Two and a half years ago I received a phone call from the office of my family doctor, asking me to come in right away, and to bring my husband with me. I knew the news would not be good but until I actually heard the words from the doctor’s mouth I wanted to believe that there was nothing wrong. “It’s invasive cancer...must see the surgeon...treatments will follow...I’m very sorry...”

The room became hazy. I started to shiver, and sob. The words of reassurance spoken by the doctor and my husband were mere echoes in my ears, while the horrible realization sunk into my foggy brain, “I have breast cancer.”

I went home and cried while doing the laundry, while trying to distract myself with television, and while sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. My husband held me in his arms and we both cried. I cried on the phone when I told my family and my friends. Fear gripped my body making it impossible for me to relax. Adrenalin pumped through my veins all day and most of the night, making it virtually impossible to sleep. “What about my children? Will they grow up without a mom? How will my husband cope, trying to raise four kids on his own? I’m not ready to die. Why is this happening to me? I don’t smoke. I breast fed my babies. Why is this happening to me?”

There were no answers of course for my tortured mind. It was always “wait and see.” What will the surgery reveal? I had a partial mastectomy and some lymph nodes were removed from my armpit. The good news was that the cancer was found early and the lump was small. It had not spread to other parts of my body. The bad news was that it was of an aggressive variety of cancer and aggressive treatments were required.

“You will need chemotherapy... You will lose all your hair...You will be ill...” As the list of side effects was recited to me I again sunk into a state of partial awareness of what was being said to me. “We can’t be sure that the cancer won’t return even after all the treatments are done.” How was I to live with that knowledge? Human beings are not meant to live forever. Our bodies are designed to break down. We all know this but until one has to face the very real possibility of death, we don’t truly understand. It is frightening and very humbling.

I shaved my head before the hair could fall out. In that way I at least maintained some control over what was to happen to me. The days of chemotherapy passed in a haze, as the poison that kills the cancer cells took hold in my body. Despite the use of anti-nausea drugs, I retched and vomited for two days following each of four treatments. Food lost its appeal and even water tasted differently. I was perpetually tired and slept ten to twelve hours a day. The tiny hairs that remained on my head filled the tub after a shower and covered my pillow case when I awoke in the mornings. I could not remember what it was like to feel well. It would be more than a year before I would finally recover.

When one member of a family suffers from an serious illness the whole family suffers. How are children to react when a parent is ill? My nine year old daughter broke down in tears at school when she was questioned why her homework was not done and why she was forgetting books and lunch at home. After she told them, the teachers banded together to take turns bringing my daughter lunch.

I told my husband how our young daughter was hurting, forgetting that it could also have a negative effect on my 11 year old son. “I’m hurting too mom,” he said. A huge announcement for my normally reserved and quiet son. How could I not know that he was hurting too?

How do you explain to a child turning 5 that he will not have a birthday party this year because mommy is too sick? This was another time when I was astounded by the generosity of others when my friends and their children arrived at my house with presents, birthday cake and decorations for him.

My nearly grown 18 year old daughter said little about my illness, but just looked at me from across the room, her eyes filled with fear.

I survived the cancer, the chemotherapy and the subsequent radiation treatments a little worse for wear but perhaps a little wiser. I know that our life here on earth is short, so I have come to value the time I have. I look at my family with more fondness, savouring the precious minutes. I don’t know how much time I have left. If the cancer returns it may shorten my time considerably, or I may live another thirty years. That is not for me to know. That knowledge I will leave to my creator.