The End of an Era – June 27, 2010
On no doubt a beautiful day, sometime in April 1999 I was sitting on a couch in the Student Life Centre at the University of Waterloo when I was handed a green invitation to “Last Call; An end of an Era Celebration” occurring on the last night the boys would be living at 366 Hazel St. For the close group of about 50 of us who were part of Village Orientation Committee (VOC), the incoming crew of 1996, 366 Hazel St had been somewhat of a home base for pre-bar festivities throughout our undergraduate career. Additionally, when a venue couldn’t hold our group, like in 1996 when VOC was uninvited to the Village Charity Ball, 366 Hazel became the venue and always offered the group a perfect setting to help solidify the bonds of friendship long after orientation was over. As one of 366’s regular house guests, it was rare a week would go by where I didn’t find myself watching the Matrix in the basement, drinking sloe gin on the front step, or walking in the back door at 2 am to crash on the couch when the walk home from the bar was just a little too far to manage. So as many of the 96 VOC crew prepared for graduation in April 1999, it seemed fitting that 366 Hazel would be the place we would say goodbye.
Exams were in full swing but during study breaks at Club D.C. (our name for the Davis Centre Library), we would make plans for the big event. Although there had been countless events under its roof, it was agreed that if any were going to blow the roof off, it would be Last Call. When exams finished more than 50 of my closest friends piled into 366 for one last night together. We sang the silly songs we were taught on our first pub crawl, we commiserated over the challenging projects and professors we had endured and we laughed as we reminisced about evenings spent together. We forgot about all the hard times, the bad grades, the all-nighters, the hungover mornings, the breakups, and the failures and instead chose to bask in the seemingly lifetime of memories we had shared in just 3 short years. In a pre-Facebook, Twitter, and cell phone era, we used old school face-to-face time to build our strong friendships, and even though we were all excited to transition to the next stage there was an unspoken sadness that lingered, reminding us of the era of face time was over.
As the night drew to a close I gathered everyone in the living room to present “Last Call – The Video” a slide show of photos from the past 3 years together. Throughout the video, we were reminded of the breadth of experience in our friendships and although we had spent the entire evening talking about all these events, the pictures began to articulate the unspoken moments our memories could not describe. They told us these were not just the pictures of the best times of our lives but rather they were pictures of the most defining moments of our lives. The invite was right, it was the end of an era and as the video faded to black the last lyric we heard was “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end…”
With Last Call drawing to a close we began to talk about the new beginnings we were embarking on. For some it was travel, others grad school, a few were starting careers, several were still looking for work and many of us had decided to take the scenic route and were coming back for Year 5. Regardless of the details of our immediate plans for the next phase, we looked forward with anticipation to the life that lay ahead, confident that although one era was ending there was an equally promising new era beginning awaiting us. We had made it through university and now it was time we finally got to step into the real world. The hard work was done, real-life could start.
When I am back in Waterloo visiting I often drive by 366 Hazel and I can’t help but smile when I think of how we all saw our futures. Call them rose-coloured, call them beer goggles, but the outlook we had of our futures was at best, a narrow perspective of the reality of real life. Although some may have expressed uncertainty about what lay ahead, just as we chose not to discuss the challenges we faced in university when we discussed the era of real-life we imagined only the best parts we assumed awaited us. Successful careers, travel to exciting places, beautiful homes, hanging out with interesting people, finding the love of your life, settling down with healthy children, and of course living happily ever after. We had worked hard in university and had been told because of this hard work the doors to our “happily ever after” were now just waiting to be opened. So although we were all sad to leave Last Call and end such a defining period, knowing such a great new beginning was within reach, making it that much easier to let go and move on.
Of the 50 plus friends at Last Call in 1999, there are only 15 or so that I am still in regular contact with. However, now that we have evolved to the era of Facebook, even without our old school practices, the Last Call Club has been able to keep in “friendly” contact. Through status updates and the odd message, it seems the promises of success, family, health, and wealth are generally working out for everyone. That being said, I think all of us would agree that our vision of “happily ever after” definitely blinded us from acknowledging the challenges that lay on the real-life horizon. Between the many positive moments, there have been real-life realities that we knew existed in 1999 but could never imagine these setbacks awaited us when we opened the doors to our new beginning. In just a decade we’ve experienced job loss, miscarriages, divorce, debt, foreclosure, loss of loved ones, specifically siblings and parents, and my contribution to the reality mix, an incurable cancer diagnosis. The Last Call Club would have no doubt expected some setbacks to occur in the 10 years after we closed the door at 366 Hazel but I wonder if we had been able to see the true reality that awaited would we have been so excited to move on?
I have now come to the end of probably the most important era of my life; the era of cancer treatment, which began on April 23rd, 2009 when I was admitted to the hospital and ended on Saturday, June 26th sometime around 10 pm MST when I took my last chemo pills after an evening watching Star Wars in Concert with Jared. This era consisted of approximately 460 days in treatment and recovery, including 9 days in the hospital, 1 day in surgery, 111 days on steroids, 30 days with radiation, and 102 days taking chemo. Some would say that I am “lucky” that despite all the treatment I have had a mere 3 days of vomiting and only a handful of days on the couch. While I agree that compared to other cancer survivors my limited side effects to treatment may have been “lucky”, it’s still hard for me to feel fortuitous about what I have endured over the past year. Although I may not feel lucky, I do feel grateful my experience hasn’t been as “hard” as I had expected nor as “hard” as many of my cancer peers who would envy the fact I can count on one hand the number of days I spent close to the bathroom.
For most cancer survivors the end of treatment is a moment to look forward to. There are reassurances from doctors and nurses that once treatment ends, fatigue will be replaced with energy, the fog of chemo brain will begin to lift, scars from the surgery will heal, hair may grow back, return to work can be considered and you can step back into your old life. For many of those that did a hard time during treatment, there is also the possibility of hearing the words that matter most to any cancer survivor – “The Treatment Worked- You Are Cancer-Free.” Yet even with those magical words, I think few can ever feel free enough to completely close the door to cancer and reopen the door to their old life.
For me, the past few weeks as I have approached the end of treatment have been the most anxious and most mentally challenging period of the entire 460 days. Although I am excited to not have to plan my life around chemo every 3 weeks, as a planner at heart, there is something comforting about having a schedule I can rely on. What that schedule means is that every 3 weeks my cancer is getting its ass kicked and although I feel like hell a lot of the time, I have peace of mind that I’m winning the fight. When I look at the end of treatment through that lens, speaking candidly, I envy the hard work other cancer survivors have to endure. Of course, I would never wish the horrible experience of harsh cancer treatment on anyone and though I know even hard treatment doesn’t always work, I would have traded my “easy” treatment era for the hardest experience you could imagine if it meant that there was a possibility I might hear those magical words – You Are Cancer Free.
Just like in 1999, I am about to close the door to one era and open a door to real life, except this time the door opens to real-life WITH cancer. Unlike in 1999, the glasses I look through when I open the door to real-life with cancer don’t come with any blinders. In fact, there is advice and predictions on some of my biggest questions to help prepare me for what will happen when I open and step through the door to life with cancer. Questions like
Will I go back to work? Of course, you can return to work, but probably at reduced hours would be best.
Should I continue to invest money into my holistic approach? – Absolutely – it can’t hurt you.
How about my dreams of a family? Give it at least a year and then you can probably think about it.
What about recurrence? No need to talk about that right now – considering your age, and how well treatment went, we have a long time before that is a consideration.
Wearing my Last Call lenses, it seems that life with cancer may not be so bad but I have matured since 1999 and have learned it’s the unspoken truth that lingers around us that always paints the most accurate picture of reality.
The truth is that although I will most likely return to work I will probably never be able to manage the pace I once set, which means that I have probably reached the top end of my career at 33. Moving to reduced hours would allow me opportunities to still work while balancing my health however reduced hours also mean a reduced salary and consequently a significant change in lifestyle. Sure I could look to work for myself, and go after my dreams of being a professional speaker, but what about insurance which I can’t qualify for anymore. If I work for myself it means when I get sick again I have no income to support me.
I believe my investments in naturopaths, supplements, nutrition, yoga, and exercise have all played a significant role in how “easy” this treatment era has been for me and I am committed to continuing this lifestyle in the next phase. But speaking candidly, it’s hard to not feel resentful that to support this approach I have to invest thousands of dollars annually to keep me healthy and as such, I can’t invest that money into other dreams such as buying a house, planning a wedding or traveling. Dreams I see friends and colleagues realize every day. And even though I know all this investment will improve my quality of life, I wonder if the investment sacrifices I am making will provide the return on investment I seek when the truth is that there is no guarantee any of these expensive approaches are ultimately going to give me more time.
In a year, with a continued investment with my naturopath, maybe my body might be clear enough from toxicity to support creating another life. But what happens if during pregnancy I have a recurrence? While pregnant, treatments such as surgery or other chemo and radiation options would surely jeopardize the health of the baby but without them, I would most likely not survive. How would we decide between baby or me? And let’s be honest, there is no cure for brain cancer, and I know even though treatment has been “successful” it’s just a matter of time before a recurrence. So ethically, is it selfish to even consider having a baby knowing I will probably not be around to see their high school or even middle school graduation? The unspoken truth awaiting me when I open the door to real-life with cancer is the hard reality that recurrence is going to happen, probably before I am 45, and when it does, as of today, there is currently no treatment covered in Canada to help me.
Despite nausea, fatigue, constipation, and the depression that has persisted in my era of treatment, this era has also brought security, at least for the moment, that recurrence is unlikely. Although I am proud of the work I have done to invest in my health during this era, as I reach the end I am realizing that the security I receive from my monthly chemo dose has played a key role in making this era of my life “easy”. When I awake on June 27th, and I close the door on the era of treatment, I also close the door on that security and I will have to find ways to survive all the insecure realities of life with cancer.
As I stand in the foyer between closing the door to the era of treatment and opening the door to an insecure life with cancer, I am overwhelmed with emotion. Some like depression, hopelessness, and fear feel like a trap door that once I open it, takes me to a free fall into darkness. Others like anger, resentment, and anxiety feel like a prison door that lets me see everything around me yet holds me back from actively engaging in what I love most. Finally, there is love, confidence, gratitude, and hope that feels like a gate to a long gravel road leading off to a bright horizon. I think back to Last Call remembering what I envisioned for my “happily ever after” and despite having over a year to accept my cancer diagnosis, looking at the doors that surround me, it still feels surreal to accept these options as my life’s actual reality. But just like in 1999, whether we were ready or not we had to move on, and on June 27th so must I. But through which door, it’s still unclear. If there is one thing I have learned from the era of treatment is that all doors inevitably lead you to the same spot, which is your life. The doors just give you the different paths to get there and sometimes you have to go through all of them to reach the end. Unfortunately, although only 33, I am keenly aware of what inevitably awaits me through whatever door I choose I can take solace that I can’t predict how long it will take before I reach the horizon and I try to believe my sunset is still far in the distance. As I choose my first step, I find calmness and hope as I see a quote on the foyer wall by Albert Einstein which reads “Knowledge of what is does not open the door directly to what should be.” I smile and realize there is nothing to feel insecure about; this is my life and I know I will find a way to not only survive but thrive. It’s the Last Call for treatment and a new beginning awaits me through the gates to life with cancer.
