[2022-03-08] International Women's Day speech

Today I addressed employees of the Energy Efficiency and Technology Sector of Natural Resources Canada on the occasion of International Women's Day. The theme was women inspiring women. I had an opportunity to listen to two other speakers share their story, which was, indeed, inspiring.

I'm often asked if my speeches are recorded so that people who did not attend can watch them. This one doesn't appear to have been recorded, so I thought I would share my speaking points here. For those of you who read Jenesis regularly, much of the story will be familiar, as will be the lessons I have learned in the past 18 months. But the summary of my perianal skin cancer may be new, as are the highlighted takeaways below.

On July 29, 2020, I woke up with a pain in my abdomen, where my gallbladder is. It was unlike any pain I had experienced before. I called Telehealth Ontario, which insisted that I go to the closest emergency department immediately. Among the tests that the Queensway Carleton Hospital ran that day was an ultrasound. The technician performing my ultrasound left the room at one point and then returned to say that the radiologist had requested a transvaginal ultrasound. I thought nothing of it. That's how they found the tumours. By the end of the day, the ER doctor took me to a small room and told me: "I have good news and bad news. The good news is that you don't have gallstones. The bad news is that you have ovarian cancer."

Those four words—"you have ovarian cancer"—were life changing. For the first few days, I didn't know what to do with myself. So I did what I normally did—I worked. I participated in Zoom calls and teleconferences. I approved communications documents. I worked late into the night and all weekend. Monday was the civic holiday—the day I had chosen to tell my extended family about my cancer. Miraculously, despite the pandemic, I was able to tell my mom and my siblings face to face—outside, physically distanced. They were shocked, as I had been. My news was all the more difficult because we had lost my brother, Greg, just a year before.

On a happier note, the next day, I did do something different. I married my common-law husband of 30 years. It was a simple ceremony on our back deck, in the pouring rain, with our two children as witnesses. The following day—exactly one week after my diagnosis—as I was trying to work, I realized that I no longer had the fire in my belly to continue working 90 hours a week as the ADM of health communications in the middle of a pandemic. I didn't know whether I had months or years to live. But I knew that I needed to focus on my health and on time with my family.

So on August 6, 2020, I started what I called my "health leave" and I launched my blog Jenesis as a means of keeping family, friends and coworkers apprised of my treatment. Initially, I shared my blog posts via email with people who had asked to be on the distribution list. But friends and family told me that my messages of hope and positivity in the face of a life-threatening illness were inspiring and that I should share them more broadly. So after almost 100 posts, I started publishing my story on the Internet for all to read and promoting it through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and LinkedIn. Every day, I receive messages from readers who have been touched by something I've written. This has made going through cancer much more meaningful than it would otherwise have been.

The first step in my treatment for ovarian cancer was surgery. When I walked into the operating room on August 28, 2020, every person there was a woman—from the anesthesiologist to the nurses. It was so peaceful. They introduced themselves and talked to me while they prepped me for surgery. I felt embraced in caring. While I slept, the surgical oncologist came and went, like a thief in the night. He removed my ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, cervix, omentum (which is a layer of fat that encases the stomach, large intestine and other abdominal organs) and too many tumours to bother counting. Any nodule larger than 1 or 2 cm was removed. The next thing I remember was waking up in the recovery room to a nurse who was making a joke about Brad Pitt. I slept off and on until about 9:00 p.m. then remembered that I hadn't written or published a blog post for the day. Somehow, through my brain fog, I managed to write on my phone: "Surgery was a success. Sleeping well. Felt all your support. More to follow tomorrow."

Over the next five days in hospital, I felt incredibly well supported by the nurses and other health professionals who filtered in and out of my little corner of the ward. Nurses are special human beings—truly angels on earth. One of the rare times I have cried during my entire cancer journey was the day I left the hospital. I wrote in my blog that night: "I cried for the first time today. Not because of my diagnosis. Not because of the challenge of surgery and the tough road ahead. Not because of physical pain. No, I cried because of the beauty of the human spirit that is embodied in all the nurses who took care of me when I was at my most vulnerable. After working with me for just 4 hours, my final nurse (Sarah) said to me as I was preparing to leave the hospital: 'If it weren't for COVID, I would have given you the biggest hug.'"

The next step in my treatment was chemotherapy. After I had met with one of my oncologists to discuss next steps, the nurse who was with him stayed behind to measure my height and weight and then she said: "I'm going to tell you a story. My mom had ovarian cancer. She went through surgery and chemotherapy. She did great. That was 8 years ago." Her mom was 72 when she was diagnosed and was now 80. The nurse explained that her mom had felt fine on the day of treatment but tired for the next three days—not necessarily sick, but tired. Those days became her "pyjama days." The nurse continued: "And I'm going to tell you another story. I had cancer 25 years ago. I went through surgery and chemotherapy, and I'm still here." The nurse also stated that she was a big believer in the power of positive thinking and support. She said that she could see my positive spirit, and that she was convinced that I would do great.

I started the first of six rounds of chemotherapy on October 1. My response to it was pretty much as the nurse had predicted: sick for a few days (closer to five than three, in my case), then OK until my next treatment three weeks later. On January 14, 2021, I rang the Bell of Hope. I didn't know then that it would not be the only time I would ring a bell at the end of treatment.

Ten months later, I would be back at The Ottawa Hospital for another surgery—this time for perianal skin cancer. That's skin cancer near the anus. The good news is that the surgical oncologist was able to remove all the cancerous tumour. The bad news is that precancerous cells remained in the margins around the excised area. So I then met with a radiation oncologist and subsequently a medical oncologist to discuss the possibility of radiation and more chemotherapy. I also had an MRI, which—thankfully—confirmed that I did not have cancer in my pelvic lymph nodes. I took the recommendation to undergo 25 rounds of radiation to my pelvic area. On January 5, 2022, less than a year after completing chemotherapy for ovarian cancer, I started radiation. Radiation itself is not painful—in fact, it's not felt at all. What makes radiation so tough is what it does to the body. My skin reacted as though it had been burned. And everything internal—bladder, bowel, vagina—felt inflamed. On February 8—a month ago today—I had my last radiation treatment. Once again, I rang a bell.

In my final few moments, I'd like to share some of the many lessons I've learned over the past year and a half:
  • Cancer doesn't define me; it's just part of my life.
  • "The greatest illusion is that life should be perfect." That's a quote from the mole in the wonderful book The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse.
  • Life is like snakes and ladders: sometimes you're up and sometimes you're down.
  • I may not control what bad things happen to me, but I can control how I choose to see them.
  • At the same time, I have a hand in creating my future. The choices I make today will influence the life I live tomorrow.
  • It's OK to be down when you have cancer or when you love someone who has cancer. (In fact, for many loved ones, it's just as hard to watch someone go through cancer as it is to go through it themselves, perhaps harder.)
  • Being upbeat won't necessarily make me live longer, but it will make the days I do live much more pleasant.
  • Rather than dwell on the headlines, I can hold on to what I can control: my reactions, what I focus on, what media I consume, how kind I am to myself and others, and how much I appreciate the things I have.
  • Being vulnerable gives others permission to be vulnerable too.
  • Acknowledging my weaknesses gives others an opportunity to share their strengths.
  • The difficult moments in life can soften us, make us kinder and more empathic, and help us to better support others.
  • Hair and eyebrows and eyelashes don't make me beautiful. Love and kindness do.
  • Healing isn't a linear process. Often, it's two steps forward and one step back.
  • Sometimes I need to replenish my cup before I can fill other people's cups again. (In other words, if I don't take care of myself, I won't be able to take care of others.)
  • Take time for work, but don’t let work take all of your time.
  • Joy exists in the little things; don't wait for big things to be happy.
  • Learn people's names; they will love you for it. As Dale Carnegie said: "a person’s name is to that person the sweetest and most important sound in any language."
  • What I am walking through at this moment may be just the story that helps get someone else through.
  • I am the head of my medical team. I am responsible for managing my health.
  • As Maya Angelou said, "Your legacy isn't some big grand gesture.... Your legacy is every life you touch, everybody you encounter."
  • Tomorrow is not promised to me, but today, I can live, love and make a contribution.