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You think you know a person...
Posted by Lisa
on
11:32 AM
I have always found it interesting the way people can change their perception of you based one small piece of information. I developed an understanding of that earlier in life than most people should, and I think it's taught me to keep my distance, and not share much of myself with others. This is something I've been working on changing, but a lifetime of behaviour isn't easy to correct.
This lesson was taught to me before I could even really understand it. A couple months before my third birthday, I was diagnosed with a non-specific sarcoma in the area surrounding my left ribs and lung. For all you non-science types out there, that's cancer. It's a pretty simple story; it was a hot May long weekend and we were visiting my grandparents in Montreal. I was running around shirtless (as most two-year-olds do when it's hot) and my parents noticed my ribs were sticking out on my left side. That Tuesday I went to see my family doctor, Wednesday a surgeon and by Friday I was in an operating room having a couple ribs and part of my diaphragm removed. I still find it amazing how quickly everything happened; on the weekend I was a normal kid and by Friday I was a cancer patient.
Prior to my surgery, my parents were told my chances of survival were low. However, the surgeon was far more optimistic after the surgery and he announced to them he was convinced he had successfully removed the entire tumor. Just to make sure I did two years of chemotherapy. I lost my hair, including eyebrows and eyelashes, threw up constantly and spent more time in the emergency room of the hospital with fevers than I care to remember. I missed two months of kindergarten while an chicken pox epidemic worked it's way through the school's population. I was poked and prodded and examined by god knows how many different doctors. I was on a first name basis with all of the nurses in the Oncology department, who all found it "sweet" that I would get so nervous I actually threw up before the chemo treatment. It was a lot of physical stress for such a small person, who didn't really understand what was happening. I have a lot of sympathy for little me; I think she had it pretty rough for a couple of years.
Between the successful surgery and the two years of chemo I appeared to be cancer free, though you have to wait 5 years before they are confident. But those five years came and went, and I was officially declared to be cured. But being cancer-free isn't quite the same as being free from cancer. Once you've gone through something like that, it really has more of an impact on you than you might think, both physically and emotionally. Physically it left me with a decreased lung capacity due to the removal of part of my diaphragm as well as two ribs, and it also gave me a wicked scar that extends from the middle of my back horizontally across the left side. Side effects of chemotherapy have left me with missing and malformed teeth, hormonal imbalance issues (a big problem during my teenage years), brittle fingernails and fatigue.
Emotionally, it's hard to know how much of who I am I would have been regardless and how much was shaped by my early life experiences. But you have to think that spending a big chunk of your formative years in and out of the hospital is going to have an effect. Plus, something a lot of people don't consider is how cruel kids can be. When I was younger I was often picked on for my scar, and when we were older and kids knew what it was from, I lost a few friends because one girl told them if they played with me they would catch cancer. Seems so silly and petty in retrospect, but when you're 8, losing friends is the end of the world. All of these experiences taught me to hide my past; to not tell people what I had been through. Rather than being proud of the fact that I had overcome such a difficult challenge, I became ashamed of it. I have spent most of my life feeling this way. I always felt like my cancer was a taboo subject, something to hide rather than share. On the few occasions where I have discussed it, I found it very difficult.
Recently, I have been trying to overcome that. This past winter I went out and had a daffodil with the date of my surgery (26/5/79) tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Now whenever someone sees it and asks, I have to tell my story. It's starting to get easy, but it still feels uncomfortable at times. I'm also pushing myself beyond my normal physical limitations by participating in a fundraiser for Sick Kids Oncology this fall, which is a relay (I'm on a team with my sister, two of my cousins and a friend) from Toronto to Blue Mountain. I'm not much of a distance runner, but I'm pushing myself to train for this so I can be part of helping some other kid like me. If you'd like to check out my page go to our Team Momentum page at: http://searscanada.akaraisin.com/greatcanadianrun/teammomentum. You can learn more about the run, and what it is for, and make donations.
I'm over 50% of the way to my goal of $1000. Hopefully by September I will be 100% there, both in my fund raising and my physical preparation (let me tell you, the physical part is the one I'm most worried about!). Wish me luck...I'll keep you posted!
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This lesson was taught to me before I could even really understand it. A couple months before my third birthday, I was diagnosed with a non-specific sarcoma in the area surrounding my left ribs and lung. For all you non-science types out there, that's cancer. It's a pretty simple story; it was a hot May long weekend and we were visiting my grandparents in Montreal. I was running around shirtless (as most two-year-olds do when it's hot) and my parents noticed my ribs were sticking out on my left side. That Tuesday I went to see my family doctor, Wednesday a surgeon and by Friday I was in an operating room having a couple ribs and part of my diaphragm removed. I still find it amazing how quickly everything happened; on the weekend I was a normal kid and by Friday I was a cancer patient.
Prior to my surgery, my parents were told my chances of survival were low. However, the surgeon was far more optimistic after the surgery and he announced to them he was convinced he had successfully removed the entire tumor. Just to make sure I did two years of chemotherapy. I lost my hair, including eyebrows and eyelashes, threw up constantly and spent more time in the emergency room of the hospital with fevers than I care to remember. I missed two months of kindergarten while an chicken pox epidemic worked it's way through the school's population. I was poked and prodded and examined by god knows how many different doctors. I was on a first name basis with all of the nurses in the Oncology department, who all found it "sweet" that I would get so nervous I actually threw up before the chemo treatment. It was a lot of physical stress for such a small person, who didn't really understand what was happening. I have a lot of sympathy for little me; I think she had it pretty rough for a couple of years.
Between the successful surgery and the two years of chemo I appeared to be cancer free, though you have to wait 5 years before they are confident. But those five years came and went, and I was officially declared to be cured. But being cancer-free isn't quite the same as being free from cancer. Once you've gone through something like that, it really has more of an impact on you than you might think, both physically and emotionally. Physically it left me with a decreased lung capacity due to the removal of part of my diaphragm as well as two ribs, and it also gave me a wicked scar that extends from the middle of my back horizontally across the left side. Side effects of chemotherapy have left me with missing and malformed teeth, hormonal imbalance issues (a big problem during my teenage years), brittle fingernails and fatigue.
Emotionally, it's hard to know how much of who I am I would have been regardless and how much was shaped by my early life experiences. But you have to think that spending a big chunk of your formative years in and out of the hospital is going to have an effect. Plus, something a lot of people don't consider is how cruel kids can be. When I was younger I was often picked on for my scar, and when we were older and kids knew what it was from, I lost a few friends because one girl told them if they played with me they would catch cancer. Seems so silly and petty in retrospect, but when you're 8, losing friends is the end of the world. All of these experiences taught me to hide my past; to not tell people what I had been through. Rather than being proud of the fact that I had overcome such a difficult challenge, I became ashamed of it. I have spent most of my life feeling this way. I always felt like my cancer was a taboo subject, something to hide rather than share. On the few occasions where I have discussed it, I found it very difficult.
Recently, I have been trying to overcome that. This past winter I went out and had a daffodil with the date of my surgery (26/5/79) tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Now whenever someone sees it and asks, I have to tell my story. It's starting to get easy, but it still feels uncomfortable at times. I'm also pushing myself beyond my normal physical limitations by participating in a fundraiser for Sick Kids Oncology this fall, which is a relay (I'm on a team with my sister, two of my cousins and a friend) from Toronto to Blue Mountain. I'm not much of a distance runner, but I'm pushing myself to train for this so I can be part of helping some other kid like me. If you'd like to check out my page go to our Team Momentum page at: http://searscanada.akaraisin.com/greatcanadianrun/teammomentum. You can learn more about the run, and what it is for, and make donations.
I'm over 50% of the way to my goal of $1000. Hopefully by September I will be 100% there, both in my fund raising and my physical preparation (let me tell you, the physical part is the one I'm most worried about!). Wish me luck...I'll keep you posted!
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