Grandma Gwyneth

The hot flashes have begun. I had them when I was pregnant, but it was a growing uterus and not one putting up a closed for business sign that was to blame. Either way it's a hormonal shift, but this one makes me feel a tad prematurely aged.

So like my secret girlcrush and snob extraordinaire Gwyneth, I've enlisted the help of Tracy Anderson to make me feel more 38 than 58. I worked out this morning, in my home no less, for the first time in years and will no doubt have a big pain in the arse (and abs, and arms, and calves) to show for it tomorrow. Perhaps not wise to begin this course of action a mere three days before round four, but it's the first time I've felt up and at 'em enough to get moving in any way beyond a long walk or bike ride.

So while my ladybits shut down (forever? for now?) I will recapture my yute in other ways - with arms like Madonna to punch the c-word in the other c-word.

Work it, girl

I've been meaning to write a post about work for a long time, but my thoughts come in spurts rather than wholly formed sentences and for a writer, that's just plain annoying.

I had lunch with three rockin' colleagues from work yesterday and it was lovely. They gave good talk, good laughs, and bestowed me with the kind of open-armed generosity that gets me all choked up later (cuz I'm Italian) but lets me be all stoic in person (cuz I'm also Irish and Danny Boy wasn't playing in the background). When I'm in my rocker watching reruns of Murder She Wrote, I'll never forget the awesomeness of the people I work with. It makes me speechless.

Leaving my job so suddenly in June was hard for me and I continue to think about the stuff I did and still want to do that gave me pride, the opportunity to connect with peeps across the country and still live in the city I love with the people I love. There's really no other place like it. What I let myself do b.c. (before cancer), though, was tip the scale way too far in the work direction while forgetting how to do the things in my personal life that let me feel a sense of patience, quietness, friendship, love, freedom and ultimately health.

And let me be clear. I let this happen and I'm by freakin' far not the only sap who does this on a daily basis. Shite, man, we all do to some extent, and I let that extent be maximized instead of under my control. Did I ignore the signs because I didn't prioritize them? Um, yes. Am I bonehead for doing that? Doublemint yes. But a big part of that idiot died on the day of my diagnosis.

I am in the infancy of trying to figure out what kind of person will come back to work when the time comes. And I'm a zygote when it comes to figuring out what work in general will mean for me in the bigger picture, post-cancer, and how I want to contribute to this world and still pay my bills.

This shite has made me question everything, but one thing I'm sure of as I look forward to another meet up with colleagues on Saturday? That in my kindest of writing moments I could not have made up the giant orb of support I get every day from work. It's baffling and wonderful and deserves a giant breakdance of love.

I'm okay, you're okay

I read somewhere, just after my diagnosis, that one day soon I'll wake up and not have the c-dawg as my first thought of the day. It's true, it does happen. Not every day, but I've chalked up enough clear-headed wakeups, noontimes, evenings and nights that I now have these mini moments of panic where I think, am I taking this jerk seriously enough?

At chemo, kicking back with a mag, some saltines and my iPhone, the distraction is momentary. I need only look around me, at the other bald heads in various stages of the disease to see it doesn't fuck around. I get big doses at medical appointments and blood draws, where I get this focused medical attention that makes me feel simultaneously loved and otherworldly. I have this rockin' library now that I can only devour in small bites because... well, because it makes me feel like I have cancer. I get a solid week every three weeks of feeling like ass and wondering if I'll ever enjoy another glass of wine, a banana, a good tooth-brushing, a solid sleep, a bloody steak again. And my family, who is so used to my lack of hair and having me around more often that it's almost one big normal scene now.

And then I read about the husband of the MP who suddenly discovered a football-sized tumour in his gut and is hoping beyond hope that a recent bone marrow transplant will prolong his life. I hear about the wife of a celeb who got cancer three years ago and finally "succumbed", as if to an ever-present temptation of death. I discover stories upon stories of men and women who get the aggressive kick of cancer, like me, and chemo doesn't work. And I panic.

I get so caught up in trying to live a normal life and not making everyone worry about the "what ifs" that I forget that this could all turn to horseshite in an instant, in so many ways. Should I be praying to Saint Philomena every night? Should I be doing something to remind myself daily that this ain't no ordinary life? It's exhausting to even think about, on top of my obsessions with food, cosmetics, exercise, work, money and Mad Men.

I'm thinking I'll go with my gut on this, because damn, September 3 and the last of my effing brutal nausea-inducing chemos is creeping up quickly and I'd like to enjoy a glass of vino before then.

Parabens for the twins

I've been mulling over the paraben phenom for a few years now, but until I was diagnosed I hadn't committed my brain to anything organic, for my underarms or any other body bits. Now I'm getting all worked up.

Parabens are an oft-used preservative in all the cheap and expensive things that make us smell and look good. There have been a billion tests that prove parabens show up in breast tumours, which may mean nothing but the fact that the buggers leak through our pores and get under our skin. The freaky thing is, they've also been proven to mimic estrogen, which means if you already have cancer cells in your body (which many of us do), they could prove handy little fertilizer.

So a girl finds out she's got a couple of cancer eggs taking up residence in her breast, which happen to be estrogen-receptive, and the first thing to go into the garbage is the Dove pit stick with the lovely grapefruit smell. It's been trial and stinky error finding a good natural replacement, but I did me some research, I did, and found out that Avalon Organics deodorant spray was tops and selling out all over the U.S of A.
You'd think being in former hippie-ville would guarantee me access to some of the junk, but alas, Avalon everywhere and none of the spray gold. Fortunately, my dear cousin was down in the States recently and brought me back a couple of bottles of the stuff and it's indeed fabulous. The thing is... I actually think the chemo has killed (temporarily?) my sweat glands. Either the stuff is so good I'm flying to Avalonville to become a robot spokesperson or stinky pit sweat is taking a hiatus along with my hair follicles. Strange indeed, but can't complain.

The next thing, of course, is to unload the rest of my paraben-laden products, which does pain my cheap little heart a tad. The handsoap and hand lotion are in the middle of transitioning to Avalon. The dishsoap is all Method all the time. The body lotion is Korres (thank you, Sephora). The bald head moisturizer (oh yes, I do have some) and kids' body wash is Kiss My Face. But that merely scratches the surface of this committed product hog's cupboards.

If you have any recommendations, let me know, otherwise I'll keep trolling the intertubes for paraben-blasting products that don't leave me smelling like the Victoria hippie I'm slowly turning into.

What not to say

Since being diagnosed, I've received some fucking amazing phonecalls, emails, visits and general lovely support from family and out-of-the-past friends, colleagues and casual acquaintances. Almost everyone says nice things, even when they don't really know what to say, but I've also had a few doozies over the past two months. My top three:

"Oh wow. I had an aunt/cousin/mother/wife who died from breast cancer..." Apparently, this one isn't an obvious no-go, cuz I've gotten it more than a few times.

"Really? Gosh, I hope I don't have it." A touching, vaguely viral-feeling variation on the "it's all about me" syndrome.

"Your mom looks weird." Okay, technically this was something I overheard from a five-year old kid in Stella's summer camp, but believe you me, this little punk was talking himself into a good pummeling on the top field at 3 o'clock. Instead, Stella just replied, "she's not weird, she just has cancer." S'my girl.

So, continue to ask questions about cancer, don't ask questions about cancer, talk about the weather, the latest shite-looking rom-com from Drew Barrymore, the breakthrough angiogenesis research you've been poring over, your blisters, my wigged out self, your wigged out self, but don't ask me how long I've been given or who I'm leaving my dog to when I kick off. Capiche?

Waiting for humpday

By this point last time I think I was getting ready to scarf some Triple O and make haste with the lingering nausea of round two. This time around I may have dabbled in BLTs on day two, but the edge of varminting is as close today as it was several days ago, if not worse.

I have the girls this week, and I really shouldn't complain. It's the only solid post-chemo week that I'll have them to myself, but fuck, I wish I could do stuff with them without feeling like a hurl is just around the corner. They've been pretty great so far - minus a handful of inexplicable meltdowns from Stella that are rocking the neighbourhood - but my itinerary isn't exactly inspiring. We get out. We bake. We bead. We clean. We walk. No dear diary stuff here. But the fact that I refuse to take any more anti-nauseants makes it all so tenuous.

Stella is across the street right now, playing with her friend. Frances is having a blessed nap. And I'm downing fibre, fruit and water before I collapse in front of a bag of Hickory Sticks to give into the one shred of food craving I've been able to muster. No sign of hunger yet for this round. Eating to stave off the blowtorch taste in my mouth and be social with my girls. And if anyone mentions round four coming up in two weeks, I will likely load my close-range slingslot. Be warned.

The connection

Part of this whole cancer mess comes with the oft-asked question "anyone else in your family have it?" Yeah, you could say that.

My dad's mom died of breast cancer after barely finishing raising a huge brood of kids. My mom had breast cancer less than five years ago and it was discovered only because of other medical issues hitting her over the head that would no longer be ignored. It was whipped out of her quickly with a lumpectomy and radiation but she continues to deal, first with a bout further south and now with ongoing hormone therapy. There's my dad and his incorrigible Irish skin and various touch-ups from the dermatologist. There's my brother and his wily digestive tract with pre-cancerous hoo-ha. I had a very minor tussle myself with some pre-cancerous partygoers before Stella came along, but I had those babies smoked out.

Then there's my mom's mom. She died of brain cancer when I was eight. It's not something I like to think or talk about much, lo 30 years after the fact. She died in the room next to mine while I was at school with my cousins. I have memories of headscarves, a weakening bladder, her fear of a car wash once, increasing episodes of tears and frustration from a woman I otherwise never saw cry.

In the middle of one night, closer to the end, she was calling my mom's name over and over again until I finally roused myself to plod down the hall to see what she needed.

"Irene, I have to use the bathroom," she said when she saw me. I was more than a little freaked out that she didn't recognize me, but marched over to my parents bedroom to get the right relative.

I'm glad I was at school when she died, but for several nights I had visions of her at the end of my bed, in her headscarf, coughing her cancer cough.

It's the thing that terrifies me now in my quiet moments when I really get a look at my bald head or think of what the end looks like. She was in her 60s, also far too young to get the hell out of here.

So yes, cancer does pop up in a few other places in my family, thank you very much.