Katie MacLeod’s speech was honest and powerful, leaving not a dry eye in the house.
-by April MacDonald
“You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and in the manner in which you live.”
Once again, the titty committee brought the women who live and love in this region together to share, to cry, to raise each other’s spirits and to raise money to help those battling this punishing disease.
The committee was meeting on Tuesday to go over last Friday’s event and to discuss next year.
Those dedicated members throughout the years are Tammilee Gillis, Rose Annette MacDougall, Charlene Clarke, Wilma Timmons, Stefanie Stokner, Margie Wiswell, Karen Mullins, Shannon Mac Neil, Tara Mac Donnell and Lindsay Ryan.
“Wilma Timmons’ sister Edie has been a wonderful day before and day off person! Her military skills are more then on point,” said Tammilee Gillis.
Gillis, who is a cancer survivor herself, said, “Even though the cancers are different the path of the journey is the same.”
Introducing this year’s guest speaker was breast cancer survivor, Carmella MacIsaac, of Inverness.
“This evening I was given the honor to introduce our guest speaker, Katie MacLeod. Katie is the daughter of Rory and Donna MacLeod, sister to Mary Francis, wife of Angus Campbell, and mother to her beautiful daughter, Azalea, her pride and joy. Katie was born in Inverness, grew up in Dunvegan, and graduated from Inverness High School. After high school Katie went to St.FX University where she got her business degree.
“Afterwards she continued on Dalhousie and graduated in industrial engineering. Following this Katie went on to get her Professional Engineering Status, earning the prestigious letters PENG after her name.
“Some of us may not know this about Katie but she is a Sommelier, that is she is a trained and certified Wine Expert…she can see, swirl, sniff, sip, and savour every glass of wine.
“A special quality of Katie is that she embraces life. She celebrates all occasions – every day.
“Katie is also an accomplished fiddle player. She can even step dance while playing the fiddle…she is also a farmer. She has goats, chickens, turkeys, and pigs.
“Anytime you drive by her house you are sure to see a couple of goats perched on top pile of wood or stones overlooking the landscape. And now it is time for me to present to you our amazing Katie MacLeod.”
Here is Katie’s powerful speech:
When Charlene asked me to be the special guest at this year’s Breast Fest, of course I said yes. Then she told me it would be about half an hour.
And I thought, Ouff. Half an hour is a long time to stand up here with no shirt on.
But seriously…
Trying to sum up the last 15 months in 30 minutes is actually harder than I thought it would be.
Because 15 months ago, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.
I had no idea how quickly my life was about to change. And I definitely had no idea that October – Breast Cancer Awareness Month – would ever mean something so completely different to me.
Before all of this, October was just October. Thanksgiving. Blueberry Jam. Celtic Colours. Halloween.
Now, obviously, it hits a little closer to home.
But I’m grateful that Breast Cancer Awareness Month exists. Because if it didn’t, maybe my story would have looked very different.
So for anyone here who doesn’t know me, I’ll start at the beginning of this self-proclaimed “journey.” And because I’m an engineer and I work in analytics, I think the easiest way for me to tell this story is through numbers.
So let’s start with one.
One was how old my daughter, Azalea, was when I was diagnosed.
Two, the stage of my cancer.
Three, the grade of my cancer. Somewhat typical of those diagnosed at a young age, the cancer is aggressive and the cells divide, grow (and spread) faster than grade 1 or 2 cells.
Four. The number of radiation markers I got on my chest. My first ever tattoos. Four is also the percentage of women diagnosed with breast cancer, that like me, were under the age of 40.
Six was the number of chemotherapy treatments I had. Six weeks was also the recovery time for each of my surgeries. Six weeks where I couldn’t lift my arm above 90 degrees, or my daughter out of her crib.
Eight. I think we’re all familiar with this one. One in eight. The number of us that’ll be diagnosed with breast cancer in our lifetime.
Thirty was the number of radiation treatments.
Ten thousand. The number of kilometers driven to and from appointments in the first six months after my diagnosis.
Seventeen was the number of Herceptin treatments that were planned.
And sixteen was the number I actually received.
Because apparently, after sixteen, my body decided we’d had enough.
I had an allergic reaction after my sixteenth Herceptin that persisted for weeks and eventually required steroids.
So my oncology team and I decided that seventeen was a nice number in theory, but sixteen was probably enough for me.
Which means, this week, I officially completed my active treatment. Which is a pretty surreal thing to say out loud. Because for the last year and a bit, there has always been another appointment. Another scan. Another treatment. Another surgery. Another blood draw. Another needle. Another thing to get through.
And suddenly, this week, I got to say: “Okay. That’s it. At least for that part.”
Because cancer doesn’t really come with a neat little certificate that says, “Congratulations! You’re done!”
I’m still in treatment.
I have a medication that essentially strips my body of estrogen because my cancer was fueled by hormones.
I have a monthly Zoladex injection that puts me in medically-induced menopause.
I have an infusion for my bones every six months.
And, yes, there are still appointments. I had three this week.
There are still scans.
There is still that little voice in the back of my head that wonders what every ache and pain means.
But I’m here. And I’m standing in front of you. And I feel pretty damn good about that.
If you had told me in January 2025 that I would be standing here talking about breast cancer, I would have not believed you.
2025 had actually started out really well. Azalea was just over a year old. I was working full time, just getting into the groove of my new position I started after coming back from maternity leave.
My husband and I were planning our first international family vacation with her.
We love to travel, and we were so excited to be able to share that with our daughter.
Life was busy. Normal. Good.
Earlier that fall, I noticed something in my left breast.
It wasn’t even really a lump. It was more of soreness. I noticed it when I would bend over. And, ironically, one of the things that made me notice it was picking up Azalea’s soother. Because when she was a baby, (and even a toddler) she loved her soo.
Sometimes she’d spit one out, and it would bounce off the wall and land underneath the bed.
And I’d have to get down on all fours – and sometimes basically onto my chest – to find it.
And I remember thinking, This is weird. Why does this hurt? So I mentioned it to my doctor. And I’m very fortunate that I have a really good doctor. One who listens to me. One who believed me when I said, I think something is different.
She couldn’t really feel anything significant. But she asked if I wanted to investigate it further. And I said, “Sure. Why not?”
So I went for a mammogram and an ultrasound. And everything looked okay.
They essentially said, “We’ll follow up in six months.” And I went back to my life.
I didn’t think about it. At all. I went on vacation. I came home. We celebrated Easter.
I celebrated my 37th birthday. I went to work. I was raising a one-year-old. And if you’ve ever had a one-year-old, you know that you don’t have a whole lot of time to sit around thinking about yourself anyway.
So I just moved on. Until six months later. I had a follow-up appointment. And, actually, I was at a work conference in Sydney that day. I slipped out a little early, went to the appointment, and honestly, I still wasn’t particularly worried.
Then my doctor called. And said they wanted to do a biopsy.
Okay. That wasn’t ideal. But I still wasn’t really thinking cancer. I work in healthcare. I’ve spent years working around hospitals and clinics.
So medical appointments and tests don’t particularly scare me. Granted, I don’t work on the clinical side of things…I thought, Okay. Let’s get this checked out. So I went for the biopsy.
My husband dropped me off…I think he went to Home Depot. We were both still taking it very casually. It was very much…We’ll get this done and then we’ll go home and continue on with our day.
The biopsy itself was…not particularly pleasant. And afterwards, I remember thinking, “well, that was a little more intense than I expected.”
Eventually, we learned that there was a very high likelihood that it was malignant.
And those few days of waiting were some of the hardest days. Because when you don’t know, your brain just goes everywhere. And nowhere useful.
You imagine every possible outcome. You Google things you probably shouldn’t Google. You lie awake. You have a headache because you can’t turn your brain off. And I actually found myself thinking back to when I was pregnant with Azalea.
We had gone to Halifax for a fetal assessment appointment. We were so casual about it. Everything about my early pregnancy was very…easy.
We were talking about where we were going to have lunch afterward.
And then the doctor came in and told us there was a chance something could be wrong with the baby.
Suddenly, we were faced with decisions we had never imagined having to make. And I remember that feeling of just waiting. Waiting for an answer that could completely change your life.
Cancer was like that.
Finally, on the day before Canada Day, my phone rang.
Filled with stress, I had gone down for a nap. I actually left my phone with my husband and said: “If the phone rings, answer it.”
I hadn’t been asleep very long when he woke me. And my doctor told me: You have invasive ductal carcinoma. A term I had never heard before. And a term I hope I never have to hear again. And that was it. Life became divided into two parts. Before cancer. And after cancer.
I remember one of my first thoughts wasn’t even about me. It was: How the hell are we going to tell my parents? How do you tell your parents that their daughter has cancer? Especially when you have a child of your own now. Because suddenly I could understand what it would feel like to be on the other side of that conversation. And I couldn’t imagine hearing it about Azalea. My sister was one of the first people I told.
And then a group chat with friends. One with family.
It was initially met with a lot of stunned silence. I could picture the side chats that were likely brewing… “wtf? Is she for real?”…
And once the news was out, everything moved incredibly quickly. Appointments in Sydney. Inverness. Antigonish. Sydney again.
Surgeons. Oncologists. Second opinions. Decisions. And more decisions.
It was like somebody hit fast-forward.
At first, maybe it would be a lumpectomy. Then it was a mastectomy.
Okay. I could handle that.
In my head, I thought: “Fine. We’ll do the mastectomy. Get it out. Maybe I won’t need radiation.” Then surgery happened. And my lymph nodes were positive.
So radiation was happening anyway. That was a really shitty day. Probably the worst day of the whole journey for me.
Not necessarily because it was physically the worst. There were days when I felt much worse physically. But mentally, that was the moment when it really hit me.
I remember sitting with the surgeon and hearing: “We took the lymph nodes, and they were positive.” And thinking: “Okay. This is serious. Because until then, there was still this little part of me that thought maybe I could just get through this one thing and then go back to normal.”
But there was no going back to exactly the way things had been.
Please tune in next week for part two of Katie’s journey.