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.
