
by Carolyn Thomas ♥ Heart Sisters (on Blue Sky)
After reading my recent Heart Sisters post called Finally – Some Good News, my longtime reader Kathleen left this reassuring response for me:
“I am so happy for you! Not out of the woods, but many, many more clearings and the light is brighter every day.”
Kathleen’s woodland analogy perfectly fits how I would also describe this post-chemotherapy/ post-mastectomy period of my life. Following month after month of suffering dreadful chemo-induced side effects, I’m not yet out of the woods – but I’m starting to recognize what “normal” might feel like again one day.
There is no way I can sugar-coat the debilitating emotional and physical toll the diagnosis of invasive ductal carcinoma has had on my life, but Kathleen was correct. There are now indeed parts of each new day that do feel brighter, little by little. My post-surgery pathology report was all good news. My shiny red walker (on loan from the Red Cross) now allows me to get around our little village despite the painful effects of chemo-induced nerve damage to my feet. Last week, I cooked dinner for my family! And with springtime sunshine on its way, it’s also true that I can feel sparks of joy among those “clearings” even with the tiniest inspiration – like each green bud I discover every morning sprouting along the delicate branches of my Little Quick Fire hydrangeas out on my balcony.
Feeling better after cancer treatment is a relief, but not a surprise if you consider what can magically happen when we no longer have toxic poisons drip-drip-dripping into our veins every three weeks in the Cancer Clinic’s Chemotherapy Room.
The hard truth about chemo, of course, is that these drugs are not only effective at killing off cancer cells, but equally effective at killing off my own healthy cells, too – hence the brutal side effects I’ve been suffering. Many cancer patients I’ve met describe how that reality can affect their quality of life – even after treatments end. It’s common to feel both hopeful and grateful when oncologists assure us that our treatment plan is working, while at the same time feeling sicker than we could ever imagine. We become “survivors.”
I’ve also learned about something called “late effects of cancer treatments”. Mayo Clinic oncologists explain how this happens:
“Cancer treatment may be over, but the side effects of treatment can continue. The treatments that may have saved your life may also cause severe side effects going forward. And as more people live longer after cancer treatment, more is being found out about late side effects. Cancer survivors might have late effects of cancer treatment years later – which may be permanent. It isn’t clear that late effects can be prevented, or why some people might experience late effects while others don’t.”
So are Mayo cancer specialists actually telling patients: “We do not know if our treatment plans are going to seriously harm our patients longterm even after we have stopped their treatments, but we’re going to keep recommending those treatments anyway”?
Bloody hell!?!
Back in 1985, The New England Journal of Medicine published Dr. Fitzhugh Mullan‘s account of his own cancer diagnosis and treatment. In that article, Dr. Mullan defined what he called the primary seasons of cancer survivorship:
- ♥ Acute Survivorship: “The stage of acute survivorship begins at the moment of diagnosis and extends throughout treatment.”
- ♥ Transitional Survivorship: “Once the initial phase of diagnosis and treatment has ended, the transition back to ‘normal’ or a ‘new normal’ begins. The medical team is less involved now. The relief and celebration felt by the patient might be mixed with feelings of isolation and depression.”
- ♥ Extended Survivorship: “Many cancer survivors who are disease-free following treatment are living with the anxiety of varying risks for recurrence.”
- ♥ Chronic Survivorship: “A growing number of cancer survivors are living with cancer as a chronic disease. For chronic survivors, day-to-day life may have many normal aspects, but the fear of recurrence or disease progression is often an ever-present concern.”
Dr. Mullan’s list of cancer “seasons” makes sense to me because it seems real to me. It’s not telling us “You’re fine!” It’s not trying to cheer us up. It’s not offering trite platitudes.
Meanwhile, thank you Kathleen for your thoughtful woodland analogy that so beautifully matches my own experience so far.
Q: What season of “survivorship” are you in?
♥
NOTE FROM CAROLYN: I wrote more about becoming a patient (no matter the diagnosis!) in my book, “A Woman’s Guide to Living with Heart Disease”. You can ask for it at your local library or favourite bookshop ( please support your independent booksellers) or order it online (paperback, hardcover or e-book) at Amazon– or order it directly from my publisher, Johns Hopkins University Press (use their code HTWN to save 30% off the list price).

Thank you for all that you do in this blog; its been super helpful for me over the years. I was happy to read that things are improving for you.
Thanks for sharing this model. I’m not a cancer survivor, so can’t apply the model from that perspective.
However the model really resonated with me vis-a-vis the CMD portion of my heart journey. Four and a half years into that journey, I feel like I’m now in the chronic survivorship season.
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Hello Simona – I was thinking the same thing when I first found that “seasons of survivorship” article: although that list was aimed at cancer patients, it can also apply to so many other diagnoses. The descriptions of each ‘season’ reminded me of my post-heart attack recuperation, too – especially the part about anxiety about recurrence. Back then, I was often scared that any tiny bubble or squeak in my chest was for sure another heart attack coming on!
Thanks for your thoughtful comment today. . .❤️
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I remember how disorienting that survivorship phase felt, Carolyn – when treatment was over, everyone expected relief, but my body and mind were still very much finding their way. Your ‘clearings in the woods’ framing captures that in-between space so aptly.
Wishing you continued healing on this next phase of your journey.
Marie Ennis-O’Connor
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Hello Marie – that word “disorienting” truly captures that in-between space. The first disorienting moment hit when I noticed that my calendar suddenly had so many blank dates for the first time since last spring. I’d been accustomed for many months to every date on every calendar being filled with at least one cancer-related appointment (and often more than one on the same day!) or a new scan, or a lab or nuclear medicine or other tests. I suddenly had no clue if I still needed to go in for my blood tests anymore, for example. It was as if as soon as I was ‘handed over’ to the surgeon, my oncologist disappeared – or had he? Looking back, I now wish I had confirmed all those details during my final oncologist appointment – although I did not know then that it would be my last appointment! I had to call his office to find out that I’m booked for a follow-up appointment with him every six months – I think!
Take care Marie – thanks for your kind words. . .❤️
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