The roller coaster ride.

The roller coaster ride.
There were complications, hospital stays and what seemed like endless blood work. We met some remarkable health care workers along the way. People you never meet if you’re not sick.

Sifting through the levels of care as the cancer progressed was draining, but necessary. Kim was cared for at home for about three weeks before being moved to hospice — a place that most of us are not familiar with, but a place where some of the most incredible people do some of life’s most rewarding and difficult work. I could take up pages talking about the different aspects of end-of-life care. The bottom line is that it’s not easy, but you find this great capacity within yourself to carry on and to do so with grace.      

Kim passed away peacefully on July 11, 2007.

Like Henry David Thoreau suggests, we had lived in each season as it passed, with our fair share of tears and troubles, but with an attitude that can only be described as life-giving.

Both of us in very really ways survived cancer. We were drawn to live life to its fullest. What has so inspired me, is how many people Kim influenced to do just that — a powerful testimony to her unwavering spirit.

Forever in my heart she will stay!

Back again….

Back again….

All was quite on the cancer front for five years, but Kim was feeling achy all the time and a series of tests confirmed that the cancer had returned to her bones , her liver and the lungs. That was tough news. We cried again. We were terribly sad.
What could I do?

Make every day memorable. It doesn’t have to be something big. Sometimes a kitchen dance or an afternoon hug was the most cherished moment. I must admit I was very lucky as a caregiver. I cared for someone who had an amazing amount of grace, determination and willingness to move forward. She knew at this point that the disease would not go away, but her ability to set and attain goals was a life force that positively affected many of the people around her, especially me.
We went through our moments known as the “conspiracy of silence;” where you don’t talk about things because they make you feel uncomfortable. We had to adapt the way we “loved” each other because intimacy changed. Despite such a life-altering illness, our profound respect for each other gave us the ability to move forward together.

The cancer moved to the brain and the doctors told Kim she could not drive. She felt robbed of her independence and it shook her to the core.
What could I do?

I did what I could to reinforce her sense of independence. We organized trips when she was well enough, and shuffled chemo treatments to accommodate them.

Yes, I was playing a support role and I knew my leading lady was counting on me. She didn’t have to tell me.  

What was I thinking?

What was I thinking? About the second round of chemo, I decide to make soup. But not just any soup — cauliflower and blue cheese soup. Any idea how that might go down with a chemo patient? Let me tell you. Not well. She got sick just from the smell in the house. I threw out the soup and sat on the steps outside crying, partly out of frustration, partly out of sadness and partly because I was taking care of myself.


I wanted to be the very best caregiver I could, but I quickly realized that to do that I needed to take care of myself – physically, mentally and emotionally. That’s why I cried on the steps after the soup faux pas. It helped me cope, refocus and find another recipe. In fact I bought a recipe book on how to cook for a chemotherapy patient.

We became well versed in a world and a language that was once foreign: MRIs, CT scans, neutropenia, blood counts…

The last scheduled chemo was on a February 14 — Valentine’s Day. Not a very romantic activity. I wasn’t going to let chemo stop me from being romantic though. Kim’s Mom took her to her treatment. I arranged to use the office of a clinical trial nurse we knew at the cancer clinic to change into my Elvis suit. Armed with a dozen roses and closely followed by a group of curious nurses, I made my way to the chemo room and serenaded my sweetheart and offered her the roses. Afterwards, I made the rounds of the chemo room sticking tiny paper hearts on patients and taking requests. I even made an appearance in the waiting room. It certainly made for a very different chemo treatment that day.

In the beginning…

In the beginning…I found it!
The lump on my wife’s breast that is… We were shocked and a little anxious. We wasted no time booking a medical appointment. We started scanning the Internet for information. We sat down with the surgeon who led us through the patient decision tree. But at that point nothing had been confirmed.

The call came while on summer holidays. It’s cancer! “We can fit you in for surgery next week (because of a cancelation) or we can do it in two months.” Kim decided on now. You can’t really put yourself in someone else’s shoes, at least not while they are still in them. So I didn’t try.
What could I do?

Demonstrate courage and support, but allow yourself to be sad. We certainly cried together at the beginning, but it helped us deal with…well the cards being dealt I guess.
Surgery went well, but there were lymph nodes involved so radiation and chemotherapy were necessary. More Internet searching… more information sessions… more sadness…
So what could I do?

I went to every appointment. I took notes (Kim did as well). We drew up a list of questions. We asked them all. We consulted friends. We talked to nurses. I cooked up some nice meals (more later on what not to do). We did all the normal activities we could. We just worked around the appointments and the treatments and the side effects and the stops at the pharmacy and the fatigue. Those were realities now, and we didn’t deny them, we just didn’t focus on them unduly. There were too many other parts of life to focus on — friends, fresh air, a warm bed, you name it!

A Preamble

After my wife died of cancer-related illness in 2007, I was not very interested in getting involved with anything connected to cancer.

Recently I started giving more thought to what it means to believe in a cause. That got me thinking to all the people I know who have been touched by cancer in one way or another. When you hear some of the stories you just get inspired and it lights a spark somewhere inside you.

There is a saying that people don’t invest in institutions, they invest in people and ideas they believe in. That’s how I felt when I decided to put together a University of Ottawa team for the Alterna Do It For Dad event on June 20. The honorary chair of the event is Allan Rock. I remember when I first heard Allan tell his personal story about prostate cancer. Suddenly, it was no longer the president of a university talking; it was a fellow human being sifting through the life-changing implications of having cancer.

I was asked to tell my story, but I don’t have cancer. Still, I feel that I have something to share. For ten years I was as close to cancer you can be without actually having it. I learned lots about myself, about what’s important and about what’s not and about what it means to be a caregiver.

And the journey continues…