The waiting room - We’re now in a sort of limbo, waiting for what comes next… It’s like being in a waiting room, watching the big clock doing tic tac, reading a few magazines, pretending to keep your mind busy, but really just staring at the door, waiting for someone to come in and call your name. Ok, it’s happening.
We’ve actually been in this waiting room for 3 years. Three long years… 1 year of Ok this isn’t working, and 2 years of trying to reinvent our lives around doctor appointments and hormone injections. This journey has been filled with contradictory emotions like hope, disillusion, fear, anxiety, tears and love.
And then it worked! But the pregnancy started with a rare syndrome, severe complications that left me in the hospital for 15 days in the most awful pain. In those moments, you ask yourself: Is it worth it? Do I love myself more than this baby? And why is this happening?
We’re sooo lucky that this traumatic experience ended in a happy way.
Now I think of all these women, couples, and people still stuck in this waiting room, where the wait can feel endless, where you watch others succeed while you’re left with nothing but questions. One question that stayed with me throughout this process was: What if it doesn’t work? Is there a world where we don’t have children and are still happy? I know that I’m no longer in a place to answer that. But I know for sure there’s more than one way to give unconditional love.
I want to thank our families and friends who supported us in the waiting room, thank you for respecting our privacy and not asking too many questions, but also to those who did ask, who showed interest, who helped us laugh about it and take the drama out of it. Thank you for still inviting me to parties, for giving me space to do the injections, for showing up with your smile at the hospital, or with flowers, or even the best sausage rolls!
I feel so lucky to be surrounded by the best humans, and we will do our best to give all this love back to this new little human.
And of course a huge thank you to my very talented friend @yann.calinski for these pictures. x
When I was 25, cancer turned my world upside down. I’ll never forget the day the doctor said, « You have a small cancer, miss, and you’ll need to cancel all your plans for the coming months. » The words « small » and « cancer » clashed in my mind, how could those two ever go together? I was just about to leave for a new job in Chile, literally on the other side of the world. I had turned 25 the week before and was filled with dreams, projects, and ambitions. So, I replied, « No, that’s not possible. I’m moving abroad. »
But the doctor was right, it was indeed a small cancer. I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, the “nicest” one in the dark series. After undergoing surgery and finding the right treatment, I was able to fly to Santiago and pick up my life again, though I carried a big scar on my throat, a visible mark that, for years, symbolized the fact that I had cancer and kept the experience fresh in my mind. What no one prepared me for, though, was the trauma around it, the fear of getting sick again for many years, the taboo surrounding the word cancer, and the hard lessons about fatality.
Looking back, I realize I needed more information about my condition, as well as crucial mental health support to cope with it all, especially at a young age, when you feel invincible and believe these things only happen to other people.
By sharing my story for World Cancer Day, I hope to provide insights into specific needs, particularly the essential role of mental health support.
#worldcancerday
#upsidedownchallenge
This is the last picture I took before the turning point in my life this year. It was right before my mom called to announce the sudden death of my dad. I often look at this picture and reflect on what I was thinking at that exact moment, admiring the reflection of the light in the mirror. I love this mirror; my friend Aurelien painted it a few years ago. It represents happy moments and beauty created from nothing – just a random mirror found on the streets of Montreal back in the day, painted with some white correction fluid.
Every time I look at this picture, I wonder how life can change in an instant. At that exact moment, me and Aurel were dancing, singing, and drinking in the middle of our living room, in the midst of our lives. I like to believe that it was a gift from my dad, giving us this precious moment full of joy and spontaneity, almost childlike, as if nothing could disturb our bubble.
Now, pictures of my dad stand on this cabinet beneath the mirror, serving as a reminder of the fragility and beauty of life at every second.
