The San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium (SABCS) is the annual breast cancer conference that brings together researchers, clinicians, patients and manufacturers from all over the world to discuss the latest breast cancer research. Last December, we were pleased to be able to attend in-person, and we'd like to share with you the highlights from SABCS.

The past year allowed us a return to a more normal routine in a lot of ways, and our blogs from 2022 reflect that. Posts about being able to gather for the holidays, get mastectomy tattoos, and having in-person healthcare visits were some of the topics of our top 10 blog posts from last year.

CBCN connects patients, caregivers, health care professionals, researchers, public health agencies and industry stakeholders to improve knowledge translation and promote optimal health outcomes for Canadians with breast cancer. We do this through the promotion of information sharing, education, and advocacy activities. As we look forward to the new year, we would also like to look back on 2022 and share what CBCN has achieved on behalf of Canadian breast cancer patients, their loved ones, and caregivers.

Let me just start by saying, while writing, that I’m not a Grinch. I promise. That said, Christmas is not my favourite holiday. (Thanksgiving is, because it’s all about the gratitude, mashed potatoes and turkey.) Yet, after my breast cancer diagnosis, surgery and treatment, the only place I wanted to be for the holidays was with my family in Calgary. Being single and dealing with breast cancer’s day-to-day stressors alone, by myself with my cat, was overwhelming. So, my post-cancer-treatment Christmas was probably one of the most stress-free I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it’s because I didn’t have to make one decision for a solid week, that my family loved on me or because I didn’t cook a single meal, I don’t know. But it worked and when I returned to Toronto, despite the brain fog and Tamoxifen madness, I felt lighter.

The minute you get a cancer diagnosis, you start looking for the magic cure. For me, this meant researching the hell out of the disease and revamping my lifestyle, exercise regime, spiritual practice, and diet. Within days, I knew the latest cancer breakthroughs and snake oil salesman’s remedy for the problem. And I took on the task of miraculous cure (and possible canonization) with a vengeance. Turmeric was the new gold standard. I popped four pills a day and drank Indian golden milk and turmeric lemon tea morning, noon, and night. My skin oozed Trumpian orange, my countertops glowed with permanent yellow stains, and man, did I feel good. I knocked back shots of apple cider vinegar chased by pomegranate juice. I downed hemp hearts, chia, flax, and bee pollen. My daughter Sonja arrived one day with the Holy Grail—a Vitamix— and it became my cauldron, a sacred vessel for preparing healing concoctions laced with kale, ginger, blueberries, and coconut water.

Growing up, every time I passed a mirror I would pause and stare at my reflection. I got busted for it too. A lot. My mom and aunties told me it wasn’t nice to look at myself, that it was vain or to cut it out—sometimes they said all three statements at the same time. To be clear, I wasn’t always admiring myself, I mean sometimes I was, but after I turned 12 and went to junior high school, my covert glances were more about me feeling insecure than anything else. I had to make sure I didn’t look weird, that my bobbed hair was tucked behind my left ear just so or that my highly Ten-O-Sixed skin wasn’t shining like a too-bright light. I was looking because I needed to reassure myself that I looked good. That I was good enough.

Tomorrow, November 29^th is Giving Tuesday, the world’s largest generosity movement. Created in 2012, it was a simple idea: a day that encourages people to do good. Make someone smile, help a neighbour or a stranger, show up for an issue you care about, or give some of what you have to those in need. Giving Tuesday is a time when people come together to celebrate giving and participate in activities that support charities and non-profits; to thank, help, give, show kindness, and share with others. Donations made to CBCN help us fulfill these needs for people dealing with breast cancer, their loved ones, and caregivers.

The words “breast cancer” and “humour” are seldom in the same sentence. When it is revealed that someone has breast cancer, or any type of cancer, reactions are often in the form of sympathy, compassion, anger, denial, pity, or empathy; not jokes or laughter. While all emotions about being diagnosed or living with breast cancer are valid, having a sense of humour about it is often seen as being in bad taste or disrespectful. The role of humour in times of crisis generally gets a bad rap, whether it’s a natural disaster like Hurricane Katrina, or something personal, like a breast cancer diagnosis; however, it has been well documented that laughing about tragic or terrible things can make those things more easily borne, especially when that laughter is shared.

I found a lump in April 2021 and a week later had a biopsy on my underarm and breast; on May 3, 2021, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was diagnosed Stage IV de novo by my oncologist after a single mastectomy on May 21, 2021. It was very difficult to hear the words “you have cancer”; it is a shock and something you never want to hear. I didn’t choose to have chemotherapy or radiation treatment; instead, I’m taking Ibrance and Letrozole.

In this blog series, we present excerpts from Dr. David Stewart’s book A Short Primer on Why Cancer Still Sucks. In this post, Dr. Stewart breaks down and explains the most common symptoms of breast cancer.