MY STORY
Heartache follows news of `a virtual death sentence'
September 25, 2008
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Kay Lowries
SPECIAL TO THE STAR
Four years ago, the unthinkable happened. After seven great cancer-free years, I learned that my breast cancer had metastasized to my bones.
On a hiking trip in Killarney, I had started to experience severe pain in my back, hip and right thigh, but thought I just needed physiotherapy. When I finally saw a doctor, he suggested X-rays because of my history. I still wasn't worried until I saw the results: The right hip looked like Swiss cheese, and I knew the cancer was back.
That night, I wept on my best friend's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. I was deeply afraid for myself and my daughter. Now in her 20s, Kirsten lost her father to lymphatic cancer when she was 8. When I told her, we wept and clung together, desperately trying to comfort each other. Bless her, Kirsten put on a brave face and has proved amazingly strong and supportive.
Work was a blur, and pain soon forced me onto disability. Then came the meeting with my oncologist, more tests and the diagnosis: "You have metastatic cancer to the bone. It is not curable."
It was devastating. In my mid-50s with everything going for me, I'd suddenly been handed a virtual death sentence. No one could tell me how long I had, how the disease would progress or which treatments would help. Metastatic cancer is unpredictable and each patient responds differently. I felt an urgent need to get my affairs in shape to make life easier for my family when the inevitable happened – updating my will and powers of attorney, creating contact lists and organizing my finances.
The sense of loss was overwhelming. A Wellspring metastatic cancer support group was a lifesaver. It was a relief to talk openly about my fears, feelings and experiences with others who had been there.
I am grateful to have an outstanding oncologist, Dr. Martin Blackstein, who brought the cancer and bone pain under control with aggressive chemotherapy, and has since kept me stable with a succession of hormonal and chemo treatments. Walking became easier, but chemo made me feel awful. At times, dealing with metastatic cancer can take all one's energy: the hospital visits for treatment and tests, the anxious waiting for results, the persistent fatigue, nausea and other side effects.
I finally had to accept that my 20-year communications career was over. I badly missed the camaraderie, the challenges and achievements, and the structure work gave my life.
In response, I started art classes, and decided to travel when treatment and health allowed. Kirsten and I cruised and kayaked off Alaska from a small ship, seeing glaciers, whales, bears and more. I have happy memories of hiking and kayaking in New Zealand, touring the Tuscan hill towns, and cruising the Mediterranean.
Time with family and friends is precious. Prayer definitely helps. Last fall, I proudly walked Kirsten down the aisle at her lakeside wedding to Scott, a lovely young man. My smile was a mile wide.
Then, this spring, a brain MRI revealed a tumour on the frontal lobe, affecting personality and decision-making, and another on the occipital nerve, controlling sight. I was in shock: The tumours were huge, the size of golf balls.
My oncologist at Mt. Sinai referred me to a top neurosurgeon, Dr. Mark Bernstein, at Toronto Western. A week later, the surgeon removed the tumours in a five-hour operation. Then, to kill any remaining cancer cells, I had five days of whole brain radiation at Princess Margaret Hospital in June.
The fatigue after radiation was brutal and I have never felt more helpless, barely able to crawl out of bed for weeks. Initially friends and family took care of me, but it was too much: I needed nursing care. For the first time in my life, I had to accept help, even with such intimate activities as bathing.
Thankfully, I can see and think clearly again. My energy is gradually returning and I try to stay active. To be honest, I haven't fully accepted the seriousness of the brain metastases, the fact that they may grow back or new ones appear.
I am a pragmatist at heart and refuse to dwell on the grim possibilities right now. Instead I'm planning a party to celebrate life and thank my closest friends and family for all their loving care.
Toronto Star