Stacie Chevrier is a recovering type-A, corporate climber who made a big life change after being diagnosed with cancer in September 2014. She now spends her days focusing on writing, fitness and healthy living. Outside of these passions, Stacie can be found practicing yoga, enjoying anything outdoors, traveling and defying the odds as a pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor survivor.

Stacie Chevrier

Those of us in cancerland know that cancer isn't always black or white, and the line separating cancer and cancer-free isn't always thick and dark. We know that the word remission is a bit taboo, so the goal of this post is to educate the cancer muggles on the gray area where this disease can sometimes rest.

After being diagnosed with a pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor in September 2014, I underwent surgeries and treatments until my body showed no evidence of disease (a favorite term among oncologists). I went along for a year, crossing my fingers the illness would leave my life, but also knowing the statistics behind this cancer and that it would probably make an appearance again.

During those months, I was free of any signs of disease, when a questionable spot popped up in my liver. Radiologists debated whether it was contrast build up, a new tumor, but even the tumor board (an oversight committee) couldn't come up with a definitive conclusion. My (usually very sensitive) tumor marker remained normal, so they threw me into a dreaded strategy of, "watch and wait."

I asked my doctor, "So, do I have cancer?" and in a nutshell, he said, "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Go live your life and come back in a few months. We'll scan you again."

Three of months later, I was thrilled when the radiology report concluded the previous spot was gone. "Yup, it was contrast build up. It's resolved, and everything looks good. Come back in a few months."

And so I did, but this time, one of my symptoms had begun to reappearing and my blood tumor marker was crawling towards abnormal range. To my surprise, the scans were clear. "Come back in a few months."

Eventually the uncertainty and anxiety became too much to bare. I decided to reach out to a specialist, who told me his hospital had a new, more precise diagnostic machine that would hopefully help us find the source of the symptoms and blood results. The scan uncovered microscopic tumors too small to show up on an MRI or CT. The news was bittersweet. Bad news: I had cancer. Good news: I now had a definitive answer and could move forward with a new treatment plan, which I executed faithfully over the next year.

I tolerated the new therapy well and it barely impacted my life. Those tiny tumors got even tinier and the blood tumor marker became normal again. At the end of the treatment, I was advised to have a precise scan again, so doctors could see the before and after. However, when I did, the radiology report indicated all the tumors were gone, except one that had progressed. My oncologist and I were both thoroughly confused and sent the images to the specialist for another opinion. His interpretation completely opposed that of radiology report — the disease had indeed shrunk and I was classified as a partial response. "Come back in a few months."

Ever a faithful patient, I did and was happy to have all doctors agree that the disease continued to retreat. "Come back in six months."

Navigating opposing interpretations of scans, watch-and-wait scenarios and living life in three-to-six-month increments are a few examples of the uncertainties cancer patients experience. It's important for cancer muggles to know the true complexity of this disease and that many of us who have walked down cancer street are not always strolling on one side of the boulevard or the other. Sometimes we tread, with caution, down the middle of the road, unsure if we should be on the left or right side.

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The line separating cancer and cancer-free isn't always thick and dark.

The Blurry Lines of Cancer

The last few years fall has been a season of challenge for me. In 2014, I was recovering from a distal pancreatectomy and splenectomy after my pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor diagnosis. In 2015, I was recovering from a liver resection, months of chemotherapy and a serious case of PTSD. In 2016, I had a surprise surgery due to a bowel obstruction, a complication from my previous abdominal surgeries. And this year, I am undergoing an experimental treatment, but overall, I’m doing well and grateful to not be watching leaves change through a hospital window.

I admit, I tiptoed into autumn holding my breath with optimism I would exit without a traumatic event. While there are still a few days of the season left, I, personally have been spared, but others have not been so lucky, creating a new kind of trauma.

Between September and today, there were four people in my circle who died from cancer. They were all young and all women, making their deaths too close to home. One was a young mother I met in a luncheon in New York City who had a very similar case to mine. We exchanged emails regularly and I got scared when the messages stopped coming only to find my fears realized when I logged onto Facebook after a hiatus to see she had passed away. Another was Beth Caldwell, who died from neuroendocrine breast cancer. I only knew her from social media, where she was revered for changing the advocacy game. And most recently, a friend of friend, who died from pancreatic cancer.

Another one of these new angels was a fellow CURE contributor, 

. I also never met her, but enjoyed reading her blog and being Twitter friends. I always thought she sounded pretty cool and someone I’d be friends with in real life even if we both didn’t have cancer. When I read her last blog,

, I could not help but smile and be sad at the same time because she did it - she won. She didn’t die while still living and she didn’t let the disease break her to the point of bitterness. In fact, Jen got to say goodbye in a pretty cool way.

Unfortunately, cancer wasn’t the only grim reaper to make an appearance this fall. There was a tragic death of a friend of a friend whose family was already grieving a huge loss. Also, my husband came home one day with terrible news of a colleague that passed away from a massive heart attack, leaving a wife and two daughters. He simply left in the morning to go hunting and didn’t come back. I think of both these families and am heartbroken to think they are left replaying last, perhaps mundane, meaningless conversations and without “I love yous” or important words said. It definitely makes me ask, where is the justice?

With each death, I lit a candle and sat for a quiet few minutes processing my feelings. Of course, there was sadness, but more than anything there was appreciation for my own life and the people close to me. I feel gratitude for still being here, having an excellent quality of life and for the warning cancer gives.

These losses also have me treading into the holiday season with renewed compassion as I encounter angry traffic, tired crowds and over booked schedules. Knowing the chances are high that the person in front of me experienced loss and hardship this year. I find myself pausing, slowing down and truly appreciating, like never before, the intangible gifts of life, family, friends and my fellow-man. My only wish this year is the same realizations for everyone (hopefully without experiencing death and cancer). And may we all take a moment to light a candle for those empty spaces in our life and the lives of others.

, which she gave days before passing away.

Of course, there was sadness, but more than anything there was appreciation for my own life and the people close to me. I feel gratitude for still being here, having an excellent quality of life and for the warning cancer gives.

The Season of Grief, Gratitude and Compassion

I know this might make me sound crazier than a crazy cat lady, but, I think my cat might be able detect cancer.

Before someone orders a straightjacket to be sent to my house, let me explain.

In 2012, my cat started licking and eating the hair off her belly. Thinking she might have an allergy or an invisible strain of fleas, I took her to the vet. After several swipes of my Visa and many tests, the doctor ruled out any physical problem and told me he believed my cat had a mental disorder called psychogenic alopecia. Basically, it is the feline equivalent of obsessive compulsive disorder. Instead of washing her hands a million times a day, she over-grooms. They sent me home with a version of kitty Xanax, which failed miserably. Those of you who have ever tried to give a cat a pill understand.

2012 is also when I began experiencing symptoms of neuroendocrine cancer. For me, the initial symptoms of this rare, silent cancer included facial flushing, occasional heart palpitations, bloating and trouble digesting food.

After a couple years of my cat obsessively licking her belly and my symptoms increasing, eventually I became symptomatic enough to prompt my doctor to perform a myriad of tests. Neuroendocrine cancer is often misdiagnosed for five to seven years, but I was “lucky” enough to be diagnosed with a pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor one month after my first doctor's visit. Weeks following the diagnosis, I had a distal pancreatectomy and splenectomy and was sent home to recover without any additional treatment. My cat stopped licking her belly for a couple months and then started again. Soon after some spots were found in my liver. And the cycle has repeated itself a few times. When all is well in my body, her over-grooming ceases and when something's astray, the licking commences.

Could it be a coincidence? Sure, but if scientists are beginning to research dogs’ abilities to detect cancer, perhaps they should explore the secret power of cats as well. And should scientists accept my invitation, I know a certain tabby feline who would happily raise her soft, over-groomed paw in exchange for a couple servings of Fancy Feast.

Neuroendocrine cancer (sometimes referred to as NET or carcinoid cancer) has the largest growing incident increase rate of all cancers. To learn more about this cancer and its symptoms, visit www.carcinoid.org. 

There is a strange coincidence between my cat's obsessive grooming and my cancer symptoms.

Can My Cat Detect Cancer?

Peptide receptor radionuclide therapy (PRRT) is an exciting treatment for neuroendocrine tumors (NETs). While considered investigational because of its pending status at the FDA, Europe has performed this therapy with a high success rate for over a decade.

When a May Gallium-68 scan found microscopic tumors, my specialist recommended I pursue this treatment.  It took a lot of coordinating, but I was able to access this therapy at a facility in Houston under Texas’s Right to Try law, a preferred option compared to traveling to Europe.  

My first treatment went great, leaving me virtually symptom-free and slashing my blood tumor marker a whopping 75 percent. Investigational therapies are not always covered by insurance, so it was also pretty exciting when I found my insurance company paid for the treatment.

Life was looking like sunshine and kittens, so my husband and I decided the next trip to Houston should not be completely about cancer. So, we booked a romantic beach weekend in Galveston before my next therapy, scheduled for Aug. 31.

Cancer has already taught me to quickly develop back-up plans, so when the Houston clinic called to explain there could be a delay due to the approaching hurricane, I jumped into action, developing a Plan B and Plan C. Little did I know after all the events transpired, I’d end up on Plan F.

 - Fly from Nashville to Houston to enjoy a weekend on the beach in Galveston before returning to Houston for treatment.

 Take the scheduled flight to Houston, drive to Dallas for the weekend. Return to Houston when the storm passes.

 Drive from Nashville, stopping to visit Memphis, Little Rock and Dallas, where we would wait for the green light.

 Reschedule therapy until Sept. 12, the one week my husband had an important commitment.

 Get my older brother lined up to take my husband’s place by booking him a flight out of Tampa Sept. 10. Enter Hurricane Irma.

 Break my husband’s commitment so he can come with me to Houston and spend the next few days calling airlines, hotels, etc. to reschedule...yet again.

While all of this was unfolding, I could rationalize that it would have been pointless for me to try to enter Houston during the chaos or for my brother to leave his family in the midst of a disaster, but still, it was stressful. Cancer already creates feelings of powerlessness, fear and uncertainty. Piling on more seems unfair. Before I spun into a ball of anxiety, I stopped and gave myself an attitude and perspective adjustment. I am lucky my situation is not critical, because there were/are others impacted by cancer who had/will have urgent situations in the midst of these disasters. Rescheduling is a minor inconvenience when a hurricane is barreling toward your home.

As I rationalized and calm myself, I realized the similarities between hurricanes and cancer. Both are natural disasters, with human-contributing factors. Both are completely unfair. Both can be devastating by taking everything you have. Both have the potential to create resilience. Both can bring out the best in people. Both create perspective because when we or our loved ones are in danger, the stresses of daily life don’t seem so stressful. And both are reminders that there is so much we cannot control.

“If plan A doesn't work, the alphabet has 25 more letters - 204 if you're in Japan.” - Claire Cook

One cancer patient’s story of being impacted by both hurricanes Harvey and Irma. 

Stacie Chevrier

The Blurry Lines of Cancer

The Season of Grief, Gratitude and Compassion

Can My Cat Detect Cancer?

All Is Unfair in Cancer and Hurricanes

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