Andrea’s Story

I remember it clear as day: “You have cancer,” said the nurse with the bit of bright blue in her hair. The air went out of my lungs. I went numb as I looked across the exam room at my mom. I hadn’t even had a biopsy yet, but from the mammogram my diagnosis was pretty clear and the nurse didn’t want to get my hopes up.

One month after my 31st birthday, I was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. The first half of 2017 had already been a tough year, with my husband Blair having been in two serious car accidents, and us already having experienced infertility for over a year. Cancer wasn’t unknown to me. Both of my parents had already fought their own battles: my dad with prostate cancer in 2004, and my mom with breast cancer in 2008. But for a newlywed couple who had been wanting to expand their family with a baby? It was now officially the year from hell.

Summer 2017 I had a single mastectomy. While I was recovering from surgery, I went through IVF to harvest and freeze my eggs so that they wouldn’t be affected from chemotherapy. I started chemo in the fall on an accelerated schedule, every 2 weeks, including a drug they called the “Red Devil” because it was bright red and its particularly gnarly  side effects. My hair fell out, and my bones ached so badly that walking up stairs could only be done with assistance. To finish off 2017, our  beloved dog Moose passed away. As I said, year from hell.

I finished the hard chemo in February 2018, but I would continue with IV treatments of Herceptin as a preventative measure. Hitting this milestone was a huge relief, because it meant that I could go back to a somewhat normal life again. ‘Normal’ still meant five years of semi-monthly injections and daily pills, including their side effects, to minimize the risk of recurrence. 

Wanting to take control of the singularly awful year we’d had, Blair and I signed up for the Canadian Cancer Society’s Relay for Life. It would be a way for us to flip the bird at cancer. And so team Andrea’s Adventurers was born! In our first year we raised over $5000 for the cause. 

But then, as we were fundraising that Spring, more bad news came in: my mom’s breast cancer had returned, this time in her lung. The day before the Relay she went for lung surgery to remove the tumour.

In the fall of 2018, as I was finishing up Herceptin treatments, Blair and I decided we needed something positive to focus on. We started Adventure Dice to share our love of TTRPGs with the world, and to help build safe and welcoming gaming spaces for everyone.

In 2021 the bad news returned: Mom’s cancer was back again, and this time in her bones–she was now stage 4.

That same year I decided  to get another mastectomy, this one preventative, to decrease the risk of my own cancer returning. Blair and I also began the search for a surrogate; because of my cancer diagnosis, I wasn’t going to be able to carry the baby myself. After a stressful search, we found a wonderful surrogate who stuck with us through four failed transfers – including an ectopic pregnancy and a testing lab that experienced a catastrophic failure, which rendered eight of our embryos unuseable. All of it still  worth it: in the summer of 2023, our son Miles was born.

In January 2023, Blair and I decided to take the leap of faith, quit our jobs and start running Adventure Dice full time.

Then in December 2023, just five months after Miles was born, I got the news I hoped I’d never hear: my cancer was back. It had spread to my lung, liver, and bones. I was now stage 4, too. I started chemotherapy right away. We had a new baby, and now I couldn’t work full time anymore, but our wonderful community of family and friends stepped forward with so much love and support.

In March 2024, as I was still getting chemotherapy treatments, my mom lost her fight with cancer. She fought a brave battle, and was determined to keep going right through her last days.

In June 2024, I finished my last serious chemo treatment for a while. I still have cancer in my body. I will continue with IV treatments that help prevent the cancer from spreading, and will be on them for the rest of my life or until the treatments stop working. The oncologist will then figure out new treatments and we will start the cycle all over again from there.

There is no cure for stage 4 cancer. For myself and other people like me, our only hope is that medical research will continue to find new ways to treat this disease, to extend and improve our quality of life, or eventually, finally find a cure. 

The rest of 2024 is what it is: we made the best of what we could of life, balancing our son Miles and family, the Adventure Dice business, chemo maintenance treatments, and whatever else life threw at us, including the stress of having treatments be bumped last minute, often by a week or two, and the constant worry of this scan being the one.

In June 2025, things changed drastically and suddenly: as we were setting up for GameCon Canada in Edmonton, I got a phone call from the oncologist. They found many, too many metastases in my brain. They didn’t even think to check my head until this point, as my cancer was located elsewhere entirely, they only did so because of a chronic ache in my neck and a numbness in my right arm. The oncologist recommended I fly back home immediately, start a new medication, and prepare for appointments the following week. I cried, a lot. Blair, my dad,  and I cried, we booked my flight, my dad drove me to the airport and back to Blair, as they stayed behind to complete the event. The people involved in GameCon were really supportive, both to Blair and Dad, and to Andrea’s Adventurers, donating items and making sure we were taken care of. They still check in to this day. 

The next steps involved five continuous days of radiation treatment on the entire brain, as there are too many affected areas to do localized or spot treatments – this also means surgery is not an option. Common side effects of this form of treatment are memory loss (persistent) and fatigue, on top of everything else that comes with radiation therapy. What they don’t really emphasize, however, is that radiation is a slow burn: during the session, you lay down with your head held in what feels like a helmet bolted to the table; the actual radiation only takes a few seconds, then they send you on your way until the next day. Because there is no noticeable change, anxiety and panic set in: is it actually doing anything? is it helping? am I getting better?

It does. Over the next six months, I am actually doing better, the metastases shrink or at least don’t change in size or number. But when I asked the radiation doctor during the first consultation how long it will actually work for, and how long people in my situation usually have left, the answer hits me much harder than everything else up to this point: two years, on average.

After those first five days, my chemo switched from maintenance to active treatment. This also meant being even more careful about who I’m around, not taking risks for my health, not being able to drive for at least six months (if it’s confirmed that I can drive after six months, that’s just the timeline I’ve been given), avoiding any source of illness, even the minor sniffles. Treatments are still every three weeks, but now it takes me a full week to recover, and I can’t afford to be sick as it would cancel my treatment. So no more conventions for a while at least, and we have to be extra careful with Blair travelling for work, and Miles being almost two years old, with all the germs that both entail.

Starting in July 2025, the new normal sets in. Every three weeks: bloodwork, oncologist appointment, treatment, recovery. Every four weeks: different bloodwork for bone injections, bone injections, chemo medication injection. Every six months: MUGA scan, MRI, CT scan, bone scan. Never aligning with all the other appointments: prescription pickups, some from the hospital cancer centre, some from the pharmacy. I still can’t drive, so I can do none of this by myself. I only really feel like my usual self one week every three, I’m too tired to even read most of the time.

But for the next few months, slowly things settle and I am feeling more and more human, even in the middle of it all. I am trying to write again, when I have the energy, over on my personal blog. I got a tattoo! I started playing Vampire: the Masquerade again in March! I’m reading and writing, despite the paraesthesia in my right hand. I’m working on Adventure Dice and TCTC chores. I’m catching up on games and series I’ve been meaning to read, play, and watch when I didn’t have the energy for it.

At the end of April 2026, the universe chose to deal another hand of cards, as it wasn’t done with me or my family. I was doing conventions again when I felt strong enough, and I flew to Calgary to help the team set up for Fan Expo. As we were preparing the booth, my dad didn’t feel too well, and his heart started to play up. We got him to first aid, then the ER, then the cardiac care unit, and he spent the whole weekend and week after that in Calgary, with me spending some time with him every day, then going to the event, and coordinating his sister coming to stay with him for the time being. It turns out that he had a blood clot next to his pacemaker, meaning they couldn’t operate to replace it until the clot was dealt with. They eventually sent him home, and referred him to his local specialists and doctor. 

It’s May 9th, 2026, and I turn 40. If you had asked me last summer if I would see this date, I would have cried. I didn’t think I would see Miles’s second birthday; I was terrified I wouldn’t make it to 40. This past year has been one of the most difficult for me, filled with so much grief and hardship. I’ve cried so much. So many appointments, so many days reaching for just that little bit more energy. The only reason I’ve been able to keep going is thanks to Blair and Miles, my family, and the friends who keep showing up for me. When I hit rock bottom they join me and help me rise up. Hugs. Childcare. Workhelp. Crying with me. They are the light. The reason for life is to love, and I’m lucky to have so much of it.

Two weeks later my oncologist called me, asking to come in to “check something”, and my anxiety spikes. Blair is still travelling back from another event, and I feel like I’m spinning. My dad has also been called back into hospital as they found something else while doing all the checks for his heart: he has pancreatic cancer. There is good news and bad news: it was caught really early, but his heart condition means that surgery might be complicated. Nothing feels under control, but I am told I can drive again at least. The oncologist won’t start chemo on Dad until his heart is healthy enough, but the cardiologist won’t deal with that until his pancreas is under control, so he’s stuck in hospital limbo for the next two months.

In August 2026, the doctors finally made the decision to start his chemo treatment. Chemo is aggressive, I know this, I live with this. Dad’s body doesn’t react well to it: his heart plays up, it leads to kidney failure, and his body starts shutting down. Six days after his first treatment session, he passed away. It’s August 12th, 2026, my dad was 72 years old.

This is being written in September 2026, in the middle of four events, my dad’s celebration of life, two treatments, and in the midst of grief. Grief is a wild thing. One day you’re a functioning human being, the next you sleep 15 hours and can’t open your eyes. I am still reading, I am still writing – in fact, my penmanship has mostly returned. Last summer you could barely read what I was writing thanks to the paraesthesia in my hand. It’s still there, but I’m learning to work around it.

And in the meantime, we will continue to fight. We will continue to love. We will continue to hope.