*Please note that this patient testimony was originally written in French. The version below is a translation.
This year alone, 13,400 new people will be diagnosed with bladder cancer. I never thought I would be part of these statistics, and yet, towards the end of 2024, my life turned upside down with the announcement of a bladder cancer diagnosis.
I chose to share my story with you because I believe it is essential to talk openly about cancer, its impact on the lives of those who are affected, as well as its repercussions on loved ones. Receiving a cancer diagnosis shakes everything around us: our body, of course, but also our perception of life.
As someone affected, I realize that bladder cancer is little known, rarer in women, although it ranks fifth among the most common cancers in Canadians.
Here is my story, which I hope will help open the conversation about cancer and prevention, to break the taboos surrounding this disease and raise awareness about the importance of adopting healthy lifestyle habits.
September 28, 2024 – Seeing Red
I went to the emergency room after passing a significant amount of blood in my urine, dark purple in colour, with clots. I didn’t feel any discomfort or pain. They investigated and made a few hypotheses: a severe urinary infection, kidney problems, internal injury, a burst vein, cancer.
Quickly, a few scenarios were ruled out, but additional tests were necessary. I was sent home with advice to drink plenty of water to “flush” the bladder and instructed to return if the bleeding didn’t stop. Worried and anxious, I followed the doctor’s instructions since there was nothing else that could be done at that moment. The bleeding stopped on its own 48 hours after the first episode.
October 28, 2024 – The Verdict
After undergoing a series of tests in the previous weeks without having received any conclusions identifying the source of the bleeding, I went alone to my appointment with the urologist for a cystoscopy. He talked to me about the images from a CT scan I had done previously, which I had not yet received results for. He didn’t want to make any conclusions, as he wasn’t a specialist in interpreting those images. He inserted a camera into my urethra, and although I was tense, I was surprised to not feel any pain.
Quickly, on the monitor, three pink clouds appeared, floating in a vast environment. Until that moment, I had no idea what the inside of a bladder looked like; it was almost beautiful to see. The urologist told me that three tumors were visible, one approximately an inch in size at the junction of the kidney/bladder artery, and two smaller ones nearby. He continues by telling me he is very familiar with this type of tumor, as it is linked to smoking.
At first glance, they don’t seem very aggressive, but based on their size, it’s possible that the cancer has been developing in my bladder for two years. He details the operation that could remove them. The conversation feels like a simple mechanical operation one might do on a car. I don’t flinch, I have no questions, and I am not in shock. I feel as though we’re talking about someone else, as if it’s not that serious because he says it can be fixed. I’m looking forward to the surgery, thinking it will be over quickly. But the doctor wants to make sure I understand that these are cancerous tumors. He tells me that the recovery time is six weeks and that I must stop smoking immediately to undergo the surgery as soon as possible. I laugh, saying I can’t take six weeks off from work, it’s impossible. I leave the hospital with a small brochure titled “TURBT” and a surgery date, November 26.
I am 46 years old, with three adult children, a good job, single, and I live in a suburb of Quebec City. I smoke half a pack of cigarettes a day and have been for 30 years. I am active and in good shape. I have never had surgery nor been sick in my life.
On my way home, I drive along the winding road by the majestic Saint Lawrence River. I take my time, thinking that I’m relieved to finally know what’s wrong. I start to realize that I’ve just been told I have cancer. I smoke several cigarettes.
Once home, I call my 27-year-old daughter, the oldest of my children, via Messenger. She had been waiting for my call eagerly. I explain what I’ve just been diagnosed with, and she is devastated. I reassure her, of course, it’s my role to do so, I’m the mother. I tell her that cancer doesn’t mean death, that many people survive it, that the urologist confirmed it’s easy to remove. But watching my daughter unable to stop crying, powerless, is when I truly grasp the gravity of my situation. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my other children or anyone else in my circle that same day. I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes that evening, drank wine, and ate too much chocolate.
I never thought the warning label on cigarette packages would ever apply to me. I quit smoking with nicotine patches prescribed by the pharmacist two days after receiving my diagnosis. I had two relapses during the first week, one cigarette each time during two nights of discouragement. After a month and a half, I didn’t need the patches anymore, even though I hadn’t completed the treatment plan. I was already convinced I would never smoke again, for the rest of my life. The adhesive from the patches left marks on my body that remained visible for months. My best prevention advice: Don’t smoke! Quit if you do. Easy to say, you might think, but it may have prevented me from getting cancer, despite always saying without shame, “I love to smoke!”
November 13, 2024 – TURBT Moved Up
On November 11, I received a call from the hospital informing me that my surgery had been moved up. In any case, the stress, disorganized medical appointments, combined with the preparation for my absence from work, had a significant impact on my body before this important surgery. Lying on the stretcher, waiting for surgery at the hospital, I meet my urologist and the team that will be in the operating room. The staff is attentive and reassuring. The surgery goes well, the three tumours are removed as planned, and I receive intravesical chemotherapy following the surgery. The cancerous tissues are sent for pathology.
I leave with a catheter for four days and morphine. My six-week recovery begins, and I am fortunate to have my 24-year-old son at home for the first two weeks. He treats me like royalty, even though my attitude isn’t always the most pleasant. I am assigned an oncology nurse navigator. What a relief! I have so many questions, but no answers or follow-up amid my numerous appointments in the labyrinth of the healthcare system. What I haven’t mentioned until now is that during the exams, a number of small issues were discovered on the medical images, but they all turned out to be “normal.”
November 29, 2024 – Pathology Confirmation
I show up to my appointment with the urologist, this time with someone by my side. My daughter, ever faithful, is there to receive the diagnosis with me that we hope will be favourable: 95% low-grade tumour; 5% high-grade. The cancer may become more aggressive and invasive if there is a recurrence. I am dizzy, angry, and sad, but I am well-prepared. I have my notebook with me, where I’ve recorded all my medical details, and I quickly go through my list of questions about the severity of my diagnosis and the next steps. There is no escape; the only treatment to attempt is BCG immunotherapy, which must start as soon as possible. The recurrence rate for my cancer is very likely.
December 5, 2024 – Bacillus Calmette-Guérin (BCG) Immunotherapy Treatments
I am administered weekly doses of medication aimed at killing cancer cells directly in the bladder at the CRIC in Lévis. The staff is warm, calm, and kind. The treatment itself is unsettling but painless. Doing the “méchoui,” turning every 15 minutes for 2 hours while listening to music in a subdued atmosphere, but on a hospital bed, was still relatively pleasant. Especially when you remind yourself that you’re there to heal.
The side effects varied depending on the treatment. Fever, fatigue, and cloudy urine were common. The toxicity of the fluids during the 48 hours following each treatment bothered me a lot. Weeks #4 and #5 were particularly difficult. Difficulty urinating, blood, burning, and intense pain… I even went to the emergency room because the pain was unbearable. These symptoms are considered normal for the 48 hours following each treatment, and unfortunately, they do eventually pass. My series of six treatments ended at the dawn of my 47th birthday, on January 10, 2025. I returned to work on January 6 because I needed it for my mental health.
Waiting – Hope and Resilience
Since mid-January 2025, I have been in a period of latency. I am waiting for the fateful appointment scheduled for mid-April, as three months must pass between the end of immunotherapy and the cystoscopy. The meeting with the urologist will be pivotal for me. I will finally know if the treatment has worked in my body: will I have a reprieve; will I have to start over from the beginning; will the cancer return at a more advanced stage? All possibilities are on the table, and I prefer not to make any more assumptions. I will face the music when it plays, and I will dance with it.
There is so much frustration and helplessness in illness. Bladder cancer will follow me for the rest of my life. In the past few months, I have gone through a series of challenges and a mountain of emotions. I put my life on pause in an attempt to heal. While waiting for the next verdict, I am making the most of life and embracing my freedom. In truth, I believe that to live better with cancer, it’s not really about choice or even courage. No one wants to be this sick. We endure the treatments and do everything we can to survive. So, it’s really about attitude: whether to curl up (yes, sometimes we need that) or integrate actions to live more serenely.
I allow myself gentleness. I create moments with the people I love, I engage in sports. I travel too, because I feel like I haven’t seen enough of the world yet. I need sunshine, and I grant myself that. I am positive but realistic. I now truly understand what the word resilience means, and I’ve integrated the essence of that phrase we often say lightly, “Let’s make the most of it while we’re here!”
My life advice: Treat yourself with gentleness
Do what you love, give yourself permission to be, be free in your mind, let yourself be amazed by the little things. Vibrate, eat good things, laugh, cry when you need to, spend time with yourself. Express yourself, be close to those you love, share. Occupy your mind and body with things that genuinely do you good; allow yourself to be selfish sometimes. We don’t always think about it, but even through illness, we can find at least one positive thing each day that lights up our world, and sometimes it’s even a very small detail.
I leave you with this beautiful quote by Léo Ferré, which holds great meaning for me and is something we should all apply in our daily lives.
“I wish for you to have a heart full of what cannot be described, and of what is lived.”
Thank you, Bladder Cancer Canada, for supporting those affected at every step of their journey. Thank you to my children, who are my greatest pride and who accompany me with courage. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my message, which I hope will resonate positively in your hearts.
Take great care of yourself and those around you.
