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.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)