By Adriana Ermter
In our monthly column, senior writer and editor Adriana Ermter shares her personal experiences with breast cancer.
Recently, a woman from Alberta, who is dealing with a breast cancer diagnosis, reached out to me on Instagram. We’d connected before and shared parts of our breast cancer experiences with each other, so it was great to hear from her again. This time, though, instead of a written update she sent me a video clip from season two of The Big C, a television series currently on Prime TV. The show stars actor Laura Linney as Cathy, a suburban mom diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma and in the scene, Cathy advises a group of young medical students on how to treat their cancer patients. This is what she says:
“You need to look at your patients. Speak a language they understand, not medical school textbook. You need to ask us how we really feel, not how our cancer feels. How we feel. Because we’re scared shitless. And when we tell you that, don’t you dare look as scared as half of you do right now. Spend time with us. More than just two minutes. Remember our names… Oh, and when things go wrong, when they go really wrong, hold our hand, do not let go. There is a chance you might be the last person we see on this earth. If that scares you, then maybe you shouldn’t be cancer doctors.”
It's powerful and when I watched the clip I cried. I’d seen it before, when the series first came out in 2010, but I’d forgotten about it and, let’s be honest, it was a decade before I was diagnosed so the thought of having cancer and wanting this kind of a doctor-patient relationship wasn’t even a blip on my radar. Funny how life unfolds.
Once I was diagnosed, however, I did not receive the Cathy-recommended attention. Not even close. My doctor-patient experience was sterile. The surgeon, who’s actually a very friendly man, couldn’t have been more blasé when he looked at my biopsy results and said I had cancer. His words bounced with the same casualness as they would have had he told me he’d eaten a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. My oncologist was a little more flatline when she rattled off my chemo and radiation options, much like a grocery list that I “got to choose” from. While undergoing daily radiation treatment, my weekly check-ins with the radiologist had a blink-and-miss-it kind of feel. And as for my concerns about charred skin, never-ending nausea, brain fog and debilitating exhaustion, well, they were typically met by any one of my oncology team members with a clinical nod, maybe a pamphlet or two, and the suggestion to eat saltines, get more sleep or to suck on ginger lozenges.
Part of me gets it. There are too many of us for each doctor to spend more than a perfunctory five minutes with each week. The sea of never-ending faces in waiting rooms with only room to stand is proof of the 30,500 Canadian women who, according to the Canadian Cancer Society, were diagnosed with breast cancer in 2024. And that’s just the newly diagnosed, not the women scheduled for surgery, going through treatment or like me; post-cancer with a high risk of recurrence and coming in for their six-month testing.
This non-committal approach isn’t indifference though either, it’s just the doctors’ norm. They see best and worst-case scenarios and everything in between daily; cancer is their professional reality. It’s not personal and it’s not themselves or their best friend, sister, mom or anyone else in their circle laying naked from the waist up beneath a hospital gown on a piece of crinkly paper atop an examination table. It’s you and it’s me. Which means that it’s up to you and me to alter our existing doctor-patient relationship to make it more Cathy-recommended, if that’s what we desire.
I know it’s what I want. So, I tell them. I tell my doctors exactly how I feel and what I need and then, I ask them to help me. I’m polite when I ask and I’m realistic with my expectations. I don’t get everything I ask for, some visits I get nothing, but at least I’m putting it out there. And you can too.
Come to each appointment prepared with your list of questions, ideas and thoughts. Prioritize your list and start with the most important information. That way if you don’t get through it all, you’re not panicking. If you’re like me and worried about brain fog and rambling, write bullet points about what you want to say to help jog your memory. Note health issues, such as fever, throwing up, pain and exhaustion with dates and the duration of time you experienced each one, as this is specific information your doctors can use to support you with medication, treatment and more. Be on time, so that when you are in front of your medical team you receive every minute of their attention that has been allocated to your appointment. Ask questions, speak up, don’t be afraid of sounding weird or dumb or even crazy. Cry if you need to, share your frustrations and fears and ask for the doctors to speak in layman’s terms if you don’t understand what they’re saying. Ask for additional resources, like access to a psychotherapist or a nutritionist and to participate in free support programs and workshops such as those found through Look Good Feel Better and Wellspring. And remember, the doctor-patient relationship is half yours, a two-way street, and when you step up and do your part it will make you feel more in control of your own diagnosis and treatment. It may even alter the way your doctors begin to work with you and all the women who follow.
Adriana Ermter is a multi-award-winning writer and editor. Her work can be read in Sotheby’s Insight, Living Luxe and IN Magazine, as well as online at 29Secrets.com, RethinkBreastCancer.ca and AmongMen.com. The former Beauty Director for FASHION and former Editor-in-Chief for Salon Magazine, Childview and Figure Skater Fitness magazines lives in Toronto with her two very spoiled rescue cats, Murphy and Olive. You can follow Adriana on Instagram @AdrianaErmter.
Receive updates by email 
