What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

And Gives You a Dark Sense of Humour and Great Stories

It’s been a while since I wrote anything. Not because I’ve abandoned you, my faithful readers—never that—but because life has been… well, let’s just say “eventful.” Since finishing my last round of Paclitaxel and Carboplatin in October, I graduated to a new cocktail of joy: Doxorubicin and Cyclophosphamide. These drugs are so potent, they’re served on a three-week cycle instead of weekly. Think of them as the espresso shot of chemotherapy—small, but mighty enough to keep you up at night.

Three weeks between treatments also means three weeks of freedom before the next blood test. So naturally, I took that as a green light to live my best life. Aside from some nausea and fatigue, I was doing alright. So, there I was, strolling through town as if nothing was wrong. A visit to the yarn shop? Absolutely—because nothing says invincible like chatting about yarn. Quick errands here, a little socializing there. Pee test at the hospital lab? All the while, blissfully unaware that my immune system had gone on an extended vacation without leaving a forwarding address.

Nine days post-treatment, my body decided it was time for a reality check. A 38-degree fever crept in, casually at first, but when it hit 38.8, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Time to wave the white flag. I called my daughter, Sheena, who surprisingly answered the phone (she must have sensed the impending drama) and rearranged her plans to chauffeur me to the ER.

Cue the medical rodeo. I handed over my golden ticket—a letter from the cancer center—which kickstarted the usual routine: blood cultures from both arms, an ECG “just in case,” a chest X-ray, and of course, the ever-charming pee test. The results? Everything looked peachy… until the blood work came back.

Turns out, my white blood cell count was so low it practically needed a search party. Neutrophils? Same story—sitting at 0.1, which, in medical terms, translates to “Oops, you’re defenseless.” My immune system was officially MIA.

The kicker? I’d been merrily huffing and puffing my way through town, wondering why 30 feet of walking felt like a marathon, leaving me winded and huffing for breath. Turns out, my hemoglobin levels were also in the basement. Low red blood cells—who knew they were important? This is what chemo induced anemia feels like.

The doctor delivered the news with all the gravity it deserved: “You’re not going anywhere. You’ll have to stay in hospital in isolation until we can boost your immune system.”

“Isolation? Really?” I sighed, channeling my best Eeyore.

“Yes, and we’ll give you a couple of units of blood to bring up your hemoglobin.”

“A blood transfusion?” I replied, as though we were discussing a questionable fashion choice.

Ridge Meadows Hospital Emergency Department is a bit like the wild west of healthcare: crowded and chaotic. Not enough beds, not enough doctors, and a line-up of people who think their sniffles might be the next pandemic. It’s a hot mess. But despite the madness, I was whisked into a private room pretty quickly.

That’s where I met my nurse—a total rockstar. She was juggling chaos like a circus performer, yet still found time to keep me laughing. She was funny, offered kind words, and somehow made the crowded, noisy ER feel like a sanctuary.

The next morning, I got a surprise. My family doctor strolled in, unannounced, like it was the most normal thing in the world. On a Saturday. A SATURDAY. If there’s a ranking system for family doctors, he’s officially at the top of mine.

After the pleasantries, though, he got down to business. “You need to be careful when you’re going to the bathroom,” he said, in a tone that immediately wiped the smile off my face.

“What do you mean, careful?” I asked, imagining everything from slippery floors to invisible bathroom ninjas.

“Wear a mask with a shield. One droplet from someone’s cough could land you in ICU.”

Oh. That’s… vivid. The night before, I’d vaguely absorbed something about my immune system being in shambles, but his look and tone drove the point home: my immune system wasn’t just compromised; it had taken an extended leave of absence.

Later that day, I was moved to the Medical Transfer Unit—still technically in the ER, but this was where patients hung out while waiting for an upstairs bed. Think of it as purgatory, but with better snacks.

The nurses there were nothing short of incredible. Busy as they were—patients coming and going like a revolving door—they still made time to check in, say something humourous, and treat me like more than just a diagnosis on a chart. Even the cleaners were lovely, pausing their rounds to chat and brighten my day.

But isolation? That was rough. I had a couple of visitors, but they had to gown up and keep their distance. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to distract me, just me, a room full of beeping monitors, and the growing suspicion that my IV pole was silently judging me. It was lonely, plain and simple.

What can you do? There’s no way over it, no way under it, and certainly no way around it. The only way out is through. And so, there I was, embracing isolation, transfusions, and the occasional existential chuckle. Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that humor can get you through almost anything—even an isolation room in a chaotic ER. Because if you can laugh, you can survive, even when the world outside your door is a hot mess. Even when your immune system is nonexistent, your sense of humor doesn’t have to be.

A good sense of humor is like duct tape for your soul—indispensable in holding you together when life starts to unravel. If you can’t laugh, even at the dark and morbid stuff, you’re at risk of spiraling into a vortex of doom. Humor is an emotional sieve, catching the negativity before it clogs up your spirit. Plus, science backs me up here: laughter can actually make chemo suck a little less, boost your immune system, and improve your overall outlook. And believe me, if anyone needs a turbocharged immune system, it’s me.

It’s been a month since my last chemo treatment, and I’ve had some time to think (and overthink). I decided to ask my oncologist the million-dollar question: “Do I really need the last three treatments?”

You see, last month’s ultrasound showed no sign of tumors. None. Nada. Zilch. Naturally, I assumed this meant I could skip ahead like a kid bored with the middle chapters of a book.

“What do the studies say about skipping this part of the treatment?” I asked, hoping she’d whip out a research paper titled Patients Who Noped Out Early and Lived Happily Ever After.

“We don’t know,” she replied with the kind of calm you only get after years of explaining hard truths. “The studies were done on the full treatment plan—chemo, surgery, radiation, and immunotherapy.”

Fair enough. But I pressed on. “What if I end up in the hospital again? You know, with zero immune system and that glamorous isolation suite?”

“We’d lower your dose and give you filgrastim with each treatment to prevent that.”

She then examined me. Again. And once again, there was… nothing. No tumors. No swollen lymph nodes. Just regular, unremarkable tissue.

That’s when she dangled a tantalizing carrot: If my surgeon can fit me in right away, and the pathology report shows no evidence of disease, I can skip the last three chemo treatments. I’ll still have to do radiation and a year of immunotherapy, but hey, small victories. If not, I will resume chemo before radiation.

I didn’t wait for her to call my surgeon. Nope. I grabbed my phone and made the call myself, because when it comes to dodging more chemo, I’m a woman of action. And guess what? Surgery is now booked for December 19th. A festive lumpectomy and lymph node dissection—because nothing says holiday spirit like a hospital gown and an IV drip.

This month off chemo feels like a gift, a chance for my body to patch up some of the damage. I’m praying that the pathology report comes back clean—no cancer, so no more chemo. Until then, I’ll keep laughing, because if humor really does boost your immune system, I plan to laugh my way to full health.

Triple negative breast cancer is no joke. It’s rare. It’s aggressive. It has a high recurrence rate (20-25%). However, it responds well to treatment, as mine has already. The one sad thing I’ve found in the TNBC group on socials, is that many of the women who are struggling with this disease are so young. The average age range for this cancer is between 30-50 years of age. I’ve been trying not to read the stories that are just a bit too negative or tragic. I need to stay positive, and that is not the way to keep my spirits up.

One of my sources of strength is my faith. A friend in my prayer group shared these lyrics of a song. I’m not so fond of the tune, but the lyrics are beautiful:

All who are weary
All who are weak
All those who come with no words left to speak
Come let the Son wash the dust from your feet
Come into the light
All who are mourning
All who have pain
All those who come who are burdened with shame
Come let the Son take the weight of your chains
Come into the light
Ours is the God of the lost and the broken
His is the home with doors flung wide open
Ours is the Saviour who welcomes us in
Come into the light
Be still my soul
Within His home
To Him alone
Lay it down
Take rest and hope
In Him alone
Within His home
Lay it down
And Come into His light
And Come into His light

It reminds me of another worship song we learned in Victoria a number of years ago.

Many times I’ve listened to this song when I was in need of the mercy and grace of God. I hope you find it uplifting.

My prayer today is…

Lord, teach me to live in the same spirit of hope-filled resolve.
As I seek healing and recovery, 
I also recognize that, although my final outcome is unknown, 
My faith is holding out hope for complete healing.
I am grateful for all who continue to assist me in my
journey, medically, emotionally, and spiritually. 
I will do everything I can to try to assure a positive outcome.
May you boost my spirits, sustain me with your promise
of eternal life, and if it is your will, heal me so that I might
serve you and your people in the years ahead.
Amen

“Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30

As always, friends, send along any good jokes, funny cat videos, ANY funny videos or memes - I welcome them all. Same with the prayers - or good and positive thoughts, channeling energy through cyberspace, or lighting candles at your place of worship. I will take it all. I already feel the prayers, thoughts, and energy coming through. It gives me hope, brings me comfort, and helps me to realize how many people are rooting for me - and that is so encouraging. I am overwhelmed by the number of people who care enough to take the time to comment here ,or on socials, or in Substack Notes. You cannot imagine how much it touches my heart.

Thank you all so much.

Grace & Peace to you and yours.

Kathie