Cancer is everybody’s problem

One in eight. If you are a woman, those are critical numbers.
According to the Canadian Cancer Society, one in every eight North American women will develop breast cancer over their lifetime. Nearly half of them will die—either from the disease itself or from complications of treatment.
I know. I lost both of my sisters that way.
That’s why I took a personal interest in the Hair and Body Care Shoppe’s annual “Cuts for Cancer” campaign during Spring Fever Days in Emo last weekend—and that’s why I’ve spent considerable time over the last four years learning as much as possible about the number-one killer of North American women.
To put things into perspective, breast cancer kills more women than heart disease, traffic accidents, and domestic violence combined. And the worst part of it is there doesn’t seem to be much that can be done to prevent it.
If you are a woman, you are at risk. It’s just that simple.
The good news is research is constantly finding new clues to this killer, but the so-called “breakthrough” remains as elusive as ever.
There is some evidence family history plays a role, but apparently it only increases the odds by about 15 percent. In my family, there was no real history on my mother’s side because she has no sisters. Her only brother was killed in action during World War II, so there are no cousins to track.
There is some incidence of cancer on my father’s side, but that doesn’t help much because genetic predisposition seems to depend upon the mother’s history.
There is no evidence lifestyle played a role, either, since both of my sisters were non-smokers. My older sister, Karen, rarely drank at all and the younger one, Kirsten, married a recovering alcoholic and never touched a drop over the last 10 years of her life.
So when Karen was diagnosed in 1981, she was just another statistic. She endured all the roller-coaster emotions that go along with such a diagnosis—and relied most of all on hope and faith.
After a double mastectomy and rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, came the critical waiting period. It is generally believed that if one can remain cancer-free for five years, the chances are, you’ve beaten it.
She almost made it.
After four-and-a-half years, the cancer returned and with it the realization she probably wasn’t going to win.
Karen wasn’t about to give up without a fight, however. She remained active in the community of Cambridge, Ont., where she sat on the board of several charities. She maintained an active role in the raising of her two sons—one of whom has a severe learning disability.
She also had her own program on the Kitchener TV station, which she refused to quit.
As her health deteriorated, the commute to Kitchener became more difficult, so the station brought out its remote unit so she could tape her last shows from her home.
In the summer of 1986, Karen lost the battle. She was 39.
At about this time, my younger sister was completing her training as a registered nurse and elected to take her internship in palliative care. She spent three months working at Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto—some of that time tending to her own sister.
After Karen’s death, my younger sister decided to specialize in palliative care. That is not the kind of job everybody can handle, but obviously there is a need for those who can.
Being a somewhat impetuous creature in those days, Kirsten woke up one morning and decided she wanted to go to the U.S. to pursue her career. I never did find out what that was all about, but she loaded her stuff into her old car, packed up her three cats, and headed south.
I’m told she utterly charmed and confused the man at U.S. Customs, who allowed her through after a suitable delay and an unsuccessful attempt to get to know her better.
I’m not surprised. From the time she was a little girl, Kirsten had an uncanny ability to charm, seduce, confuse, and frustrate men of all ages.
Within weeks, she was working in the palliative care ward at a private hospital in Connecticut and on the way toward her green card. Again, I have no idea how she pulled that off, but that’s the way she was.
Shortly after arriving, she met her future husband and as soon as they were married, she applied for U.S. citizenship. When her first child was born, she abandoned her career and became a full-time mom and business manager for her husband—a well-known author, lecturer, and member of the Rand Corp. with highly-placed connections in the White House.
Life was good. She had two beautiful children, a successful marriage, and a house full of cats and dogs in the idyllic setting of rural Connecticut.
In March, 1999, it all changed.
Being scrupulously conscious of breast cancer, Kirsten had regular check-ups and as a trained nurse, she knew how to examine herself, but there it was.
She elected to undergo a radical, experimental procedure at Memorial Sloane Kettering in Manhattan. The aggressive treatment seemed to knock the cancer out, but there was a price.
In October, 1999, she learned the chemotherapy also had destroyed her stem cells and along with them, most of her immune system and clotting mechanisms.
It also induced a rare form of leukemia. Her only hope was a bone marrow transplant.
A suitable donor eventually was found, but by then her body was under constant attack from opportunistic infections. She spent Christmas of 1999 at home and brought in the millennium with her family at her side, but in April, 2000, she returned to Sloane Kettering to stay.
She died on July 5, 2000—14 years to the day after her sister did. She was 46.