I was a new translator for Look Good Feel Better when I was offered the chance to attend a workshop to see for myself how a session was run.

I had already translated a number of testimonials from people who’d experienced a workshop, and what always stood out was the warm welcome from the volunteers, their expertise and their respect for the participants. Some mentioned how, once the workshop had begun, apprehensions disappeared and were replaced by joy—a feeling not always present during cancer. Others said that being surrounded by people going through the same experience as them gave them much-needed moral support, without realising it. For others still, the workshop was energising, as it broke the social isolation caused by the almost daily medical appointments, the omnipresent fear during the ordeal, the gruelling treatments, and the exhaustion that overtook them as time went by.

The testimonials echoed the scale of the challenges a person needs to overcome during cancer. However, when I attended a workshop, I was able to see another side of the story: the volunteers, like fairies, were busy preparing the room with care and rigour. Sure moves, no doubt performed a thousand times before, were carried out with enthusiasm and team spirit; we weren’t welcoming the Queen of England, but it just seemed the same! It was beautiful, it was real. Most of them had already done a full day’s work for their employer, but these specialists in make-up, skin care or hair prostheses had chosen to commit themselves to their community out of generosity and solidarity. The women who were about to come forward were in great need of the expertise of these volunteer specialists, and they understood this.

I took a seat at a table and, as soon as the first participants arrived, I saw the magic happen. The volunteers knew how to read the participants: the welcome was both friendly and respectful, never intrusive; everyone had their own space, depending on whether they were more reserved or more open.

These women who had come that evening to learn how to look ‘normal’ again, even though nothing in their lives was normal at the time, these women who had chosen to leave their homes in spite of great fatigue, unpredictable nausea or a morale that wasn’t always up to scratch, found themselves gathered in this room for (essentially) the same reasons: the desire to take back control of their lives, against all odds. They were going to discover make-up tips and tricks to redraw their lost eyebrows, to restore their complexion, to take care of their dull skin and their nails damaged by chemotherapy and radiotherapy. And perhaps they would be tempted to try on a wig to camouflage a now bald head, or a scarf that they’ll learn to wear in a variety of clever ways.

From that evening in February, I remember the spirit of sisterhood that springs naturally from a Look Good Feel Better workshop: women helping other women they don’t know, whom they may never see again. In time, some of them may forget the names of the others, these angels who were there for them for an evening; but the warmth of their exchanges will remain with them forever. As the American novelist and poet Maya Angelou put it so well: ‘People will forget what you said, they will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel’. For a few hours, the volunteers and participants will have been cosmic sisters, sisters of the heart. For a few hours, they will have shared a complicity and a friendship that normally takes years to develop between two people, through living side by side and sharing life experiences. That’s the power of a Look Good Feel Better workshop.

When I was offered the job of translating content for Look Good Feel Better, I hesitated at first. I felt uneasy. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, or even if I could, write about such a difficult subject—women affected by a serious illness that often leads to harsh treatment. I’d had breast cancer a year earlier and, a few years later, would be overcoming a second one that would require even tougher treatments. I finally agreed, but gave myself the right to withdraw if the experience proved too harsh. Then I realised that this mission to look good and feel better was a regular (and happy) reminder that human nature is fundamentally good. In fact, during the second cancer, I only kept Look Good Feel Better as a client. I insisted on continuing this work, because the stories and testimonials had a calming effect on me. Look Good Feel Better reminded me every day that I wasn’t alone. And everything is so much sweeter when you don’t feel alone, isn’t it?
 

It was on Christmas morning — while in the shower, thinking of my children and the celebrations and everything that needed to be done — that I first felt the lump. I wanted to believe it was nothing, just like the doctors had told me before, when I’d had clogged milk ducts while breastfeeding — but deep down, I knew something was different this time. 

When I left Bangladesh and came to Canada five years ago with just my husband and two small children, I never dreamed that I’d soon be facing stage 3 breast cancer in a new land, thousands of kilometres away from my family. I felt so very alone. And I had a hard time accepting my diagnosis. I’ve always lived a healthy, disciplined lifestyle. In my family, everyone looked to me as the example of good health — I was the one who knew what foods to eat and how to live the right way. I did everything right, and yet still, I was the one who got cancer. It didn’t seem fair.

I struggled to accept what was happening to me, but one thing was clear: I had no choice but to face whatever was coming. I have kids, I have a family — I wanted to live.

My treatment involved eight rounds of chemotherapy, a lumpectomy, and 19 rounds of radiation. I hid my pain, sickness, and sadness from my husband and son and daughter as much as possible. I didn’t want my husband to lose strength — he had so much on his shoulders, taking care of me and the kids. I had no one to turn to, no one to talk to. I was desperately stressed out and frustrated. And I felt so helpless — I’m a very independent person who suddenly wasn’t able to do much on my own.

Fortunately, I realized that this wasn’t a permanent situation. I knew I would be alright after my treatment, and so I accepted the pain and the reality of what I was facing. I endured the vomiting, nausea, and painful burns from radiation. And little by little, things started to look up. I found support. I found strength. And through the big dark cloud that is cancer, I found small rays of hope.

Every cloud has a silver lining, or as we say in Bangladesh, “shesh bhalo jar, shob bhalo tar” – “all’s well that ends well,” basically. Despite the hardships, cancer brought me unexpected gifts. When my hair grew back after my treatment, for the first time ever it was curly — something I had always wanted. Post-chemo, my skin is so much better. And I got to model again, thanks to Look Good Feel Better (LGFB). In my home country, I had a modelling career, but that all stopped when I came to Canada. Participating in the LGFB photo shoot brought back so many good memories. The feeling of being in the spotlight again was incredible.

Cancer has also made me a better person. I’m much stronger mentally now and I have a deeper sense of gratitude for life. I’m prepared to be a good advisor for anyone else going through a cancer journey. And I really want to contribute, to give back. I want to share my story and my positivity, and to support other cancer patients — especially back in my home country, where cancer treatment resources are limited. In Canada, I got the best cancer treatment possible. But Bangladesh is a developing country, and those who have cancer there are suffering immensely. One day, I hope to return to share what I’ve learned and support those who need it most.
 

It was in the middle of a day doing something I love — golfing — that I finally had to admit to myself that something was wrong. I couldn’t even swing the club — the pain in my back had become unbearable. I went to get it checked out, and soon what I had already known deep down was confirmed: my breast cancer had returned, spreading to my bones. 

Now, at 54, I’m facing a stage 4 diagnosis. I’ll be on treatment for the rest of my life. But here’s the thing — I’m not one to dwell on doom and gloom. As a Christian, I believe I’ll eventually go to heaven and have an eternal life. In the meantime, I’m determined to live life with grace, strength, and, most importantly, gratitude.

My cancer journey began in September 2020, during the height of the pandemic. I had noticed a lump in my breast and, after some tests, received the diagnosis that no one wants to hear: stage 2 breast cancer. I soon found out that I actually had cancer on both sides, which my doctor said wasn’t common. I always said, “It is what it is.” I worked for an insurance company, so I knew my odds for this type of thing. And two of my maternal relatives had breast cancer, so it wasn’t really a shock.

The treatments were tough— surgery, double-dose chemotherapy, and radiation. I was off work for a year and a half and was grateful to my workplace for their support, including offering everything I needed to make my time off as comfortable as possible. I was also so grateful to live in a place like Toronto, where so many supports are available.

I joined several Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) workshops, which were online during COVID, and they were so helpful. They helped me feel more like myself again, especially after losing my hair. I learned how to wear wigs and scarves, and how to take care of my skin. 

After months of treatment, I was relieved when my treatment ended in May 2021. Life started to feel a little more normal again, but my cancer had been aggressive and deep down I knew there was always a possibility it could return.

When it did, I decided to go back to the Philippines, where I’m originally from, to visit my parents before I started treatment. Their health wasn’t good and they weren’t able to travel. It was so good to see them and to connect. While I was in Asia, I also went to Japan and ate a lot of sushi. And when I came back, I was ready to dive into a new round of treatments.

During my recurrence, I also signed up with LGFB for a second time, but this time for the skincare & cosmetics workshop. I really enjoyed getting to attend the workshop at Sunnybrook Hospital — it felt so much more personal. And I was impressed that they gave me custom skincare and makeup recommendations based on my East Asian skin type. Everybody’s skin is so different, so this really stood out.

Looking good became much more important to me this second time around as well. When I first had cancer, it was during COVID, and no one could go out. But now the world is open again, and I want to be out and about. And for me, if I don’t look well, I don’t want to go out. When I look well, I feel well, and then I’m more likely to go out and socialize, which in turn helps me feel emotionally better. It’s like a cycle — a positive, uplifting cycle.

I choose to focus on the positive. As I move forward in life, my faith reminds me that life here is temporary. Whatever the future holds, I know I’m not alone.
 

When my doctor told me I needed to fast-track fertility treatments if I wanted to have more children in the future, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I was 33 and suddenly the option of having more children — the spontaneity, the joy of it — wasn’t mine anymore. I didn’t want to tell my partner, who didn’t have any children of his own yet. I felt like I was robbing him of an experience he might have naturally had with someone else, someone who wasn’t going through breast cancer. It made me feel flawed, as though something was wrong with me. 

Eventually I did tell my partner, and he was very supportive. He accompanied me to my treatments. But opening up about my diagnosis was hard. In Caribbean culture, especially among the older generation, people tend to be very private about their health. When I found out I had cancer, I wanted to keep the news to myself — even from my partner, family, and friends. But as things progressed, I realized I couldn’t do it alone. 

I’d had a lumpectomy years ago, for a benign lump, which I had kept secret. I thought I could do the same this time — have a bit of chemo and downtime and then go back to my regular life and work as a nurse, with no one the wiser. I didn’t want my mother to worry. “Here we go again,” I said to myself. “I can do this.” But this time was different. I didn’t realize how much my treatment would break me down physically. Suddenly, I couldn’t even walk to the bathroom or wash my face on my own. I told my family and they stepped in to help. 

My sister was an absolute godsend. She moved in and helped with all the day-to-day stuff — laundry, groceries. But most importantly, she really helped with my 10-year-old daughter. She took her to the movies, did her nails, and took her to her dance lessons and recitals, making sure her life wouldn’t be completely turned upside down.

I had trouble breaking things down and explaining what was going on to my daughter. Kids learn about cancer at school through Terry Fox, so naturally she asked if I was going to die like he did. I couldn’t answer her questions without falling apart, so having my sister there — and also getting my daughter into a children’s support group — was essential.

My treatment — chemo, a mastectomy, radiation, and IV therapy — took everything from me physically, mentally, and emotionally. I felt like cancer had stripped me bare, leaving me with no say, no control, nothing.

And then I was introduced to Look Good Feel Better (LGFB). Honestly, I wasn’t going to go. I was feeling awful and I didn’t want to socialize. I was very closed off and isolated. But I put my fear aside and attended the workshop, and I’m so grateful I did. The air felt so loveable when I got there — so welcoming, inviting, uplifting, and warm. It ended up being the most amazing experience. Everyone was talking and joking around, being so supportive. I didn’t expect to feel beautiful when I walked out. LGFB is like a sisterhood. When I was feeling broken and bare, it lifted me up and helped me to feel loved. 

Today, I’m getting used to a new normal. I’ve had to accept that I’m never going to feel the way I did before cancer. But I’ve also realized that it’s okay to lean on others and to find strength in sisterhood.

One question everyone may have as they begin their cancer treatment is ‘what are the side effects of my cancer treatment?’ The truth is, is that, while there are many common side effects from chemo, radiation, immunotherapy and drugs, your treatment experience will be different from anyone else. So, what’s ‘normal’? Your medical team may give you a booklet on what to expect, but the reality is, there is no ‘normal’.

Hair loss, fatigue, constipation, diarrhea, headache, nausea are all common side effects from cancer treatment. But you may also be dealing with loss of balance, strength and coordination. Others experience nerve tingling, “burning” or numbness. It’s also possible that you may not have any of these side effects. Your reaction to your treatment is as individual as your diagnosis itself.

In the past, a good patient was often described as someone who kept questions to a minimum, who followed all the advice that their healthcare professional provided, who didn’t complain or voice their concerns, and didn’t speak out about something they didn’t understand. Over the years, medical professionals have begun to realize that their patients are individuals, with minds of their own and ideas and questions about their own healthcare.

Enter, Dr. Margaret Fitch, a professor at the University of Toronto with a background in nursing and expertise in oncology and the psychosocial and emotional side of cancer. Dr. Fitch identifies the difference between ‘person-centered’ and ‘patient centered’ care. Your care is a partnership. Doctors, nurses and social workers bring knowledge and expertise, but you are the expert on you and your personal experience. Person-centered care calls on medical professionals to listen, work in partnership with you and to better understand what your life is like and to pay close attention to how any suggestions made may impact you.

Dr. Fitch offers some important take aways to help you in your efforts to ensure your care is ‘person-centered’.

Embrace Your Right to Ask Questions: It’s crucial to remember that you have the right to ask questions about your care and treatment. Even if it’s difficult to speak up, your health and well-being are paramount. Take time at home to write down your questions when you’re relaxed, and bring them to your appointments. Don’t hesitate to be firm and confident in asking for the information you need.

Utilize All Available Resources: While your time with your physician is limited, don’t hesitate to ask a nurse or another healthcare professional for additional support. Healthcare teams often work together, and they can help ensure that your concerns are addressed. It’s okay to use multiple strategies to get the information and support you need.

Understand That “Normal” Doesn’t Mean “Okay”: If you’re told that certain side effects or feelings are normal, it’s important to recognize that this doesn’t mean you have to accept them without support. There is help available, and you don’t have to navigate these challenges alone. Speak up about what you’re experiencing and ask about the resources and services that can provide relief.

Recognize the Uniqueness of Your Experience: Cancer is not just one disease, but many, each with its own treatments and side effects. What you go through may be completely different from someone else’s experience, even if the diagnosis sounds similar. Don’t feel pressured to compare your journey to others; instead, focus on what you need and seek out the right support for your specific situation.

Explore Your Options: The treatment and support options available to you are diverse. Whether it’s joining a group, seeking one-on-one counseling, or trying different therapies, it’s essential to find what works best for you. Don’t be afraid to explore different approaches until you find the one that feels right.

Stay Informed About New Treatments: Medical advancements, like targeted therapies, are constantly evolving. These treatments can be more precise and may reduce some of the more challenging side effects associated with traditional chemotherapy. Keep the conversation open with your healthcare team about new options that may be available to you.

Value Your Individuality: Remember, your journey is uniquely yours. While it’s helpful to hear others’ experiences, what works for someone else may not be the best fit for you. Trust in your instincts, ask for the information you need, and choose the path that feels most supportive to your individual needs and circumstances.

In Episode 2 of “Facing Cancer Together,” you will hear from several women undergoing treatment, each with their own unique version of ‘normal.’ Additionally, Dr. Fitch delves into the concept of ‘person-centered care,’ offering deeper insights into this compassionate approach to treatment. Tune in for a compelling discussion that highlights the diverse experiences of these women, the importance of personalized care and how you can advocate for yourself during your own cancer journey.

I’d already survived a life-changing event when I was just 16 years old. It was the first day of summer. I was fresh out of grade 10 and excited to be doing my very first parachute jump. But the parachute didn’t open, and I plummeted 3,000 feet to the ground. The impact left me with a spinal cord injury, and I’ve used a wheelchair ever since.

I was able to move on with my life I went back to school and got a university education. I got married and had a daughter, who’s in her 30s now. I had a fulfilling career as a French immersion teacher. I also got very involved in wheelchair sports, from curling to hand cycling. My life was moving forward in a positive, productive way.

I thought that surely my spinal cord injury was the biggest challenge that life would throw my way. Cancer had never been on my radar. I was feeling great. When I discovered the lump, I didn’t panic. I’d been getting regular mammograms with nothing showing up. But when the nurse called and said, “There’s a 97.5% chance it’s malignant,” everything changed. It felt like the world had shifted beneath me once again, just like that day in 1981 when my parachute failed.

My breast cancer diagnosis was shocking. It was an aggressive cancer with all these names I’d never heard before: ER-positive, PR-positive, and HER2-negative. I had no idea there were so many forms of breast cancer. And it felt extremely unfair. I had already been dealing with a spinal cord injury for most of my life – wasn’t that enough? Hadn’t I experienced enough traumatic moments? I was also initially very concerned that I was not going to survive, as I’d watched my mother die of cancer. I was devastated.

My spinal cord injury changed my life, but cancer was even worse. It wasn’t just physically brutal – it caused an immense emotional toll, invading all aspects of my life and leaving me constantly on edge, with the steady fear of recurrence looming over me. And navigating the complexities of cancer care treatment was especially challenging because of my spinal cord injury. For example, the chemo table was too high for me to get up onto on my own. I had to lobby the hospital for better accessibility.

In the past year, I’ve gone through a lumpectomy, what felt like endless chemotherapy, radiation, and ongoing hormone therapy. I’ve gone from having long blond hair to short grey hair with chemo curls. I still don’t recognize myself when I look in the mirror. It’s like I’m a different person now, in many ways.

Amid the whirlwind of treatments and fear, finding support became essential. Having an organization like Look Good Feel Better (LFGB) was so helpful. Peer support is one of the big methodologies used to help people with spinal cord injuries. You can have a doctor explain about the injury and physiotherapy and occupational therapy, but peer support – meeting someone else living with the same condition – is often far more valuable. It was the same with having cancer. When I got my cancer diagnosis, I didn’t have any friends or colleagues who were going through it. I didn’t feel like there was much of a community or people I could speak with. No one in my family had had this diagnosis or any type of cancer treatment. I found that sense of peer support from LGFB’s workshops – peers getting together, and volunteers who are well-versed in cancer treatment. For me, the more I can meet others going through similar circumstances, the easier it is to go through the experience. I’m not alone. I’m part of a shockingly large community of women dealing with the same thing. This is an additional piece to the recovery process.

Other things that have helped in my recovery and my holistic approach to treatment are taking care of my appearance, staying active in my communities, and travelling. I’m aware of my mortality in a new way now. I no longer put things off. Cancer has taught me to live each day with intention and gratitude, embracing each moment to the fullest.

“I’m getting my Look Good Feel Better bag soon,” Lindsey said excitedly. “It’ll probably arrive by the next time you are here!” Lindsey, my big sister was 57 and had already been living in hospice for a number of months. I had spent the fall with her, accompanying her through her recurrence of ovarian cancer. 

Only a few months earlier, we had heard the sweetest words from her oncologist: no evidence of disease.  In true sisterly fashion, we celebrated with a shopping spree for makeup and skincare. Unfortunately, distressing headaches and dizziness followed, caused by a rare and devastating 5.5 cm brain metastasis. Soon we realized that no more treatment was possible, and that Lindsey could be best supported in the home-and community-like environment of a hospice. 

I had spent most of the fall sleeping in her hospital room or helping her recover at our aunt’s house in Alberta, but now that she was settled in hospice, I visited from BC for one week of each month, taking up residence in the hospice guest room, drinking in all that precious time, and doing what I could to amuse, ease, support and facilitate… all of which felt like everything and nothing at the same time. 

Makeup, skincare, makeover shows, these were Lindsey’s happy place, and we spent *hours* in hospice binge watching our favourite fashion series, researching the latest skin care, and discussing other people’s and our own (sometimes lamentable) fashion choices. It all represented the Land of Normal, the place of laughter, fun, possibility and transformation. And it also represented our old selves as sisters. 

When that big Look Good Feel Better purple kit arrived one day when I was visiting, we dove in as if it were Christmas Day. Every product was spread out on her bed and table, tried and exclaimed over. Lindsey read every word of the accompanying materials and we both remarked over and over about how generous this gift was. It was just that – a gift. 

For me, it was not just a chance to see Lindsey happy and excited about “goo” as we called all makeup and skincare, but it was a blessed opportunity for her to be… her. It was an opportunity for Lindsey to embrace her newly grown-back short steel grey pixie cut and set it off with a bold lipstick, for me to gently fill in her brows and add some colour to her pale cheeks, and then to capture it all on my cell phone camera.

Maybe everyone who receives LGFB’s Big Purple Bag has this type of story. I hope so. We called Lindsey’s time in hospice her butterfly days, in part because during those five months she more fully embraced who she was as an autistic person, fully owning her unique set of communication, processing and sensory needs. She also became more comfortable in her own skin and her own environment, which had somehow aligned perfectly to suit her needs and wants. She fiercely loved her curves, her green eyes and her sassy post-surgery new haircut. She loved the hospice volunteers, the supportive cancer care programs, audio books and her chair workouts — catheter, walker and all. Her room was filled with home baking, soft quilts, family art, photographs and cards. She enjoyed the other residents and was sure to have chocolate for breakfast every day.

As we know, autism is a spectrum, meaning that each autistic person has a unique combination of traits, need for levels of support, interests and abilities. These also can change throughout a person’s lifetime.  Cancer can change things radically once again, requiring adaptation, education and re-evaluation on the parts of the patient, healthcare providers and loved ones. 

Hospice life worked well for Lindsey’s deep need for routine and predictability; regular meals and cleaning schedules, friendly health care and support staff who she got to know. Hospice was far quieter and calmer than various areas of the hospital that had defined much of her cancer experience. Her sensory needs were not overcharged and over challenged by constant announcements, bed alarms, and IV poles dinging in the background. In hospice, she could socialize and access her cancer care programs one-on-one. The less hurried medical check ins with familiar healthcare providers allowed her to participate in all these more fully. This led to more time and space for her own decision making and consent about crucial medical and legal matters to occur in a supported and calm environment.

I am still balancing grief and gratitude. It seems ironic that this “ideal” environment for an autistic cancer patient occurred during Lindsey’s last five months of life. Was she leaning into an end-of-life freedom and joy and pride in her newfound “love me or pass me on by” kind of attitude?  Seeing her goofy/ laughing/ everyday coral lipstick wearing/ hour-long facial every night self thrilled me after five decades of watching her be clipped, quieted, silenced, ignored and misunderstood.

I was equally astounded and delighted by her newfound love for musicals and micro gardens, her joy of favourites cat memes and long wanders down memory lane retelling favourite family stories. She abandoned her earlier cancer self-talk of “I should be wearing a wig” or “I should care about the weight gain from the high dose steroids”. She prioritized her sense of self and reveled in the most luxurious self care routine she could wrangle. Look Good Feel Better was an essential part of these butterfly days, and for that I am forever grateful.
 

I was diagnosed with breast cancer in May of 2022. I’d first noticed a lump in 2020, but I’d had a mammogram and the doctors had said not to worry. Then COVID hit, and I’m a nurse, so you can imagine how stressful that was. The lump wasn’t on my mind. But time passed, and the lump was growing – and it felt like it had a heartbeat. I got it checked out again and the news floored me. 

My first reaction was fear like I’ve never experienced before. That first night, I went to bed crying and shaking. You know when you’re really cold, and you can’t stop shivering? It turns out, that’s what anxiety looks like. I lost control of my body. I don’t even know how I slept that night.

Those first days, I felt like I was in a tunnel and I couldn’t see the end. Fortunately, I soon got connected to a friend of a friend – a woman named Aza who lives in Spain – who had been through the same thing. We chatted via WhatsApp and something amazing happened: she brought me out of the darkness. She’d made it, so maybe I could. I’ll never be able to express how grateful I am for her. She brought me hope.

After that, I followed the path that Aza had set for me. I got a plan from my oncologist – chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, and immunotherapy. Aza had told me what to expect at every step of the way, and she was right. I just had to follow her footsteps. 

My husband Jordi is the other person who I get emotional talking about. He and I are alone here in Canada – the rest of my family is in Spain – so he was my only caregiver. He was incredible. I have no words to express it, not even in Spanish. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. And although it was difficult being alone, just the two of us, in a way, it made the journey extra special. It was me and him against cancer. 

Losing my hair was difficult, but I invested in some beautiful wigs and now I have fun with it. Every day I look different. I attended the Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) skincare and cosmetics workshop and learned all these great little tricks, like how to apply eyeliner when my eyelashes have fallen out. It’s not something I felt I could ask my oncologist about, but it was important to me. Those little things brought me back my dignity as a woman, as a human being. I wanted to look beautiful – not just for my husband, but for myself. Jordi and I would go on weekly date nights, exploring different restaurants in downtown Montreal. We love Japanese food, Peruvian, or maybe steak and cheesecake, a glass of wine. I loved putting on my makeup and my wig and looking amazing – and feeling like just a regular couple out for dinner.

Even when I was feeling awful inside, being able to look in the mirror and to say, “Yeah, that’s me” – that was priceless. LGFB gave me this by teaching me how to feel good on the outside. LGFB teaches you how to pick a wig, how to mimic the look of eyelashes. These small things make a huge difference. It was a mental thing for me. I found that when I looked less sick, I didn’t feel as sick. Looking good was like a sunny day – it gave me a bit of energy, it gave me life. It made me feel good.

It also brought home for me how even in a tough situation, there’s always an opportunity to love myself. Maybe it’s the wig and makeup, or date night with my husband. Maybe it’s getting a massage to soothe my sore joints and muscles after immunotherapy, or doing some chair yoga. What better moment is there to show appreciation for my body by loving it?
 

When I learned I was diagnosed with breast cancer I was scared and disoriented. My whole life was derailed and my future became really unclear. I felt betrayed by my body.

Being non-binary, I’ve had to fight with the label of having a ‘woman’s cancer’ and being perceived as a woman in medical spaces and support spaces.

My relationship to my body and my breasts is different from much of what I’ve encountered or sought out. Most women never considered removing their breasts, whereas I’ve wanted to since being a teenager. Even my relationship to my hair — the hair on my head, my body hair is tied to my identity as a non-binary person. Losing the hair on my head – fine. Losing my moustache, leg, and armpit hair? Sad days! I cannot find this intersection of identity with chemo.

I felt supported in a non-judgmental space at Look Good Feel Better and came out of the workshop feeling more confident I could handle treatment. I left equipped with knowledge and beauty tools that will make treatment a bit more manageable, and give me a greater sense of control.

Natural, softer makeup and a simple skin regimen will go far for me in treatment. Learning about how my skin may behave and interact with makeup and lotions was very informative, especially regarding hygiene of makeup applicators. Tips to take care of my skin in treatment have been paying off.

It was special to sit in a room of other survivors from all walks of life and focus on feeling good.  Moving through possible side effects of treatment alongside mitigation through beauty routines was a great way to marry knowledge to a reclamation of body and beauty. As someone who’s quite knowledgeable about makeup, I still took home information that I am applying to treatment and beyond. The products in my makeup bag were also a huge morale boost. Overall, it was a positive experience that gave me some autonomy back in this wacky cancer situation. 
 

I’m a registered nurse, but when I learned that I had cancer, I forgot everything I knew.  My mind immediately went into overdrive and my heart filled with fear. I had just lost my mom to cancer a few months prior; my step-dad not long before that. In our family, cancer usually doesn’t end well.

I became immersed in research, reading medical journals. I really struggled at the beginning and was very lonely. I was used to nursing others, not being nursed. Going through cancer became a powerful learning journey, though, and today it helps me to relate even more closely with my patients.

After watching my mom go through cancer, I realized that I wanted to work in oncology. I made the switch from obstetrics, and today I’m a cancer nurse navigator. I’ve never been so happy in my 15 years of nursing. This is where I belong. My family perspective and personal experience with cancer have been huge in helping me to connect with my patients. The work fills my heart and my soul – it’s very rewarding. When I go home at the end of the day, I know I’ve made a difference.

I act as my patients’ point of contact to coordinate care between members of the health care team and to support them on their journey – answering their questions, keeping an eye on their files, and following up with them regularly. And whether it’s managing body image challenges or end-of-life planning, my colleagues and I support our patients every step of the way and connect them with the resources they need.

Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) is one of those resources. It’s something that benefited me immensely when I was a patient. I truly believe that the LGFB workshops are the reason why I kept going. They gave me the strength and courage I needed to manage my journey as well as I did. The workshops were something to look forward to. Whether it was a tough treatment day,  or dealing with complications from my surgery –  I knew that online workshop was just for me. I could look forward to feeling good, having great conversations, and learning new things. Those workshops felt like Christmas. And, as someone who lives in an isolated, remote place (Yellowknife, NWT), the workshops gave me a way to connect with other people who were going through the same thing. They reminded me that I was important, that I wasn’t alone, and that I was beautiful. And even though I’m more likely to be out fishing than spending an afternoon putting makeup on, I just love the program so much.

It really works. And as a cancer nurse navigator now, I’m grateful to be able to tell my patients about this resource. LGFB gives cancer patients hope.   

Family support was also important to my journey. My daughter Michelle was my #1 supporter. We can’t forget about our caregivers – they’re one of the hugest anchors in a person’s journey. And connecting to my spiritual, creative side was vital too. For me that looks like painting, connecting with the land and the water, going fishing, and watching the Northern Lights.

An interesting thing about my experience with cancer is that it allowed me to find myself. I’ve always been the good daughter, the good friend – but I forgot about me. Finding me means doing more of what I enjoy doing, and saying no to what I don’t want to do. It means recognizing my needs. And it means enriching my soul and spirit. I continue to do that today through the rewarding work I do with cancer patients.