I have breast cancer. So what? I’ve never slept better or laughed more

“Terrible thing to live in fear,” Morgan Freeman’s character Red famously said in the movie Shawshank Redemption. And it’s true. So, I feel bad for the many cancer patients who are doing just that — living in fear.

I am not one of them.

This is the man who literally has my fate in his hands, I thought, as the surgical oncologist, Dr. Brian Pinchuk, at North York General Hospital’s breast cancer program, called me into the office to give me my breast cancer prognosis. Cancer surgery is a precise art, so his expertise is vital to my survival. He and his medical team were beaming, grinning from ear to ear. You’d think I’d won the lottery, and maybe I had. This group of medical professionals, among Canada’s best when it comes to breast cancer, have seen it all, giving the bad news to women much younger than me, even moms with little children.

I was grateful that the Big C came to me, rather than my children or grandchildren. For some reason, cancer is now rampant among young people, which is very worrying. No one wants to see a child suffer from treatments and operations, even if the outcome is good.

The medics were smiling because, although I have Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC), “think treatable and curable… possibly,” the surgeon told me, cautiously choosing his words. I was glad my GP hounded me to do my mammogram. In Ontario, where I live, women over 50 are encouraged to get breast cancer screenings every two years, which resulted in my cancer being found early. Since cancer cells can double every six months, even another year and I could have been a stage three or worse. Instead, I was stage one, with a 1.9 cm tumour (almost stage two, which represents a tumour over 2 cm).

From the start, the oncology team at NYGH’s breast cancer program were wonderful, going out of their way to be upbeat and positive. This first get-together had a party atmosphere, kind of like a Tony Robbins motivational speaking event. Rah, rah, rah. At the end of the meeting, one of the nurses quietly took me aside and, as the mood shifted, she offered me immediate mental health care.

“What for?” I wanted to know.

“Well, many women are upset after getting the um, uh, the news, you know … and need … uh …” she stumbled, obviously distraught.

“No, thanks. I don’t need that,” I replied. Feeling the need to console her, I added, “Don’t worry, I’m fine, really.” I appreciated her vulnerability towards my situation.

I knew that I was in safe hands and I just didn’t feel the panic that I was expected to feel with my diagnosis. Then again, I didn’t know the subject as well as these medical professionals certainly did. This is their daily routine, giving bad news and frightening treatment options to their patients, most of whom are women (less than one per cent of all breast cancers occur in men). Yet, they weren’t at all blase about it. They were trying to break it to me gently and were compassionate. They likely expected me to take it badly because that’s often what they see.

The surgery was quickly scheduled and I still wasn’t concerned. I was offered two choices: a mastectomy or a lumpectomy. Many women, the moms, caregivers and heroes that they are, when faced with these choices, courageously say, “Take everything,” in their quest for survival. Not me.

“What would you do if you were me?” I asked the surgeon.

“Lumpectomy with radiation,” he said.

Having already done some research myself (yes, I admit to Googling), I quickly agreed. Recent reports show that, at my stage, a lumpectomy with radiation is as successful as a mastectomy in the long run. I chose the lumpectomy simply because it is a much easier surgery to go through.

I was ready to have both breasts lopped off without looking back, if that was his call. Removing both breasts helps prevent future breast cancer and aids when matching breast implants. Having only one breast would involve a special mastectomy bra, at the very least, which seems cumbersome. I had already decided against reconstruction and to just go flat if I had to make that decision. I figured that I could rock that look, most likely with a wild tattoo emblazoned across my chest. I now have a plan of action, in case of a recurrence, and will start researching tattoos, just in case.

Maybe if I was younger, I would be considering a different route. Sadly, I know of women who have not gone back to the beach since their mastectomies. Even covered, and with a prosthesis, they feel self-conscious and exposed. For one friend of mine, it’s been over 10 years since she’s braved the shore.

After my lumpectomy surgery, my breast tissues were sent for oncotype DX testing in California, to see if chemotherapy would be effective for my type of hormone-positive cancer. The test identifies the 80 per cent of patients who can avoid chemotherapy and, more importantly, the 20 per cent who may benefit from it. Results from my oncotype testing showed that I have a -1 per cent chance of chemo being effective for my type of cancer. Oncotype testing is not a standard test for all breast cancer patients in Ontario. At NYGH, I’m told that patients need to meet specific criteria to be eligible. Specifically, they need to have early-stage breast cancer that is estrogen receptor (ER)-positive, human epidermal growth factor 2 (HER2)-negative, and the lymph nodes need to be negative for metastatic disease.

As for radiation, when I asked my treatment oncologist, Dr. Daryl Roitman, “What would you do?” he replied, “It’s your choice, but I would take it if I were you.” I appreciated that I was given both an opinion and a choice.

There was a story in the news recently about American Top Chef star Shirley Chung who has been diagnosed with Stage 4 tongue cancer. The suggested treatment was to have her tongue excised, followed by chemotherapy. Some people were trolling her online because she chose to have the chemo without having her tongue removed. I respect her decision. At what point does the treatment become too much to bear? A breast is disposable, but a tongue? Not so much. A person reserves the right to choose their own cancer treatment without criticism. I’m sure that Chung’s decision was not an easy one. Comparatively, mine was.

I didn’t have choices about everything. The oncologist told me that anti-hormone treatment was a must, and that my time on the coast this summer was limited.

“I’ll be back in late September,” I told him.

“You’ll be back on August 26,” he told me.

“But …”

“Your test results will be back then,” he repeated, “and so will you.” So, all was not negotiable and that’s a good thing, too, a reminder that I’m not the expert and that time is of the essence in my treatment. As I got up to leave, he told me that he wished my tumour had been half the size. But still, I wasn’t worried.

A nurse whispered, “I’ve never seen anyone like you before.” Was I an anomaly, I wondered? Was I breaking the mould by not being scared? And why wasn’t I scared? I’m basically a chicken by nature, afraid of elevators and dark nights. Yet my cancer diagnosis didn’t move me one bit. I read of women getting their breast cancer news and falling apart. Katie Couric was quoted saying that when she was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer in 2022, she “felt sick and the room started to spin.” I felt none of that.

Maybe ignorance really is bliss or maybe it’s because I don’t think that cancer will kill me. Others feel differently. One of my friends said he expected me to “crash any day now” (he seemed hopeful). Another friend offered to be with me “at the end,” which I thought was hilarious. “You’re older than I am and you’re a big smoker,” I pointed out. “It’s way more likely I’ll be holding your hand as you take your last breath.” Yet another friend’s reaction was: “Cancer is nothing. It’s just like getting the flu.” OK, that’s ridiculous.

Note to self: Find some new friends.

Since the diagnosis, I feel content, fulfilled and, dare I say, happy. I’ve never slept better or laughed more. Maybe that’s because it’s out of my control and there is a letting go in that. But perhaps I’m not upset because I’m 70 years old — 70 going on 140, that is.

I’ve lived two years for every one year, relentlessly pursuing the life that I wanted. I’ve pushed and pushed the envelope. If I wanted something, I wanted it yesterday, and I went to the wall and left blood on the floor to get it, figuratively speaking. I have no regrets, nothing left undone.

But I have sinned. Although I have never been a smoker or a drinker, I still eat like an 18-year-old football player and have never met a chocolate bar I didn’t like. I blanch when I’m advised to do things in moderation, since I’ve never done anything in moderation (good thing I’m not a drinker or a smoker, right?). So maybe I’ve contributed to my cancer, but I accept my fate without guilt, knowing that more health-conscious people than me also get cancer. It doesn’t discriminate.

Perhaps the key to my upbeat attitude is in looking back at the life I’ve lived so far.

I’ve spent way too much time with my two sons, still trying to helicopter them as they approach middle age.

I’ve had wonderful careers, as a television news anchor, a newspaper columnist and a real estate professional, occasionally even making money at it.

I’ve had more than my fair share of lovers and have fallen in love with each one of them, if only for a moment. I even kept a log, rating them on a scale of one to 10. Unfortunately, I’ve rated most of them a one. Considering that I’m the common denominator in these relationships, this might indicate that I am the problem.

Not surprisingly, I’ve been accused of having too much fun. I confess, that’s true. Maybe that’s the secret to accepting my diagnosis. When people ask, “Are you retired?” — which translates to, “You look really old” — I reply: “How can I be retired when I’ve never worked a day in my life?” Even my job experiences have been a pleasure. I’m guilty of enjoying my life.

And now I have breast cancer. So what? Big deal. It is not a tragedy at my age. If I die and a child survives, that seems to me a fair trade and a much fairer world. Many people, young and old, will live decades after getting cancer, eventually dying from something else. And while I don’t look forward to treatments that could bring nasty side-effects, at least I live in times where there are advancements.

God only knows what is in my future. The statistics say the majority of women initially diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer will not develop metastatic breast cancer. But then they say that nearly 30 per cent of women initially diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer may ultimately develop metastatic breast cancer, when the disease comes back in another part of the body, according to the National Breast Cancer Foundation.

So, it’s not a walk in the park, but I’m ready for anything. I remember as a child shoving candy into my mouth and thinking, “I’d better eat all I can now in case I die soon.” I’m still that kid. I’ve been conscious of death my entire life, so the thought of it now doesn’t scare me. If I end up terminal and really suffering from any disease, maybe then I would say, “Hey, God (whatever I perceive him to be), since you’ve already invited me to the party, don’t be surprised if I show up a little early.” I’m not signing up for anything here, but it’s pain I fear, not the rumoured Big Sleep.

Right now, all I feel is gratitude for the many healthy years I’ve had, and for being able to raise my children after their father died when they were only 10 and three years old.

I’m also grateful to be living in Canada, the home of Tommy Douglas’s free health-care system, still the envy of the world, despite some obvious cracks in the system that many have experienced.

Another positive: I’m happy to have critical illness insurance that’s about to cash out. A very low percentage of Canadians have this kind of insurance that pays if you get a life-threatening covered illness such as my type of cancer. And if you don’t get sick, you still get a full return on your premiums at age 75.

“Does getting that money actually make you feel better?” a friend sniffed disapprovingly.

“Yes, it does,” I told her. “I hit the jackpot.”

“You’re very strange”, she countered. “You can’t take it with you, you know.”

“Of course I can,” I said. I’m already packing my bags for Paris, London and Rome.

But the real silver lining in all of this is much bigger than any amount of money. And it came as a huge surprise to me. I seem to be experiencing humanity at its best. The scientists, researchers, doctors, nurses, even volunteers I’ve encountered all seem passionately committed to my survival. They’ve shown an attitude of dedication and caring the likes of which I’ve never seen before. It’s obvious many of them are in it for more than a paycheque.

Chief radiologist Dr. Ryan Margau, who locked eyes before he injected a radioactive seed into my breast, seemed determined to connect with me, an unknown aging woman in front of him. It was so personal and powerful, it made me feel valued, even cherished. He touched me before he even laid a hand on me.

Or the technician on 6th floor nuclear, where I was sent before surgery to find the nearest sentinel lymph node for removal, who spotted a pillow dangling out of my bag: “Would you like me to get your pillow?” she asked kindly. I nodded. She retrieved it, gently put it under my neck and then contorted to get her head in that intimidating machine with me. She looked so concerned and stayed there until I reassured her that I was OK. How could I not be OK with this kind of TLC? Cancer or no cancer, I needed this love and I am in awe.

I have found some new and inspirational friends, and because of that, I’m doing just fine. I don’t feel worried, scared or depressed. And I don’t feel any closer to death than I did the day before my cancer diagnosis. Life is delicate, any of us can go at any time and we don’t know what’s going to take us, or when.

I see my life as a horse race. Cancer is the favourite right now, but I once owned a racehorse named Tigerrag who was a 30 to 1 shot and he won. Anything can happen. Heart disease, dementia and diabetes are coming up on the inside track, waiting in my genes. And there are those spur-of-the-moment drives halfway across the country to my beloved Cape Breton Island, that I often do recklessly and in one pull, just like the suicide jockeys atop their steeds at the Kentucky Derby.

And I mustn’t forget the possibility of an angry spurned lover from my past who could go rogue at any moment.

These are just some of the many possible endings for me. My old friends are still betting on cancer because ‘cancer’ is still the word, above all others, that terrifies the masses. It doesn’t deserve the hype. It is not an automatic death sentence anymore. I know that cancer wants to kick my ass, but it might end up being just an also-ran.

And with my crack team of medical professionals pulling on the reins, cancer is not going to have an easy run. So, my ending is still very much up in the air and it will probably come down to the wire.

Until then, as Andy and Red both say in Shawshank Redemption, “Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin.”

I think you know where I stand on the matter.

Many thanks to surgeon Brian Pinchuk and the staff at the NYGH breast cancer program. Thirty-five days from biopsy diagnosis to surgery.

• Not everyone diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer will develop metastatic cancer. However, the vast majority (85 per cent) of metastatic breast cancer started out as early-stage breast cancer. National Breast Cancer Foundation, Inc.

• About 1 in 8 Canadian women will develop breast cancer during their lifetime. And about 1 in 36 Canadian women will die from it. It is the most common cancer among Canadian women (excluding non-melanoma skin cancers) and is the second leading cause of death from cancer in Canadian women (lung cancer is first). Canadian Cancer Society

• The breast cancer death rate peaked in 1986 and has been declining ever since. This likely reflects the impact of screening and improvements in treatment for breast cancer. Canadian Cancer Society

• Cancer remains the leading cause of death in Canada. Estimates from the Centre for Population Health Data at Statistics Canada, released in 2023, suggest it accounted for nearly 25 per cent of all deaths in Canada in 2022.