The death of a friend

We like to say in cancerland that it is the shittiest club with the best of members. You do meet some tremendous humans through this experience. However, the hard part in all of this is that it’s cancer after all. And sometimes people die. This was one of these weeks. Today’s blog is about the death of a friend. 

She was diagnosed after me and reached out after seeing my images posted on my photographer friend’s blog. She was a quiet introverted and shy woman. Her daughter encouraged her to connect with me. She had just been diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer. She was scared out of her mind and understandably shattered. After exchanging a few messages back and forth on Instagram, I asked her to call me. We spoke and I promised I would hold her hand through this shitty ride. 

I never say it will be ok. I can’t make that promise. 

Because of her diagnosis and the type of breast cancer she had, our paths were different. Where I had surgery first, she had chemo first. We did have the same surgeon, and after learning about my experience with going flat, she opted to do the same to spare herself further surgeries. She also knew with confidence that our surgeon understood the procedure and would do a good job. But there were some warning signs even back then. Despite doing eight rounds of chemo, during surgery it was discovered that she had an incomplete response to the neojuvenant treatment. Cancer was found in five of her lymph nodes. So there would be additional therapies required. 

We chatted often and became Facebook and Instagram friends. She and her husband tested out AskEllyn for me. I recall her saying her husband was so intrigued he spent a whole evening chatting with her trying to get her to break or say something inappropriate. 

She was a cheerleader. When I launched AskEllyn and set up the Lyndall Project she would send me encouraging notes or post on my Facebook page. She told me I had inspired her to move out of the shadows. She wanted to take this experience with cancer and do something more with her life.

I was so proud of her. Despite being very shy, she came out to our social events, joining in the chatter and connecting with others. She was an active participant in our online group. meeting the other breasties in our group. She began advocating for herself, speaking her mind, staying true to her promise to herself to use this life-changing experience to be… life-changing. She shared her story with the world through Dense Breasts Canada in the hopes that it would encourage other women to be breast aware, know their breast density and get screened.

We joined in nominating our surgeon for a top doctor award at the hospital where we were treated. We both sent in personal letters attesting to his compassion and fantastic care. He won. So we headed to the hospital awards night together to see him claim his trophy and be honoured by his colleagues. We sought him out of the crowd, met his wife, took selfies like proper fan girls. It was fun to dress up and commiserate about our hair – mine a mop of curls, and her mass of silver grey. That evening, she shared that she wasn’t faring well on the oral chemo drug she was on. Her oncologist had removed her from it. The drug was too hard on her body and presented more of a risk.

Then a month or so later, she messaged me she had ended up in hospital. She couldn’t breathe. Her faithful dog was glued to her side. She was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism. She was trying to figure out what had caused it. Was it her Herceptin medication?  Was this a random thing?  Was it a side effect of radiation?  All that said, she was discharged quickly and it all seemed to get resolved with some drugs. Nothing terribly worrying. 

Or so we thought. 

She was so close to the end of her treatments. One more round of Herceptin to go and she’d be free to move forward. To ring that goddam gong. 

Then the breathing struggles started again. Back to hospital. This time it was determined her cancer had taken hold in her lungs and the tumors were interfering with her breathing. It wasn’t good news, but she wasn’t dwelling on the negative. She was determined and ready to go back to chemo. She had things to do, and a family to care for. I remember reflecting on the quiet, shattered woman I first spoke with a little more than a year ago, and the courageous fighter she had become. After weeks in the hospital, she made it home, this time with luggage. Pain medications, oxygen. 

I didn’t want to pry. It was up to her to share what she felt comfortable disclosing to me or our local breasties group. My promise to her was that I would send her little jokes and memes on the regular to put a smile on her face. 

She said she would love that. She needed those smiles. I kept that promise. She died Tuesday evening this week. She was just 50 years old. You can read Ursula’s story here.