There are times in a woman's life, where she is tested. Cancer diagnosis to be sure, but pizza under her nose one day post-cleanse is a completely different challenge.
Let's be clear here - my kids very likely hate me after the last four weeks of veg, veg and more veg. I made them pancakes the other night but they were also fairly stuffed with shredded veg. I think they realize it's all here to stay but they're not going quietly. So last night I was happy to indulge Frances with a cheese pizza and Stella with a grilled cheese sandwich. Even though my menu screamed PASTA!! at me, I managed to dial it back to some salmon, spinach orzo and some fried calamari. But today, the leftover pizza was in my face, mocking me.
I heated it up for the girls and got busy with a salad for Pete and me. It's good to be tested when left alone with bread and cheese in the kitchen. But not one bite, y'all. Okay, I hate all the good food/bad food schtick with diets. I think it just fetishizes food and makes eating a carton of ice cream something a bad girl does once in a while, so sue me. And yes, everything in moderation and all that crap. But I truly do want to set some standards for myself and continue to say no to the stuff that is my kryptonite. I know sugar is crack - and not just for me - so I have to say no to it as much as I can without becoming a nun. And if I want to continue to live in an alkaline bod and say no to disease as much as I can, then I have to make this my life and not just for shits and giggles.
So it's day one post-detox and I'm living off of Advil for my burn but still loving the juice and salads. I've got my veggie buying and storing and prepping down to a science and I like it that way. Will I never have a slice of pizza again. That's just stupid. But it will be the 1% of my diet that is the wild card of life. All about decisions, no? Hells, I'm no expert, but if I can figure this part out for myself, I can make the last seven months count for something good.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Prepping for the end of the cleanse
I have a confession - I'm not really going to eat that differently when the cleanse ends tomorrow. This one wasn't about tossing the bad stuff and welcoming more of the good stuff just to reverse most of it when the four weeks end. That might be the way to do it on a four-day detox, but after 28 days, why go back to fewer greens, more acidic and inflammatory foods and less energy? Seems a bit warped.
The juice for breakfast will continue. The salads for lunch. The mostly veg at dinner with whole grains. I'll reintroduce some other whole grains but will try to stay gluten-free as much as possible. I'll likely get my muesli back on, but probably after lunch. I'll make more smoothies and eat more fruit. And raw nuts will become my friend again. But that's pretty much the end of the story. After juicing for six months, I couldn't imagine going without. The plant blood is in my blood.
I'm still waiting for my Crazy Sexy Diet book to arrive and I'm pretty excited about that, but I'm not expecting a big revelation food-wise - rather more info about food combining, pH and more of the stuff to bring into the rest of my life to make the best of this new thang.
And seriously - today I have my last treatment and despite acting like a raging bitch because of my sore boobie, I feel divine. So cheers to all of you tonight, on the eve of the end, and here's to drinking up the green stuff forever after.
The juice for breakfast will continue. The salads for lunch. The mostly veg at dinner with whole grains. I'll reintroduce some other whole grains but will try to stay gluten-free as much as possible. I'll likely get my muesli back on, but probably after lunch. I'll make more smoothies and eat more fruit. And raw nuts will become my friend again. But that's pretty much the end of the story. After juicing for six months, I couldn't imagine going without. The plant blood is in my blood.
I'm still waiting for my Crazy Sexy Diet book to arrive and I'm pretty excited about that, but I'm not expecting a big revelation food-wise - rather more info about food combining, pH and more of the stuff to bring into the rest of my life to make the best of this new thang.
And seriously - today I have my last treatment and despite acting like a raging bitch because of my sore boobie, I feel divine. So cheers to all of you tonight, on the eve of the end, and here's to drinking up the green stuff forever after.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Burn baby burn
If you're a fair-skinned lass like me, chances are, you've had a sunburn or 20. I've had my share, and if I get out of this particular cancer trap alive, skin cancer is likely waiting around the corner for me one day. But you see, I have fond memories of those burns. The one on my back from laying on my stomach with my friends at Glen Lake beach when I was 12, boys throwing tiny pebbles down the fronts of our bathing suits. The one on my arse cheeks from boogie boarding in Honolulu with my best friend when I was 16. Yes, pain, but oh so worth it.
In the 70s/80s, tanning was de rigeur, no? Even if you scored a few burns along the way. Even my idol growing up was a gorgeous girl (who follows this blog) who had THE best tan around. She used baby oil to speed things up and used to cut out these tiny cardboard hearts and stick them on her stomach so she'd have a tan line in the shape of a heart. How do you not love a girl like that?
The thing is, though, when I got a burn, like any sane person, I would try to keep that area out of the sun the next time. With this whole radiation dealio, I'm shoving my second degree burned skin back under those glorious rays every freakin' day. And let me tell you - the underside of one's boobage was not meant to be exposed to those rays... like ever. So yeah, I'm hurtin'.
But one more day!!!!!!!!!
If I can just keep my skin intact for another week, I can go to PS without wearing saline compresses on the plane. So today, I'm reclining on the couch for as long as possible, pressing a cold washcloth to my bosom and murdering my aloe plant over and over again. These last three blasts are about the boob and not the surrounding areas any more, so my back and chest are beginning to heal already and itching like hell.
Alright. After yesterday's bitchy post and today's complaining, I better come up with something nice to say before I get my mouth washed out with soap (again)... Boy, I love a foggy morning in Victoria. It's gloriously cold and damp and I'm busting, Jerry, busting!
In the 70s/80s, tanning was de rigeur, no? Even if you scored a few burns along the way. Even my idol growing up was a gorgeous girl (who follows this blog) who had THE best tan around. She used baby oil to speed things up and used to cut out these tiny cardboard hearts and stick them on her stomach so she'd have a tan line in the shape of a heart. How do you not love a girl like that?
The thing is, though, when I got a burn, like any sane person, I would try to keep that area out of the sun the next time. With this whole radiation dealio, I'm shoving my second degree burned skin back under those glorious rays every freakin' day. And let me tell you - the underside of one's boobage was not meant to be exposed to those rays... like ever. So yeah, I'm hurtin'.
But one more day!!!!!!!!!
If I can just keep my skin intact for another week, I can go to PS without wearing saline compresses on the plane. So today, I'm reclining on the couch for as long as possible, pressing a cold washcloth to my bosom and murdering my aloe plant over and over again. These last three blasts are about the boob and not the surrounding areas any more, so my back and chest are beginning to heal already and itching like hell.
Alright. After yesterday's bitchy post and today's complaining, I better come up with something nice to say before I get my mouth washed out with soap (again)... Boy, I love a foggy morning in Victoria. It's gloriously cold and damp and I'm busting, Jerry, busting!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The fuck you list
You see, I get it with the gratitude journals and love lists and aren't we all just happy to be nominated shit. And when you drop off some forgotten juice to your husband and get a knockout kiss for the extra trip, it's easy to feel thankful for a freshly shaven face and love and all that jazz. But seriously, today my boob is in wicked pain and I feel like this cancer crap sucks. And here's my list to prove it.
1) Anytime there's an unusual step in the cancer dance, I assume the worst. Like this morning when I was being adjusted for the first of three last blasts by the radiation machine, it took the techs extra long (five whole minutes!) to position me on the table. I'm usually fast freda with this stuff, so the more "supe" and "post" tugs on the sheet under me the more anxious I got that my breast must be larger with all the angry cancer cells in there partying it up despite the heat.
2) The whole "cancer won't exist anymore" vision statement of the BCCA. I get that the Agency is completely focused on treatment at the clinical level and research in the back rooms, but the oncs talk about nutrition as part of the solution/prevention as much as I listen to Nickelback. Let's try to be a bit more whole person about this vision, huh?
3) The way cancer taints every nice moment. No matter how much I'm looking forward to PS, my surgery being over, my juicy habit, or Frances' nonsense conversations in the morning, it's rare I think about this stuff without then thinking, "it could all end sooner than I want it to."
4) How I have to pay for an hour of parking when I take 15 minutes at the clinic. We're digging deep here, folks, but why can't they establish some quickie spots so I'm not forking over my LTD cheque to Robbins every month. It's the small things, cancer industry.
Okay, there, I'm done. Oh wait. While I'm at it, let's add all Kate Hudson movies, women's magazines with a "lose 10lbs in 10 days" headline and a picture of a chocolate cake on the cover, sequined Uggs, anti-Ricky Gervais sentiment and Miley Cyrus to that list.
Now I'm done. Fuck you, cancer.
1) Anytime there's an unusual step in the cancer dance, I assume the worst. Like this morning when I was being adjusted for the first of three last blasts by the radiation machine, it took the techs extra long (five whole minutes!) to position me on the table. I'm usually fast freda with this stuff, so the more "supe" and "post" tugs on the sheet under me the more anxious I got that my breast must be larger with all the angry cancer cells in there partying it up despite the heat.
2) The whole "cancer won't exist anymore" vision statement of the BCCA. I get that the Agency is completely focused on treatment at the clinical level and research in the back rooms, but the oncs talk about nutrition as part of the solution/prevention as much as I listen to Nickelback. Let's try to be a bit more whole person about this vision, huh?
3) The way cancer taints every nice moment. No matter how much I'm looking forward to PS, my surgery being over, my juicy habit, or Frances' nonsense conversations in the morning, it's rare I think about this stuff without then thinking, "it could all end sooner than I want it to."
4) How I have to pay for an hour of parking when I take 15 minutes at the clinic. We're digging deep here, folks, but why can't they establish some quickie spots so I'm not forking over my LTD cheque to Robbins every month. It's the small things, cancer industry.
Okay, there, I'm done. Oh wait. While I'm at it, let's add all Kate Hudson movies, women's magazines with a "lose 10lbs in 10 days" headline and a picture of a chocolate cake on the cover, sequined Uggs, anti-Ricky Gervais sentiment and Miley Cyrus to that list.
Now I'm done. Fuck you, cancer.
Monday, January 24, 2011
It's the final countdown
Okay, maybe not the final final countdown. There's the one until my surgery date. There's the one until I get my porno implants. There's the one until I have my first post-cancer mammogram. The one where I mark off five years since cancer. Then 10 years. Aw, fuck it. I gots five more radiation treatments left and I'm in the mood for a bloody countdown.
I get a double dose tomorrow, then singles the rest of the week, then I'm outta the Birch room at the clinic for evah. The ladies there have been lovely and all, but my left chestal area is not feeling so grand these days. Like the worst sunburn on some parts of my skin that have never seen the sun. I got some super-duper cream from the nurse last week, but in all, the takers that care seem to be copacetic with how everything looks. Basically, until I start displaying open blistering sores, they're good. Doesn't mean rolling over at night, putting on clothes and showering doesn't hurt like a mofo.
Speaking of countdowns, we're 11 days to PS and I think that's grand. We're planning to spend one day in L.A. while we're down there, eating in Gwyneth's restaurants, visiting Craig Ferguson and tooling around the Hollywood Farmer's Market to take pictures of Lisa Rinna's lips and Katie Holmes' chaperones. Fun, fun, fun! Mostly though, I'm looking forward to reclining by the pool with a giant sun hat and sunglasses and reading sex books about werewolves (yes, I'm talking about you, TL).
Unlike other holly days, I am going to try to make an effort to support my juice obsession and plant consumption habit. I feel so good that to throw it all away for eight days of pork belly and wonderbread sandwiches seems foolish. This isn't to say I'll turn my nose up at every martini that comes my way, just that I'll make sure the olives within are organic and picked by fair trade lesbian farmers in Guatemala. Standards, people.
The thing that has been poking me in the arse over this whole cancer thing is not the idea that I deserved this because of what I'd been eating (which was relatively healthy) but that if we start with the fact that we all have cancer cells, and then add in that I had particular going on in my body (extra production of estrogen? who knows), a family propensity for not being able to fight off the c-dawg so easily, and an unknown dosage of other environmental factors and voila. Cancer at 37. It happens. I'm not unique. But because it happened to me at this relatively young age, it's a big signal to me that cancer likes to win and win early in my bod. So the fuck if I'm going to be all "let the doctors work their magic" and not try to combat this thing with fabulousness of juice and good food as my medicine.
I'll do it, y'all. You'll see.
I get a double dose tomorrow, then singles the rest of the week, then I'm outta the Birch room at the clinic for evah. The ladies there have been lovely and all, but my left chestal area is not feeling so grand these days. Like the worst sunburn on some parts of my skin that have never seen the sun. I got some super-duper cream from the nurse last week, but in all, the takers that care seem to be copacetic with how everything looks. Basically, until I start displaying open blistering sores, they're good. Doesn't mean rolling over at night, putting on clothes and showering doesn't hurt like a mofo.
Speaking of countdowns, we're 11 days to PS and I think that's grand. We're planning to spend one day in L.A. while we're down there, eating in Gwyneth's restaurants, visiting Craig Ferguson and tooling around the Hollywood Farmer's Market to take pictures of Lisa Rinna's lips and Katie Holmes' chaperones. Fun, fun, fun! Mostly though, I'm looking forward to reclining by the pool with a giant sun hat and sunglasses and reading sex books about werewolves (yes, I'm talking about you, TL).
Unlike other holly days, I am going to try to make an effort to support my juice obsession and plant consumption habit. I feel so good that to throw it all away for eight days of pork belly and wonderbread sandwiches seems foolish. This isn't to say I'll turn my nose up at every martini that comes my way, just that I'll make sure the olives within are organic and picked by fair trade lesbian farmers in Guatemala. Standards, people.
The thing that has been poking me in the arse over this whole cancer thing is not the idea that I deserved this because of what I'd been eating (which was relatively healthy) but that if we start with the fact that we all have cancer cells, and then add in that I had particular going on in my body (extra production of estrogen? who knows), a family propensity for not being able to fight off the c-dawg so easily, and an unknown dosage of other environmental factors and voila. Cancer at 37. It happens. I'm not unique. But because it happened to me at this relatively young age, it's a big signal to me that cancer likes to win and win early in my bod. So the fuck if I'm going to be all "let the doctors work their magic" and not try to combat this thing with fabulousness of juice and good food as my medicine.
I'll do it, y'all. You'll see.
Friday, January 21, 2011
And the winner is...
When I was 12, I got this smarty pants award at the end of the year in front of the whole school. It was like the best picture Oscar for seventh graders. Thing is, until the principal called my name, I was sure it would go to my rival, who was a boy. See, J was one of those academic sorts who was friendly and socially comfortable, but very obviously a brain first. I may have whipped his arse in a few tests, but he generally came out on top and although the finals were still a mystery, the class talked about him like he was the bomb of grey matter already.
Still, I wore my best 1985 dress, combed my boy hair and scrubbed my braces and showed up like a good loser should. And when they said "Carissa McCart" my faith in everything turning out alright was born. If I wasn't so gob-smacked, I would have kissed J full on the mouth and wished him well in his future career at Electronic Arts.
And this is what keeps me going with this c-crap and almost made me decide to keep one boob. But alas...
The Oscar goes to neither of my golden globes. I will tell my plastic surgeon this afternoon that both babies need to be removed if I'm going to move on with this next part of my life and look back as little as possible.
This was a fucking epic decision for me and one that had no right answer. The women my age I've communicated with or read about over the past six months who had a double have no regrets. Some of the ones who had a single ended up having some doubts and some went back later for the double.
When I wake up after my surgery it's going to be fucking hard to look at my empty, sewn-up chest and move past it to the time when I'll be sporting a new set. But that's not an emotion to base any decision on. Do I think the changes I'm making in my life will give me some protection/prevention? Hells yeah. Do I want to risk coming back to the chemo wing in 10, 20, 30 years? Fuck no.
So let's start again, boobies. We'll say our proper goodbye over the next few weeks. It's been fun, but it's obvious now that I can't move past the betrayal. And I'm not certain you won't stray again.
As for the faith that everything will turn out alright? Guess it's been shaken a tad, but I can still kick any boy's arse any day of the fucking week.
Still, I wore my best 1985 dress, combed my boy hair and scrubbed my braces and showed up like a good loser should. And when they said "Carissa McCart" my faith in everything turning out alright was born. If I wasn't so gob-smacked, I would have kissed J full on the mouth and wished him well in his future career at Electronic Arts.
And this is what keeps me going with this c-crap and almost made me decide to keep one boob. But alas...
The Oscar goes to neither of my golden globes. I will tell my plastic surgeon this afternoon that both babies need to be removed if I'm going to move on with this next part of my life and look back as little as possible.
This was a fucking epic decision for me and one that had no right answer. The women my age I've communicated with or read about over the past six months who had a double have no regrets. Some of the ones who had a single ended up having some doubts and some went back later for the double.
When I wake up after my surgery it's going to be fucking hard to look at my empty, sewn-up chest and move past it to the time when I'll be sporting a new set. But that's not an emotion to base any decision on. Do I think the changes I'm making in my life will give me some protection/prevention? Hells yeah. Do I want to risk coming back to the chemo wing in 10, 20, 30 years? Fuck no.
So let's start again, boobies. We'll say our proper goodbye over the next few weeks. It's been fun, but it's obvious now that I can't move past the betrayal. And I'm not certain you won't stray again.
As for the faith that everything will turn out alright? Guess it's been shaken a tad, but I can still kick any boy's arse any day of the fucking week.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Getting off the cleanse and off the cow's milk
We're at day 20 of the detox - the longest I've ever gone on any kind of eating plan. I'm still waiting for my Crazy Sexy Diet book to arrive and I see it's now backordered for up to two months on Amazon. It reached number one on the site a few days ago and it's number 12 on the new releases list today, so wow.
According to Natalia Rose, of the Detox 4 Women variety, post-detox can involve incorporating more grains, sprouted breads, certain cereals, nuts, fruit and nut milks. She recommends continuing to follow the light-to-heavy eating rule during the day and eating your fruit in the morning. Other books I've read agree with this, some even pushing only fruit all morning and as much as your gut can handle.
As for grains and nuts, she says ideally at dinner, but if you want to throw some raw nuts into your lunchtime salad or have a sprouted grain veggie sandwich at noon, then go for it, dude. If you're a cereal nut, try having it after lunch and stick to whole grain kamut, spelt or amaranth and stay away from ones containing white rice, white flour or potato starch. And ditch the cow's milk for almond milk. Pretty please.
If there's one gigantic thing I've learned over the past seven months, it's that cow's milk is the devil, and more so than I originally thought. It's been tagged as being responsible for doing everything from building up mucus and aggravating allergies and stomach upset to causing asthma and juvenile diabetes. And this is just by the light-hearted scientists who have only scratched the surface of the stuff. In a shitload of studies (the reputable, non-bloggy ones) introducing and eliminating dairy can turn on and off the production of cancer cells. To sum up? Get off the crap. If you're over three years old, your body can't digest the calcium, so don't use the bone-building excuse anymore. Get your calcium from almond milk, beans, fish and veggies (even blackstrap molasses) - stuff that your bod can process.
There's no good reason to drink the stuff other than it's a multi-billion dollar industry and in every grocery store. Why we drink cow's milk over other mammal milk is the stuff of forgotten legend. It's just not necessary. Hell, I know it's hard to get over something you grew up with and is pushed at everyone as the perfect food and completely natural to drink, but unless you feel the need to suck on a cow's teat the next time you're at a farm, you need to think twice about why you're really drinking the stuff.
Honestly, I could write a book on this dealio. Take a moment, look up "why is cow's milk bad for you?" on Google and do your own research. Nothing other than websites for milk companies and other pro-industry sites will argue in favour of it. So be duped no more. Hells, even Dr. Spock warned against it back in the good ol' 90s.
And I swear to you - almond milk is delicious in cereal. Stay away from soy milk... that's a whole other book.
According to Natalia Rose, of the Detox 4 Women variety, post-detox can involve incorporating more grains, sprouted breads, certain cereals, nuts, fruit and nut milks. She recommends continuing to follow the light-to-heavy eating rule during the day and eating your fruit in the morning. Other books I've read agree with this, some even pushing only fruit all morning and as much as your gut can handle.
As for grains and nuts, she says ideally at dinner, but if you want to throw some raw nuts into your lunchtime salad or have a sprouted grain veggie sandwich at noon, then go for it, dude. If you're a cereal nut, try having it after lunch and stick to whole grain kamut, spelt or amaranth and stay away from ones containing white rice, white flour or potato starch. And ditch the cow's milk for almond milk. Pretty please.
If there's one gigantic thing I've learned over the past seven months, it's that cow's milk is the devil, and more so than I originally thought. It's been tagged as being responsible for doing everything from building up mucus and aggravating allergies and stomach upset to causing asthma and juvenile diabetes. And this is just by the light-hearted scientists who have only scratched the surface of the stuff. In a shitload of studies (the reputable, non-bloggy ones) introducing and eliminating dairy can turn on and off the production of cancer cells. To sum up? Get off the crap. If you're over three years old, your body can't digest the calcium, so don't use the bone-building excuse anymore. Get your calcium from almond milk, beans, fish and veggies (even blackstrap molasses) - stuff that your bod can process.
There's no good reason to drink the stuff other than it's a multi-billion dollar industry and in every grocery store. Why we drink cow's milk over other mammal milk is the stuff of forgotten legend. It's just not necessary. Hell, I know it's hard to get over something you grew up with and is pushed at everyone as the perfect food and completely natural to drink, but unless you feel the need to suck on a cow's teat the next time you're at a farm, you need to think twice about why you're really drinking the stuff.
Honestly, I could write a book on this dealio. Take a moment, look up "why is cow's milk bad for you?" on Google and do your own research. Nothing other than websites for milk companies and other pro-industry sites will argue in favour of it. So be duped no more. Hells, even Dr. Spock warned against it back in the good ol' 90s.
And I swear to you - almond milk is delicious in cereal. Stay away from soy milk... that's a whole other book.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
All green all the time
I felt like I needed a juicy pick-me-up from the test kitchen after that last post. Finally got in there with my Breville and experimented with my all green drink to bring it more in line with what I'd like to eventually establish as my simple but delicious everyday breakfast with all the vitamins, minerals (yes, protein and calcium) and low-GI foods I want to start my day with. Here's the best batch of the bunch and pretty damn close to what my cancer guru Kris Carr drinks every day, too:
4 sticks celery
1 whole cucumber, unpeeled
1 inch square of ginger, unpeeled
3 inch broccoli stem chunk
6 small kale leaves
1 large granny smith apple, unpeeled
It's fan-fucking-tastic.
It produced a whopping 20 ml cocktail for me, so might cut back on the cuke or celery a little so I can squeeze in two of these bad boys every day for Pete and me. I try to aim for around 15/16 ml each.
If you've just started juicing, it's so great to mess around in there, throwing in any old veg to see how it enhances or detracts from the taste and to get to know what your sweet and sour needs are, but woman, it takes a lot of buying and storing various veg to be this way. I'm looking to simplify my green store shops so I can just load up on the stuff I use every day and fill the rest of my cart with the stuff I'll eat for lunch and dinner.
If you're not juicing already, it's still January, and you still have cells, so get on it, mofo!
4 sticks celery
1 whole cucumber, unpeeled
1 inch square of ginger, unpeeled
3 inch broccoli stem chunk
6 small kale leaves
1 large granny smith apple, unpeeled
It's fan-fucking-tastic.
It produced a whopping 20 ml cocktail for me, so might cut back on the cuke or celery a little so I can squeeze in two of these bad boys every day for Pete and me. I try to aim for around 15/16 ml each.
If you've just started juicing, it's so great to mess around in there, throwing in any old veg to see how it enhances or detracts from the taste and to get to know what your sweet and sour needs are, but woman, it takes a lot of buying and storing various veg to be this way. I'm looking to simplify my green store shops so I can just load up on the stuff I use every day and fill the rest of my cart with the stuff I'll eat for lunch and dinner.
If you're not juicing already, it's still January, and you still have cells, so get on it, mofo!
One of those days
I had to fill out a beneficiary form for my long-term disability claim today and it depressed the hell out of me. First of all, Pete has been tagged to collect my millions since the day we were wed so why I have to keep filling out this shit is beyond me. And secondly, I hate being reminded that I'm on LTD. It makes me think of too many serious things and that branches out into other serious things and eventually I just get all anxious about the golf balls in my breast and want to curl up and listen to I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You, which is just about the saddest song ever.
I have these panic moments sometimes when I realize that I don't want the stripper teaching my girls about stuff. Last night I taught Stella about what it means to be gay. The other day I grilled her about strangers and the right way to react if approached by one. And this week is all about dinner table rules for Frances. I mean, on the one hand, I'm looking at living to 102, but then...
Maybe it's the news that my sister-in-law's grandmother died last night. Even though she's been in a certain decline for a few years, the end was wicked sudden and yeah, we all want to go like that, but still. Maybe it's the never-ending verge of death I see every day at the cancer clinic. Yes, it makes me grateful, but it also reminds me that this cancer shit takes no prisoners sometimes and we're not always the determinants.
Guess what I'm really saying about all this is that I just chased my lunch-time salad with an entire mini chocolate bar. And yes, it was dark chocolate, but still.
Let's move on, shall we? Something that makes me happy and makes me think of my friend J skiing away in the Interior: Iceland.
I have these panic moments sometimes when I realize that I don't want the stripper teaching my girls about stuff. Last night I taught Stella about what it means to be gay. The other day I grilled her about strangers and the right way to react if approached by one. And this week is all about dinner table rules for Frances. I mean, on the one hand, I'm looking at living to 102, but then...
Maybe it's the news that my sister-in-law's grandmother died last night. Even though she's been in a certain decline for a few years, the end was wicked sudden and yeah, we all want to go like that, but still. Maybe it's the never-ending verge of death I see every day at the cancer clinic. Yes, it makes me grateful, but it also reminds me that this cancer shit takes no prisoners sometimes and we're not always the determinants.
Guess what I'm really saying about all this is that I just chased my lunch-time salad with an entire mini chocolate bar. And yes, it was dark chocolate, but still.
Let's move on, shall we? Something that makes me happy and makes me think of my friend J skiing away in the Interior: Iceland.
Monday, January 17, 2011
And then what?
We're 17 days into this cleansing extravaganza, with new juicehounds joining the fray almost every day. It makes me feel like dancin'.
Frances has had tonsilitis the past week or so and has been a miserable, miserable girl. Last night she finally slept through the night and honestly, I feel just as energized today as I have been throughout the past week of hell sleeps. That phenom alone is enough to keep me on the green stuff.
I've been thinking a lot about my diet post-detox, trying to decide what to fuck, marry or kill and am getting closer to developing a bit of a plan. Last night I ordered Crazy Sexy Diet, written by my cancer guru, Kris Carr, and think it might contain a bit of a map for eating like the wellness warrior I want to become. When it arrives, I'll devour and let you all know the deets. I definitely feel like I'm closer to being on the verge to answering the question, "and then what?"
On Friday I have my second consultation with the plastic surgeon and I've given myself until then to figure out if both boobies or just one will be removed. I need a deadline. A stern eye looking my way and waiting for the right answer. There isn't a right answer, of course, but I need to make the one I'll be happy with for the rest of my long, long mf life.
Frances has had tonsilitis the past week or so and has been a miserable, miserable girl. Last night she finally slept through the night and honestly, I feel just as energized today as I have been throughout the past week of hell sleeps. That phenom alone is enough to keep me on the green stuff.
I've been thinking a lot about my diet post-detox, trying to decide what to fuck, marry or kill and am getting closer to developing a bit of a plan. Last night I ordered Crazy Sexy Diet, written by my cancer guru, Kris Carr, and think it might contain a bit of a map for eating like the wellness warrior I want to become. When it arrives, I'll devour and let you all know the deets. I definitely feel like I'm closer to being on the verge to answering the question, "and then what?"
On Friday I have my second consultation with the plastic surgeon and I've given myself until then to figure out if both boobies or just one will be removed. I need a deadline. A stern eye looking my way and waiting for the right answer. There isn't a right answer, of course, but I need to make the one I'll be happy with for the rest of my long, long mf life.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Just breathe normally, Mrs. McCart
After fussing around with pneumonia back in the autumn of my cancer, the respirologist I saw before Christmas set up a pulmonary function test for today to establish a baseline for my lung health.
When I arrived at the hospital this morning I walked past the pulmonary lab on my way to reception and felt a big boom in my chest. There was a shower stall-sized glass chamber, an exercise bike and a gazillion monitors and breathing tubes. By the time I was called, I was a tad over-excited. Of course they shoved me in the hyperbaric chamber first and rushed through the instructions before shutting the door. I put the foam plug on my nose, fit my mouth around the rubber tube and bit down on the grip.
"Just breathe normally for awhile, Mrs. McCart," the young tech called from the other side of the glass. Because this is a completely normal situation for my lungs to be in.
I watched the monitor tracking my breaths in and breaths out, all over the place as I tried to regulate my breathing. When I finally self-talked my way into a few normal breaths I had to take a monster breath in and blow it out like someone was punching me in the gut. Then continue breathing out until my face turned blue. A few more tests like that and then I had to pant into the tube without blowing up my cheeks. And then pant with the airway closed off in the tube. That was a joy. Let's just say I got over my snorkeling/deep diving fear in that 60 minutes.
When it was over I felt so lucky to be able to breathe on my own that I forgot to use the loo on the way out (oh liquid breakfast, how I love you). I considered diving into the TB clinic for a washroom break but then figured I didn't want to become that kind of cautionary tale.
I was so stressed about the test today (sorry about the crankiness this morning, family) that I arrived at my rad appointment 30 minutes early. They fit me in anyhow and I was in and out in about 10 minutes.
We're halfway through the detox, peeps, and I feel good about most of it. It's still a pain in the arse to get everything prepped in the evenings, especially with the shitty sleeps I've been getting with little Miss sleeping in two-hour spurts in the bedroom next door. At night I just wanna crash on the couch, but I've been a good little soldier and have been washing my veggies and making salads for the next day. I know this has to become a regular part of my day if I want to keep up the good eating, so I'll keep it up until it's like brushing my teeth.
I can tell Pete's getting a little tired of the green salads at lunch but no one's going hungry in the house. Dinners have been great. Made a cauliflower mash last night (yum), some raw corn salad with coleslaw and mushrooms cooked in veggie broth and wine. No suffering here, folks.
Other than the constant peeing, the veggie buying and washing and prep, everything's pretty manageable. What say you?
When I arrived at the hospital this morning I walked past the pulmonary lab on my way to reception and felt a big boom in my chest. There was a shower stall-sized glass chamber, an exercise bike and a gazillion monitors and breathing tubes. By the time I was called, I was a tad over-excited. Of course they shoved me in the hyperbaric chamber first and rushed through the instructions before shutting the door. I put the foam plug on my nose, fit my mouth around the rubber tube and bit down on the grip.
"Just breathe normally for awhile, Mrs. McCart," the young tech called from the other side of the glass. Because this is a completely normal situation for my lungs to be in.
I watched the monitor tracking my breaths in and breaths out, all over the place as I tried to regulate my breathing. When I finally self-talked my way into a few normal breaths I had to take a monster breath in and blow it out like someone was punching me in the gut. Then continue breathing out until my face turned blue. A few more tests like that and then I had to pant into the tube without blowing up my cheeks. And then pant with the airway closed off in the tube. That was a joy. Let's just say I got over my snorkeling/deep diving fear in that 60 minutes.
When it was over I felt so lucky to be able to breathe on my own that I forgot to use the loo on the way out (oh liquid breakfast, how I love you). I considered diving into the TB clinic for a washroom break but then figured I didn't want to become that kind of cautionary tale.
I was so stressed about the test today (sorry about the crankiness this morning, family) that I arrived at my rad appointment 30 minutes early. They fit me in anyhow and I was in and out in about 10 minutes.
We're halfway through the detox, peeps, and I feel good about most of it. It's still a pain in the arse to get everything prepped in the evenings, especially with the shitty sleeps I've been getting with little Miss sleeping in two-hour spurts in the bedroom next door. At night I just wanna crash on the couch, but I've been a good little soldier and have been washing my veggies and making salads for the next day. I know this has to become a regular part of my day if I want to keep up the good eating, so I'll keep it up until it's like brushing my teeth.
I can tell Pete's getting a little tired of the green salads at lunch but no one's going hungry in the house. Dinners have been great. Made a cauliflower mash last night (yum), some raw corn salad with coleslaw and mushrooms cooked in veggie broth and wine. No suffering here, folks.
Other than the constant peeing, the veggie buying and washing and prep, everything's pretty manageable. What say you?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Changing the family story
I just started reading Eating Animals and so far it's a good, accessible read for an omnivore flirting with vegetarianism. All you smarties out there will have to forgive me for coming late to some of this stuff. I'm reading as fast as I bloody well can! The first thing that struck me about the narrative is that Foer talks about becoming vegetarian as fundamentally changing his family's story. He has a grandmother with a legendary chicken dish and a harrowing personal story of Holocaust survival and general obsession with feeding her family well and good, mostly with hearty meat dishes. He had to struggle with altering the fabric of his ancestors to make a new decision about eating for his own family and that was bleedin' difficult.
It made me think about my Italian family, my mother's cooking, holiday traditions and all those things that shape our eating as individuals and members of families with unique stories. It's not just about meat and struggling to understand how I feel about eating or not eating it, but about what a meal looks like, what we eat at Thanksgiving, how we all feel after feasting, all that stuff that makes up my family's story.
Like a lot of people, I'm trying to figure out what I want to keep from the family I grew up with and adapt to the new family I helped create. This may sound bonkers to those of you who just do what you feel is right or have a family without an attachment to homemade pasta, deep-fried dough bits with icing sugar and ambrosia salad. It's like trying to grow a big enough pair to rewrite not only my own story but tinker with my family's story and that's a bit daunting.
Let it be known that I'm getting zero pressure from my family on this. It's the opposite, man. They're unfailingly behind and beside me as I fuss around with this shit, are doing the detox right along with me and are completely open to learning about some of the stuff that I've been reading about. They're super groovy and I can only think about how much this all means to me in very small doses cuz it blows my mind how fortunate I am.
And yet still... I feel like I have to figure out whether I'm ever going to incorporate making homemade pasta with white flour and meaty rib sauce into my daughters' lives, whether that pasta and sauce will be made another way or whether the story will be completely new. It stresses me out, y'all, and I know I don't have to work it all out today, but it's something I ponder.
It made me think about my Italian family, my mother's cooking, holiday traditions and all those things that shape our eating as individuals and members of families with unique stories. It's not just about meat and struggling to understand how I feel about eating or not eating it, but about what a meal looks like, what we eat at Thanksgiving, how we all feel after feasting, all that stuff that makes up my family's story.
Like a lot of people, I'm trying to figure out what I want to keep from the family I grew up with and adapt to the new family I helped create. This may sound bonkers to those of you who just do what you feel is right or have a family without an attachment to homemade pasta, deep-fried dough bits with icing sugar and ambrosia salad. It's like trying to grow a big enough pair to rewrite not only my own story but tinker with my family's story and that's a bit daunting.
Let it be known that I'm getting zero pressure from my family on this. It's the opposite, man. They're unfailingly behind and beside me as I fuss around with this shit, are doing the detox right along with me and are completely open to learning about some of the stuff that I've been reading about. They're super groovy and I can only think about how much this all means to me in very small doses cuz it blows my mind how fortunate I am.
And yet still... I feel like I have to figure out whether I'm ever going to incorporate making homemade pasta with white flour and meaty rib sauce into my daughters' lives, whether that pasta and sauce will be made another way or whether the story will be completely new. It stresses me out, y'all, and I know I don't have to work it all out today, but it's something I ponder.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I wish I could quit you
Every day I go bounding past the slow-moving cancer cowgirls/boys on the frigid but short walk from my car to the BC Cancer Agency building and then 15 minutes later go bounding back out, passing old ladies on stretchers, old men shuffling down the hall, old everyone waiting in the cozy lobby by the gas fireplace, eating the free chocolates on the table. And every day I think, Jane, get me off this crazy thing.
Other than the betrayal of my hair follicles and the bazillion medical appointments I have every week, I feel bloody fantastic these days and more and more annoyed that I have to continue to flow through the cancer system, feel and look at my diseased breast, feel and look at my healthy breast that is likely also not long for this world, and get impatient, impatient, impatient. I'm done. Cut me open, sew me up, get the pathology done, tell me how it all looks on the inside, give me my hormones for the next five years and say goodbye to me.
Ah, hell, I know I'll be all "but, but, but!" when I finally do get the final handshake from my onc, but I'd rather deal with those fucked up emotions than the feeling that someone continues to hold me by the throat every time I try to plan something, flesh out an idea, imagine my life post-surgery. Hold on, missy. We're not done with you yet.
So let's fast-forward two months, when I'll likely be finished with hospital and lying on my divan in my ostrich-feather robe, a team of assistants helping me recover and my hair way past my shoulders from a freaky growing spaz. Oh, how I'll be happy to be d.o.n.e.
Other than the betrayal of my hair follicles and the bazillion medical appointments I have every week, I feel bloody fantastic these days and more and more annoyed that I have to continue to flow through the cancer system, feel and look at my diseased breast, feel and look at my healthy breast that is likely also not long for this world, and get impatient, impatient, impatient. I'm done. Cut me open, sew me up, get the pathology done, tell me how it all looks on the inside, give me my hormones for the next five years and say goodbye to me.
Ah, hell, I know I'll be all "but, but, but!" when I finally do get the final handshake from my onc, but I'd rather deal with those fucked up emotions than the feeling that someone continues to hold me by the throat every time I try to plan something, flesh out an idea, imagine my life post-surgery. Hold on, missy. We're not done with you yet.
So let's fast-forward two months, when I'll likely be finished with hospital and lying on my divan in my ostrich-feather robe, a team of assistants helping me recover and my hair way past my shoulders from a freaky growing spaz. Oh, how I'll be happy to be d.o.n.e.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Cooking vs. following a recipe
We're fully into week two of the detox and I feel pretty great. There's still the question of the three-year old in our house having a cranky cold and making us all feel a little pissy in the morning, but I know that will end and we'll all be singing kumbaya again.
Pete continues to show off his superior cooking skills on the weekends. He's definitely a cook and not a recipe follower. When he gets in the kitchen, guaranteed that whatever comes out I'll love and the kids will pick at. He does this fabulous sweet/sour/spicy/salty combo that rocks my world. Last night it was a seemingly simple stirfry and miso'd eggplant, but I could have seriously stuffed my cheeks with the whole wokful.
When I get in there? Meh. Let's just say I like rules. Go ahead, all you cooks out there - gloat away. If I have a recipe, I'm golden, otherwise it's either a pathetic try or a so-so platter. Esp. when it comes to veggie/detox dishes. Give me a piece of veal or a chance to throw together a spaghetti sauce, and I can triumph, but the chances of me cooking veal again are pretty slim. So I try and try again with the contents of my crisper.
Howevs, I did put together a pretty mean raw corn salad from a web recipe the other night. It made me deliriously happy.
I'm thinking my energy these days is being directed at the growth of my hair, eyelashes and eyebrows. My eyebrows are Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen-envy worthy, my eyelashes are poking through my lids like so many tiny black toothpicks, but my hair is far, far away from the Emma Watson pixie I covet as step one to looking like a woman with a haircut vs. a woman who is tousling with the c-dawg. All in good time, I know.
Today I'm heading for a noon-time laser blast and have to talk to the techs about double booking me for six days sometime between tomorrow and January 26 when I'm done. I have to wait six hours between treatments, so it'll be tricky trying to cram them into the day while still dropping off and picking up the girls.
The side effects are still pretty minimal. A bit of a heat rash and redness, but am awake like a mofo in the evenings all the time now. Is it the increased consumption of dark chocolate? Don't know, but it means I actually get to hang out with my boy at night instead of forcing him to watch me drool and snore on the couch. Poor bastard. If anyone deserves this PS trip more than my very own P-Diddy, you tell me who.
Pete continues to show off his superior cooking skills on the weekends. He's definitely a cook and not a recipe follower. When he gets in the kitchen, guaranteed that whatever comes out I'll love and the kids will pick at. He does this fabulous sweet/sour/spicy/salty combo that rocks my world. Last night it was a seemingly simple stirfry and miso'd eggplant, but I could have seriously stuffed my cheeks with the whole wokful.
When I get in there? Meh. Let's just say I like rules. Go ahead, all you cooks out there - gloat away. If I have a recipe, I'm golden, otherwise it's either a pathetic try or a so-so platter. Esp. when it comes to veggie/detox dishes. Give me a piece of veal or a chance to throw together a spaghetti sauce, and I can triumph, but the chances of me cooking veal again are pretty slim. So I try and try again with the contents of my crisper.
Howevs, I did put together a pretty mean raw corn salad from a web recipe the other night. It made me deliriously happy.
I'm thinking my energy these days is being directed at the growth of my hair, eyelashes and eyebrows. My eyebrows are Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen-envy worthy, my eyelashes are poking through my lids like so many tiny black toothpicks, but my hair is far, far away from the Emma Watson pixie I covet as step one to looking like a woman with a haircut vs. a woman who is tousling with the c-dawg. All in good time, I know.
Today I'm heading for a noon-time laser blast and have to talk to the techs about double booking me for six days sometime between tomorrow and January 26 when I'm done. I have to wait six hours between treatments, so it'll be tricky trying to cram them into the day while still dropping off and picking up the girls.
The side effects are still pretty minimal. A bit of a heat rash and redness, but am awake like a mofo in the evenings all the time now. Is it the increased consumption of dark chocolate? Don't know, but it means I actually get to hang out with my boy at night instead of forcing him to watch me drool and snore on the couch. Poor bastard. If anyone deserves this PS trip more than my very own P-Diddy, you tell me who.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
P.S. I hope I love you
We're booked, baby. Palm Springs on February 5 for eight days and I'm excited!
I crammed the booking process into the two hours I was home yesterday after a full carnival of cancer at the BCCA: radiation, radiation onc, pre-Herceptin check-in with onc, Herceptin. It was fairly routine. A five-minute zap after a five-minute waiting room stint. A five minute radiation onc visit after a five-minute waiting room stint. A five minute pre-Herceptin check-in before a 45-minute Herceptin injection to finish the day.
Only unusual thing was that my regular onc was away so I had a new doc, Dr. K, who I swear to the goddesses, when he crept in the room I thought he was going to ask me if I knew where his mother was. He looked like Justin Long but about one foot shorter, 50 lbs lighter and 20 years younger. He had these little shaking, delicate hands that looked like they hadn't touched anything but lukewarm water, let alone an axe, some drywall or a little roofing material.
"Like, is everything going, like, okay, Mrs. McCart?"
"Um, yep. Seems to be."
"Okay, like, do you, like, have any questions or, like, is anything, like, unusual?" His eyes keep darting to my chest in fear and for a very long moment I considered making him examine me so he could weep in his mother's arms later about the horror of it all.
"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuh... no, everything's fine." Couldn't bring myself to torture the poor lad. "But I did want to ask if it was okay for me to travel a week or so after the radiation's complete."
"That should, like, be, like, fine."
Sweet. You're free to go now.
So I sped home, decided on a couple of places to stay, found a sweet flight deal, and stuffed it all onto my Amex. I may not have the cash for this trip, but fuck if I'm gonna let a little thing like moulah stop me from getting my senior citizen on and heading to the desert for a break.
Can't. Wait.
I crammed the booking process into the two hours I was home yesterday after a full carnival of cancer at the BCCA: radiation, radiation onc, pre-Herceptin check-in with onc, Herceptin. It was fairly routine. A five-minute zap after a five-minute waiting room stint. A five minute radiation onc visit after a five-minute waiting room stint. A five minute pre-Herceptin check-in before a 45-minute Herceptin injection to finish the day.
Only unusual thing was that my regular onc was away so I had a new doc, Dr. K, who I swear to the goddesses, when he crept in the room I thought he was going to ask me if I knew where his mother was. He looked like Justin Long but about one foot shorter, 50 lbs lighter and 20 years younger. He had these little shaking, delicate hands that looked like they hadn't touched anything but lukewarm water, let alone an axe, some drywall or a little roofing material.
"Like, is everything going, like, okay, Mrs. McCart?"
"Um, yep. Seems to be."
"Okay, like, do you, like, have any questions or, like, is anything, like, unusual?" His eyes keep darting to my chest in fear and for a very long moment I considered making him examine me so he could weep in his mother's arms later about the horror of it all.
"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuh... no, everything's fine." Couldn't bring myself to torture the poor lad. "But I did want to ask if it was okay for me to travel a week or so after the radiation's complete."
"That should, like, be, like, fine."
Sweet. You're free to go now.
So I sped home, decided on a couple of places to stay, found a sweet flight deal, and stuffed it all onto my Amex. I may not have the cash for this trip, but fuck if I'm gonna let a little thing like moulah stop me from getting my senior citizen on and heading to the desert for a break.
Can't. Wait.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Detox day seven: the truth about grains
If you're like me, you grew up in a hotbed of white flour. I'm not hatin' on my Italian Ma and her tasty spaghetti, or anyone else who cooks with and/or loves the white stuff, I'm just sayin' if you have it in your DNA, it's hard to expel it.
I love the angel dust of cooking. Whether it's bread, pasta, muffins, cakes, cookies, whatever. If it's made with white flour, I'll love it. Problem is, white flour carries a whole baggage of ills that we're all pretty familiar with by now. Everything from the fact that it's simply devoid of any whole grain goodness, to the fact that some flour has chemicals in it to bleach out the natural colour, it's all bad news. It's linked to a naughty list of diseases, everything from constipation to fatigue to diabetes and cancer, and it just generally makes regular folk experiences spikes in moods, energy, and mojo. So yeah, it's tasty, but c'mon.
No surprise that the detox forces you to remove white flour from your diet. And after the detox is over, don't bring it back. I've turfed the stuff from my cupboard altogether. If there's a recipe I'm making that needs it, I'll find another recipe. Because I crave the stuff and it gets into my blood, man, I can't have it just sometimes. It's gone forever.
What you can have on the detox are quinoa, millet and buckwheat. There are a host of sites that trumpet the benefits of these quick-exit grains (some of which aren't true grains at all), so read up and experiment with these babies if you haven't already. I've been avoiding all grains for the first week of the program, but last night we had soba (buckwheat) noodles with homemade marinara (did I mention I'm Italian and it's hard to purge this stuff from your blood?!). It congealed and looked awful but tasted not bad. Wouldn't make it again, but will keep messing around with the noodles to see what we all like.
After the detox is over, I would recommend experimenting with introducing other whole grains back into your diet. Pay attention to what they do to your energy/mood/bowels and stay away from packaged/processed breads from the grocery store. Yes, some have whole grains, but a lot also have other shite, like sulphites, that gets mixed in there. And if you bake, remember that whole wheat is not necessarily the same as whole grain. It's work, y'all, but your bod will thank you.
I'm off to spend almost a whole freakin' day at the cancer clinic - four appointments in all, including injection time this afternoon. And tonight, it's all about the eggplant.
I love the angel dust of cooking. Whether it's bread, pasta, muffins, cakes, cookies, whatever. If it's made with white flour, I'll love it. Problem is, white flour carries a whole baggage of ills that we're all pretty familiar with by now. Everything from the fact that it's simply devoid of any whole grain goodness, to the fact that some flour has chemicals in it to bleach out the natural colour, it's all bad news. It's linked to a naughty list of diseases, everything from constipation to fatigue to diabetes and cancer, and it just generally makes regular folk experiences spikes in moods, energy, and mojo. So yeah, it's tasty, but c'mon.
No surprise that the detox forces you to remove white flour from your diet. And after the detox is over, don't bring it back. I've turfed the stuff from my cupboard altogether. If there's a recipe I'm making that needs it, I'll find another recipe. Because I crave the stuff and it gets into my blood, man, I can't have it just sometimes. It's gone forever.
What you can have on the detox are quinoa, millet and buckwheat. There are a host of sites that trumpet the benefits of these quick-exit grains (some of which aren't true grains at all), so read up and experiment with these babies if you haven't already. I've been avoiding all grains for the first week of the program, but last night we had soba (buckwheat) noodles with homemade marinara (did I mention I'm Italian and it's hard to purge this stuff from your blood?!). It congealed and looked awful but tasted not bad. Wouldn't make it again, but will keep messing around with the noodles to see what we all like.
After the detox is over, I would recommend experimenting with introducing other whole grains back into your diet. Pay attention to what they do to your energy/mood/bowels and stay away from packaged/processed breads from the grocery store. Yes, some have whole grains, but a lot also have other shite, like sulphites, that gets mixed in there. And if you bake, remember that whole wheat is not necessarily the same as whole grain. It's work, y'all, but your bod will thank you.
I'm off to spend almost a whole freakin' day at the cancer clinic - four appointments in all, including injection time this afternoon. And tonight, it's all about the eggplant.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Detox day six: a fresh start
Let's forget yesterday every happened. And last night. And this morning. It's a new day and I love my juice and my six-year old will be nice again and my three-year old will sleep through the night eventually.
I'm telling you, when there were sleep issues pre-cancer, I was a wreck the next day, whether I was working or not. I used caffeine to get me through the day and collapsed on sugar or white flour in the afternoon to punch it through for another few hours. Since the juice goddesses entered my life - even during chemo and the worst of my autumn affair with pneumonia - I've been able to punch through the day feeling a lot more energized. No more naps (tho I do loves me a good mid-day shut eye) and the only heavy crash coming at night, after the kids are in bed. And since beginning the detox, I've been awake in the evenings a lot more, which is nothing short of a freakin' miracle when I've got the radiation monster at my door.
We're almost a week into this thing and to say I'm happy happy joy joy about my detox posse is a majah understatement. I know I've got a stupidly naive vision for my juicing brood (no cancer, no diabetes, no heart disease, no weight issues, no food addictions), but if I start with knowing I want to phase out my own darling tumours, then I can only jump to conclusions and wish for not a hint of disease in the ones I love. There is absolutely no reason why we can't all live a long, energized, healthy and happy life and die from just being bloody old instead of bloody sick, enjoying a few slices of choco cake along the way. And not to be all maudlin about it, but just because you've got both feet in the land of the living today, doesn't mean your body will be willing to keep doing the hard work it does every day without a little help from you.
Wait... did somebody say red sequin bikini? I've been thinking of the limbo I'll soon be in post-radiation but pre-surgery while my sunburned chesty is healing and what does a little radiation damage love more than soothing creams? More toxic rays!! Yes, a sun vacation may be in order for February. Pete and I have been talking about the best time to go away together and since post-surgery seems so fraught with unknowns and hopefully a speedy return to work, we were thinking of cramming in a week of sunny bliss sometime next month. At the top of the list right now is Palm Springs.
I know, dream big! Got to the Turks and Caicos! Head to Greece! Problem is, my practical brain can't justify shelling out $6,000 for one week away. My bank account is anemic, y'all, and besides, I want to take my girls on a sun vacation at some point this year, so let's not be too stupid about the Visa. And Paris in February is... well, very cold and wet.
I know almost zero about PS, other than the Sweet Dreams novel I read called P.S. I Love You, where the P.S. secretly stood for Paul Strobe. Oh, my young adult reading years of the 80s, how I miss you. When I look at that cover, I think of my gorgeous friend M in Robert's Creek, and imagine she looked like that at 16, billowy peasant blouse and all.
Anyhoo. I love the mid-century retro vibe of PS (or what I imagine it to be), plus there's the desert heat. Plus a bit of outlet heaven. Plus an awesome area to go for a bit of a driving tour. Plus it's cheap to fly and stay there. Plus... I don't bloody well know! How do you describe why a place grabs you by the balls all of a sudden? I just wanna go and I'll be chatting with my onc tomorrow to see if I can fit a week into my Herceptin schedule in Feb.
Shine up the sequins on your matching trunks, Pete. We're gettin' the hell out of Dodge.
I'm telling you, when there were sleep issues pre-cancer, I was a wreck the next day, whether I was working or not. I used caffeine to get me through the day and collapsed on sugar or white flour in the afternoon to punch it through for another few hours. Since the juice goddesses entered my life - even during chemo and the worst of my autumn affair with pneumonia - I've been able to punch through the day feeling a lot more energized. No more naps (tho I do loves me a good mid-day shut eye) and the only heavy crash coming at night, after the kids are in bed. And since beginning the detox, I've been awake in the evenings a lot more, which is nothing short of a freakin' miracle when I've got the radiation monster at my door.
We're almost a week into this thing and to say I'm happy happy joy joy about my detox posse is a majah understatement. I know I've got a stupidly naive vision for my juicing brood (no cancer, no diabetes, no heart disease, no weight issues, no food addictions), but if I start with knowing I want to phase out my own darling tumours, then I can only jump to conclusions and wish for not a hint of disease in the ones I love. There is absolutely no reason why we can't all live a long, energized, healthy and happy life and die from just being bloody old instead of bloody sick, enjoying a few slices of choco cake along the way. And not to be all maudlin about it, but just because you've got both feet in the land of the living today, doesn't mean your body will be willing to keep doing the hard work it does every day without a little help from you.
Wait... did somebody say red sequin bikini? I've been thinking of the limbo I'll soon be in post-radiation but pre-surgery while my sunburned chesty is healing and what does a little radiation damage love more than soothing creams? More toxic rays!! Yes, a sun vacation may be in order for February. Pete and I have been talking about the best time to go away together and since post-surgery seems so fraught with unknowns and hopefully a speedy return to work, we were thinking of cramming in a week of sunny bliss sometime next month. At the top of the list right now is Palm Springs.
I know, dream big! Got to the Turks and Caicos! Head to Greece! Problem is, my practical brain can't justify shelling out $6,000 for one week away. My bank account is anemic, y'all, and besides, I want to take my girls on a sun vacation at some point this year, so let's not be too stupid about the Visa. And Paris in February is... well, very cold and wet.
I know almost zero about PS, other than the Sweet Dreams novel I read called P.S. I Love You, where the P.S. secretly stood for Paul Strobe. Oh, my young adult reading years of the 80s, how I miss you. When I look at that cover, I think of my gorgeous friend M in Robert's Creek, and imagine she looked like that at 16, billowy peasant blouse and all.
Anyhoo. I love the mid-century retro vibe of PS (or what I imagine it to be), plus there's the desert heat. Plus a bit of outlet heaven. Plus an awesome area to go for a bit of a driving tour. Plus it's cheap to fly and stay there. Plus... I don't bloody well know! How do you describe why a place grabs you by the balls all of a sudden? I just wanna go and I'll be chatting with my onc tomorrow to see if I can fit a week into my Herceptin schedule in Feb.
Shine up the sequins on your matching trunks, Pete. We're gettin' the hell out of Dodge.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Detox day five: calgon, take me away
A brutal day with one or both of the frokens in this house beats any bad day with cancer. Tonight was Stella's turn and it was a doozy.
She was a rotter from the moment Pete went into her after-school care to pick her up and it was capped off by a mammoth meltdown tonight that turned the house upside down and dragged us all into the ancient Indian burial ground with it. Mamma mia. When it was all over, I just wanted to sink into the couch and never get up, never mind wash another fucking carrot or spin some bloody lettuce. Thank you, dark chocolate, for coming to my rescue.
Before it all started, I was home with a sick Pete, heading out for a veggie shop and a laser blast and then the dentist in the afternoon to find out about my jaw. He figures my lifelong grinding was likely exacerbated by the stress of the c-dawg and then the chemo blast to my good cells and voila - clicking jaw. When I told him it was clicking a little more quietly over the past couple of days but that my bite was now ruined, he figured a piece of cartilage had come loose and would likely never come back. And now I have to get a bite guard to make sure things don't deteriorate further. Zexy time.
So I'm over my brain cancer fear and moving on to other neuroses.
With this whole detox sitch, I've been thinking about hunger a lot lately and how we (in the Western world and with immediate access to food) are so messed up when it comes to hunger. It's like the first sign of it and we panic: fill the hole, fill the hole!! And I'm the same way. It's not that I think it's unnatural to eat when you're hungry, but is it so bad to feel the hunger a little sometimes and then be so ready for a meal? It's complicated, I know. There's low blood sugar issues, distracting growling, all that jazz. But when we're succumbing to diseases of affluence and not of lack, I think it's okay to feel a bit hungry during the day.
Okay - that's me being cranky. Likely cuz I'm hungry.
She was a rotter from the moment Pete went into her after-school care to pick her up and it was capped off by a mammoth meltdown tonight that turned the house upside down and dragged us all into the ancient Indian burial ground with it. Mamma mia. When it was all over, I just wanted to sink into the couch and never get up, never mind wash another fucking carrot or spin some bloody lettuce. Thank you, dark chocolate, for coming to my rescue.
Before it all started, I was home with a sick Pete, heading out for a veggie shop and a laser blast and then the dentist in the afternoon to find out about my jaw. He figures my lifelong grinding was likely exacerbated by the stress of the c-dawg and then the chemo blast to my good cells and voila - clicking jaw. When I told him it was clicking a little more quietly over the past couple of days but that my bite was now ruined, he figured a piece of cartilage had come loose and would likely never come back. And now I have to get a bite guard to make sure things don't deteriorate further. Zexy time.
So I'm over my brain cancer fear and moving on to other neuroses.
With this whole detox sitch, I've been thinking about hunger a lot lately and how we (in the Western world and with immediate access to food) are so messed up when it comes to hunger. It's like the first sign of it and we panic: fill the hole, fill the hole!! And I'm the same way. It's not that I think it's unnatural to eat when you're hungry, but is it so bad to feel the hunger a little sometimes and then be so ready for a meal? It's complicated, I know. There's low blood sugar issues, distracting growling, all that jazz. But when we're succumbing to diseases of affluence and not of lack, I think it's okay to feel a bit hungry during the day.
Okay - that's me being cranky. Likely cuz I'm hungry.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Detox day four: all about the solo trip
Everyone went back to their respective jobs today, including me to my cancer-crimefighting unit (plain clothes). It gave me a chance to go at this detox dealio alone and see if I could be trusted.
I had already made Pete his salad for today so I juiced for the boy this morning, throwing in an extra helping to feed to myself later. I managed to last on aqua alone until around 9:30, but listen to this, y'all - before I tackled the juice I managed to fit in a 20 minute 30-day Shred workout with Jillian Michaels. Oh yeah, baby. I feel peppy today (and using the word peppy for the first time evah).
The juice was enough to get me over to the radiation chamber where I taught my master class in laser beam positioning. They really should pay me for this stuff. I ended up getting the mom/tech I had recognized earlier from Frances' daycare but she begged off the breast peering and ushered in a replacement to line up the tattoos with the lasers. All a little bit strange nonetheless.
When I started shoving my lunchtime salad down my gullet (sprouts galore, cuke, avocado, goat cheese and salsa for dressing), crunching down on the green goodness, I was reminded once again that I have a little issue with my jaw that cropped up right around the time I was diagnosed. You see, it cracks now when I chew. Charming, I know. And every single time I hear it, I'm reminded of a little Canadian movie I saw when I was in the nightmarish waiting period pre-diagnosis, called Two Weeks, about a man who has terminal cancer and goes on a motorcycle trip across the country. Joshua Jackson describes all the annoying things about his fiance, one of which is her clicking jaw. So yes, Pete will leave me one day for this affliction. I am stating this prediction here.
In possibly related news, before Christmas I started getting a bit dizzy when I stood up quickly (inner ear?). That feeling has mostly subsided, but over the past few days, my jaw has felt misaligned, like I can't bite my back teeth together without feeling a click and a pressure in my ears. And since yesterday, this whole sitch has been sending some shooting pain to my brain like a little temporary headache.
Don't think I haven't thought brain cancer. I have. My grandmother had it, and it was inevitable that I would turn into Woody Allen over this whole extended handshake with the c-word. But I'm not sweating it too much. I'm seeing my dentist tomorrow and I'll peer into his eyes to see if he's worried. I have no idea if he can do anything about it, but I have visions of my jaw being broken and rewired. Whatevs. I'll deal with whatever it is.
You see? This detox is either making me insane or much better able to cope. Either way.
I had already made Pete his salad for today so I juiced for the boy this morning, throwing in an extra helping to feed to myself later. I managed to last on aqua alone until around 9:30, but listen to this, y'all - before I tackled the juice I managed to fit in a 20 minute 30-day Shred workout with Jillian Michaels. Oh yeah, baby. I feel peppy today (and using the word peppy for the first time evah).
The juice was enough to get me over to the radiation chamber where I taught my master class in laser beam positioning. They really should pay me for this stuff. I ended up getting the mom/tech I had recognized earlier from Frances' daycare but she begged off the breast peering and ushered in a replacement to line up the tattoos with the lasers. All a little bit strange nonetheless.
When I started shoving my lunchtime salad down my gullet (sprouts galore, cuke, avocado, goat cheese and salsa for dressing), crunching down on the green goodness, I was reminded once again that I have a little issue with my jaw that cropped up right around the time I was diagnosed. You see, it cracks now when I chew. Charming, I know. And every single time I hear it, I'm reminded of a little Canadian movie I saw when I was in the nightmarish waiting period pre-diagnosis, called Two Weeks, about a man who has terminal cancer and goes on a motorcycle trip across the country. Joshua Jackson describes all the annoying things about his fiance, one of which is her clicking jaw. So yes, Pete will leave me one day for this affliction. I am stating this prediction here.
In possibly related news, before Christmas I started getting a bit dizzy when I stood up quickly (inner ear?). That feeling has mostly subsided, but over the past few days, my jaw has felt misaligned, like I can't bite my back teeth together without feeling a click and a pressure in my ears. And since yesterday, this whole sitch has been sending some shooting pain to my brain like a little temporary headache.
Don't think I haven't thought brain cancer. I have. My grandmother had it, and it was inevitable that I would turn into Woody Allen over this whole extended handshake with the c-word. But I'm not sweating it too much. I'm seeing my dentist tomorrow and I'll peer into his eyes to see if he's worried. I have no idea if he can do anything about it, but I have visions of my jaw being broken and rewired. Whatevs. I'll deal with whatever it is.
You see? This detox is either making me insane or much better able to cope. Either way.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Detox day three: all about eating out
Here's the thing about me and detoxing, which I've been doing in some form or another at various times of the year for almost 10 years; I need to be able to take my feedbag on the road if I'm going to make it work. And the difference between this detox and all the others is that my intention isn't only to give my my bod a break from the sugars, flours and cooked food swimming around in there. It's to figure out how I'm going eat to live disease-free until I'm old as the hills.
So I went to a pub today with Pete. Spinach salad with beets and goat cheese. Only catch was the candied almonds on top. I'm a complete sucker for candied anything, especially nutjobs. I tasted one to show the mofos who was boss then shoved the rest to the side of my plate, never to be touched again. Suck it, sugar.
Day three and I feel great eating-wise. I know the mornings are hard. The juice is delish, but it's hard to keep it liquid and scarce in the am. So here's the reason why, bastardized from all the books I've read on eating to beat the crap out of disease and live a strong, healthy life (but mostly from Fit for Life):
Your bod follows a regular cycle every day. Cycle one is all about elimination. This happens around 4 am until around noon. This is when you want to give your body the biggest break on expending energy to digest. Fruit and veg in their raw form (fruit esp) are the easiest and quickest to digest, and getting it in juice form is even lovelier for your bod because you get all the fab enzymes in the stuff without any extra breaking down effort in your guts.
Cycle two is about the appropriation of food and it happens between noon and around 8 pm. You want to keep things light here, too, and the experts will want to pay attention to food combining, so you're never eating a starch and a flesh together (in other words, eat salad and a potato, or salad and fish, but not salad, fish and a potato).
Cycle three is assimilation, which is the heavy lifting of digestion, and happens between 8 pm and 4 am. Eat your heaviest meal before this time because your bod is ready for it and working its arse off to get things moving for the elimination period. But again, watch your food combining to keep digestion times away from the mammoth 12 hours that a big steak and potato meal can demand.
I'm learning as fast as I can on this stuff, and admittedly, I've had six months to figure some shit out, have been juicing in earnest since September, and have been taking in the liquid breakfast for several weeks now, so I feel pretty comfortable with the routine now. But I know the morn is hard. It does get easier. And your beautiful skin-covered home will so thank you for letting it play by its natural rules. Your blood sugar will regulate. Your, ahem, bowels will regulate. Your moods will regulate. You'll soon have energy enough to wake up like a grinning idiot every day.
In other c-word news, I saw my surgeon today. I told her I was pretty damn close to making the decision to hack both breasts off in the name of living longer. She completely understood and was her wonderful, no-nonsense self. Seriously, I want to take this woman out for a martini and hear some surgery horror stories. She's just so damn cool. She's going to try to use her influence to move up my plastic surgery appointment so I can get the new set picked out, ordered and fitted before the ink is dry on my radiation treatments. Exciting and oh so surreal. Really just want to get those sucker dog tumours out already so I can get on with wearing a red sequin bikini around the neighbourhood.
Oh, don't think I won't be that annoying when I get the new set.
So I went to a pub today with Pete. Spinach salad with beets and goat cheese. Only catch was the candied almonds on top. I'm a complete sucker for candied anything, especially nutjobs. I tasted one to show the mofos who was boss then shoved the rest to the side of my plate, never to be touched again. Suck it, sugar.
Day three and I feel great eating-wise. I know the mornings are hard. The juice is delish, but it's hard to keep it liquid and scarce in the am. So here's the reason why, bastardized from all the books I've read on eating to beat the crap out of disease and live a strong, healthy life (but mostly from Fit for Life):
Your bod follows a regular cycle every day. Cycle one is all about elimination. This happens around 4 am until around noon. This is when you want to give your body the biggest break on expending energy to digest. Fruit and veg in their raw form (fruit esp) are the easiest and quickest to digest, and getting it in juice form is even lovelier for your bod because you get all the fab enzymes in the stuff without any extra breaking down effort in your guts.
Cycle two is about the appropriation of food and it happens between noon and around 8 pm. You want to keep things light here, too, and the experts will want to pay attention to food combining, so you're never eating a starch and a flesh together (in other words, eat salad and a potato, or salad and fish, but not salad, fish and a potato).
Cycle three is assimilation, which is the heavy lifting of digestion, and happens between 8 pm and 4 am. Eat your heaviest meal before this time because your bod is ready for it and working its arse off to get things moving for the elimination period. But again, watch your food combining to keep digestion times away from the mammoth 12 hours that a big steak and potato meal can demand.
I'm learning as fast as I can on this stuff, and admittedly, I've had six months to figure some shit out, have been juicing in earnest since September, and have been taking in the liquid breakfast for several weeks now, so I feel pretty comfortable with the routine now. But I know the morn is hard. It does get easier. And your beautiful skin-covered home will so thank you for letting it play by its natural rules. Your blood sugar will regulate. Your, ahem, bowels will regulate. Your moods will regulate. You'll soon have energy enough to wake up like a grinning idiot every day.
In other c-word news, I saw my surgeon today. I told her I was pretty damn close to making the decision to hack both breasts off in the name of living longer. She completely understood and was her wonderful, no-nonsense self. Seriously, I want to take this woman out for a martini and hear some surgery horror stories. She's just so damn cool. She's going to try to use her influence to move up my plastic surgery appointment so I can get the new set picked out, ordered and fitted before the ink is dry on my radiation treatments. Exciting and oh so surreal. Really just want to get those sucker dog tumours out already so I can get on with wearing a red sequin bikini around the neighbourhood.
Oh, don't think I won't be that annoying when I get the new set.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Detox day two: all about the mussels
Yesterday was fairly easy, as far as cravings go. I had a few moments in the afternoon when I walked longingly by the recycling and my discarded chocolate boxes from the day before, but otherwise I kicked those mofo sugar cravings in the arse and made some salsa/avocado dip and carrot/celery sticks.
Pete retired his gigantic Italian coffee-maker to the rumpus room and omg the counter space! Like having a new bloody kitchen. I made a new home for my juicer and the 4-slicer that is way underused these days.
Dinner wasn't terribly inspired. Delicious homemade chicken broth c/o Pete, a baked sweet potato, steamed broccoli and tomato/onion/cuke/basil salad. Not exactly one to win over the meat eater in my man. The kids had a spoonful or two of the broth and a piece of bread and then declared the whole deal so over. Can't be swinging from the chandelier every evening, s'pose.
Last night Pete made popcorn (yes, R, I say yes to popcorn) and I had a few squares of dark choco. A pretty normal night all around.
This morning is Pete's first morning w/o the liquid drug so we're all waiting for him to bite the head off a baby goat. So far so good. We'll fill up that dreaded 10 am to 12 pm slot with some swimming at the rec centre and shopping for more veg.
Tonight? Moules et frites with the cousins plus a big bad salad. T'is the good life as far as I'm concerned, Joe.
Pete retired his gigantic Italian coffee-maker to the rumpus room and omg the counter space! Like having a new bloody kitchen. I made a new home for my juicer and the 4-slicer that is way underused these days.
Dinner wasn't terribly inspired. Delicious homemade chicken broth c/o Pete, a baked sweet potato, steamed broccoli and tomato/onion/cuke/basil salad. Not exactly one to win over the meat eater in my man. The kids had a spoonful or two of the broth and a piece of bread and then declared the whole deal so over. Can't be swinging from the chandelier every evening, s'pose.
Last night Pete made popcorn (yes, R, I say yes to popcorn) and I had a few squares of dark choco. A pretty normal night all around.
This morning is Pete's first morning w/o the liquid drug so we're all waiting for him to bite the head off a baby goat. So far so good. We'll fill up that dreaded 10 am to 12 pm slot with some swimming at the rec centre and shopping for more veg.
Tonight? Moules et frites with the cousins plus a big bad salad. T'is the good life as far as I'm concerned, Joe.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Detox day one: all about the nicoise
Day one of the 30-day detox and so far so good.
Two huge cups of water for both Pete and me between 8 and 10 am, about 16 oz of kale/beet/carrot/celery/cuke/apple/ginger/lemon juice (yum) at around 10:30 while we traipsed down to Gyro for a chilly but beautiful outing with the girls. Amazingly, they were actually ready to go before we were.
At noon I fixed us a modified nicoise salad. Spring greens, chopped up leftover potatoes from last night, cooked green beans, tomato, various sprouts, pea shoots, avocado, radishes and a little goat cheddar (not officially on the detox, but wtf). The dressing was olive oil, grated garlic, dijon, white balsamic, a drop of agave, dried basil and oregano and salt and pepper. Vinegar not on the detox, but again, sue me. It was delish and filling.
Now I'm sipping some decaf green tea and tonight we'll likely have some leftover chicken and maybe some spinach, carrots and salad.
There have been some offline questions about adding stuff into the lunchtime salad to make it more filling (you know who you are, R). I found the nicoise I made was plenty filling, but by all means, add some cooked egg, a piece of fish or chicken or have a baked potato/sweet potato with a little butter and salt). Or have a salad and veggie soup. If you can get through the morning on water and juice, fill up a little more at lunch. I think the morning is the most important time, as is the idea that you go from your lightest to heaviest meal, loading up at dinner. Don't starve yourself, but realize this is mostly about the almighty veg and eliminating the caffeine, sugars and flours. Make it mostly about those things and don't sweat the eggs, fish and chicken to increase the happy fun time factor.
And seriously, my Ma? She's got her own juice/salad delivery service going out there in Glen Lake. You're my hero, lady.
Two huge cups of water for both Pete and me between 8 and 10 am, about 16 oz of kale/beet/carrot/celery/cuke/apple/ginger/lemon juice (yum) at around 10:30 while we traipsed down to Gyro for a chilly but beautiful outing with the girls. Amazingly, they were actually ready to go before we were.
At noon I fixed us a modified nicoise salad. Spring greens, chopped up leftover potatoes from last night, cooked green beans, tomato, various sprouts, pea shoots, avocado, radishes and a little goat cheddar (not officially on the detox, but wtf). The dressing was olive oil, grated garlic, dijon, white balsamic, a drop of agave, dried basil and oregano and salt and pepper. Vinegar not on the detox, but again, sue me. It was delish and filling.
Now I'm sipping some decaf green tea and tonight we'll likely have some leftover chicken and maybe some spinach, carrots and salad.
There have been some offline questions about adding stuff into the lunchtime salad to make it more filling (you know who you are, R). I found the nicoise I made was plenty filling, but by all means, add some cooked egg, a piece of fish or chicken or have a baked potato/sweet potato with a little butter and salt). Or have a salad and veggie soup. If you can get through the morning on water and juice, fill up a little more at lunch. I think the morning is the most important time, as is the idea that you go from your lightest to heaviest meal, loading up at dinner. Don't starve yourself, but realize this is mostly about the almighty veg and eliminating the caffeine, sugars and flours. Make it mostly about those things and don't sweat the eggs, fish and chicken to increase the happy fun time factor.
And seriously, my Ma? She's got her own juice/salad delivery service going out there in Glen Lake. You're my hero, lady.
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