My three year cancer screening

This Tuesday, I am heading into Calgary for my three year cancer screening. It is a milestone that comes with a complicated mix of emotions, and I have come to realize that cancer is still a word people struggle to say out loud. It is as if mentioning it gives it power, or invites bad luck, or crosses some unspoken boundary. But for me, the word cancer is not just one thing. It means fear, sorrow, mortality uncertainty and pain. But it also means clarity, hope, strength, resilience and determination.

I remember the day I was diagnosed as if it just happened. I was driving my son Quinn to school. He was 15 at the time. The doctor called, and with no warning, no soft landing, just said, “You have cancer. The cancer clinic will be reaching out to you shortly.” That was it. No comfort, no space to breathe. My son was beside me in the car, and that is how he found out. It is a moment frozen in time. My first thought was: how can I have cancer? I do not feel sick. I’m so fit, I don’t really drink or smoke. My second thought: how do I tell the rest of my kids? 

When you hear the words “you have cancer,” everything changes. Everything. The petty grievances, the small worries, the drama that once felt so pressing, it all dissolves. Your perspective snaps into sharp focus. The only thing that matters is time and who you spend it with.

A lot has happened in these three years. I made it to Quinn’s graduation. I have travelled, to places with my kids and places for work. I have laughed, I have grown, and I have taken in the world with a deeper sense of purpose. I do not sweat the stupid stuff. I do not let people’s opinions weigh me down. My tolerance for meaningless complaints has plummeted. Cancer gave me a sharper lens, and a much lower threshold for petty people.

But here is the thing people do not talk about enough: even when you survive, even when you “beat” cancer, it never really leaves. Every time I get sick, every time I find a lump, every time something feels off, my mind jumps straight to the worst case. Is it back? Is this the beginning again? That is the reality I live with now. And yes, I am scared. I am scared all the time. But I have learned how to live with the fear instead of letting it control me. That has been the hardest part of the journey, making peace with the unknown.

This Tuesday will be tough. The day itself, and the days leading up to it, are full of mental gymnastics. I tell myself I am strong, I remind myself of everything I have overcome, and I walk into that clinic like it is a battle I intend to win. Because it is. My life, my future, my time with my boys, that is what is at stake.

These appointments are made a year in advance, which means I have an entire year to think about this upcoming day, twelve long months where the thought lingers quietly in the background, never fully gone. It serves as a daily reminder to keep perspective, to focus on what truly matters, and to not get swept up in the noise of everyday life. 

My hope is to live fully and with integrity. I hope to be kind. I hope to take every lesson cancer has given me and use it to make these years count. And one day, I hope I will have the privilege of being a grandmother. If that day comes, I will rock it, I have no doubt.

This is a very personal editorial, but I share it because I want you to pause. I want you to remember how fast things can change. Life is short, and we waste so much of it on things that do not matter. So enjoy the time you have. Appreciate the people who love you. Laugh a lot. Let the little things go. That is what I do now. Every day. Because every second matters. And if nothing else, I hope this piece reminds someone out there to hold their people a little tighter and to be grateful for their own ordinary, beautiful life.