Julia's Cancer Journey

This is our beautiful friend Julia. She was always an amazing athlete and a high achiever in school, but two years ago, at age 21, she was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer called Chondrosarcoma. Any plans of travelling, finishing university, or finding her dream job were put on hold as she underwent seven surgical procedures over the past 24 months to remove and replace the cancerous tibia bone in her right leg. We’re hoping this latest surgery will do the trick and the new donor tibia will successfully graft on to her ankle bone, but if not she could be looking at another surgery in four months, and possibly amputation.



Julia has required hundreds of dollars in prescription drugs, bandages, walking aides and other medical equipment, hundreds of dollars of physiotherapy, and countless hours of rehab and Therapy. She’ll remain incapable of working for the foreseeable future, but she’ll continue to need money for medication, physiotherapy, travel expenses for appointments and basic living costs. On top of this, she acquired $20,000 of student debt before having to drop out of university.

We’re trying to raise funds to alleviate Julia’s financial stress so her body can focus fully on the healing process. Please help this amazing, resilient young woman get every resource she needs to get better, and to live as happy and healthy a life as she possibly can!


My story:

Two years ago, on June 24th, 2012, I was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer in the tibia bone of my right leg, called a Chondrosarcoma. I would like to say this was only 4 months after my 85th birthday, but that is not the case. I was 21. As a well-known athlete in the Comox Valley, right in the middle of university, upset did not even begin to describe how I felt.







For 5 years I walked around with a pain in my leg. I saw many different Doctors and they all told me the same thing: I was young and these things happen, I was too active and careless and just needed to take a break, etc. I always believed them, thinking that they were right that I was just a young, naive girl, instead of following my gut and asking for an x-ray or any further investigations.

The University of Victoria was a great place for me. I felt like I really fit in there but it was also very expensive. I managed to finish 2 years of my undergraduate degree and plunge myself $20,000 deep in student loans before deciding to take a year off to pay some of it off and make sure I was heading in the right path with my degree. A few months after my 21st birthday, I was working as a caregiver, taking a client out for a walk, when my leg gave way and I couldn't get back up. Luckily we were almost home when it happened. I called Jason and he came and picked me up and took me straight to the walk-in clinic. The Doctor there was one who finally decided to listen to me and had an x-ray done, also telling me to use crutches to keep off of it in case it was some sort of fracture or break, as well as handing me a bottle of Oxycodone for the pain.

Three days after lying around the house, I received a call to go back into the Doctor's office. I walked in, heart pounding but only at the idea that one of the bones in my leg had a small break and would need to be stuck in a cast for a couple of months. When the Doctor finally came in he just looked at me with tired eyes- it was the end of the day- and asked why I was there. I looked back at him in confusion and explained to him that I got a call from the front desk telling me that the X-ray results had come back with something on them. He opened my file and read through the notes slowly, with absolutely no emotion and finally, after what had seemed like hours, he drew out a sigh and told me that some sort of mass had been found in my right tibia bone. I was confused and asked him what he meant by a "mass." "Well, I guess it could be a malignant tumor, but let's not get ahead of ourselves..."

I got home that day in absolute shock; let’s not get ahead of ourselves??

I was only beginning the second year of my relationship with my partner Jason. We had just moved in together at the beginning of October and things had been going great. He was perfect and I was sure I had found “the one.” …So how was I supposed to tell him that I had cancer?

Jason came home that day in a happy mood, tired from a day’s work, but happy. He came over to me and wrapped his long arms around my waist and kissed me on the cheek, asking how my day had gone. He hadn't noticed the lack of sound in the house or the fact that I wasn't moving, as he moved towards the fridge to grab a drink. My eyes wouldn't look up from the floor and I couldn't find the words to tell him what I had found out just hours before. I guess he had finally turned around and saw me sitting there, frozen, because all I heard was a can dropping to the table with a hard thud and the sound of footsteps rushing in my direction. He just kept on asking me what was wrong and shaking me, waiting for a response, but I wasn't listening. When I eventually snapped back to reality, he was grabbing his coat and telling me to get in the car so he could take me to the hospital, when the words came out: "I have cancer." He stopped moving. I said it one more time before he came and sat beside me and hugged me tight...

No one wanted to believe it was true, that someone so young could have “it that must not be named,” including my doctors. But that is what was happening.

That was the beginning of everything. From that day on I had blood test after blood test, scan after scan and scare after scare. Eventually I was told that it was a low grade Chondrosarcoma and that there was nothing really to be worried about, but they would still need to remove it. I agreed, thinking the procedure would be easy enough. Of course I knew it would hurt and I would have to take some time off work, but it would get better and then I could get on with my life.

Two months later, (August 24, 2012), I was in to the Vancouver General Hospital to have Voldemort, (the cancer), removed, and a small part of my hip bone inserted to replace the gap in my bone- a bone graft as they called it. The surgery went well but there was quite a bit of swelling and pain when I woke up. I was given 4mg doses of Oxycodone, 4 times a day to help cope with the pain, as well as Tylenol to help with the fever and gravol to stop the nausea. The food was far from being 5 stars, but the nurses were wonderful and knew exactly what I needed even before I did. Three days later, I was home in Courtenay with a small 3 inch scar, recovering with the help of my parents. Jason stayed by my side constantly handing me Oxycodone for pain and Naproxen for swelling.

Two weeks after my first surgery, I got a call from my Oncologist telling me that the Cancer was a higher grade than they had originally suspected. After a biopsy on the piece that they had taken out of me they had concluded that the cancer could grow back within the next 5-10 years. A.K.A, I would need to have another surgery to have my whole tibia bone replaced with a donor bone and a mother lode of metal plates.

I had never cried so much in my life. As my mother held me close, letting the tears roll down her soft cheeks and onto my head, my father standing close by, all I could think was "oh god, this isn't over." The only thing worse than getting cancer is having your child get it. I agreed to go ahead with the second surgery for the sake of myself and my parents. I figured, might as well get this over with now instead of worrying about it again in another 5-10 years, because the only thing worse than watching your child get cancer is watching them get it twice.




September 25th, 2012, the day after my older brother’s 23rd birthday I returned to Vancouver to have my second surgery. It took nearly 6 hours, a donor bone, several plates and even more screws before I awoke. This time I found a very fat leg, with stitches running from ankle to knee, throbbing in front of me. I smiled, glad that it was over. This had to be the last of it. The Doc came into my room, pleased to see that I was awake, to tell me that the surgery had gone well and I would be out within 5 days. Two days later, however, the swelling persisted and had gotten worse. I was in so much pain that the Doctor on call had prescribed an additional morphine pump on top of my 4 hydromorphone pills every four hours. Compartment syndrome had set in. Within two hours of being stabbed with a rather thick needle I was back in the operating room, having the pressure relieved from my leg, as well as a large hematoma. A vacuum sponge was added to further regulate blood flow and fluid build-up, where the hematoma had been removed. For many days I got to carry around not one, but two blood purses while I was in the hospital- not what you would call trendy. Two more minor surgeries and two more weeks after the compartment syndrome and I was finally out of the hospital for the second time. I was feeling sore and hating life a little bit but nothing made me happier than to be home just in time for thanksgiving; my favorite holiday.



Friends flocked around for the first couple of weeks, almost making me feel like an animal at a zoo, offering me their sympathy and filling my room with flowers and chocolates. I wasn’t used to the attention, but it was nice. Slowly the visits started to drop off and new questions started to arise. It went from “how are you feeling today?” to “how soon can you start working again?” I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t get how they couldn’t understand that I hadn’t just fallen down and broken my leg, it wasn’t that simple. I would need time, lot of time before I could even think about finding work, let alone walking again and from now on I would be confined to a desk job, which I have no experience with.

Almost A year later, I managed to get a job working for a tech company. It was nothing special and answering phone calls to listen to angry customers demand their money back was far from a dream, but the staff were nice and understanding, the money was welcomed and I couldn’t help but have a smile on my face every time the day ended. I was happy. I was independent. As long as I had my pain medication on me at all times and I was able to get days off when necessary, which was always, it was working. It was only a month and a half later, however, that I would find out that it was about to end.

After numerous expensive trips back to Vancouver, and several smiles following an “everything is looking great, just give it more time” speech, The Specialist finally deduced that everything was in fact not ok. The lower fusion, where the donor bone was supposed to connect to my own, apparently decided half way through that it wasn’t working out and couldn’t even, for my sake, just stay friends. Relationship over, sorry. So, as history seems to do, another surgery was planned as a radical intervention to resolve this dispute.

During the time in between these two surgeries things took a huge dive in my life, as well as those around me. Here I was, 22 years old, staying with my boyfriend of just over 2 years, living off of everyone but myself. I couldn’t walk, I could barely help around the house, and I had no money, no car, and no job. And none of the surgeries seemed to be working. I couldn’t take it anymore. My mind could not take it anymore. For months I refused to seek therapy because, well, therapy was for people who were mentally sick. I was not. I had an issue with my leg. The emotions I was feeling were normal. It was the responsibility of my family and friends to help me where I could not, right? So why weren’t they helping me? Why was I crying every day and every night? Why would it not stop? Eventually, I had no choice.



As Jason drove me to the Cancer Agency for the first time I can remember how scared I was. I didn’t want to go in there, a place where people lay in their beds sick and dying. I didn’t want to be reminded of that thing that had been inside of me and what could have happened if they hadn’t found it when they did. I didn’t want people to know how I really felt about this whole situation.
I held his hand tightly as we limped into the building together. He told me everything was going to be alright. That he was not going anywhere. That he loved me. I knew he was telling the truth. He stayed by my side the whole time.
It was from that day on that Therapy became a weekly routine. It was tough at first to accept, bearing everything to a stranger, but it was easier than telling someone close, someone that I actually knew. This way I didn’t feel like a burden. Soon after, I also started attending a Young Adults with Cancer group. We met up once a month, sitting around in a circle in the library of the cancer center. After settling down with hot tea and cookies we would each pipe up, one at a time, stating our name, the type of cancer we had and anything else we wanted to add on. Not to steal a large scene from John green’s A Fault in Our Stars, but other than being in “the literal heart of Jesus,” everything else was pretty much the same. People came and went at their leisure, some had hair, others didn’t, and we all had had cancer. It was hard for me to feel like I fit in as everyone else shared laughter, tears and conversations about which kinds of radiation or chemotherapy treatments they were taking. I never had any of that. Surgery was my chemo. Surgery was my radiation. I was the only one. It didn’t matter though, I went to the meetings whenever I could, because these people were the closest ones to understanding how I felt, and more importantly why I felt what I felt. It was a place where we could all laugh about the big “C” word, cry if we needed to and enjoy a look or two of understanding instead of pity.

It was hard for me to get to the meetings, mostly due to the fact that the Cancer Center had denied me access to the driving assistance services, because I wasn’t using it to get to chemo or radiation treatments. Even though I was there because I got cancer, which made it very hard for me to walk, and I was getting treated for the mental damage that also came along with getting cancer, it wasn’t enough to warrant a 10 minute volunteer run car ride. It made me feel like my cancer wasn’t good enough. Luckily one of the staff members at the Cancer Agency, (not to be confused with the Cancer Center), was able to help me find an alternative service within Victoria, called Saanich Volunteer Services, that was willing to help due to my low income status.

August 11, 2013. Two small cuts are made. One into my right hip, where they would again, harvest this season’s fresh crop of bone, and the other of course in my right tibia, where the crop would be placed as an offering of good will in an attempt to restart a once kindled relationship- another bone graft. It was a quick surgery, no more than 3 hours, and the swelling was minimal compared to the last one. Two quick sleeps in the hospital was all it took before I was back in the confines of my own room back in Courtenay, my parents tending to my every need and want. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents but at the age of 22, an age when most people are out travelling, enjoying the company of their friends, finding out who they are and doing things at their own pace and time, I wasn’t expecting to become 5 years old again, needing someone to drive me wherever I wanted to go, or needing help just to take a shower, get dressed or make something to eat.

Time seemed to go by quicker this time, however. I was the queen of crutches once more, having been told that I was to stay on them for 4 months before moving onto the next step. When the time came that I was told to stop using my crutches and to rely on nothing but my own two feet, I can remember looking at the Dr. like, are you nuts?! I hadn’t felt more unsure about anything before in my life. Did these things still work? They still looked like legs. They still felt like legs. But did they still work like legs? Without support? I tried and tried for months to stop using those crutches, forever thinking Ok, this is the day, but every step I tried to take felt like a dagger being pushed further and further into an open wound. I couldn’t do it. Why was it so painful?

Rehab after surgery is always tough. Much can be done when a joint is involved but that was not the case for me. The tibia bone is a hard one to get going again, especially if it is just to get two points to fuse to each other. Multiple Doctors, Physiotherapists and kinesiologists suggested that merely walking on it was the only thing that I could do to get anywhere, to get better. Many a time I tried to make them understand that the pain I was feeling was abnormal and that something must be wrong, but each time I was just told that the pain was part of the journey. So, every day I pushed myself a little more. It hurt. A lot. But what else could I do? Along with the encouragement of family and friends, lots of meditation and therapy, and eventually the inception of denial, I felt like things were getting better. This was not the case.

I never managed to stop using some kind of aide to help me walk. Yes, I did go from crutches down to a cane, winning many a race at the cancer agency against the biggest, baddest, 80-year-old cane wielders around, but something always felt wrong.
I started to do aqua physio in April of 2014, a whole new world opened up for me. Water does things that nothing else can. I was able to walk and run and jump in a pool, nothing held me back. And as long as my hips and legs were fully emerged, hiding my scars, no one gave me curious or pitying looks. I felt normal. I could blend in. I was me. Being In that pool 3 times a week was the happiest time of my life. I finally understood the allure of mermaids; I wanted to live in that pool.

My leg was not the only thing that needed rehab at this point, my bank account suffered more than ever. As a teenager I can always remember my parents telling me to be prepared in case of emergencies. Of course I never took them too seriously, what did I really have to worry about? I was still so young! I had time on my side.
At the beginning of my journey, when I first had to quit my job working as a caregiver, I was able to get on short term disability, through Employment Insurance. For 15 weeks I had a small amount of money coming in. Was it enough to pay my half of the rent? Was it enough to cover all of my medical costs? No. Every day I worried about how I was going to be able to pay for whatever was next. I managed to pay off my bills and have a little bit left over for food, but the majority of my expenses were taken over by Jason. at that time he was a young, 25 year old, fresh-out-of-college guy, working for only a little over minimum wage and trying to find his own way in life. He never complained. He never asked for help. He never told me he couldn’t do it anymore. I want you to imagine being that age, being told you were going to take on such a huge responsibility, agreeing to stick with someone no matter how bad it got, even though you owed them nothing and doing it without complaint. I want you to imagine giving up your own life and expecting the worst every day, never knowing what will happen but waking up with a smile and doing it anyways. I want you to imagine being with someone who could lose their leg, pass away from some horrible disease or complication at any moment, or at the very least never be the same again, but never giving up. Now double that and you have Jason. He is my hero. My parents managed to help out wherever they could, sending money and food down, allowing me to take refuge at their houses when I needed extra attention or just a change of scenery, and phoning me every day to make sure that I was ok. I couldn’t imagine my life without them all. They were my rock and they have made everything easier.

Even with the extra help it was not enough. The pain that I was experiencing was beyond manageable. I had all of a sudden become a guinea pig for pain medication because nothing would work. No one knew which part of my body to target in order to provide pain relief. Hundreds of dollars came and went as I moved from pill to pill, needle to patch, cream to tonic. My parents cringed as I updated them on the latest antidote, the scariest of them ranging from oxycodone to methadone, two very addictive drugs. Nothing would help.

For a short while, after my EI benefits ran out I was able to get a small stipend of income assistance from the Ministry of Social Development- yes. Welfare. Now getting less than half of what I was receiving on EI the stress piled on. It turns out that The Canadian Government, federal or provincial, doesn’t have any kind of financial help available for young adults in my situation; debilitated, but not disabled, to be politically correct. CPP has a couple of options if you have paid enough into it, which of course I haven’t. A lot of companies allow employees to take long-term disability leaves with pay, mine didn’t. There are even foundations that offer financial support to cancer patients and survivors; I didn’t have the right kind of cancer. This was it. As I said before, I was able to receive welfare, but only for a short amount of time. Eventually, as time came around for me to reapply, due to the new year, I was denied further help. By law Jason and I had become married without even putting a ring on it: common-law. I was told that I basically had the choice of staying with the guy that had kept by my side through it all, or breaking up with Jason, waiting 4 months to prove we were no longer together and receiving a measly pay cheque that wasn’t even enough to cover everything. Thanks, Government of B.C. I chose the former. So here I was a negative amount in my bank account, a mind that couldn’t cope on its own, and a leg that did not work. And there Jason stayed, holding my hand and telling me that we would get through it all.

As the end of April fast approached I noticed a strange protrusion in the middle of my leg. It was sharp and strong, like a piece of metal, which is exactly what it turned out to be. I walked into the specialist’s office once more in Vancouver and was greeted with a smile. Everything on the x-ray seemed great! He was very happy with my results. Now, I understand that Doctors have a lot of people to see every day and they try to rush everyone in and out as quickly as possible, but I also know my own body and the last time I checked having something poking out of the skin isn’t normal. Just as he was about to say his good-byes I managed to interrupt with a very cool and casual, “excuse me, but If you have the time, would you mind checking out this jagged piece of metal poking into my skin? Thanks.” Low and behold, after another 20 minutes of rechecking the x-ray, not one but two doctors re-entered the room. Turns out that two of the plates and two of the screws inside my leg had broken and needed to be replaced. Even though I had expected this kind of answer, it didn’t stop my voice from wavering and my head dropping enough for everyone in the room to notice. SO, June 11th was to be the next date with the Surgeon. Number four. Four times. Numero quarto- and no, I still haven’t received any flowers.

June 11th, 2014. Just 13 days away from the anniversary of when it all started. Many of the faces that walked past as I lay in the pre-op waiting room grabbed at my memory. People that I never expected to see or hear from again. It felt strange, especially since I remembered them but they couldn’t remember me.
The Operating room was always cold, even with the warm bodies that filled it and welcomed me stating their name, title and how they would be helping me today. When the roll call was finished they explained what the procedure was and made sure I understood it, (I didn’t), before putting me to sleep.

Being put under is what I assume death will be like; in one moment you are there, and then just as quickly you are not. Everything becomes nothing. The End. I know that isn’t what most people want to hear or believe but I find it quite calming knowing that once it is all over you are finally at peace, complete and utter peace. No thoughts, no worries, you can finally just sleep.

Don’t worry, I don’t die. As I have been told copious amounts of times I am a healthy young woman and I will get better! So, where were we? Ah, yes. The surgery was a complete success. I woke up an hour or two after to much pain, for which they decided an epidural, was necessary. I told them a glass or two of bubbly would be enough for me and probably a lot cheaper, but they wouldn’t take. About 50 staples also climbed up my leg like an unwanted vine to a tree.
I sat for days withering away, moaning in pain, and entertaining guests while under the influence of multiple cocktails of medication. I vaguely remember having a pet giraffe that I named Georgie guarding my bed during the days in the hospital, and a horse that had chosen to take the elevator from the 14th floor, because it was too lazy to take the stairs.
The imagination tends to run a bit wild when you are stuck in a small, ultra sanitized room for 5 days with not much to do, but I am glad they were there when my friends and family were not.

10 pounds down and in a wheel chair, I was Perched in front of the TV of my father’s house 6 days later, enjoying a world cup match with a piping hot cup of tea in hand. I would like to think that this is the end of the journey and I can finally start to plan for the future but I may still be far from the finish. Yes, my last surgery went well and the Doctors are hopeful, but this wouldn’t be the first time things didn’t go as planned. I was told that there was a 50% chance of this surgery working… that doesn’t exactly take the worry away. If it doesn’t work then I will have to go in do an even bigger operation that could take a whole lot more metal and time to heal. Two years to be exact. And if that fails, then there is a possibility that I could lose my leg altogether, and I have grown quite fond of it over the years.

Over two years have passed already and negative outcomes continue to persevere over the positive. When people see Jason and I together we put on a smile and push through but we are far from ok. What many friends and other on lookers do not know is that I have now gone through 4 major and 3 minor surgeries, many different over the counter medications, over 40 bottles of prescription medication, hundreds of dollars in bandages, walking aides, and other medical equipment, hundreds of dollars of physiotherapy and countless hours of rehab and Therapy. I will continue to need money for more medication and medical equipment, physiotherapy, travel expenses, food and shelter in order to stay in Victoria, where I can receive therapy and other forms of support, and to help pay off my massive student loan debt.

I do not know when I will be able to initiate my plans for the future but my goal is to go back to school as soon as possible to do a medical office assistant course, in the hopes of obtaining a job somewhere like the Cancer Agency, where I can make a difference in the lives of others just as the people there made a difference in mine. I am aware that my leg will never be the same. That I will never be able to play such sports as soccer ever again, or stretch my long legs and run for miles without pain. I understand that I will need help for many years to come but I regret nothing. There is not one moment of anything that has happened in the past two years or anything that has yet to come that I would change. My only hope is that I can get the help that I need now to allow Jason the help and opportunities that he deserves and the fresh start that I dream of.