Sunday, May 22, 2011

Girlfriend in a coma

Some things can shape a girl while she's growing up. The child bride-like business of Catholic first communion, seeing the World According to Garp at 10 years old, Robert Smith, breakdancing, and all the strange crushes and loves from a faraway time.

I've set my sights on some doozies, to varying degrees of reciprocation. One of them was ripped apart by a car one rain-slicked night like so many brutal movie scenes. Another was gunned down outside a Vancouver restaurant by a rival gang member (I can't make this shit up). Yet another was with me one week and then without a word, the next week was married to someone else in a fairy-tale, sleigh-ride, winter wonderland wedding in Montreal that must have been in the works for months. I'll say no more about these dudes, other than they tortured my girl heart for a brief but hideous time.

But fuck if they didn't bring me to Pete - my Englishman mowing the lawn in his rubber boots - to make it all worth it.

Then there's the person who was my best friend a lifetime ago. Things fell apart after a ton of history but a rather lazy ending. This boy shaped my young girl's heart for the good and bad, but there was never a proper capper. So there. That's why things are the way they are. See you later. It's been... well, something.

Fast forward to cancer girl, planning her funeral last year for shits and giggles, and thinking, "I should invite that boy, but where the hell is he now?" Nada. No record. Doesn't exist. Put the relationship back into its little coma.

Then enter the magic of the intertubes. More than 15 years after we last spoke, he finds my blog, finds me, and sends me this eulogy-like email that makes me hear Ave Maria when I finish it. Like someone took my 22-year old self with all her unresolved angst and said, "it'll all turn out okay, sweetheart" and was actually right about that.

Sometimes this cancer crap reaches around and pats you on the head in a really nice, but rather Peggy-Sue-Got-Married kind of way.

Thank you, DC.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Release the hounds

I could count on half a hand the number of times I've cried through this whole dealio. Pre-diagnosis was another sitch, but after I got word that cancer had come to visit, I either couldn't or wouldn't let myself get dragged down by self-pity or wallowing. And believe me, if not for my peeps (especially my boy), I could not have stuck to that resolve.

So I've gone merrily on my cancer-fighting way, having moments of sadness or fiercely terrifying thoughts and I've pushed them aside quickly like so many racks of stirrup pants. Nope. Not for me. Not even in a post-80s ironic statement kind of way. And hold your tongue, cuz it hasn't been exhausting either. I'm a sap for many, many things, but weeping openly is not generally part of that whole biz.

And then here I am, back to work this past week, revisiting colleagues in Vancouver who likely had thoughts of my death and were genuinely happy to see and hear from me again. And now back to Victoria to restart my communications engine, and I finally let go a little the other evening. And who's to blame? Well, actually, it's not my fault - it's all because of one particular IT guy, Mr. B, from the little mom & pop company I work for.

See, this is someone who is gruff, superbly smart and opinionated, but when my cancer twin went on leave last year, he was truly wracked about it and I remember thinking, he might just be an ol’ softie.

And then on Monday night, after a day of seeing some of the people who have been such great supporters over the past year, I walk into a big ballroom where this Mr. B is practicing a song. When he spots me, he smiles huge, puts down his guitar in the middle of the song and comes over to give me a big hug. Hands down one of my favourite moments of so many for the day.

Then I found out that later the next day, he gave me a special live shout out to his entire 200+ person leadership team for the long journey I've been on the past year and something in me clicked. Like a door closing on a big pile of badness.

I spent extra long with Frances at bedtime, revelling in her every turn to keep me in her room, not really wanting to leave her and hugging that bean more than she knew what to do with. Then I went in to say goodnight to Stella and felt overwhelmed for the first time by my need to let out a big apology to her for what she's been through this past year at only six-years old.


She cried. I cried. She told me she was scared when I went into the hospital and was worried that the cancer hurt. She didn't say anything about worrying about me dying because we never talked about that as a possibility. It was the first time since my diagnosis that we had talked so honestly about everything and the first time I let her see me cry about it. Bigrelief.org.

Mr. B, you would probably rather eat your golf clubs than read my blog, but just know that you put a pretty awesome bookmark into my story this week and reminded me that not only have I been on one fuck of a journey, but I'm back, baby. No matter what evil things may be lurking around the corner, I feel nothing but grateful for the shit I gots.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Game for gamine

I have an actual haircut. I mean a real live scissored up and very short 'do. For the first time in my life, I could not care less how my brain topper looks, just that it's a topper I had to have created with real money and stuff and not with a pair of dog shears on my back porch.

So I don't look all gamine like Emma Watson or Michelle Williams. At least I don't resemble a tennis ball anymore. Don't get me started about the colour, though. That's for another visit to the chair when I figure out who I wanna be next. And yes, that is a tube top dress I'm wearing. It's a brave new world, people.

Monday, May 2, 2011

My salad days

I've learned a crapload of stuff about nutrition and disease over the past year, but today I walked around a newish (to me) health food store like an idiot.

I'm going through another wave of determination to get my veg-head on and wanted to check out the nama shoyu and such at the alterna market. I spent my Hawaii budget on ridiculous items, but compared to what lay before me on the ethically-sourced shelves, I could have become someone I would like to slap. I mean "heritage chilean cocoa nibs"? "gently rubbed goji seed pods with extract of unicorn tears"? I loves me some hippie as much as the next person, but I just wanted to see how much closer I could get to eating healthily rather than dining on powdered elephant ears and hot dog water.

It's a lot of fucking work to eat ethically and consciously. I could spend my days sourcing food and recipes and I'm lamenting the fact that I'll have much less of this precious time when I dive back into work next week. So I'm trying to be strategic about it all, not sweat the details too much and remember my mantra: progress not perfection.

Eating a basic non-ovo/lacto vegetarian diet is pretty cheap, even with the juicing component. But factor in my still being at the youthful rebellious stage, my need to try this and that before I land on my own solution, my two girls who have just (rather uncomplainingly so far) cleansed their lives completely of refined sugar and my extra kick in the ass of not only eating well but eating to kick cancer in the nards day after day so I can live to see said girls grow up... well, it's a bloody full-time job.

But the big stuff is figured out. I know I have to stay alkaline and I know how to do that. I know I have to schedule in my meditation, exercise and family togetherness. I know there are things like Mad Men, Chaka Khan, watching my six-year old discover kick-ass female singers like she's the first person to hear them on youtube, hearing my three-year old call out "sorry, Mommy!" from another room, 90% chocolate, the bright green stains on my dad's stubble after he drinks his green juice, the backyard garden, the trip to Hawaii with my entire family... so much fucking stuff that gives me that rush of connection, of knowing that it's all the small stuff that makes up the big feelings. I mean, hit me with a bus tomorrow. That's the jazz hands, man.