapy became an immediate priority. I found an amazing counsellor. In some very real ways, I felt that she and that chiropractor saved my life.

I also did every holistic treatment I could find that first year. The miracle? The cancer stopped growing. I had this idea that I could shrink it, cure it. That never happened. But it did stop.

How Long Can You Live with Cancer?

Here I am, 8 years later. The cancer appears dormant. My symptoms are some pain, mobility and compensation issues. My body is trying to work around it. All my other tests are normal and I seem to be healthy.

Life goes on and we need to live it.

This is my cancer story. It is not intended to diagnose or advise any form of treatment. Cancer is a deeply personal journey. Only the person going through it can make these decisions.

Has your life been touched by cancer? Yours or a loved one? Perhaps you’d like some help or support to process all the changes to your life. If so, reach out for a free 20-minute consultation to see if we might be a good fit.