Parking Passes, New Pills, and a Whole New Dance Floor

When we decided to move across the country, I made a list. Boxes, movers, a new address, a new grocery store where I’d wander the aisles looking for the peanut butter. What I didn’t want to put on the list, the item that sat in my stomach like a stone, was find a new cancer team.

If you’ve been on this journey with me, you know I’m HER2+++ and not the triple-A-rated kind of positive we all hope for. Mine is the aggressive, “let’s get moving” kind. When I left Ontario, I also left the doctors, nurses and schedulers who knew my story without having to open a chart. They knew my name, my jokes and my fears. Starting over felt like being handed a brand-new dance partner in the middle of a tango and being told, “Don’t worry, you’ll figure out the steps.”

I’ll be honest. I was scared.

Fear Makes a Great Personal Assistant

Here’s something I’ve learned about fear since my diagnosis: it can freeze you, or it can put on its sneakers and get to work. This time, mine got to work.

I made phone calls. I kept a notebook of names and numbers and questions (so many questions). I figured out referrals, registering for BC Healthcare, medical records and which office talks to which office. Somewhere in there I realized I wasn’t just surviving a new system, I was learning to manage it. The scared version of me wanted someone to hold my hand. The version that showed up rolled up her sleeves and said, “Okay, BC Cancer. Let’s dance.”

And wow, did BC Cancer dance back.

Meeting My New Team in Surrey

Walking into BC Cancer in Surrey for the first time, I had my notebook, my list of medications, and my “please like me” smile ready. What I didn’t expect was to feel so welcomed.

From the front desk to the nurses to the volunteers pointing me down the hallway, I was treated like a person and not a file number. They explained things without rushing. When I asked a question, and you know I asked a lot of questions, nobody sighed. Nobody glanced at the clock.

Then I met my new oncologist.

There’s a moment in every first appointment when you figure out whether this person is going to be YOUR person. Within minutes I knew. My oncologist had read my history, and not the skim-it-in-the-hallway kind of read. He actually read it. He listened. He asked about me as a whole human, not just about my tumour markers. And then he said something I wasn’t expecting.

“I’d like to talk to you about changing your medication.”

From 35–40% to Nearly 10%

My new oncologist explained that there’s a newer, more effective medication for HER2+++ breast cancer, and he wanted to switch me to it. Then he shared the numbers, and I had to ask him to say it again.

With my previous treatment, my chance of recurrence was sitting somewhere around 35 to 40 percent or higher. With this new medication, that number drops to nearly 10 percent.

Let that sink in for a second, because it took me a while. In fact, I am pretty sure I made him say it like 5 times!  It just wasn’t computing for me.  I couldn’t believe this was even possible!

If you’ve lived with cancer, you know recurrence is the uninvited guest that shows up at every party. It sneaks into your thoughts at 4 a.m. It’s there when a new ache shows up or when you book a trip and wonder, what if? Going from roughly a one-in-three chance to about a one-in-ten chance isn’t just a statistic. It’s breathing room. It’s hope with actual numbers attached to it, and I have never loved numbers more!

I left that appointment and sat in my car for a few minutes. I didn’t cry, well, maybe a little. Mostly I just felt grateful. Grateful that someone looked at my case with fresh eyes. Grateful that moving provinces, which I’d feared would be a setback, turned out to be the very thing that put me in front of this doctor, with this plan, at this moment.

Let’s Talk About Parking (Yes, Really)

Now, I know parking isn’t the most glamorous topic for a blog post, but stay with me, because this one matters.

In BC, cancer patients get free parking at many of the hospitals and cancer centres for appointments and treatments related to their cancer. You’re given a parking pass, and you use it. That’s it. No feeding the meter halfway through chemo. No sprinting out of an appointment because your time is about to run out. No surprise parking bill that costs more than lunch. I have been in all of these situations in Ontario!

This might seem small if you haven’t lived it. But cancer is expensive. There are medications, time off work, travel, supplements, wigs, comfy clothes, and all the extras nobody warns you about. Parking fees, when you’re at the hospital several times a week, add up fast. They’re one more little stress piled on top of a very big one.

That parking pass says, We see you. You have enough to deal with. Let us take this one off your plate. To me, that’s humane. It’s compassion in the form of a little card on my dashboard, and I love it.

The Blessing of a New Dance Floor

When I first learned I’d be starting over, I saw it as a loss. New province, new doctors, new systems, new everything. I grieved the familiar.

What I’ve found instead is a blessing I never would have planned for. A new team with new eyes. A new medication with better odds. A system that treats the little things, like parking, as part of care. And a new version of me who learned that even when she’s scared, she can pick up the phone, write emails, ask the questions and figure out the steps.

Life has a way of changing the music on us. Sometimes it’s a slow song, sometimes it’s a sudden switch to salsa, and sometimes it’s a whole new dance floor in a whole new province. I’m learning that I don’t have to know every step before I start moving. I just have to keep dancing.

And keep my eyes open for miracles. Sometimes they come in the shape of a new oncologist, and sometimes they’re a free parking pass!

With love and gratitude,
Tammy 💃