Accidental dog therapy

Shortly after my diagnosis, a colleague came to visit me. She had survived the same breast cancer and shared her insights with me just as I was poised to begin treatment. One of her tips was that, during recovery, I needed to find a hobby that filled my days. Something new that I would enjoy, and would fill the hours off work with a distraction. No use spending all the time on the couch, fixating on the "What ifs."

She took up photography. I intensified my efforts in dog rescue. (Sometimes I think she made the wiser choice!) But to blog about life in-between treatment and recovery means that I must introduce you to my pack. They were an integral part of my support team during the awful experience of treatment, and continue to assist me as we live "in between." Each dog plays a role in keeping me focused and physically active - so if you are not a dog lover, you may wish to stop reading here!

Our journey (my husband and I) with dog rescue started the year before cancer arrived. We adopted 2 dogs from a rescue, Friendly Giants Dog Rescue. Jake was the first to arrive.

He had been pulled from a shelter in North Carolina, after having been dumped there far too young to be apart from his mother, or to survive the shelter. So he was pulled by the rescue, and plunked on a transport heading north. He arrived a sickly puppy and has grown into the most beautiful and intelligent dog I have owned.



Next came Harley.

Harley and I have a lot in common, as he has terrible hips and often limps with pain after a long day of too much activity. He is a survivor too - having been found in a forest in North Carolina, tied to a tree, starving, shot, and left to die. After intensive efforts to rehabilitate him, he is a stellar Cane Corso: powerfully built, physically intimidating and a big softie. He has bonded deeply with us, following me around the house and our property. All he wants is to be together with Pete and me.

And then there is Sam.

Sammy is the anchor of our pack. He is oldest, and was our very first rescue, arriving before Harley and Jake. After living in the Northwest Territories for a year, we brought him home from a shelter. Everyone loves Sam. He is small mixed breed; calm, gentle and very balanced. He is Harley's security blanket, Jake's playmate, and my snuggle buddy. He may be tiny, but he fills a huge spot in our pack and our hearts.

And of course we have Lady. Lady was originally a foster dog, but came to us with a complicated history. She is now a "forever foster" because while she has made a good deal of progress in the last year, we figure she would only regress if she left and had to make another adjustment to another family.

Walking my pack has been an essential tool for recovery: a simple pack walk conquers nausea, fights off the blues, and forces me to get up and out of bed every day no matter the weather or my body's objections. They are, without a doubt, a huge part of my personal support team.

Hesitation

I dislike the term "cancer survivor." It's a conversation killer. When people hear this, there is a shift in dialogue to an automatic deference. It's uncomfortable but I have learned to stop and let the response take us in whatever direction it goes. Usually, I hear stories of how cancer has touched the lives of people with whom I am speaking. So many have fallen - sisters, wives, grandmothers, aunts, cousins, dear friends.

There is so much heartache. So many losses. These stories have made me hesitate to write for over a year. I don't know how to wear the label "survivor" when there are a multitude who fought the same battle and lost. Or worse yet, I meet a dear one who is currently in the fight for her life - and there I stand, in remission.

Survival is such a crap shoot, and feels so random. I live. Others die, or are facing death. When I hear these stories, or watch friends and colleagues struggle along with a terminal diagnosis, I don't know what to say. My heart just aches, and I stumble around looking for a response. I feel small.

But it also makes me want to pull out my favourite T-shirt - it's black, and boldly states in white letters: F--- cancer. (I haven't found the courage to wear it in public yet!)

I guess it is another kind of pain in this world of living "in between." Another chance at life is a blessing, no matter how different it looks in "the after." It's a strange and humbling place from which to support others who have a different story.

My worries in writing are that somehow I will diminish or overlook the suffering of those around me who carry the wounds of loss. My imperfect humanity is a good reason for hesitation.

Yet I know there are others out there who, like me, are rebuilding, and coping; hoping, and trying to make sense of the new normal. Life after cancer is complex, filled with conflicting emotions, ideas, and experiences. It's a blessing. It's a challenge. And it is uncertain.

I hope by giving a voice to it, will be a means to healing for myself and whoever follows along.

Yesterday, my niece gave me a hug. She is a newly minted midwife, and we were discussing her next steps. Aside from landing a job, she had prioritized further training in nutrition and homeopathy to assist her clients in healing from the demands of pregnancy and birthing.

How, she wondered, was I sleeping?

Like so many things in my life, the answer was not a simple one.

When I described my sleep pattern, often disrupted by pain at night, my niece responded with a hug. I whispered into her ear "But at least I am here." Alive.

"I'm glad," she said.

So am I.

I am a "cancer survivor." In June 2012, I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer. Treatment lasted until Feb. 2013. Thankfully, I am in remission. But I am not fully recovered from the impact of treatment. Currently, I exist in-between full recovery and treatment: living with chronic pain from nerve damage, I am trying to figure out the pathway to full health.

This blog is about living in the "in-between."