You are the masterpiece, and your life is the canvas. Express yourself boldly, Live and breathe in full colour, and make every mark matter. It’s never too late to imbibe all you create with clear intention and kindness and enjoy the rewards of your courage.

Lisa Azarmi

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I believe that nearly all cancer patients arrive at a stage in their difficult journey that’s like reaching the peak of a mountain. When this occurs, we have an epiphany, a feeling of conquering something we though was insurmountable.

For some cancer patients this might mean ringing the bell after chemotherapy or radiation treatment has finished, for others it might be turning the corner after several months of unbearable physical or emotional suffering. I’ll always remember my moment of cancer epiphany, it happened on July 1, 2012.

First, I reached an unparalleled low physically and emotionally during the spring of 2012, I was five months into my cancer journey. My path had been relentless, brutal and unlike anything I’d ever had to face before. When the spring finally materialized after a seemingly endless winter, I’d already had two major abdominal surgeries as well as four chemotherapy infusions. Even through fatigue and nausea, I remember watching a pair of finches build their nest in my yard.

In May I learned I was facing a potentially life-threatening complication due to my rigorous cancer treatments. Bowel blockages occur at an alarming rate for people diagnosed with gynecologic cancers— although when I was an innocent newcomer to the realm of ovarian cancer, I still had little idea how common these obstructions are in patients with the disease. For a long time, I thought my symptoms of severe nausea and abdominal discomfort were due to the chemotherapy drugs alone and that no other medical issues were at play.

Eventually, vomiting and in pain, I was transported to the emergency room through early rush hour traffic. It was a bright May morning when I entered the doors of Calgary’s largest medical centre and was admitted suffering from a bowel blockage. With hindsight, I realize that nothing could have prepared me for the invasive medical procedures that I was about to endure in the coming weeks or for the length of my hospitalization. I acknowledge that at first, I literally wanted to die rather than deal with what was happening. 

Seven agonizing weeks would elapse in the hospital, during this period I received virtually all my nutrition through a peripherally inserted central catheter (PICC or PIC line). A decision was finally made to operate a third time, and on June 18, 2012, intestinal surgery was skillfully performed. When I awoke in the recovery room, I sensed that my crisis was at last resolved. Although only half-conscious, I was filled with elation as they informed me that the procedure to correct my obstruction had been successful. 

The primary cause had been extensive scar tissue from my previous operations, a couple of bowel resections had to be performed. With this intervention, my stomach was expected to empty normally into to my small intestine again. Most of all, I was comforted and reassured by the fact that, although there had been scarring and adhesion, my cancer had not visibly metastasized to other regions of my body.

My discharge from the hospital ultimately took place on a balmy July afternoon; the clothes I had worn nearly two months earlier felt hot and loose fitting. I was so weak from my ordeal that I struggled to walk just 10 or 20 metres, but I was in awe as I observed how the seasons had changed and nearly everything had been transformed. I can still remember the blissful car ride home and my sense of anticipation during that short, but very emancipating, commute. Even the fresh air filling my lungs was like a breath of freedom.

Upon arriving at the small bungalow where I live, something magical occurred. As my eyes surveyed the backyard, the unexpected sight of poppies in full bloom completely overwhelmed me. It was as if I were seeing them for the first time. Now, each year, I remain inspired by their exquisiteness—even if my cancer returns I’m encouraged by the realization that their brilliant orange petals and intricately designed purple centres will never appear ordinary to me again.