Saving myself with storytelling

I focused on keeping cancer at bay. Between brain-fog and fatigue, I tracked down every possible anti-cancer program on the Internet. I tried alternative therapies: from qigong to meditation, from naturopaths to acupuncturists. I sought nutritional advice: this amount of Vitamin D, not that; no soy, some soy, maybe soy. And I ate kale. Pounds and pounds of kale.

A year later, just as my energy was returning, another tumour was found and required monitoring. More tests. More waiting. I felt the knot in my chest grow tighter.

Call it synchronicity or luck, but that’s when I stumbled upon a writing program at a local cancer-support centre. With trepidation, I took my first step back to writing. We weren’t expected to write about cancer. Some did. I didn’t.

My pieces focused on significant moments from my past: the English teacher responsible for my love of reading; my special bond with my niece, Krista; the story my mother loved to tell of my birth. Each week, in our alternating roles of storyteller and audience, we gave each other a gift: We reminded each other that we each have a bigger story than this disease.

Finally, the interminable wait for test results was over: no evidence of cancer. I should have been dancing for joy. But as I shared the good news with those closest to me, I heard a trace of disbelief in my voice, as if I remained unconvinced.

And then my 16-year-old niece extended an invitation. Actually, it was more like an order. Krista’s blue eyes pierce the dullness of this world like shafts of light. Joy lives in those eyes. So when she looked at me with that wise-beyond-her-years-look and said, “Auntie, you should walk in my high school’s cancer relay for life,” I knew I had to say yes.

The night of the relay, volunteers distributed yellow balloons to those of us at various stages of our cancer journey, to release at the end of our victory lap. But by the time they reached me, they’d run out of balloons. “Take this, Auntie,” Krista said, handing me a bright blue balloon attached to an extremely long ribbon. I later learned she’d asked for one of the balloons decorating the admissions tables. With Krista cheering me on, her mom, my sister Marisa, at my side and a blue balloon flying overhead, I began walking.