healing – Kat Dornian

Five Years, Five Lessons, and Cake

A generous slice of chocolate cake with strawberry icing.

Today I’m celebrating five years since I received the official phone call telling me that I had cancer.

“Five year survival” is one of many statistical measures that cancer researchers and healthcare teams use to gauge the effectiveness of treatments and interventions, as well as to provide prognoses to people who have cancer. Five years is kind of an arbitrary amount (kind of not). Obviously, our number systems are base-10, half of ten is five, so it’s a common number to use. Personally, I find the number five fascinating for how much it recurs in nature, in both simple examples (five fingers, five toes) and more complex patterns (a pentagon’s ratios are golden ratios are the Fibonacci sequence). So, for any or all of these reasons, it feels like a big deal that I’ve survived cancer for five years, an outcome that had about a 13-18% probability.

If you’d like to celebrate with me, please donate to one of the organizations that have had a significant impact on me through my cancer journey:

Young Adult Cancer Canada focuses on supporting young adults living with and beyond cancer through retreats, conferences, support groups, and much more. I’ve found such a strong and supportive community in YACC that has truly helped me thrive through my cancer journey.
Wellspring Alberta helps people affected by cancer at any age with a variety of supportive programs including arts, exercise, health, finances, social activities, and more. I’ve been benefitting from Wellspring’s free programs since my diagnosis and always learned so much.
Tip of the Toes (Sur la Pointe Des Pieds) takes young people living with cancer on therapeutic wilderness expeditions to regain self-esteem, build hope, and find connection. I believe so strongly on the power of nature in the healing process, and am so thankful for the incredible work this small foundation does.
And if you can’t donate at this time, reach out to a friend you haven’t heard from in a while, say hi, and tell them why they’re special to you.

Now onto some juicy stuff. There’s a lot of change and growth that happens in five years. Even though much of what I’ve learned has to do with a disease I would have never chosen, I am grateful for the lessons I’ve learned because of it. So, here are five things that were actually big learnings for me in the last five years:

Everybody is different and everybody’s cancer is different.

I am pretty amazed how incredibly diverse cancer is. Before my diagnosis, I hadn’t thought too much about cancer. I thought cancer was the same thing just in different parts of the body. But there are so many different kinds of cancers, complex reasons for cancer, and even a single kind of cancer can have many mutations. The way different bodies respond to the same treatment is also varied.

Scientists and researchers around the world are learning how to target all the different kinds of mutations. It’s exciting to see so many discoveries that lead to better individualized approaches to treatment decisions. When I was diagnosed, my tissue samples were biopsied and tested for mutations that would inform the kinds of treatments chosen for me. But, it’s more than even that. Understanding that everyone is different has reinforced how important it is to listen and understand before “fixing.”

Just like getting to know an individual’s cancer before prescribing treatment, I want healthcare teams and supports to know the person too: What do they live for? What are their goals? What are the no-go’s? For me, I don’t mind tolerating certain side effects so I can continue to live, experience Earth’s joyful wonders, and do my little part in making the world a better place for as long as I can. But what if the side effects took away my ability to do what I love? Everyone must make that judgement call for themselves, and I hope each individual is supported in making the choices that are right for them.

Advocacy is so much more than what I expected.

Advocacy should be easy and accessible for everybody. Anyone should be able to get answers about their own health, have respectful discussions about treatment decisions in order to make choices that align with their values, and have concerns not only believed, but addressed without a fight. If that all happened, perhaps self-advocacy would not be as foreboding and difficult as it is. In general, I have a lot going for me that helps me advocate for myself and be heard. And yet, my concerns still get dismissed, treatment discussions have to be rehashed, and frankly, my own strength to advocate falters as I try to keep up with a brain that works at half-speed.

Even with skills such as good communication, organization, and curiosity, I can’t deny that my lack of medical knowledge feels like a huge hinderance in advocating for myself. I had a steep learning curve in how to read imaging reports, understand bloodwork, read medical research papers, and look for clinical trials. I don’t have the experience of someone who sees people with cancer everyday and that is an enormous gap. Luckily, support groups help to share information and topics that help with self-advocacy, and I’m thankful I have access to many such groups.

But even with all this, I get tired and I get frustrated, and the work I do never feels like enough. And I say this realizing, gratefully, that I have a privileged set of acquired skill, personal characteristics, innate privileges, and unfettered access to pay-walled research (and technology) that improve my ability to advocate more effectively. The fact still remains, I’ve needed help from loved ones coming to appointments with me, from doctors not rushing me, from other patients sharing their own research and experiences with me, and from countless people coming before me to make changes in the system—and I believe those supports are a vital part of effective advocacy as well.

When I first heard “advocacy,” I thought it was simply stating my needs and standing up for those needs. It is. But access to information, support to interpret that information, and support with skills outside of my wheelhouse are also necessary. Furthermore, self-advocacy is far easier when you have a healthcare team willing to listen. Like so much in life, effective advocacy is carried out by community.

Self-compassion isn’t letting oneself go.

A couple years ago, my psychologist encouraged me to explore self-compassion. Up to that point, I thought self-compassion was saying things to myself like, “oh, it’s okay that you didn’t do that thing that’s important to you today, you can try again tomorrow.” It didn’t really work for me. After taking a self-compassion course, reading Self-Compassion by Dr. Kristen Neff, and working through a lot of exercises and practices, I realized that self-compassion is so much more than accepting imperfection. I realized self-compassion is also finding ways to make things better in a kind and supportive way.

For instance, one day I went to the pharmacy—my final errand on a full, hot morning. I was irritable as I waited in the ever-lengthening line, I tapped my foot aggressively and glared at the confused customers ahead of me who were asking too many questions. Later that day, I felt ashamed at my unkind behaviour. I could have just said to myself, “it’s okay, just behave better next time.” But that’s not really self-compassion. I had to recognize how stressed going to the pharmacy makes me, and provide myself the comfort I needed in that moment. I also made a supportive plan for myself to use inn future. Next time, I would go to the pharmacy first or not run so many errands in a day, and if I did notice myself feeling irritable, I would put my hand on my shoulder to ground myself. And then, I supported myself in making those changes because they help me be the person I want to be.

The other amazing thing about self-compassion is the ripple effect. What struck me most about self-compassion, is that self-compassion is strengthened by understanding interconnectedness. Additionally, compassion for others is improved when being more self-compassionate. In her book, Dr. Kristen Neff says, “as we recognize that we are interconnected rather than distinct entities, understanding and forgiveness can be extended to oneself and others with fewer barriers in between.” To be compassionate to myself at the pharmacy helps me to understand why others may be irritable at the pharmacy. And much like self-compassion, it doesn’t mean letting people off the hook for poor behaviour, but to approach people in a supportive and understanding manner.

Since practicing self-compassion more, I have become more aware of what draws my attention, what I notice, and what I talk about most. Not surprisingly, it is the very things that frustrate me most coming from others that also frustrate me most about myself. Recognizing this doesn’t always make it easy to challenge those beliefs, but practicing compassion for myself first helps me to practice compassion for others and not get so annoyed by other’s behaviours, like impatience or laziness (qualities I find I am particularly hard on myself for).

What the health and wellness industry sells me is fixing my failures and the illusion of control.

When things don’t make sense and seem too big, what do I reach for? Health and wellness books, exercise routines, diets, sleep programs, meditation plans. Why? Because wellness feels like something I can control in a body and a world that is spiraling.

It is vital to understand personal levers of control in order to act effectively. Yes, an individual’s food choices do affect personal energy levels, mood, and long-term health. And in a broader sense, an individual engagement in civic issues is a level of control that can affect democratic change in a society. And don’t get me wrong, putting effort into taking care of my health and wellbeing has been a net positive in my life. But I struggle to make sense of that. Getting cancer seems a clear sign that despite all my efforts, I am failing at controlling my body. And many health and wellness influencers prey on this sense of failure and vulnerability so they can make money from it.

I’ve known this about the wellness industry for a long time and I’ve had to put in continual effort to filter the messages coming from a $1.5 trillion global industry. Now, with social media, the messages seem relentless, more brutal, and are personalized to prey on my shame and vulnerabilities. This isn’t healthy, and thankfully, I think a lot of people know this trap and don’t fall for it, but it still scares me. I’m still learning and practicing to be compassionate to myself.

“Many people are scared to acknowledge their essential interconnectedness because it means they must admit they don’t have complete control over how they think and act. This makes them feel powerless. However, the illusion of being in control is just that: an illusion and a harmful one at that because it causes self-judgement and self-blame.”
~ Dr. Kristen Neff

Dying well means living passionately.

Despite living at least two-thirds of my life as though I could die at any time, I hadn’t really considered how I would live if I died slowly. I live mindfully, gratefully, and passionately—not leaving for tomorrow what I can do today. Sure, I make choices and prioritize, because I haven’t figured out time dilation, but I live well. Then I got my cancer diagnosis, and I thought I’d just take time off and heal and then pick up where I left off. This sort of “living without doing” drains me.

Doing activities and working on projects brings meaning to my life; they are essential to my wellbeing. I no longer question why people with cancer or terminal illnesses continue to make art, read books, start projects, garden, support their loved ones, travel, or do whatever helps them live the life they love until they die. In fact, I hope everyone has the chance to die in the midst of doing something they love, because a passionate, unfinished life has to be better than dying without loose ends but never knowing what you lived for. I’m confident now that I can die peacefully with unfinished projects scattered about. I hope I do. I know those projects, passions, and purposes look remarkably different for everyone, but I hope everyone finds some of theirs sooner rather than later.

I struggle to believe that each of us has one unique purpose, and I think sometimes people get wrapped up in and frustrated by finding a single sole/soul “purpose,” but we do each bring something valuable and unique to those around us. In art classes, nobody makes the same piece of art. Nobody. All our bodies and all our lives are different, making our brush strokes and colour choices unique. I bring my unique composition and experiences to all I do, and I think that’s something worth sharing. And even if the smile I share with a passerby isn’t that unique, isn’t one more lovingly shared smile in the world worth living, and dying, for?

“But I do live. The bee flies. There must be some way to integrate death into living, neither ignoring it nor giving in to it.”
~ Audre Lorde, The Cancer Journals

Each lesson above, in some way, goes back to one core idea: the individual is an essential and inseparable part of the larger whole. Just as all the cells and organs in my body—complete with their individual skills and functions—are an essential part of my self, so too are those cells and my body a part of my larger social self and the earth. The edge of my skin is not a distinct barrier separating me from my surroundings and from others. It is more like an ecotone—a place where ecosystems overlap and intermingle.

Everyone brings their own individual composition, passion, and skill to the world. Together we advocate and take care of each other. This disconnection from other bodies and from our own bodies is an illusion that holds us back from caring for ourselves and others. I hope the lessons I am sharing in this post show, in some way, that individual responsibilities and outcomes are entwined with those of all beings around us.

In the end, I want to choose compassion. Compassion for myself, compassion for others, and I want to allow others to have compassion for me. I feel that’s one way to have some control, to shine with love in this bleak, spiraling time. I hope I do my best to honour that compassion by listening, being supportive, and exercising what skills I have. I know you, dear reader, have done that for me.

Now that you’re done reading, don’t forget to celebrate with me by donating to one of these amazing organizations: Young Adult Cancer Canada, Wellspring Alberta, and Tip of the Toes (Sur la Pointe Des Pieds).

References:

Lorde, A. (2020). The cancer journals. Penguin.

Neff, K. (2011). Self-compassion: The proven power of being kind to yourself. Hachette UK.

Every Single Cell Dissolved Away

I gently washed my breakthrough.
Blood drained out. Colour faded.
Every single cell dissolved away, becoming
the architectural skeleton of a heart.

Every single cell dissolved away—
put up no fight, no rejection,
no more life of drugs needed.
Perfect.

Every single cell
waiting, waiting, waiting to become
“the most important medical breakthrough of our lifetime”:
the architectural skeleton of a heart.

Beating with no fight.

—Kat Dornian, 2026

Over the last two years I’ve been writing poetry about sickness, health, ghosts, and air. When I saw this 2023 article about scientists creating a “ghost heart,” I decided to make found poetry with it. The preceding poem, “Every Single Cell Dissolved Away,” is what emerged.

This summer, I’m doing a submission blitz of my poems. Stay tuned for more writing and, hopefully, some publications!

Reference:

Taylor, D. (10 August 2023). “Lab‑grown ‘ghost hearts’ work to solve organ transplant shortage by combining a cleaned‑out pig heart with a patient’s own stem cells.” The Conversation. https://doi.org/10.64628/AAI.cht5fsv9p

Ways a Moment Breathes

I was told that humans can expand their lungs 60% in capacity when they breathe. That full breath—as large as the universe—rains a counterintuitive calm through the spine and nervous system. I’ve had to rebuild my lung capacity, breathing into a spirometer to track my progress. In those early days I could only lift the blue plastic ball in the tube the height of a fly, then the height of a matchbook, before weeks passed and I could breathe the universe again.

There have been times when moments felt beyond vast, as if as large as life. In these times, I could feel my DNA, the building blocks of me, held in the bodies of my parents and their parents and so on, all the way back to before homo sapiens, then before mammals, then to that first creature to breathe on this planet impossibly destined to create me. In these moments where I felt so magnificently small and part of something so vast, I could feel my body extend thousands of millions of years into the future as particles and ideas and interactions sent on their course of collisions to who knows where. I could act on plans years and decades away as though they sat at my feet. I could act, not with certainty, but hope.

Abraham Lake, where sea fauna excrete methane caught in bubbles under clear ice. (Kat Dornian)

More often, now, there are moments so small, just a smile on my face and a breeze in the air. A moment of just hearing the gentle stream of water hit the sides of the tea kettle—listening for the boil. Smelling the aromas of cardamom and cloves and cinnamon lift in the air. All sounds, smells, and glittering light passing as soon as they appear. More often I need these fleeting moments. I need to focus on the next thing in front of me without becoming overwhelmed with the many paths one decision can take. I know this slowing down and focusing has been what I’ve needed, but the inability to hold the broader moment scares me and later fills me with the most regrets. But I never regret a moment of simply stopping to enjoy.

What I love about moments is the ambiguity of the amount of time they hold, like the length of a string or the air in a vessel. Moments, no matter how ephemeral or vast, seem best when perceived widely and openly.

Awoken

The time to sing dawns.
Wren, robin, finch and jay rouse
sleepy Helios
with beaks and lyres blazing,
plucking notes from dusky streams.

—Kat Dornian, 2025

Rage, Rage

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
—Dylan Thomas

Tell me more
of light, of dying
rage.

Does it linger
obscenely as spring blossoms
singing to their branches?

Do they not wither too,
the wild wise petals
in summer’s thunder?

The good and grave
giving kindly to lightning,
caught in an echoing clap.

Resting, at last,
in gentle autumn,
crackling like fire.

Does it linger—
rage?
Or lie to rest quiet
blanketed by snow?

Kat Dornian, 2025

Still Here

It’s hard to believe I have cancer. Four years ago I had a port implanted in my chest and started chemotherapy. Four years later, I’m still here. I’m still on chemotherapy. It still feels surreal. Nonetheless, I am here.

I joked with my dermatologist that I’ve had cancer for as long as it takes to do an undergraduate degree. Although many of the feelings of grief, disbelief, wonder, and passion for living echo what I felt four years ago, there is also the journey I have been on and growth I have had in this time. Surprisingly, the hardest lessons have not been the innumerable drug names or what these drugs are doing or what all the different proteins and enzymes in my bloodwork are showing. The hardest lessons are what I’ve learned about cancer and the profound impacts of ableism on us—all of us. To this latter point, I’ll say that I still struggle with the ableist notions from which my understanding of the world grew, but I’m improving.

I’ve touched on my ableist belief system and my relationship with wellness culture before in my writing. Ableism is so ubiquitous and entrenched in society that it is a hard to shake. However, I’m becoming more adept at spotting ableist ideas and phrases now. This practice of spotting has allowed me to deepen my imagining of a world that’s possible if we treated disability differently.

I have much work to do toward this imagining. First, I must stop blaming myself for cancer. At least weekly, I see a post on social media or read an article or overhear a conversation where the individual with cancer is blamed for their cancer or rewarded for their remission: “if only they had been more healthy…”, “if only they had eaten better…”, “if only they had decided to do a complete 180 on their life to fight cancer…”. I understand how blame—or, to say it more gently, a cause and effect story—can give a sense of control and safety. And while I often think of myself as someone who is able to dwell in uncertainty, it is a draining practice. And so, I resort to ableism and the blaming of my imperfect body and my imperfect will: for skipping a workout, or eating a slice of cake, or staying out late for a few more songs to dance to.

I imagine, in a less ableist world, we see more grey areas—the magic in the liminal spaces—and are able to dwell in that uncertainty. We are not afraid of the vast differences in bodies and minds, allowing us to be gentler with “imperfections.” Perhaps we don’t use the words ‘perfection’ or ‘imperfection’ anymore. Perhaps, as our need for control gently dissolves, we see our connections to one another rather than the us-versus-them that’s awakened by fear and blame. Perhaps we feel our shared responsibility to care for our collective wellbeing. Cancer is not caused or reversed or worsened by the sole actions of an individual—it takes a community. It really does. And I am so thankful for mine.

For those who have stuck with me, thank you. Enough philosophizing; here’s an update of happenings since my last post to this site: I completed my creative writing certificate from the University of Calgary and am continuing to create and submit words. I pursued a liver transplant, but have decided that it is not right for me at this time. This is a tough decision to make; liver transplants do offer some patients many years of survival. However, recurrence rates are high (in my opinion), the surgery is risky, and I’d have more chronic health issues to manage for the rest of my life. I continued the chemotherapy treatment that caused skin irritation until June, at which point my health team and I decided it best to look at other treatments. Now, I am back on the chemotherapy regimen I had four years ago, with the hopes that it will be as effective as it was then and that the associated neuropathy holds off for a while. I also went to Iceland with my friend in March, which was an extraordinary adventure to an absolutely unique place. While travel was stressful for me, I somehow managed not to get sick and enjoy much of Icelandic culture and scenery.

I’m looking forward to the rest of 2025 and to being able to enjoy the outdoors a bit more now that my skin is not as sensitive to the sun. I’ll continue to write and learn (for another four years, at least, hopefully). And I’m continuing to look for emerging cancer treatments that might work for me; there are some promising therapies on the way to Canada, so stay tuned.

It’s hard to believe this is my life. It’s hard to accept my illness. But I’m getting better at that too!

References

Lorde, Audre. The cancer journals. Penguin, 2020.

Air

Here’s a poem I wrote a year and a half ago. It feels time to release it from the annals of submission purgatory and share it with the world:

“Air”
By Kat Dornian

August 24, 2023
Tunnel mountain,
Banff National Park.
Fog shrouds the river view
as moss cascades off rocks.
Pine and spruce creak
in the gentle mountain breeze.

June 19, 2023
CT scan, enhanced,
reveals three nodules
in my right lung.
The doctor says,
‘We all have nodules,
it’s the pollution and the smoke.’

May 30, 2023
Camp Air-Eau-Bois,
Lac Poisson Blanc.
I breathe new air and
dip my legs in the reservoir
that’s drowning eighty-five
square kilometers of Indigenous land.

May 15, 2023
Air quality index
reaches eleven.
Five hundred and thirty-two
thousand hectares
of Alberta land burned.
We stay indoors and run air purifiers.

October 30, 2022
CT scan shows
‘pleural effusions…
lungs otherwise appear clear.’
I’ve been in the hospital
sixteen days and counting,
breathing oxygen from tubes.

August 29, 2022
Uclulet, B.C.
A two-day drive from home
after summer fires
subsided. I’m on my own,
breathing the ocean
that summons redwood and seaweed air.

Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month: My Story and Advice

It’s colorectal cancer awareness month. I haven’t “celebrated” this month in the past as I’ve been dealing with resentment and anger that held me back from believing anything could be done. But I’ve done a lot of work and feel ready to share my journey in hopes that it may help others.

My most significant barrier in this journey was getting the testing I needed. I want to encourage people, especially young people, to advocate for themselves when they have symptoms. Symptoms of colorectal cancer include unusual bowel habits, blood in stool, abdominal pain, fatigue, and unexplained weight loss (among others: https://cancer.ca/en/cancer-information/cancer-types/colorectal/signs-and-symptoms).

My first symptom was blood in my stool. I brought this concern to my family doctor who told me it was hemorrhoids without any assessment. Still concerned, I went to two walk-in clinics, but they said they were unable to order tests as I’d need follow-up that they couldn’t provide and repeated that it was probably just hemorrhoids anyway given my age and good health. I switched family doctors. My new doctor seemed unconcerned about my symptoms, repeating that I was young and healthy. In 2020, I had an episode of such painful abdominal cramps that I went to emergency. The doctor there told me it was menstrual cramps and menstrual bleeding; as a 34-year-old with ample experience of both, I knew this wasn’t the case, but because of Covid, I had no one with me to deny this, and I was in too much pain at the time to speak up. I followed up with my family doctor and was referred for a colonoscopy; I was put on the non-urgent list.

A large-scale colon showing a small growth labeled malignant polyp and a larger growth labeled advanced colon cancer — The epic inflatable colon courtesy A Healthier Michigan/flickr

What is described above, unfortunately, is all too common of a story for young people. By the summer of 2021, I felt sick constantly, had trouble eating, experienced poor bowel habits, and always felt exhausted. I went to the emergency again and was told I had to pick one thing that was bothering me, which at the time was my chest (it turned out the metastasis in my liver was pushing on my lungs and causing pain). The x-ray showed spots on my liver. They didn’t say cancer, but I knew this wasn’t good. My family doctor followed up the next day and changed my colonoscopy order to urgent. And that’s how this whole journey began.

I do not want other people to go through this. If I could make one suggestion that would have helped me, it would be to bring people with you to appointments! Tell your supporter what concerns you and ask for their help pushing back. I’ve been a very independent person for much of my life, but I found it difficult when I was in pain to speak up. Not only that, but it was hard for me to admit that something could be wrong despite knowing that early cancer detection leads to better outcomes.

One thing that constantly tripped me up was being “healthy.” I can’t count the number of times doctors would ask me, “Are you healthy?” What does that even mean? I’ve placed a high value on health since I was a teenager. Being a competitive swimmer, outdoorsy person, and diabetic made me learn how to take care of myself. Sure, I sometimes went too far, but I’ve always prided myself on healthy habits. It was this pride that ultimately made me believe doctors when they assured me that someone healthy like me wouldn’t have something like cancer! Since then, I’ve discovered lots of healthy people get cancer: marathon runners, weight lifters, and regular people with great routines. There are many pathways and variations to colon cancer and any cancer.

I have heard friends say that they don’t see a point in being healthy if someone like me could get cancer. Well, here’s the thing: I value having the healthy habits I had before cancer. It took me a long time (42 months at least) to overcome my resentment, but here I am. For one, my healthy habits brought me benefits as I practiced them (joy, self-discovery, better emotional regulation, great poops, better blood sugar management, etc). For two, it’s been easy for me to continue these habits through treatment, which has been helpful. And for three, I believe some of my recovery and stability can be attributed to these habits.

For me, healthy habits include

Maintaining a strong social network. I love my book clubs, writing groups, friend circles, and one-on-one hangs. This has become vital as I navigate cancer, yet the work I did throughout my 20s and the people who reciprocated have proven invaluable in my support network. As social media and smartphones make loneliness all the more pervasive, it is critical that we put in the effort to maintain in-person connections as much as we can.
Paying attention to stress. I started a serious meditation practice around 2017. It helped me move slower and be more aware of my feelings. At the same time, I started seeing a CBT psychologist who helped me look for stress warning signs and practice emotional regulation. I’m grateful to my mom, who modelled work-life balance. Although I’m a real go-getter, I have always tried to keep work to 8 hours a day. However, my enthusiasm for life and fear of boredom cause some overcommitment issues, which I’m working on.
Exercising! Exercise is one of my favourite things. I love how it makes me feel, positively affects my mood, and helps me control my blood sugar. I love going for morning jogs and discovering the places where I am (I have seen wildlife like armadillos, storks, deer, and so much more)! Morning jogs let me catch beautiful sunsets and capture the most serene moment of the day. Swimming allowed me time for quiet reflection and focus. I’ve been lucky to have wonderful ways to get to work that bring me through forests and along rivers, even if they take a bit longer.
Eating whole foods. I’ve always loved cooking from scratch. I love playing with flavours and how satisfying a home-cooked meal is. I used to indulge in much more cake and candy than I do now. And I feel a lot better cutting back on those things. My tummy is a lot happier, and my energy is even. I’m hopeful my high-probiotic, high-fibre diet pre-cancer—and a bit of luck—helped my colon get back on track after surgery! Butt [sic[, you got to love your microbiomes.
Taking care of my environment. Oddly, I never thought of this as a health measure. I care about the Earth, so I bought organic, local, and non-toxic products. Now that I have cancer, this comes up from time to time, and apparently what’s good for the Earth (low chemicals, low plastics, sustainable manufacturing practices) is also good for us! Go figure. It feels good to be doing something that helps the planet and us, and it’s nice that I don’t have to learn responsible purchasing habits from scratch.
Living meaningfully. One thing that lifted my spirits more than anything at the time I was diagnosed was having felt I lived a good life. I chose meaningful work, made choices based on my values, strove to minimize harm, and helped where I could. I embraced life and kept an open mind to experiences, leading to a sense of fullness. Living meaningfully has made the fear of death unthinkable for me. Ever since my dad died, I have always wanted to go to sleep knowing that if I should die tomorrow, I’d have lived well.
Sleeping has been the toughest thing for me. I’m still working on it, but I know it’s essential. I’ve always known sleep is important and aimed for the 7–8 hours a night, but I struggled in this hyper-lit and connected world. I have started dedicating more to a good sleep routine and love it. I feel like a regular routine and good sleep help me focus, but cancer treatment is also weird and zaps a lot of my energy. Still, I appreciate a good sleep routine.
Having financial stability. This one is tough because there are so many factors that affect my financial well-being, such as my family history and support (plus a pretty good settlement after a car hit me), which I do recognize not everyone has. Still, learning good financial practices early in life, like becoming confident in budgeting and investing, has served me well and has made me less stressed in this cancer journey.

I’m sorry to say that these habits won’t definitely prevent cancer. But, I do think they have helped me survive through cancer. I have resented this, and I have resented that I didn’t get to undergo some miraculous lifestyle change that somehow reversed my cancer; I don’t even know if I believe that is possible without modern medicine.

Nonetheless, the benefits of healthy living are vast, and I’d encourage everyone to try out one or two this year. And advocate for testing!!!

A photo of the sun peeking over the mountains with pine trees in the foreground. — Oh yeah, and getting outside is really nice!

The New Year and Now

December had been coming to a close with a glow of optimism. In the final weeks of 2024, I had a CT and MRI scan. I expected good results, given that September’s tests showed an excellent response to the new drugs I was on. My continued skin problems should have been a sign that the drugs were working on my tumours as much as they were irritating my skin. As you might detect in my wording here, the scans were not great, but not terrible. Heck, maybe they’re better than I’m giving them credit for. The lesions in my liver remain the same size as they were in September, which means I probably won’t qualify for surgery and that I may need to move onto another treatment path (or not) yet again. This isn’t uncommon, but it still sucks. In particular, the ongoing uncertainty sucks.

With this news, the new year didn’t have the “turning a new page” glow that I often experience around this time.

After ringing in two new years while on chemo and having been in treatment for so long, the fascination with it all–which gave some excitement to the otherwise horrendous experience–has largely faded into the dull hum of life. (This is part of the reason I don’t post as much anymore). I’ve gotten so much bloodwork and so many scans that they all feel mundane. One pathetic highlight of the last year was finding free parking near the hospital, which also provides a rather scenic and peaceful walk before appointments.

It feels like I’ll be on this journey forever, and I don’t know what that means or looks like.

Although uncertainty about the future is a fact of all our lives, going into 2024 feels like a particularly unwelcome point of uncertainty for me. I still look forward to the fruition of some projects, but I worry about my ability to be fully present. I expect myself to be the person I was before diagnosis, which just isn’t the case anymore. I have chosen projects that give me the flexibility and accommodations I need. Still, I remember when prioritizing flexible work hours and modes of work was less important. Navigating my abilities and limitations makes everything more complicated.

I try to find grounding, joy, and hope, but sometimes the ominous grey clouds do not clear as readily.

I am frustrated by the slow pace at which I operate. For one, treatments put me out for a few days, followed by a few more slow days as I recover my energy. I have so many healthcare appointments to manage. My mental ability is hit or miss; I find myself forgetting a lot more and finding it hard to focus for extended periods of time. I lose words. I become overwhelmed with how best to take care of myself. I worry about people noticing my difficulty forming and expressing coherent thoughts.

I’m practicing several ways to cope, and I am grateful for a younger version of myself who developed many healthy strategies.

Of all the healthy routines I’ve practiced, I’ve always struggled with enjoying the present moment. A moment can be a fraction of a second or extend over millennia. The past and future press into even the most minuscule moment, shaping it. I can’t divorce the history of my body and surroundings from the millisecond I reside in, the present. Likewise, although in a more obscured way, I am aware of the buzzing of the future that my body enters and builds from this moment. For these reasons, I struggle to find presence.

Is the present a tiny speck in the universe of time? By the time I register what my senses perceive, the present is past, and I am catapulted against the portal to the future.

I am working on being present. That’s the most sure thing I can lay down for 2024. I don’t know where my health journey will take me, but the projects I’m working on are full of possibilities, and I look forward to them taking their shape. For me, I’ll be sitting in the present each day and trying to sense its fullness. Maybe this year, I’ll find it.

Winter Solstice

The longest night is approaching for those of us who reside in the northern hemisphere. After the winter solstice, we will begin our journey of turning closer to the sun once again. I’m sure many are looking forward to more light and longer days. But there are also special opportunities that come with the long nights (back to that in a second).

The waning of sunny hours has been difficult, bringing with it seasonal malaise and melancholy. The body longs to nest and sleep, but the deadlines of year-end and holiday stresses do not allow us to follow circadian inclinations, nor allow us to truly savour the community warmth and signs of life we crave. Perhaps, after the fires are lit, food is baked, and tea is steeped, there will be time to nestle into a blanket in the cozy company of others.

The opportunities to be near others, rest, and dream are important. Dreaming, in particular, is a chance to process and internalize memories as well as create and envision something new from the embers of the past. (Isn’t dreaming fascinating?) I love taking time during these long nights to reflect on the year and set plans for the new one.

Over the last year, my hope and optimism has continued to flourish despite the escalating tragedies around the world. I am finding and continuing to nurture the relationships with the many lovely people in my life who are infusing the world with good. I don’t know if I tell you, my friends, how valuable and important you are to this planet, but I think it every day and it gives me so much hope and inspiration. Although it often feels like our influences are small, I can see the good that comes from our being together, practicing gratitude, processing our pain, sharing, shifting, changing, and acting. Even though these gatherings often focus on efforts larger than myself, they’ve been immensely helpful in keeping my personal spirits lifted and getting me out of bed each day. I am eternally grateful for my friends and community.

I’ve had twenty-one rounds of chemo this year and have one left before 2023 wraps up. When I was first diagnosed, hearing this would have terrified me. I’m grateful for my body for putting up with the drugs, but it’s been difficult. I started a new medication in July, whose side effects included acne and rashes. To combat the acne, I was put on an antibiotic that caused sun sensitivity. By August I had developed such a severe rash that I’d spend entire days researching anything that would alleviate the pain. The rash turned out to be a severe sunburn with an area of infected skin as well, so I stopped the antibiotic and switched to something else. I have to maintain ongoing care for my skin, as well as everything else, but I’ve still had two more infections in the last few months. I’ve gone through about 2 liters of moisturizer in this time, and hundreds of bandages for my splitting skin. This past week has been a much needed respite. My face is a normal shade of pink, although I still have purple scarring from the acne down my arms, which seems to be slowly healing. I’m able to go to sleep without the fear of waking up in utter discomfort. I’m so grateful for my care team and dermatologist for helping me through this.

As things were getting better in September (after seeing a dermatologist), I enrolled in a creative writing program. One of my new year’s resolutions was to write 80,000 words and submit something to a magazine. I’m much behind on my word count (about 40,000 at the end of November), but I have sent out a few proposals, manuscripts and poems. So far, nothing published, but I’m enjoying the process immensely and learning a lot. At the end of this post, I’ve included a poem I wrote as a “talk-back” to John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s Imagine (a song that I’ve found myself humming a lot this year as I witness what humans can do to their kin).

One of my favourite memories from the year was the canoe expedition I got to go on in May with the Fondation Sur La Pointe Des Pieds. We canoed along Lac Poisson-Blanc in Quebec, guided and assisted by an incredible team, and accompanied by fellow cancer survivors. The power of this trip was unexpected. While I went in thinking the outdoor experience would be transformative, I less expected to be transformed by the people as well. The joy, camaraderie, and selflessness shared infused me with hope.

I realize there’s a lot I could say about this year. So many fantastic things have been happening. For next year, I’m still optimistic about getting another surgery to remove the remaining tumors. But here and now, on this long night in the tail of autumn, Rod and I are still here, cozy, and laughing a lot.

Winter Solstice

by Kat Dornian

Give yourself to slumber
under ink black clouds.
Moon below the horizon,
light for when it’s dark.
Lie in peaceful presence.
Silhouette of the trees
mythologies reverberate
of songs, put us to sleep.
Dream of all the beings,
our kin gathered around,
flames flicker in shadows
mysteries of living found.
Maybe someday you’ll join us
under the sky’s moonlight.
Stories, song and dancing
long into the warm night.
I hope someday you’ll join us
maybe for just one tale.
World quiet from the fighting
a chance to just exhale.

Thanks-giving

I’ve returned from a short birthday “vacation,” full of waterfalls, cedars, and lakes. Although side effects from my current chemo regime afflicted me, Rod and I were able to enjoy the peaceful days together (except maybe the part where I took us up a daunting service road in our tiny civic to see a cedar grove. I think the adrenaline of the drive added to our eventual enjoyment. Also, not the first time I’ve taken civics on such inadvisable drives).

I’ve been reading John O’Donohue’s Anam Cara (a Celtic word, meaning soul friend). Early on, he introduces the idea that the soul holds the body within it, rather than the soul being an entity within the body [Amazingly, when I asked Rod where his soul was, he said everywhere! For me, this was a bit of a revelation]. I loved the practice he offers of breathing in the soul, feeling the relationships I share with all that is around me, and how nourishing–maybe even healing–this is.

Beyond all else, I am immensely grateful for my friends and community. The walks and chats I’ve had with you have been so invigorating, and kept my optimism alive. Reading books, taking courses and doing workshops with you has fed my soul. The peaceful and reflective times where we’ve merely just soaked in each other’s presence has been nourishing. Your gifts of company, conversation, care giving, food, money, art and books [if you’ve lent me books, I will get them back to you, promise] have all been so appreciated. I keep many of these gifts in my living room with me so I am regularly reminded of you. Thank you thank you thank you!

In this exercise of gratitude, I am also extending these words to myself and to my more-than-human companions (the saskatoon bushes, the strawberry plants, the bluff and its grasses, the rivers, the squirrels…). I realize how fortunate I have been to find great friends in myself and in the landscapes, for with these friends I am never alone.

I am not hosting a gathering this year for my birthday, I have tried to schedule various one-on-one hangouts instead. Last year’s gathering–in the days before my liver and colon surgery–was hosted in appreciation of all that you’ve done for me. Although there’s no formal gathering this year, I just want to send everyone a big hug of gratitude, some nice pictures, and these closing words by John O’Donohue:

“A Friendship Blessing

May you be blessed with good friends.
May you learn to be a good friend to yourself.
May you be able to journey to that place in your soul where there is great love, warmth, feeling, and forgiveness.

May this change you.
May it transfigure that which is negative, distant, or cold in you.
May you be brought in to the real passion, kinship, and affinity of belonging.

May you treasure your friends.
May you be good to them and may you be there for them; may they bring you all the blessings, challenges, truth, and light that you need for your journey.

May you never be isolated.
May you always be in the gentle nest of belonging with your anam ċara.”

― John O’Donohue