Thursday, September 30, 2010

Am I a survivor?

With a brief, but recurring chat I had with my mom last night, I've been thinking about the s-word (survivor) and what it means to me.


When I was first diagnosed, I was a bit pissed off that there were rules around being called a survivor. Like having cancer and getting up every damn day wasn't enough - I also had to somehow reach a milestone... of what? 100% cancer-free? Five years in remission? Some kind of signed and sworn statement from my oncologist saying I could join the special club? Well, fuck you, yet another girls club with stupid rules. Besides, isn't a survivor just someone who continues to function or prosper in spite of opposition, hardship, or setbacks? I'm one now, beyotches.



The thing about my mom, though, is that she has never felt comfortable being thought of or singled out as a survivor. Yes, she had breast cancer. Yes, it was removed. Yes, she's cancer-free now. The idea is simple to me, but I think the word survivor for her conjures up some special sphere of privilege or pedestal-like behavior, which is so not my mom. And it gets me thinking about the word, too. Despite not wanting to be left out of any exclusive club, the badge of survivorhood is not necessarily one I feel I've earned and wear with any kind of obvious pride. Or maybe just not yet.


Yes, I'm going through chemo and still getting up to get shit done every day, but what's my choice? Yes, there is a boatload of crap ahead with radiation and surgery and recovery/diligence (whatever that looks like) ahead, but again... what's my choice? I guess I could lay in bed and waste away, but let's put things in perspective here. I live in the first world, in a lovely city, in a nice neighbourhood, with a great family, fabulous friends, a huge support network, an awesome workplace and basically no other excuse not to try to beat this thing down at every turn. There are way, WAY worse things I could be going through right now, so what right do I have to wallow in any way?


This Sunday is the run for the cure, and although I'm not quite ready to talk about how much it means to me that there are two team Carissas in two different cities running/walking for me that day, I do know that like my ma, I continue to function, in spite of any hardship or setback, so survive on, motherfucker.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Getting closer to a few moments

I suck at being sick. I'm not a good wallower. I can't sit still for very long, and even when I'm walking around on my tippy toes because my heels feel like raw meat, I'm not great at taking it easy. So I'm trying to ignore as much as possible the side effects of round five, annoyed that it's day five and I still feel like shite and trying to figure out the things I can get away with doing today without it leading to total collapse by the time Pete and the girls get home this afternoon.

The thing is, I actually am figuring some shit out. You know how sometimes you beat your little head against a wall over a thing for years - maybe not every day, but enough to make it a roadblock or at least an annoying truism about yourself? That stuff is starting to dissolve around me. I get little moments of "oh, that's what that's about!" or "Crap, that does not need to go on anymore." Some of this might be just about not being 20 anymore, and I'm sure my mom is snickering right now, thinking, "all in due time, my dear, Carissa", but that's the point. I haven't given myself enough time until now to understand a bit more about what it's all about.

And please. I ain't no enlightened guru or holier-than-thou "follow thy secret and thou shalt see" idiot. I hate that crap. The Oprah stuff drives me a bit batty and I'm not into the self-help industry. I think I analyze myself and my motivations on my own enough and I'd rather the rest of us not get so caught up in talking about our own navel-gazing. Boring, really. So I'm trying not to let this cancer dealio make me into something more insufferable than I already am. I don't want to drag a cross around town or be any more didactic than I already am about shit, but if I stop for a moment and think about what this is all doing for me, there are definitely hints of getting at something deeper for myself.  And, well, I'll take that.



It's Frances' third birthday today. My lovely little baby is gigantic now and I feel unbelievably happy to be here for it, even as it takes me ever longer to make myself presentable in the morning. Heck, eyebrows and eyelashes are for suckers anyhow.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

so. very. tired.

Yesterday morning the side effects of round five smacked me in the face. I took my place on the couch around 11 am and didn't get up until 3 pm. I'm one big pile of achy hurt - from my teeth to my heels - and Tylenol is a useless drug.

However, darlings, I refuse to complain anymore about this garbage. My daughters are being mostly good about lazy mom, my boy lets me fall asleep on the couch and doesn't mind when I drool all over the throw pillows, and this will all eventually pass.

Frances turns three tomorrow and I gots shit to do.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Mr. Stay Puft


It's day three of round five and I feel like Mr. Stay Puft. Not visibly swollen or otherwise marshmallow-like, but I imagine my limbs being injected by a bicycle pump and my face and mouth stung by a swarm of bees. Walking home from Stella's school I felt 100 years old and was cursing the gaggle of spandexed mommies gaining on me from behind, ready to do their daily bootcamp class. Will take this any day over nausea though.

Other than these gems of side effects and dreaming of hanging Chinese lanterns in doorways all night, post-chemo this time is manageable. My tongue is burnt, my IV hand is still big and blue, but I can take smells and eat breakfast. Was even reading my cancer lit over the weekend, getting ever closer to figuring out what to eat and what not to eat - zeroing in particularly on the estrogen-laden sources of food and sundry all around us.

Read an article in the Globe about post-menopausal hormone therapy and how it's been all but confirmed that pumping extra estrogen into a girl's bod after menses does not do a body good. If 70% of breast cancers are estrogen-receptive, and so many of us have some bad cells kickin' around our fun bags, why mess around there when we don't have to?

I try to think of myself B.C. and how I knew I was tempting fate by being on birth control pills for 20 years, ignoring the paraben labels for too long, and ingesting a host of other estrogens/carcinogens because nothing was immediate. Nothing is ever directly linked. Nothing is 100% confirmed, so let me live and work it all out while trying my best to be better at everything. I'm the first to trumpet that we're all responsible for what goes into our bodies and for sifting through the garbage that comes at us in terms of what's shit and what's not shit to put in there, but how much did I just expect to have my body sort it all out somehow and deal me the cancer card when I was old and ready?

It continues to confound me every time I go to the BCCA and I see patients who are so obese they're immobile, smoking like a chimney outside the building and then cramming back the bags of doughnuts in the waiting room just to get hooked up to an IV to kill the good with the bad. To let someone and something else take care of the problem. Listen, I know I'm a judgy bitch, but mamma mia. Here's me worrying about the percentage of lavender oil in my deodorant.

So I sort things out, teeter on that edge of what will be right for me, what will keep me living to 100, what will let me continue to eat with friends, and what will help me get through the next 10 years of dinners with my kids without making everyone curse my wheatgrass smoothies.

And all I want right now is an ice cream sundae with hot fudge and salty peanuts.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

New cocktail, next chapter

I had my marathon round five session session yesterday, with Docetaxel and Herceptin as the new drugs of choice. These last four rounds are about continuing to kill the good with the bad (Doce) and directly targeting the HER2-positive cancer cells (Her).

It all felt like being in one big experiment and the numbers continue to boggle me. The fact that only 20% of breast cancers show up in women under 50 and 1 in 5 of all breast cancers are HER2-positive, meaning it tests positive for a protein called human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (HER2), which promotes the aggressive growth of cancer cells, makes me some kind of abnormality already. With the addition of a new low-tech preventative treatment they gave me yesterday, the feeling of "hey, let's try this shit out!" only grew.

Since cancer docs started prescribing Docetaxel (drawn from the yew tree) to chemo patients, it has been known to mess with the usual hair follicle growth and plummet in white blood cells, but it also likes to mess with your fingers and toes, turning them black and causing them to fall off, and sometimes even forever. I remember a few years ago reading an article on the rocker chick Bif Naked, who was going through chemo. The interviewer remarked on her black fingernails and that image stuck in my little lizard brain.

Just last week, my little Victoria cancer clinic began using frozen gloves to prevent blood flow to patients while they're being injected with Docetaxel. I was one of the first recipients of the treatment yesterday and although it was bloody cold and painful, I hope it curbs the black fingernail issue.

Overall, my session just tipped the 3.5 hour mark and started 1.5 hours after I arrived. It was all about waiting for a chair on a busy Friday afternoon and then waiting to see if there would be allergic reactions to anything. No allergies, thank the goddesses, but all the tampering with my IV vein left me with a lovely blue hand. Thankfully the nurses were in good spirits and chatted me up to keep my mind off the possibility of stopping breathing or blowing up like a pufferfish.

Side effects so far have been minimal. I'm on my speed-like steroids to keep any nausea and lingering allergic reactions at bay, but still fell into a coma on the couch as soon as I got home. I downed a Gravol and some preventative Tylenol for the promised flu-like symptoms and crashed into bed for the fullest 8 hours of sleep I've had in forever. Had a normal bowl of cereal this morning with my chaser of steroids and feel relatively normal, if not a little hungover.

The girls stayed at my parents' place last night and today is Frances' first day of ballet. I'm determined to see her twirl around in all her pinky, frothy goodness.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

el doctor está loco

My day before has been about relief, shopping and realizing all doctors are not created equal (some are indeed more equal than others).

At my arm poking session this morning at LifeLabs, I was more than a little disheartened to see my vein girl was again young and sweet. But boy, was she a master. A tiny poke and immediate gold. I complained that my heart scan poker was a beast and she laughed and said, "Come on in here for all your IVs from now on." Oh that I could, fine wench.

Shopping was really the only activity that could have followed a lab visit, so off to Sephora to buy some Korres all-natural face wash and moisturizer and the Gap to take advantage of a ridiculous sale - nabbing two sweaters for $50. Ah... that feels better.

Pete met me at the BCCA for my 1:30 with a stand-in doc - Dr. S - who turned out to be quite the prize. As soon as we waltzed in, late and hurried looking and quite surprised himself to be there, I decided I wasn't into a boob reveal today. He was a bit of a doppelganger for Tom Green. Unshaven, thin, and a bit wild in the eyes. And not in a sexy way. The good news was that my Neutrophils were 3.4. Rockin' good times. And now I've convinced myself that my green/carrot juice combo, green tea and giant mug of water before blood tests do the trick for boosting my results. 3.2 is in the normal, everyday walkin' around range for white blood cells, so suck it, cancer.

Things went downhill with Dr. S. when I launched into my list of questions:

1) Do I have to take any of my anti-nausea drugs before round five, or just the dexamethasone that I started taking this morning?

"This morning... you mean yesterday? Oh wait - right - your chemo is tomorrow! Uh. What were you taking before? Uh. No. Dexamethasone should be all."

2) What are the immediate side effects of Docetaxel and Herceptin. I've heard your fingernails can turn black and fall off.

"Um. Haven't heard that. Just trying to think what the long-term effects are for Doce... Doce... Right, Docetaxel. Been a long time since I've done breast cancer rounds."

3) My cancer twin S told me that it's not worthwhile to get a pap when you're going through chemo - that your results could be skewed somehow. True?

"Um. Hmmm. Haven't heard that. I would think it's the opposite - get it discovered now while you're on chemo and the drugs are killing everything bad. Not sure though. Interesting thought."

4) I'm a bit worried that if I have surgery next, which will put me around Christmas time in the hospital, that I'll get the B-team surgeons because it's the holidays. Will I get Dr. R and Dr. T no matter what? And if I have radiation next, do I have to worry that the cancer might grow in that time because rad is not as hardcore as chemo?

"Good questions. Hmmm. Not sure about that. You'll have to ask Dr. A when you see her next time."

Actually, that last response was the eventual response to every question. The guy couldn't get out of the room fast enough, and his cursory checking of my heart rate/breathing/lymph nodes made me feel like I was in some bad rom-com and he was pretending to be a doctor so he could meet the pretty girl with cervical cancer next door.

Brutal.org

So now I'm going to call the chemo desk and double check everything he bumbled his way through re: meds and side effects. As I'm learning more & more... trust no one.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

I'm a hormonal mess

Despite being susceptible to all things germ-related right now, I've been spending a helluva lot of time around sick people this week. Monday with my GP, Tuesday in nuclear medicine at the hospital for my heart scan, and today with Stella at a different hospital for a respiratory test to see if she has asthma (she does, but will likely outgrow it).

The heart scan yesterday was, well, unpleasant. As soon as I was greeted by miss young and friendly I knew I was doomed. With my shy veins I've become a champion pain-ignorer with the countless IV shenanigans to this point, but even I had to wince after three painful poke and digs while Nurse Cutesy panned for gold.

"Weird - I get a bit of blood each time but then it goes back in!" Um yeah. It's called NOT finding a vein, sweetheart.

While she was snaking around in my inner arms with the needle, I spotted another, no nonsense and very capable nurse I'd had for a couple of scans back in June and I was this close to being all entitled-like and asking to switch up. But alas. The champion prevailed, I kept mum and my inept one finally found a portal.

The worst part, though - and honestly, it's been the worst part of this whole cancer mess - was the nausea. When you get a heart scan, they inject tin into your veins to get the read they need from your valves, etc., and as soon as it went in, a lovely metallic taste lit up my tastebuds and I had to choke back the varmint yet again. I had to wait 45 minutes for the tin to do its stuff and then once I was settled on the scan machine, a different nurse withdrew some blood, waited another 10 minutes and then reinjected it into my IV. More tin. More chunks in my mouth.

When the three 15-minute scans finally got underway, I was choking back tears instead of barf. They come from nowhere these days, like the related hot flashes. In my everyday life I feel pretty great - gettin' shit done, cooking dinner, walking, mentally beating this cancer crap - but I can tear up at the most random things. Yesterday it was the sight of an old man cleaning his glasses while he was in the waiting room in nuclear medicine. This morning it was Stella telling me I looked cool with my peach fuzz hair growing back. "No - I actually mean it!" she insisted.

I am no longer in control of when and where I get all sucky and it, well, sucks.

Does it end? If this menopause is permanent, will I always be an emotional mess? Seriously - I'm not the crying type. I once reached a rather low point of hormone-fueled crying while listening to Easy to Tame by Kim Mitchell when I was eight months pregnant with Stella (believe me, it took everything in me just to write that sentence). I swore then and there that I'd never live by my hormones again and never ever listen to classic Canadian rock stations.

So keep your orphaned kittens, your sick babies and your reunited relatives away from me, dammit!

Monday, September 20, 2010

Final days of freedom

I got a call from my GP's office on Friday to tell me I was due for my yearly physical. The thing is, I was supposed to have my yearly physical back in March, but with my work schedule at the time, I was having difficulty scheduling something that also coincided with being in the middle of my cycle, which is when docs like to check for abnormal cervical cells. In short, didn't ever make the appointment, found the lump in May and the rest is recent history. I think we can all imagine the regret on that one.

So now they're trying again to get me in, knowing full well I'm going through chemo, to what? Also see if I have cancer down below, too? Are you fucking kidding me? I want to make that appointment as much as I want to go back to that dream I had last night where I was making a presentation in my full baldness and a bathing suit. Wretched.com.

Turns out I had to go to my doc today anyhow to get a school form signed for Stella's peanut allergy. She was actually quite lovely and asked me tons about how I was doing and the meds I had been taking. It didn't make me want to come back for my physical, however, but I'll go eventually. Just let me get round five under my belt.

With three free days left and feeling 100%, my hair beginning to grow back in this very stylish baby chick fashion, and my white blood cell counts likely plummeting as I write this, I'm a bit nervous about Friday. It's the first of my four final rounds on a new cocktail. This time it's Docetaxel and Herceptin, the latter drug which is notoriously hard on a girl's heart, so I have to get a second heart scan tomorrow to establish another marker for my heart health. The initial worry with Friday's first round of this new cocktail is that I'll have an allergic reaction, so I have to begin taking a steroid a couple of days beforehand to reduce the likelihood of this.

Good fun.

In the meantime, I'm taking advantage of feeling 100% by getting back into reading about c-stuff, cooking and baking more (bought coconut oil today to experiment with some vegan recipes) and drinking a glass here and there to remember what it feels like not to have a burned out throat and mouth. Heaven.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Happy birthday mom

Today is my mom’s birthday. If cancer has taught me anything good so far, it’s that having your mom close by when you’re going through shit is beyond a gift. My mom may have brought me up to be a fighter, but that would have been poor comfort without her actual self in the same city. And this isn’t just about taking my girls on the bad nights and just generally coming through on anything I need. It’s about being my friend through this whole thing.

So here’s the thing about my mom. I think she knows how fair, smart, loving, light-hearted, sharp-tongued and unbelievably generous she is. She’s had enough of me complaining in my growing up years about how she always has to see the other side in any dispute to know that she’s a poster girl for empathy. I also think she might know what a supportive, non-micro-managing, honest, emotionally tender but strong influence she’s been on all three of her kids. That’s the thing about my mom. She’s pretty self-aware.

What she may not know is how beautiful she is. I don’t mean that whole you need to know her to see her beauty kind of thing. I mean what a knock-out babe she was in her youth and what a knock-out babe she continues to be. I know she’ll think I’m being silly writing this, but it’s true. I watch her sometimes when we’re talking or when she’s cooking or playing with my daughters or sitting with my dad and I see this Italian queen, with olive skin and a twinkle in her eye and I feel as proud as I can feel about having such a lovely for a mom.

If I’m dealing with the c-dawg the way I am – refusing to give in to the maudlin (most of the time), staying in the moment (usually) and focusing on what it’s all going to teach me about my life (generally), it’s because of her. And not because she had it too, although that’s part of it, but because I want to show her that everything she did for me, everything she continues to give, will be for something.

She was the first person I called when I was diagnosed in June and 37 years into our relationship, she still managed to surprise me. I was barely holding it together and was worried her crying might send me spiralling again. She was upset, to be sure, but she was strong with me. “Aw, shit,” were the first words out of her mouth. Like me, I know she took some time to wallow in it after our call, but one day later, I got this note:

I just wanted to let you know that I think I had an epiphany earlier today. I have been moping around, getting teary eyed every time I thought of this damn cancer thing. I now have decided that there will be only optimism and sunshine around when we get together. You are a strong, healthy young woman and with the help of your friends (your dad and I count ourselves as your friends too, you know) we are going to get you through the rough parts. Pete can depend on us for anything needed and we can drop everything at a moment's notice to lend a hand. We can even stay in "nana/poppa's" bed at your house if you need us to, at any time. Okay with you?

Okay with me.

So happy birthday, mom. You’re a huge-hearted warrior woman and you should know how much I love you while you’re still so here.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Shoe porn: brought to you by cancer

I dropped off a schwack of baby stuff at Sally Ann this morning and am finally getting ready to unload a baby seat and crib. A sad moment. Which calls for a picture of pretty shoes taken by my favourite French photog fashion babe, Garance.


As you were.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Let the label reading begin (again)

Holy crap. My session with the cancer dietitian earlier today was a wtf situation for so many reasons.

First, I learned I am a baby. I was cooed over by a roomful of women who were 60+ years old. I sat next to an old gal who had partaken of a healthy amount of liquorama the night before (the hour before?) and spent the entire session emanating scotch and asking about the ramifications of mixing anti-depressants and chemo. I sat across from a woman in a lopsided wig who asked, "is the jury still out on whether margarine is bad for you?" Um, not if you think plastic is food. And the rest of the room asked endless questions about mixing cancer with their multivitamins and other endless lists of age-related supplements.

I asked about taking things like fish oil, garlic pills and those green powders that are everywhere and one woman behind me snorted, "sounds disgusting!" Most of the women in the room had no idea whether their cancer was estrogen-receptive or not so the RD kindly read out the results of everyone's pathology reports upon request. She said 70% of breast cancers are estrogen-receptive. Then the scotch drinker beside me barked out "Her-what?!" when our host mentioned there was no research yet about the link between diet and battling Herceptin-receptive cancer (which I have).

The theme of the room seemed to be one of anger that our collective oncologist team neglected to tell any of us which vitamins & minerals to steer clear of taking high doses of during chemo/radiation (C, E, A and selenium, to name the biggies). These are anti-oxidants, which is generally good, but chemo/rad are oxidants, which is generally bad, but not when you're fighting the c-dawg.

Taking anything that thins the blood (Omega 3s, garlic pills) is also not great because it does a number on clotting when your white blood cells are already low. Also found out that osteoporosis is likely in my future but I have to be careful of overdosing on calcium supplements, which can be toxic.

The dietitian did her Master's thesis on soy products and cancer, so had a lot to say about the BFF nature of cancer and soy protein (which is ubiquitous, especially in so-called healthy products), but assured me that soy sauce is thankfully exempt.

She finished by giving us a list of the natural products that contain plant-based hormones, which sent my mind a-reeling. Flaxseed bad, hempseed bad, ginseng bad, sage, tea tree and lavender oils bad. And the list goes on. All this means that my favourite new lemon and sage deodorant will likely have to be tossed. Oy.

Ultimately, the RD recommended 1,200-1,500 mgs/day (including from dietary sources) of calcium and 1,000 IUs/day of vitamin D. She also talked about the most respected/accepted/extensively tested diet for cancer prevention (first time and recurrence) being a high fibre (30-35 g/day)/low fat one. Apparently it reduces the rate of recurrence by at least 35%.

The thing I really took away from this whole shenanigan is that new studies are being confirmed every day - the dietitians at the BCCA have daily morning meetings to discuss new findings and determine what should be discussed with patients - and that we need to all take control of our diagnosis and sift through the research ourselves to stay one step ahead.

All this from a session that was completely voluntary and took me three months to get a seat at. And what did I do immediately afterward? I picked up Stella from after-school care early and came home to make double chocolate chip cookies. Take that, low-fat diet.

The end of vino?

I finally wrangled myself a session with a cancer-focused dietitian later today at the Centre. I'm jazzed. I have a gazillion theories that I need some kind of expert to validate and although I know that nutrition and cancer prevention/battling is still a young science, I'm hoping the dietitian's infant knowledge trumps my zygote.

Although I'm trying to give myself a bit of a break during chemo, I've already all but eliminated red meat and jacked up my fruit and veg intake. I haven't actually measured whether I'm a food guide star yet, but from what I've read, the food guide isn't necessarily the be all when it comes specifically to preventing cancer recurrence, which is my raison d'etre now.

I haven't decided whether post-chemo, I'll be a full-fledged veggie, vegan or flexitarian. If this were just about prevention, it would likely be door #3, but when I think about surviving the next 50 years without a recurrence (which can often be nastier than the first time), door #1 or even #2 begin to sound less radical than my meaty brain imagines.

I'm also moving my bod a little more - besides the 60-minute teeny-tiny-arms Tracy Anderson Method I slog through every few days, I've got my twice daily 30 minute walks with Stella and soon a 90-minute Iyengar yoga class once a week. None of this would have fit into my work schedule of yore, so I'll enjoy it while I can and hopefully train myself to work out in the middle of the night when life returns to the hectacity it was B.C.

One thing I can't quite wrap my head around is the question of yes or no when it comes to vino. The latest research about alcohol consumption and cancer seems to point to a lower rate of heart disease (also in my family) but a higher rate of breast cancer recurrence. with even moderate drinking. I've been known to partake in spirits of other sorts, but to eliminate wine makes this post-cancer way of living seem even more like no-fun city. What's a girl to do?

So I'll see what kind of chops this dietition has today and whether I come out any wiser. In the meantime, ladies, and if nothing else, lay off the soy milk and paraben-laden armpit juice.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Getting over the fear of failure

If there's one theme for me in the "figuring out shit" chapter in my cancer book, it's getting over my lifelong fear of failure. Listen, I know this is not revolutionary stuff, people. Saying you have a fear of failure is like saying you like the Beatles or pizza. No controversy here. And yet, if I'm going to busy myself looking for personal roadblocks, this one smacks me in the face over & over again.

Pete and I went on the Victoria Art Gallery's House Tour yesterday. I had been looking forward to it for a long time, but got more out of it than realizing that painting your rooms good old white can look fucking awesome. The last house we went to was an artist's home on Old West Saanich Road, overlooking Elk Lake, the ocean and a lovely rural landscape. The rooms in the house were beautiful - all white & stainless steel, artifacts collected from around the world, polished caramel-coloured floors and the most touching prints, paintings and sculptures.

We were promised that the artist herself, Telma Bonet, would be downstairs if we wanted to meet her, and I was so overwhelmed with love for her art that by the time we got to the studio and I saw the petite, middle-aged Argentinian woman lovingly making prints, doing what she loves, I was all verklempt.

Pete chatted with her in his adorable technician's way and I had to bend down to sift through her prints for sale while I wiped away some embarrassing tears. By the time I pulled myself together I had decided to buy a small ink print called "Girl Riding a Horse". The scene looks like something out of a dreamy Isabelle Allende book - a faraway image of the back of a long-haired girl on a horse in the middle of a grassy plain, stopped on a bit of a hill. In other words, nothing to do with me or my life, but I was inexplicably in love.

Pete and I talked on the way home about Telma, about making art and how it's so difficult to get over the fear that no one will care about what you do if you decide to go public. I have this thing about writing. I've loved doing it since I was a girl, but the more books by Atwood, Munro, [insert the names of 300 other authors here] I devour, the less I feel qualified to imagine writing creatively for a living. Like, who do I think I am to be considered in the same profession as these people?

But then, isn't there room for everyone who wants to be in the club? Haven't I just been talking myself out of something instead of just getting over myself and just writing? Indeed.

Thanks, Telma.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

The hierarchy of sick

My mom and I were laughing the other day about people who like to compete with their feelings of sick - "You have a headache?! I've had a migraine for a week now!" - and how cancer nicely quiets those conversations. But this weekend I had a rare moment of just being tired of the whole game.

I did my usual feel up after showering yesterday, to see if my two lovely lumps were smaller? same? mutating? I rubbed my head dry and glanced in the mirror quickly and felt so exhausted. Give me a normal headache, a regular bad day, a run-of-the-mill sleepless night. I need a break from being cancer girl.

I think it's been the week of delivering Stella to school and seeing the moms I haven't seen all summer and facing a barrage of hair loss questions and sundry. I really don't mind the curiosity and feel fortunate every day for the support I get wherever I go, but man, sometimes a girl just likes to take a nice walk with her daughter and talk about everything but the c-dawg.

Part of it is my own fault. I could have gotten a wig that looks like my hair - to pass a little more often - but that is tiring in a whole other way. So I wear a scarf every day. It baffles my neighbour, who asks me every time I see her about some aspect of the wig alternatives available. "Are there just no good ones out there? Are they too itchy? Too expensive?" They make me feel like a fancy girl, and that's great sometimes, but eventually it feels like wearing high heels to watch TV.

The scarf is an easy option, but it's the signpost to cancer, no? Even the cleaning lady at our hotel in Osoyoos said to me one day, "Do you ALWAYS wear that scarf?" Everybody's a fashionista.

We're at Sunday and both my girls are sick, and man, what I wouldn't do to brag about a good old-fashioned cold or flu about now.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Me vs. the volcano

I've been a bit of a beyotch this week. What with the early-onset menopause after running like a German train since I was 13, that spot on the path leading to Stella's school that smells like rotting apples and just yesterday finally stopped making me varmint in my mouth, trying to adjust to a new going to bed/getting ready routine, loving a certain 2-soon-to-be-3-year old who has decided she's not too old to wake up at least once per night, all while trying to sleep through 16-pints of iced tea-fueled veins. Oy. Let's just say I owe a big apology to my household and that woman at Superstore yesterday.

And then there's today. A free day with Pete to belatedly celebrate our anniversary. Dual pedicures (yes, Pete is just gay enough for me), rockin' puerco taco for lunch at a gem of dive restaurant, followed by a cupcake shot, browsing around a bookstore buying shit up, and basically doing everything I love to do, all with teal-coloured toenails, and I feel the need to question again what this cancer crap will get me to.

I fear sometimes that I'm like an asshole. People tut about marriages turned sour - "he turned out to be an asshole" - but I think assholes are always assholes and they give you pretty definitive clues they're assholes from the very beginning. It's whether we choose to see the assholeness and confirm it in our little lizard brains that makes the difference between acting/being surprised later on. So we all just become more ourselves as we get older. This is what freaks me out.

So despite the cancer, the question of early death, the unalterable, physically volcanic journey I've embarked on, will I just continue to be the impatient, sarcastic (lowest form of wit, darlings), frustrated, afraid to fail chick that I've always been? Then what's the bloody point of all this? If, in a year from now, I'm still slogging through Superstore to buy my cheap flour, sugar and laundry baskets, fuming at the nimrod ahead of me who pores over her receipt instead of packing her grocery bags tout de suite, then what's all this been for exactly?

Mamma mia. I'm trying. I really am. I don't want all this to be a mere confirmation of self. I want a revelation, people! I have tiny moments. I do. And maybe it's the tiny moments adding up to a big epiphany at the end, but it's the James Joyce proportion I'm seeking, and... well, maybe "ski teal we drop" toes are as good a way to start the day on that one as anything else.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

The call is coming from inside the house

You know those times you realize that it's not everyone else, it's actually you? Kinda like when I figured out that not all the guys my girlfriends dated were true boneheads, I was just seriously unable to see beyond their obvious bonehead characteristics to get to the nuggets of whatever it was my girlfriends saw. Hmmm... then again, maybe they were all boneheads.

Anywho, I had a similarly self-reflective moment today walking Stella to her first day of grade one when I realized that it's not the way the world smells that is ugging me out, it's the way my mouth tastes! So there you have it. As long as I'm always eating or drinking something, I can get the better of the chunks creeping up my throat. Who said chemo was about losing weight - oh no - with the hickory sticks, Tetley Infusions (seriously good in pomegranate flavour, people), veggie burgers with pickles and more hickory sticks, I can triumph. And when I'm not eating, I've got mints and cinnamon toothpaste. It's all so easy. Only problem is, now I'm beginning to have nausea flashbacks when I look at my purse. This is getting stupid.

It's my wedding anniversary today and I'm making homemade chicken pot pie and lemon pudding cake for Pete. Not quite the bounty of our nuptial dinner, but it's the least I can do when I'm sloggin' around this house in yoga pants and a headscarf, a pale imitation of the broad I was eight years ago. And I promise. No old dutch products on the menu tonight, lover.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Post-nappage

There isn't much a fantastic nap can't help, but when that nap somehow comes about when there are girls playing in the house, dog barking, friend over, well... an hour on top of a freshly-made bed is about as good as it gets. I have Pete and only Pete to thank for it, but he's made himself responsible for my post-chemo recoveries all around, so I'll consider this part of the bill.

The girls came back from my parents' house yesterday afternoon and they've been pretty much themselves. A tantrum here, a hug there. It all evens out. I was seriously foggy after a quick nip of my rescue pill but we went to the blessed museum today and escaped the rain for an hour. The smells there were amazing. Cedar, creosote, grass, all the dioramas in their just-the-same-as-always comforting bliss.

Managed to whip up lunch, despite a lack of hunger, and then escaped for said nap. I was feeling about 65% my old self when we decided to traipse to the village in the rain. It was lovely until we got to the parking lot and I was whumped in the face with something chemical smelling that slammed my arse back down in the chemo chair on Friday and left me choking back the varmint. Amazing these nausea flashbacks. I can't even utter the words for any of the food/liquid I consumed on Friday without turning to the side to swallow a wee chunk. But this time it's the actual smells of the place I'm conjuring up. Wicked.

Pete is trying to replace my memories with home-baked bread and pasta sauce, but my nose smells what it wants.

Tomorrow, is of course school, and a chance to revisit what the rebirth of a different sort might hold as I creep past 65% to get to somewhere good.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

A pinkish hue

Dare I say I have a bit of a pinkish hue today? And as much as I'd like to be George's ideal woman, I can't admit to a good brow as well. They're a bit thin, but still hangin' around.

I'm down to consuming my rescue pill and my rescue pill alone so far today, but I promised my onc that I would damn the feeling of being backed up and swallow the harsher ondansetron if I really felt the need to hurl. Since Pete will be home tomorrow and the girls go back to school on Tuesday, it will be easier to cope with side affects.

After dealing with the horror that was Friday's round four, I realized I hadn't really honed my "special place"; my vision of calmness or go-to meditation spot that should help me through the rough patches. I have my meditation table, to be sure, but it's a momentary, right in front of me place when I need to focus my brain on tumour blasting thoughts. Being a lapsed Catholic and a girl afraid of all other organized religions, I haven't developed an alternate god to help me through all this garbage that still, after three months, doesn't really seem like it's happening to me.

Then I read all the lovely, sweet comments on this blog o' mine and think, damn, girl. You don't need no stinkin' god. You have all this love n' support out there that gets shot into my heart like a cannon when I need it most. And I do carry that stuff around when I have a brutal moment. Them fightin' words you all give me come back when I think, shoot, man, I can't do this.

So thank you, my peeps. Y'all have given me the pinkish hue.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Halfway through, baby!

I may only be on day two of round four, but man, it feels good to know I'm halfway through this bloody course of treatment.

The injections were not a good experience this time. I had anticipatory nausea all morning and had this new feeling, walking up to the cancer clinic that I was defeated. I wanted to hurl into the shrubbery and just collapse, letting Pete take me back home. It was the first time I felt the fight go out of me. Not good.

The chemo room was particularly depressing. There was a youngish woman in the corner who was obviously new (she had her telltale red folder detailing the side affects and the "all about chemo" DVD playing) and she was crying off and on while her family comforted her. Big bummer. The other people in the room were alternately sleeping or eating (hello stinky soup smells) and I was trying to breathe through my mouth.

Pete had filled up a stainless steel water bottle for me, but the first sip almost made me gag it was so tinny tasting. I had to swallow back the barf the entire 90 minutes while sipping cranberry juice and forcing a couple of saltines into my gullet. Vanity Fair and Lady Gaga saved me (thanks, M!) and my nurse was particularly chatty, which was good. But man, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Last night was as brutal as always, with the worst around 7-8 pm, but soldiered on as best as my bod could take it. No puking, and managed to get down some broth and a bite of toast.

Here I am, the morning after - a beautiful day again and perhaps a bowl of dry cheerios in my near future.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Wagons Ho!

I'm off to see the wizard again this morning for round four and hopefully the last of the extreme nausea. Although at my onc appointment on Wednesday, Dr. A said the docetaxel/herceptin combo of rounds 5-8 can also inspire one to ride the porcelain bus. Awesomeness.

Chemo days have so far been beautiful, weather-wise, and I'm trying to see the good in that. All I picture, though, is my white-faced self reclining in bed a few hours from now, trying to move as little as possible. Okay, enough wallowing.

My neutrophils were 2.2 at blood test time yesterday morning. Not fabulous, but okay, and definitely high enough to go ahead with the injections today. I did my usual green/carrot juice, green tea, gigantic mug of water routine pre-vein poking. Whether it brought me up or not I'll likely never know, but it made me feel like I was controlling a little bit of something. What's wonderful is that I got my results a few hours later, online no less, through my ehealth (thanks again, S!). If you go to a Lifelab or BC Biomedical Lab to get your bloodwork done, then you can register with the site, get a password mailed to you and then check your results on the site the same time your doc sees them. Genius.

I read Cancer Vixen a couple of weeks ago (you're a doll, CB), and the heroine, a cartoonist for the New Yorker, goes to her chemo appts in Manolos and an assortment of other fab shoes. This is me in another life and another city, but it makes me feel a tad less cancer-like as I don my boring ballet flats and get ready to tackle this one like Clint Eastwood riding through Lago in High Plains Drifter, shooting and raping away, stony-faced, as I try to get a decent shave and bath.

And the best news ever? Lady Kate is looking to adapt Cancer Vixen for the screen. Sweetness.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

A model student

Saw my onc today and got as close to a Michelin star as a girl can get from this stage in the feast that is cancer. Things are definitely shrinking and softening rather than growing and hardening, which in this case is a good thing.

I am dreading Friday and the fact that I have to miss, for the first time in a long time, the Saanich Fair. It's one of those old fashioned country fairs with fruit & veg, pies, chickens, pigs, a rodeo, rides and cotton candy. And I'll be sipping chicken broth and downing meds in my bed. Boo.

But it's a small thing, I know, in my quest to be a good story. See, I don't want to just beat this thing, grow my hair back and reopen the shop that was my old life. I want to figure stuff out, find some truth amongst the truthiness, become a model cancerian student and turn this blasted cell malfunction into my own army of fabulousness.