Thursday, July 29, 2010

One, two, buckle my shoe

Stella tied her shoelaces by herself this morning. And I was not in a rush to get out the door. Call the me from three months ago and ask if that scene would have had a chance in hell of happening.

Today is a good day. I'm at the point of being able to grocery shop again, and crave a snack at 10 am again, and put mascara on the eyelashes that are still holding fast for now. The loaf of bread that has taunted me since last Friday when I had a slice post-chemo... oh wait... just had to swallow back a bit of varmint there... that loaf is in the garbage now. Ding dong, the witch is dead. I can't begin to describe how that bread has haunted my every waking moment, with only the thought of having to go out to buy new bread worse.

As I was driving away (away, I tell you!) from Wal-Mart to pick up some shovels and playing cards and cheap DVDs for our upcoming trip to Osoyoos, I heard Drugs in My Pocket by the Monks and thought of the Sunday afternoon singing sessions in S's living room with my cousin A, belting out the tunes at full-tilt and having a fucking blast. Perhaps not a surprise to some that I have a bit of a tendency toward singing my brains out at the slightest provocation (quiet, all you phone company people), but seriously, it sometimes takes six days of serious nausea to remind a gal how much fun it is to release the hounds.

Like I said, today is a good day.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Triple O baby

Had a breakthrough c/o the Wet Spot this evening. I started the day wanting only peaches and bacon, and only distractedly so. My dear dad agreed to buy and fry up the pig while I took the 20 minute drive (the grocery store was still a no go for me) and he even picked up some fresh peaches for my enjoyment.

After a slightly runny egg and four pieces of salty goodness (I know, not on the "What you should eat if you have cancer" diet), I felt something creeping back. Could still only manage a random corn on the cob for lunch, but by the time dinner came around, the quiet revolution had begun.

Pete's shooting tonight - film, not people - so I had the kids. It's usually a Wet Spot night, and it's been ages, so I decided tonight should be no different. My parents volunteered to meet me and with my aunt and niece in tow, there was seven of us to witness my fully cleaned plate where used to lie a Monty, fries with blessed vinegar and coleslaw. Wonder of wonders, I even ordered a mini dessert.

Unbelievable full feeling, despite the lack of villi waving around my digestive tract by this point. The heartburn is sure to set in soon, but who the fuck cares, baby... I ate.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Driving like a Vancouver arsehole

Despite the fact that I grew up in Victoria and moved back here two years ago after spending 10 years across the Strait, I still drive like a Vancouver arsehole when it comes right down to it. In Vancouver, everywhere you want to be seems to be 40 minutes away, or 20 in the off hours. I was always striving to reach that 20, thus the arsehole driving. In Victoria, everywhere takes 10 minutes, 20 tops, so driving like an arsehole is a waste of energy, and yet...

I ventured out today after dropping Stella off at daycamp to see if I could will myself to crave something to eat. The nausea's getting so bad that I considered going back go the hardcore meds this morning. Pete's garlic whatever he had yesterday for lunch was creeping across the bed all night and the brief toss of a wipe into the garbage this morning released such a stench of regular garbage smell that I swooned like a belle. It's bad, folks, and I'm not a good sickie for longer than a day or two.

I thought a brief trip to the grocery store might inspire a smell of potato salad, a whiff of pickled egg or the simple sight of a bag of ketchup chips on display to tempt me over the edge of this thing. Instead I was hit with strange smells of the building and nearly lost the three Cheerios I had in my gut all over the basil plants in the doorway. I steeled myself, became a temporary mouth-breather and grabbed some iced tea mix to go - the only thing I can drink these days with blasted water tasting like acid rain.

When I escaped, I hopped into my car like some Top Gear lunatic and had a sudden flash of "sodium! I could have sodium!" A McDonald's hashbrown seemed the likeliest candidate, so I gave in. But it was lukewarm and super Mcgreasy. Was so disappointed that I sped the eight minutes home, cutting off people left and right. Thing is, in Victoria, drivers practically apologize for getting in your way, which makes the arsehole bit much less fun.

Ah well, I tried.

Monday, July 26, 2010

One step forward...

Feel rather like garbage today, but trying to press on. The good news? I think there may be shrinkage. But then I get a bit nervous in an eye exam when I have to choose between this one and this one. Which one is clearer? Why is it fucking up to me? You're the doctor!

And so with cancer, it's been left up to me to determine whether there have been changes. Last Wednesday I said that I didn't think things had gotten worse, but as soon as I said it, I wondered, have they? Maybe I don't want to think they have, but they indeed have... Contrary to what I maybe expected, I can't and don't want to think about my breast, the cancer, the treatments, the disease receding or advancing 24 hours a day.

No varminting this round, but I feel nauseous as hell, remembering smells, tasting tin, seeing my sickly skin in a green scarf (why did I choose green for something to go so close to my face?). Frances is home again today, but my parents, the champions, came by and picked her up this morning and I am ready to nap now.

Maybe things are receding, but I feel lousy anyhow.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Baconing through

Okay, so I've mentioned my quest to begin a new life of conscious eating and nutrition, during chemo and post all this craziness. But when there's nitrate-free bacon burning a hole in your meat drawer, and your husband is around to fry it up in a jiffy, and you're surfacing from a round two A/C fog to feel normal again, salty pig fat is sometimes a necessary evil.

The Chanel of anti-nauseants has definitely helped this time around, although the name of it, "Emend", sounds rather like one of those dopey anti-depressant commercials where a woman stands at a curtain brooding while her family plays scrabble in the background. The first 24 hours were nasty. Lots of curling up on the couch in the fetal position, cold cloth on my forehead, nibbling sick crackers and drifting in and out of sleep. Can't say enough about my lovely parents taking the girls for two nights this time.

I slept until 8 yesterday and until 8 today (absolute heaven) and the only anti-nauseants I've had in the last 12 hours have been a Gravol before sleep last night and my third and last dose of Emend. Had a few Shredded Wheat squares this morning and said bacon with a bit of egg and tomato. Still feel around 50-60%, but better than I felt this time last round, so victory, y'all.

Today we pick up Frances and Stella and I'm itching to see them. Aside from the brutally early wakeups they grace us with, and the constant yells of "she's looking at me! tell her not to look at me!", they fill my lizard brain with good stuff and I miss their smells and softness.

We are still planning to ditch this mild city for the intense heat of Osoyoos on Aug 3 for four nights. Hopefully this round two rebirth will continue as per schedule and I'll be feeling up to lounging at the pool with a book, summoning Raoul to bring me another mojito.

In the meantime, I have three more eps of Mad Men season three to catch up on before season four begins tonight. Oh, the busy life of a cancer survivor. And I am a survivor already, did you know that? I just decided.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

I love Paris in the springtime

To get away from all this post-chemo miserableness, I turn to gay Paris. Pete and I have talked about going there when all this madness is over next spring and I can't think of a better place to share with my love.

I've been to the city of lights twice before: once with my gay ex-boyfriend when I was 21 and again when I was 23 with my cousin and her then-boyfriend (now husband) during our obligatory four-month backpacking tour of Europe. The first time it was, unsurprisingly, all about fashion. I was obsessed with all things clothes and my travelling companion was similarly eager to traipse through all the houses of Chanel, Gaultier and Dior. The shopkeepers were pretty tolerant of us as we fingered the $600 bustiers and rubbed our feet on the plush carpeted stairs going up to the couturier rooms. I remember D bought a Gaultier T-shirt and I bought a pair of outrageous platform clogs that almost broke my ankles several times.

We also toured the necessary art museums and sauntered through Versailles, but it was really all about the clothes during those 11 days of Parisian bliss. Food? Not memorable. Wine? Ventured once into a shop and bought some horrible white stuff.

The second time I went, I felt all grown-up and independent. I left T and her boy to tour the Louvre while I hopped onto the Metro to check out the 1st arrondissement where I had stayed at 21 and wandered around trying to look French. I remember buying the same little Eiffel tower keychain I had bought two years earlier and thinking, "shit, man, here I am in the same place in Paris... I feel pretty fucking lucky."

Both times I went, I wasn't in love with a boy, which made the soft pink lights from the old lampposts, the bridges, the river, the everything, a bit difficult to take. With Pete, I could experience all that good stuff, plus the food, the wine, the cooking, the market-shopping.

It's what I think about as I lay about on our big red couch and crave french fries with vinegar.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Round two: giddy up

Just finished the obligatory post-chemo soup and toast (thanks, S), but because I don't feel crappers yet, I really wanted Pete's sushi (although perhaps not the octopus balls... do octopi have balls?).

My second chemo session finished at 1 pm and felt pretty similar to the last one - no pain, no reaction. Which is good. This morning was a bit of a clusterfuck. I have this shiny new anti-nauseant called Emend, which is the Chanel of pre-chemo drugs. I'm supposed to take the first of the three pills one hour before chemo. My appointment was for 11 am, which really means chemo starts around 11:30, after all the nurse chitchat and vein warming shenanigans. By 10:15 I was still at home and hadn't heard whether my white blood cell count was high enough to go ahead with the treatment.

So like any pushy broad, I called every number I had at the Agency and left multiple terse messages. No way I was taking a $33 pill for fun and no way I was leaving my house for the appointment until I heard back. Finally, at 10:55 I get a call from a confused woman at reception asking what I needed.

"Counts, man, counts"!

"Yes - they're all fine. You better hurry and come in if your appointment's in five minutes!"

She has obviously never met Pete and his ability to outrun all these stinkin' Victorians in his beat-up Acura. I downed the Chanel pill and dashed out the door with my other meds, some crackers and a pulpy book, making it to the Agency at 11:01. Sweet driving (bonus: no kids in car).

I arrived at the chemo reception while a gaggle (drone?) of nurses were discussing my multiple messages and the complexities of the phone forwarding system. After listening for awhile, I told them I was the "Ms. McCart in question" and they looked embarrassed and apologized.

"Unless you hear otherwise, your counts are fine."

"I don't like that process. I want to hear from someone that all is good so I'm not wondering if someone has forgotten to call me in time."

"We'll see what we can do."

By the time I was getting the first uber-syringe of Doxorubicin injected into my IV, the chemo nurse assigned to me was explaining how from now on I'd be getting a call the afternoon before my next chemo to tell me whether the light was green or red on my white blood cell counts. Victory, beyotches.

So pre-chemo round one, my count was around 5.5. When I had my test yesterday, it was 2.5, still acceptable to go ahead with chemo (1.5 is the lowest I can go and still proceed). Pete was documenting it all on his iPhone while I enjoyed the familiar, tinny taste of the Dox and subsequent slight blur in my vision.

Beside me was a younger, bald guy - mid-30s (testicular cancer?) - who was on his fourth treatment. Jealous. He was complaining about losing his eyebrows. Joy. And about not really enjoying solid food anymore. Oh, the anticipation.

At my last onc visit on Wednesday I asked about seeing a nutritionist - not because I'm having any eating issues, but because I have a gazillion questions about things like acid vs. alkaline, taking garlic pills when you have low platelet counts, those powdered "greens" I've read so much about lately, and immunity-boosting foods that don't involve breaking out the juicer and risking botulism at a very inopportune time. I swear, if I get the "just eat a balanced diet" line I might maim somebody. I'm beyond balanced diet, dolls - I want the diet that will starve off all future cancer cells so I'm not doing this again. And there is tons out there on the subject.

So I wait to see what kind of nausea this round will gift me with and count the minutes until I can take my first rescue pill at 3 pm. Send your non-vomit vibes my way!

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Don't pity me

I had to get a blood test at the Agency today to see if I can go ahead with round two tomorrow. Frances' daycare person has a sinus infection and is terrified of passing anything on to me so she closed today, leaving little Ms. Taylor with me for the day and a companion for the lab visit.

It was the first time I've brought either of the girls with me to the Agency and I was fully aware that amongst all the oldies I'd get a bit of a look, what with the conehead, only slightly concealed by my newsboy, and a tiny person holding my hand. What I wasn't prepared for were the looks of what seemed like pity from some of the Agency staff. This "Oh, shit, that's awful" look as they pondered Frances and her sparkly Converse and then me with my cancer. Didn't. like. it. at. all.

I can get used to the glances, the obvious stares, the wondering, the silent story-ascribing, but not pity. I should have launched into some passionate "you'll never amount to anything, little girl" Oscar-worthy tirade from Precious to switch it all from pity to disgust - that would have been much easier to take.

No matter. I have a helper today while I figure out how to make meringues for mini pavlovas and listen for the 50th time to "why you have no hair? I want you to have hair! I have hair! Why didn't Daddy save your hair?"

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Who set up the broad in the park?

So here's the thing about having cancer - you can't stop these movie-of-the-week moments that pop up at the oddest times.

About 30 minutes ago I left the house to go for a walk with Lucy. I decided to keep the wig and green headscarf I had donned for dropping Stella at her friend's birthday tea party earlier, even though my head was itchy and the addition of sunglasses made me look seriously over-accessorized. I managed to dodge a few neighbours, who I knew would either ask about the red hair or look at me funny, and made it over to a nearby park that looked devoid of any local mothers I might recognize.

As I walked Lucy down the sidewalk I saw a little girl, about four or five, skipping rope on the basketball court. I walked past her and she called out to me.

"Excuse me!"

"Yes?"

"You look nice."

The biggest, stupidest grin I've had and kept on my face for ages. So whoever set up the girl, bravo to you. Bravo to you.

In other news, my onc was pleased that I wasn't noticing any changes in my breast since my last visit, so she prescribed me another new and uber-expensive anti-nausea drug ($100 for three pills!) and sent me on my way. Tomorrow I get a blood test that will show whether my white blood cell counts are high enough to go ahead with chemo round two on Friday. Bring it on.

From baby chick to Homer Simpson

Okay, I'll try to promise that this will be my last post about hair. I know, I know, it's just freakin' hair, but 38 years of having it means that less than one week of it disappearing feels like a major change in a girl's life.

I've spent the last few days molting from my baby chick head, mopping up shower floors and picking up needle-like hairs from the insides of my clothes. When I examined my pillow yesterday morning, it was a lovely shade of brown. So last night I asked Pete to remove the guard from the shaver and go for it. Once again, I was emotional about it, because I knew this would officially bring me into conehead territory, and maybe I'm more the Chris Farley type, but man, that old SNL segment was highly overrated.

So Pete sheared me like a sheep and I watched the last of my hair fall in brown and grey clumps to the floor of our sundeck and I wept. If I was being paid a movie star sum for my new five o'clock shadow head, I'd be more inclined to admire his work, but as it was, I could barely glance into the mirror and still can't bring myself to look for more than a second. It's like looking into an eclipse.

So no more hiding under what could be just a short haircut - I am now that woman in the grocery check-out line who looks like she's dying or sumpthin. I have a whole story assigned to me as I buy stamps, grab a coffee or grab my paper from our carrier. I am cancer girl.

Today I go see my onc for the first time since finding out my scans were clear - a whole three weeks ago. Let's hope she's happy with how round one attacked the tumours so I know this vanity tour will pay off.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Softening up my tin heart

For every moment of weakness over something as inconsequential as hair, I have a parallel moment of feeling like a bitch in battle, willing to do whatever it takes to beat this thing down - be it growing wheatgrass on my windowsill to put into some disgusting shakes, giving up every bad food I've ever loved, or meeting with a swami eight times a week to work it out in Sanskrit.

Part of this feeling like I'll do whatever the fuck it takes comes from my girls, my man, my family and close friends, but there's also a big part that comes from this bloody inspiring place that I work. Let me be honest here, folks, I'm not a neurosurgeon, an aid worker in a third world country, a single mother of six working three jobs or even the CEO of a small business. I'm a regular office worker who, until last month, worked incredibly hard to do good work for people I care about. And the niceness I've gotten from the place over the past several weeks has smacked me upside the head and made me realize that it's deep out there, man.

It's not that when I got diagnosed I expected to get a "good luck with that, talk to you when you come back!" response from work, but honestly, the generosity and pure kindness I have had delivered in truckloads from my cross-country friends, teammates and even casual colleagues - including ones that no longer work there - has blown me away and continues to make me blink like an idiot every day. It has made leaving so abruptly less painful and made the idea of eventually returning so less scary than it could be.

This shizz has already changed my little robot brain considerably, and I expect it will continue to do so as I go through each stage of the next several months, but knowing that I have this unexpected cheering section and I didn't have to pay them to say nice things to me makes me want to do my rock solid air drums to Always Something There to Remind Me. Yep... I'm dorkier than you can ever imagine.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Happy birthday to baldie

Hair on my shoulders, hair on my pillow, hair in the sink. It's everywhere, dude, and it's not from some feline companion hanging around my neck. Every once in awhile I pull a long hair off my sweater and mourn for a nanosecond, or pick up a hairbrush and put it down again like an idiot, or dash to the door to answer it without scarf/hat only to get a momentarily stare and an overenthusiastic, "Hi!!" Strange times.

It's my birthday today - one I'll likely not forget, but hopefully more for how fab I looked in my Joan Holloway wig than because I was full of disease. I read a quote in a book recently about not being able to ever get chemo again if you have a recurrence. Your organs would rebel and likely punk out. Makes getting this shizz at 37 (now 38) all the more wonderful.

So as I work to get it out this time, I have to be diligent - psychotic at times, I suppose, to ensure it never comes back again. Another 60 or 70 years is how long I'd like to stretch this life out, and that's a wicked long time to be cancer-free in this world. Guess what I'll be wishing for when I blow out ye olde candles today?

Friday, July 16, 2010

Gone, baby, gone

Sayonara, hair. Not sure if I look like Sluggo, one or both of my brothers, or a prison bitch (the girl kind), but I'm definitely almost hairless.

Yesterday I was able to begin pulling my hair out of my head in clumps, and although I expected it, it was still a bit shocking. By the time I was putting the girls into bed, I was all wound up about the fact that "the moment" had arrived and I wasn't ready for it. After the goodnights I wallowed in bed for a few minutes crying about being bald and being seen as sick first and Carissa second. Pete told a few crass jokes and then made me feel better and I decided I couldn't have the hair on my head a second longer.

The clippers we have are a bit ancient, so Pete suggested the pet clippers we bought for Lucy a few months ago - still new and in the box. I figured using pet clippers to shave me bald seemed about right so we set up barbershop on the deck. I shaved Pete first and he definitely looked a bit like Sluggo, but mostly still like him.

Then it was my turn. He cut my ponytail off first, and for a few minutes I held on to it like it was my pet hamster. Completely surreal. Pete was trying to get me to glance at myself in the sunroom window, but I couldn't bear it. As he shaved and shaved, I saw blonde, then chestnut, then some ashy brown colour fall away, with grey mixed in there. Appalling, really. Twenty years of dying my hair and here I was starting from scratch.

When it was over, I could barely lift my head to show Pete, let alone look in the mirror. I jumped in the shower to wash all the hair bits off and then took a look. Oh my. All nose and eyes and teeth, just as I suspected. And with my shoulders and boobs so, well... so there, I looked like I was prepping for an audition for a hardcore lesbian prison porno flick. Like some Irish bruiser ready to fucking beat you down if you look at me the wrong way.


I went to bed feeling strange, but relieved the day was finally here. When I went in to get Frances in the morning, she barely glanced at my head.

"See? Mommy's bald now. You like it?" I said.

"I want cereal."

When Stella woke up she couldn't stop staring.

"You look different! I have to draw a picture of you now. And, you're gonna wear your scarf and hat, right?!" She was a bit embarrassed. So I wore my hat to drop her off at her summer camp and her teachers said nothing to me.

I visited my parents today and they were a bit taken aback, but good sports. Decided I should have the wig option, just in case there's a cotillion or some other fancy function this summer that a poor boy cap won't do me for. So I left Frances with my dad and brought my mom and her sister Madeline downtown for hair shopping.


Found this little number and figured, what the hell. I'll be red for a few months and give Pete the fire engine he's always wanted.

And so my new hairless life begins. It's super short now, but the hair is easy to pull out so I'll likely be shiny bald in a few days. But don't you look at me the wrong way, beyotch!

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Got some book learnin' to do

My first job was in a library as a page. My mom's best friend helped me get the job when I was 15 and the interview with the head librarian was rather grueling for what turned out to be extremely tedious work. Gathering books. Repairing books. Looking for money people would sometimes use as bookmarks in the books. Sorting books. Shelving books. Laying down in the children's section poring over old Judy Blume books.

While I shelved, I would generally read a page or two, and thus developed a habit for skimming and other attention-deficit learning habits that would serve me well in my university days.

One genre I've never really been interested in is self-help. I have a pregnancy guide or two, but generally find most reading in the life coaching section to be preachy and self-centred, overly cutesy and sentimental, or too broad and clinical to be of any use. The best advice I got on baby-farming was from other mothers and it continues to be that way for most other life situations.

For this cancer jazz, though, I've found myself buying books. I have time to read, for one thing, and although I have been introduced to several wonderful doctors and real live women to help me get through the uncertainty of what's next on the treatment front, I'm finding a gap in the "what can I do?" area.

My doctors keep it all very simple. Eat well. Sleep. Relax. Laugh. You didn't do anything to bring this on. Here's the medicine we'll prescribe to make it better. Blame it on my mom, but I don't have 100% stock in doctors and traditional medicine. They're treating symptoms/disease, but not the whole person. So I read about what I can do to make myself better in all the other areas.

What I do know is that although I was not an overweight person before I was diagnosed, I was not a healthy person. Besides the sleep-deprivation, stress and lack of exercise that marked many of my days, I was not eating with 100% consciousness. Not a crime, but if I'm looking for a pre-cancer state of the union address on my body, I need only look to my own choices for speaking notes.

There are a host of books that trumpet the elimination of meat and milk products at the very least and frequent juice fasts and enemas at the very most. There's wheatgrass, omega-3s, acids vs. alkalines, non-dairy calcium sources and regular colonics. There's looking at Japan and the lower rate of breast cancer there. There's seal blubber, wild game, a raw food diet and glass of wine with dinner. It's all coming at me like rocket ships as I delve deeper into the science and pseudo-science of cancer prevention and treatment.

I will continue with the doctor-prescribed treatment. That's a no-brainer. But while the chemo kills all that is bad and good in my body, erasing my womb, my hair, my white blood cells, possibly my fingernails, I need to find a way to fill it all in with good stuff this time. What that will look like for me, I have no idea, but nothing will ever be the same again.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Cancer battle plan (whining optional)

When I told my girls I have cancer, their reactions were age-appropriate.

Stella (5) wanted to pick me pea pods and flowers from the garden to make me better and came home for several days with "Do you still have two boobs?" as the first question out of her mouth. We don't talk about it a lot, but she asked to feel the lump near my armpit and knows what all the extra hand-washing is for. Several weeks later now I'd like to say she's a more patient kid, more prone to stripping wallpaper in her spare time or not whining in the morning, but alas... she's still five.

Frances (2) decided the cancer was all about her, so looks down her own shirt and pronounces, apropos of nothing, "Well, I have two boobies!" Maybe it's the proximity to her halcyon breastfeeding days, not that long ago, or the general understanding that Frances still = mommy so nothing bad could ever really happen to her, but she's generally not fussed about it. I like it that way.

What could be a challenge, but wasn't an issue with round one and my parents in town, is dealing with the side effects from chemo and the way my two lovely creatures will eventually lose their patience with mom the layabout. They say they'll be nice to mommy and all, but when I ring my little sick bell (oh, how I'd love to actually have a sick bell), who's to say they won't come with their list of demands rather than a cup of ice chips?

Remains to be seen, but man, when they're not being pains in the arse, they're kinda nice to have around. And ain't no way I'm not going to see how it all turns out.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Food evolution

Since the moment I was diagnosed, I have been building up my own brand of a food revolution. I have to warn you, I ain't no food expert and am only beginning to touch the surface of this stuff, but in the name of what I can control, the great unknown and alternative medicine, I have to look to what I put in my body as the first thing I choose to change about myself. It'll be a bumpy process, to be sure, but what do I have right now other than time to iron things out?

I went most of the first three decades of my life being fairly unaware of what I ate or didn't eat. When you have an Italian mother who cooks like a hot damn, you don't give the search for good food much effort. I had a few friends with mothers who would make them take metamucil with their orange juice, bake with carob chips or get their peanut butter drained from a big vat in the health food store, but had no reason to think about food processing other than being annoyed my mom refused to buy wagon wheels, wonderbread or hamburger helper. "Managgia, I can make you a homemade hamburger helper that's better than anything you'll find in the store!" Not the point, mom.

So I ate lasagna, veal, ravioli, roast beef, wieners and beans and eventually pot noodles, bagged salad and the otherwise vodka-centric diet of my 20s.

When I met Pete, I met a boy who had had a few brushes with foodiedom, from being brought up in an English household (strange) working in a hospital (bad) to dating a Japanese chef (good... well, sorta good). We tried new foods together (or the handful of foods he hadn't already sampled), gorged in unbelievably great restaurants together, went on detoxes together, and gave up milk for soy together. I guess the foodie in me awoke with Pete and I haven't looked back.

When we moved to Victoria two years ago, Pete and I were pulled into that thing we had made fun of as Vancouverites - seeking out all things "Island". Locally raised and processed is a big deal here and it's easy to get caught up in the search for small farm markets and growing our own veg in this unbelievably ideal climate.

This awareness has slowly evolved into a search for what the hell it means to buy organic, what is local vs. organic and where the fuck has kale been all my life?

Compared to many, I am but a babe in the woods, but I'm taking steps. No more nitrates. No more hormone-injected meat. And as for my beloved soy? Sometime around Christmas, my dear sister-in-law regaled me with the tale of soy=estrogen and I've been guzzling the milk drawn from the tiny teats of almonds ever since. Whether the soy, the birth control pills I've been on for 20 years or the bevy of questionable food products I've been inhaling for years had any hand in crafting or feeding my estrogen-receptive tumours, I'll never know, but at least this way I have a shred of control over my conscience from here on in.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Gimme head with hair

There are many milestones in a hetero woman's life (aside from the obvious) that act as little markers of sexual change along the way. The first holler from a passing car, the first time your brother's friend notices you're actually a girl, the first time an ambulance driver or firefighter checks you out and you feel somehow a little less safe in the world. Then there's hair - the head kind. You can grow it, cut it, fluff it, tease it and it causes a reaction outside yourself. It's sexual, but it's also such a gender tag.

I remember some of my first Women's Studies classes at UVic, when I showed up as my tarted 18-year old self, knee socks, hot pants, determined that I was controlling all the gazes around me. Within 30 days I changed into a leggings and over-sized fisherman sweater-wearing girl who donned fakenstocks borrowed from her mother and put her hair in a bun every day. I was friends with bi girls, dykes, trannies, pre- and post-ops and realized I knew absolutely nothing about sexuality.

I've learned a couple 'o things since then, but one constant has been the ability to control sexual signals through my hair - and I don't mean by making it look perfect every day, cuz I ain't nothing if not a girl in a love-hate relationship with her hair. I'm talking about taking my tresses and deciding what part of the girl story about me I want to portray to the world. It's a tiny bit of power in a fucked up world.

In a few days, I'll likely lose my hair and there's nothing I can do about it. My cancer twin, S, says that the anticipation of losing it is worse than the actual loss, but she's got a lovely, classic beauty about her. I'm all angles and teeth and bone and ridgey skull and fear I may scare small animals with my impending baldness.

But I wait. And I use my thickening shampoo like an idiot every day. Tugging here and there to see if any loosens. I haven't decided on the wig route yet. I haven't decided whether I'll bare it in public, but I do know I'm more freaked out about this than I'll ever let on out loud.

In the meantime, I have my friend, C, who was bald by choice back in the day and looked pretty rockin. Here she is with me and another friend around 15+ years ago, looking like the saucy girl she's always been. I'll take inspiration where I can get it.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Oh sweet mother of sourness

When I was pregnant with Stella I was a bit queasy, but it wasn't satisfied by any cravings. With Frances, the whole pregnancy was a walk in the park. Now that I'm emerging from my first post-chemo fog, I have a super-size craving for sour.

Despite not actually feeling like puking, I still wear an ever-present shroud of nausea, and the ginger-lemon tea is getting a bit old. So alas... I turn to the pickle. I just returned from my first foray to the shops and managed to pick up all things sour. Ketchup chips, coleslaw, grapefruit, and tangy, no-garlic baby dills. I cranked the bottle open when I got home and sweet mother of Jesus, that was one good pickle. The first good meal I've had since Thursday.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Macarons


I may have mentioned this already, but I'm fairly obsessed with macarons these days. A few months ago I read a story about the tasty almond-flavoured treats in some travel mag and immediately had visions of opening my own macaron shop in Cook Street Village. I've tasted them since (meringue confections of buttery goodness), but have yet to make. You see, they require almond flour and my Stella is allergic to peanuts, which often contaminates other nut products.

And then today - the best cancer-blasting note from a JKGourmet sales rep telling me their almond flour (sold in a local health food store in Victoria) is completely peanut-free. And so I will soon begin my summer of macaron making.

First task = eliminate all the nasty smells in my kitchen that are making me want to never eat again and do virtually nothing all day today. Hell, I didn't say I was completely over this chemo crap.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

The slow perk up

Feeling better today. Even went to see an IMAX show - Whales - with Pete and the girls. While I was sitting in the theatre, eating popcorn and smiling at Frances, I thought, "do I really have cancer?"

I'm not so fond of these in-between moments. While I'm in the throes of nausea or getting injected with something, or scanned for something else, I'm in it. I'm there. I'm cancer girl. But washing a pot or picking up a pair of socks to toss in the laundry, it all seems so distant and unreal.

I try to wish the tumours smaller and sit at my meditation table to worry it all away, but I get up and realize that it could all still turn sideways on me, despite my focus. I should be happy I'm not puking or haven't developed an allergic reaction, or yet pulling wads of hair out, but it's all going to catch up to me soon. I'm still so early in the process.

But for now, I'll sit here, watching TV on a Sunday night for the first time in forever. Eating blueberries. Wondering if I'll feel well enough tomorrow to throw aside the cancer girl persona and do the wash or otherwise make myself useful to this house.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Nausea round two: cancer

Motherfucker finally got me yesterday evening, 20 minutes after taking my rescue pill. Oh, the orange popsicle that tasted so good going down an hour earlier...

It was a rough afternoon/evening. See-sawing between momentary bursts of alertness to a comatose state on the couch fueled by a combo of stimulant/depressive meds. And the smells of Pete's wonderful cooking all around me at so the wrong time.

I managed to stay in bed most of the night, thanks to a little hit of Gravol before hitting the sack, but it was a strange sleep with unrelated dreams... think the Old Spice guy showed up in there somewhere.

Today I'm showered and my face is less white but it feels like a semi is parked in my gut. Dying for a big bowl of hearty cereal or a stack of pancakes, but know I'd be doomed. Apparently the nausea is supposed to subside 24 hours after treatment, so holding on until 1 pm today.

In all, not a party. But I still plan to beat on the brat with a baseball bat. Oh yeah.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Nausea round one: me

My CT, bone and heart scans were all confirmed as a-ok this morning, so at 11 am, I began my first round of chemo with my French-Canadian nurse, Mimi.

A fairly surreal room - like a chemo movie set. Reclining hospital chairs, IV drips, old, bald women, young hairy men. I sat beside another youngish chick who was more than halfway through her treatments and half-bald, like some obstinate mullet-sporting dude. She imparted some words of wisdom, told me not to assume I'd be a vomit queen and then left, with another 5 hour treatment behind her.

I was only in for an hour or so and it went fairly quickly. Once Mimi confirmed that my scans were all clear, she directed me to take my anti-nausea meds, found a rockin' vein in the back of my hand (oh, sweet respite to the crook of my arm) and began slowly injecting two Nurse Ratchet-sized syringes filled with red fluid into my IV.

"This'll make you pee pink."

When that was over, she began an IV drip of clear fluid that took an hour. I beat most of the people in there, which made me a bit stupidly proud.

Pete stayed with me to watch the awful DVD "chemo teach" and listen to Mimi list off the long list of expected side affects and book my next round for July 23. When it was over, he drove me home, with a couple of stops for fruits and gingerale.

My lovely friend and cancer twin, S, told me to stay ahead of the nausea and take the meds religiously, so after an English muffin and some udon, I tried the couch out and began to feel my head get heavy - which nicely matched my ghost-white face. I waited for another 30 minutes or so, and then 3 hours after my chemo ended this afternoon, I took my first "rescue" pill.

Just in bloody time. I spent the first 90 minutes curled up on the couch and then emerged a few minutes ago to grab my computer. Still feel and look like absolutely shite, but I'm considering this afternoon my first win.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Freebird

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on, now,
'Cause there's too many places I've got to see.

I ain't no Lynyrd Skynyrd fangirl, but I feel something about this song on my last day before six months of chemo begins.

My bone and CT scans were both unremarkable, and although the full results of these tests and the heart scan I get tomorrow morning won't be in until Friday afternoon, I feel such a gigantic tumour lifted off my body. This all means the cancer is just in my left breast for now and I'm fighting something much smaller than me.

Believe you me, for the last few weeks, every twinge and ache has seemed an indication of a subdivision of cancerous cells dangling somewhere in my body, but for now, I'm clear.

I start round one of eight chemo treatments tomorrow, so one hour with an IV in my arm at the BCCA, then three weeks of a cocktail of side affects at home, ranging from hair loss, vomiting, and fatigue to mouth sores, early menopause and sun sensitivity. My white blood cell counts will get low with each cycle, which means bacteria will be my sworn enemy.

How this will all fit around trying to be there for my family, I'm not sure. I'm under no illusion this will involve nothing more than moving a few meetings around in my schedule, but I'll do everything I can not to let it take over every aspect of my life.

I have my anti-nausea drugs, my thermometer, my sick bucket, my magazines and cancer binder (I like to misspell it canser, just to slap it around a little) and even bought a rockin' hat today. My meditation table is set up in the corner of my living room, with only a few things on it so far: flowers from work, a picture and rocks from Sooke Harbour House, and a cute little pillow to kneel on. It'll grow over the next few weeks. It's to remind me that this isn't everything to me and I will be free of it one day.