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.