Surviving Cancer

Diagnosed just days after her baby was born, this mom fought and won her battle against an aggressive form of cancer

By Nicole Bodner

When you bring home a baby, you expect visitors—friends bearing baby gifts, relatives gushing over the newest addition, neighbours with cookies and cakes in tow. But what you don’t expect is your dentist showing up to tell you that the lump that’s been growing in your mouth for the last two months is cancer, and that you’re probably not going to make it. Yet that’s exactly what happened to me on a Friday afternoon in February 2009, just days after my second child—Talah—was born.

“Lots of people beat cancer,” I replied coldly, rocking Talah in my arms and trying to keep my head together. My then-7-year-old, Jade, was hovering in the hallway. I could sense from her body language that she’d heard the gist of the conversation. I sat down on a chair in my foyer and started breast-feeding Talah, not understanding why my dentist was getting teary-eyed. Frustrated, I asked him what we were going to do about it. Inside I knew he didn’t have a clue. He mumbled something about “getting prepared” and suggested I see the local ear, nose and throat specialist on Monday. Then he shuffled out the door and high-tailed it out of the driveway.

By then I was already on the phone to my husband, Derek, who was waist-deep in snow on Mount Washington with our cheese-loving Shiba Inu, Bohdi. Waiting for them to get home from their hike was the longest hour of my life. ’d gone into shock and wasn’t much help to Derek as he frantically tried to get a hold of anyone who would listen and could help us. Instead I went into my office with the intention of contacting people. It was difficult making a list. Just who are you supposed to call when you’re told you’re going to die?

I knew I was going to have a hard time speaking, not only because I didn’t know how to begin the conversation, but also because the tumour in my mouth—the one I was repeatedly told was a result of pregnancy hormones—had grown so large that it competed with my tongue for space. I thought about emailing, comforted by the fact that no one would be able to hear or see my tears. But in the end I picked up the phone.

“Mom, it’s me, Niki. I have to tell you something….no, no, Talah’s fine, it’s, uhm, it’s just that….”

When I emerged from my office, Derek said he’d arranged an appointment with my GP for 9:00 am, and that she was already working on finding me a surgeon. My mind immediately went to practicalities. Being in the hospital meant I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed. That meant I’d need formula. And bottles. And what else? I was grateful to have something simple to focus on.

“I have to go to the store,” I told my husband.

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

The diagnosis

My official diagnosis was high-grade chondroblastic osteosarcoma of the maxilla (think Terry Fox with cancer of the face instead of the femur). My GP said a surgeon at Royal Jubilee Hospital in Victoria would see me on Monday at 1:00, and that he’d be talking about my case with other doctors associated with the BC Cancer Agency later that afternoon.

“I don’t know exactly when they can get you into the OR,” my GP said, “but prepare to spend about two weeks in recovery.”

So down the Inland Highway we went, with Talah in back snoozing in her brand-new car seat. (Jade went to Grandma’s.) By Monday night I’d met with two of the top surgeons on the planet—Dr. Wong and Dr. Djurickovic—who said they’d try within the week to clear an operating room and compile a surgical team. The next day they called to say I was scheduled for surgery on Thursday.“Where’s the buzz saw?” was the last thing I heard before passing out on the operating table.

Six hours later I was being wheeled to my room with stitches up and down my face and neck, and tubes in my nose, throat, neck and arm. Heavy bandages covered my wrist and thigh. They removed 6 cm of my upper left jaw (including all my teeth, save my front one), my sinus cavity, my upper left palate, and two lymph nodes. And they used skin and a vein from my arm to cover the hole in my mouth, and shredded skin from my leg to cover the hole on my wrist. I was a human quilt. But I was alive.

“Looks like we got all of it,” Dr. Wong told me a month later during my first follow-up visit. I couldn’t control my facial muscles, so only half of my mouth moved upward into a smile. I looked over at Derek, who was standing near the door swinging Talah from side to side. I saw the weight of the world lift off his shoulders. Within six weeks of surgery, I’d recovered almost fully on account of Derek taking time off work to care for me and the children (we have four between us but only two live with us full time). My face looked amazingly “normal” when my hair was down and covering my face just so. And I’d lost all my baby weight, plus a few extra pounds, because I couldn’t eat much. I was ready to get on with my new life as a new mom again. And Derek was ready to get back to work. We’d already cashed in our RRSPs and money was getting really tight.

Then I got “the call.” The BC Cancer Agency wanted to see me as soon as possible. My oncologist, Dr. Allan, explained that osteosarcoma tends to return if you don’t do chemotherapy. My heart sunk.“We have evidence that six rounds of intensive, inpatient chemotherapy may be curative,” she said. We pleaded with her not to give us any statistics. Derek had already done research, so he already knew what we were up against, but the less I knew, the better.
I was handed an agency number and a package containing information about the two drugs I’d be given—Doxyrubicin and Cisplatin, the combination of which was so strong I’d need to be in hospital for four days at a time to ensure I had enough water in my system both before and after chemo. Lucky me.

Despite the news that I’d be starting chemo soon, we continued on with our plan to visit Whistler before heading back home. Derek had an interview for a job before and during the 2010 Olympics. We figured that if they liked him enough, maybe they’d wait for him for a few months while I finished chemo. On the ferry ride over, I let my long hair float in the wind and joked with Jade that I was taking my hair on a little holiday before it fell out. Inside, though, I was royally pissed off. And lonely.

A few days later I was lying in a dimly-lit hospital room with a nurse slowly plunging a Kool-Aid-red liquid into my vein. Derek and Talah, now two months old, were at my side. I felt a burn in my arm, and I heard Derek and the nurse talking about my flesh turning red. I was having a bad reaction. There was panic. And tears. And begging. I wanted to just stop and forget the whole thing. Then I looked over at Talah and remembered it wasn’t about me.

I’ve had my share of brain-splitting, gut-spilling hangovers, so I figured I knew what being sick was all about.  But nothing could’ve prepared me for  first round of butt-kicking, mind-blowing chemotherapy. I tried everything possible to deal with the nausea—hospital medications, meditation, prayer, peppermint aromatherapy. Still I suffered, as nothing worked for very long.

“I can’t do it again,” I whined, crawling into Derek’s Jeep for the three-hour journey home. “Tell me I don’t have to.”

“What about trying marijuana? It’s supposed to work for nausea,” he pleaded.

I’d heard that too, but I wasn’t a pot-smoker and didn’t want to become one. Desperate, though, I tried it and was amazed at the results. For the first time since that first plunge of chemo I could sleep soundly, and drink and eat without vomiting immediately afterward.Derek got me signed up with Victoria’s compassion club so I could make full use of its products—hemp lozenges for my mouth sores, hash for my nausea, marijuana for my anxiety. I would soon begin to understand cannabis as God’s medicine.

I was only home for a few days when I developed a raging infection and had to be quarantined in the local hospital for three days.
The next six months were a blur of needles, bandages, blood tests, x-rays, doctor’s appointments, trips to the hospital and visits from family and friends. I lost my hair, my sense of time, my ability to breastfeed or have more children, and all the money we had in the world, and more. We sunk thousands of dollars into debt as the months wore on.

The weeks between chemo sessions increased as my body crumbled and took longer and longer to recover. After each chemo session I’d spend at least a week flat on my back, completely disinterested in my children. Talah would cry and I wouldn’t care. Jade would bring me treasures from school and I’d have to remind myself to say thank you. I was unfit to watch my children and felt like I was dying. Then, slowly, I’d rise again and start feeling like my old self.Thankfully, my mom and my parents-in-law were there to take turns helping Derek shoulder the load while he alone carried me through the darkest moments.

Near the end of my chemo program, my anemia got so bad I couldn’t walk three blocks without stopping to rest a half a dozen times. I felt like a fold-up table. I was given a blood transfusion, and was inches away from needing a platelet transfusion too when at last I dragged myself over the finish line.
No one was more surprised than I that I made it through all six rounds of chemotherapy. I would’ve packed it in after one if my husband hadn’t coached me along and been at my side the entire time. He tended all my wounds and administered all of my shots (I had to have Neupogen daily, eight days in a row, to keep my immune system from completely bottoming out).

He cleaned and dressed my PICC line, a synthetic tube inserted into my arm and all the way to my heart. He helped me bathe with all my bandaging on. He bought me hats, and cases of Ensure. He took all my calls from the Cancer Agency—just seeing their number on call display would make me throw up or tear up, even though I loved Dr. Allan and her team and always felt they were taking excellent care of me. Most importantly, he reminded me everyday how beautiful and needed and loved I was.

Today, my body is cancer-free. My hair’s back and I’m 35 pounds lighter than I was when I got pregnant with Talah. I’m no longer obsessed with clocks and calendars. I’m way, way more emotional, and my world is in colour instead of black and white. I have a much better appreciation for what’s important in life—family and friends—and, best of all, my kids still have a mom and step-mom.

I know now what Derek has been trying to teach me since we met five years ago—life is about having someone there with you at your eleventh hour, someone to talk to and laugh with about the stuff you did and saw in your life. How grateful I am to recognize this before my real eleventh hour comes.