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.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Bringing up baby
I'm nesting like a mofo to prepare for my return to work, but there ain't no baby to push into the arms of a stranger for eight-hours a day. Very strange feeling. Cancer's all grown up and leaving the house soon to be replaced by...?
Last week I had my leftie pumped up one final time to compensate for some inevitable radiation-induced skin shrinkage (there's a sentence I never thought I'd type). So I'm done with my plastic doc for another six months or so, when I'll go back to the hospital for a day-time implant implantation extravaganza. These rocks are mine all summer, which means Hawaii will require some bathing suit action soon. Sweaty, poorly-lit changeroom shenanigans ensue.
I'm still not used to my bod in clothes (you know, cuz I'm a nudist at heart). Everything I put on looks so demure! And after 20-odd years of looking like a ho-bag in everything tight, I'm having to learn about what simply looks flattering rather than minimizing. My wardrobe is pathetic, but amazingly, I'm able to repurpose some of the shirts I used to bust out of and they look normal now. Fo shizzle.
The tamoxifen seems to be having no side effects on much of anything, so although my skin is still horrific from the Herceptin (and will be until I kick the H-bomb in September) and my range of motion on the left side is still pretty pathetic, I'm feeling fairly fantastic lately (impending cold aside). But I tell you - this Easter business can try a girl's sugar/crack addiction. When you purge the high-fructose corn syrup from your life, it's startling how you can hear the angels sing, but one chocolate egg can put you back on the street corner begging for just one more hit of HFCS to get you through the next hour. So I toss that bidness in the garbage. It's the only way to get over it.
All of this going back to work stuff is again forcing me to reflect on what exactly I've gotten out of this cancer shit. It's unbelievably easy to slip back into old habits, old thought patterns, old ways of dealing with everything. Not doing all that stuff is the effort. So I'm still trying to reinvent everything - I really am - without tiring my neck out from all the navel-gazing.
Last week I had my leftie pumped up one final time to compensate for some inevitable radiation-induced skin shrinkage (there's a sentence I never thought I'd type). So I'm done with my plastic doc for another six months or so, when I'll go back to the hospital for a day-time implant implantation extravaganza. These rocks are mine all summer, which means Hawaii will require some bathing suit action soon. Sweaty, poorly-lit changeroom shenanigans ensue.
I'm still not used to my bod in clothes (you know, cuz I'm a nudist at heart). Everything I put on looks so demure! And after 20-odd years of looking like a ho-bag in everything tight, I'm having to learn about what simply looks flattering rather than minimizing. My wardrobe is pathetic, but amazingly, I'm able to repurpose some of the shirts I used to bust out of and they look normal now. Fo shizzle.
The tamoxifen seems to be having no side effects on much of anything, so although my skin is still horrific from the Herceptin (and will be until I kick the H-bomb in September) and my range of motion on the left side is still pretty pathetic, I'm feeling fairly fantastic lately (impending cold aside). But I tell you - this Easter business can try a girl's sugar/crack addiction. When you purge the high-fructose corn syrup from your life, it's startling how you can hear the angels sing, but one chocolate egg can put you back on the street corner begging for just one more hit of HFCS to get you through the next hour. So I toss that bidness in the garbage. It's the only way to get over it.
All of this going back to work stuff is again forcing me to reflect on what exactly I've gotten out of this cancer shit. It's unbelievably easy to slip back into old habits, old thought patterns, old ways of dealing with everything. Not doing all that stuff is the effort. So I'm still trying to reinvent everything - I really am - without tiring my neck out from all the navel-gazing.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Rock-a-hula luau
I don't know if it was my last post, the shite spring weather we've been having or the fact that my canceritis has that familiar "she might be dead in a year" quality to it, but something inspired my family to book a trip to Kauai with me this August. And I couldn't be more gob-smackingly giddy about it.
My little four-person brood, plus my parents, plus my brother and his family from Edmonton, plus my brother and his family in Victoria are all heading to the Garden Isle this summer to strap on our coconut bras and perform the final number from Grease 2 (don't pretend you haven't seen that masterpiece). Cousins playing in the surf! Barbecued mahi-mahi! Spam breakfast sandwiches from McDonald's! People who won't think I'm insane for packing a juicer in my carry-on so I don't have to eat said spam sandwiches!
S'all good. And I don't even care that cancer may have/did play a part in getting everyone together on foreign soil. I think it's rockin' good times.
My little four-person brood, plus my parents, plus my brother and his family from Edmonton, plus my brother and his family in Victoria are all heading to the Garden Isle this summer to strap on our coconut bras and perform the final number from Grease 2 (don't pretend you haven't seen that masterpiece). Cousins playing in the surf! Barbecued mahi-mahi! Spam breakfast sandwiches from McDonald's! People who won't think I'm insane for packing a juicer in my carry-on so I don't have to eat said spam sandwiches!
S'all good. And I don't even care that cancer may have/did play a part in getting everyone together on foreign soil. I think it's rockin' good times.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Ode to my family
Here's the thing - I actually have a pretty great family. Even before all this cancer shizz came down the pike. I mean, we don't sit around singing kumbaya or anything, but we do laugh and talk and keep each other totally honest amongst all the bullshit that can fly around.
I feel completely fortunate not to have to dissect a bunch of mind game crap or bad feelings on a daily basis because of crummy parents, wretched siblings, a horrific extended brood, a narsty husband or intolerable kids.There have been moments of no sunshine coming out of our arses, but we're mostly just happy to sit around, drink red wine and make fun of each other.
When the cancer train stopped at my station we all recognized the front end from the stop it made at my Ma's bod a few years ago and the history of it throughout my family. We're not unique and certainly not better than the bad cells are relentless. Despite not yet knowing whether I have the BCRA gene yet, I know enough about cancer now to know that this line of disease is likely not based on a shared DNA mutation but rather a shared lifestyle and general non-George Burns-like hardiness.
So when I started going all juicing freak and diet and exercise changeup on everyone, I fully expected a tut-tut, isn't she adorable in a cancerous dying kind of way reaction from my fam. I know I get that from some people - like, good on her for doing what she needs to do to get healthy, but that's not me. And really, I would've been fine to be my own little island of wellness warrior, shunning all things debauch in the name of living past 40. Cuz it's easy for me, right? I mean, it's not easy, per se, but I have a motivation. I have a great big kick in the ass reason to do all this shit. Plus I've been off work and for the most part, not bed-ridden. So good on me for making an effort.
But here's the thing... my family has actually embraced all this crap. Not just my husband, as he puts up with me spooning algae into his mouth. Not just my girls and their daily shot of green blood. Hella, not just my mom and dad and their complete transformation, at almost 70 (sorry, Ma) and 75 years old, into juicing, nearly vegetarian, rebounding, vitamin-taking, kick-ass oldies.
This mutha goes beyond my original five-person band to my cousins, who are making such big changes in their lives in the name of "what the hell, I'll try this, too" and my aunt, who is lookin' so glowy and healthy lately, to my brother and sister-in-law who juice every day and buy organic like a couple of insufferable gen-Xers, to my bro and sis-in-law in Edmonton, who feed me countless wellness ideas and sparked the great detox in January.
They're all kinds of awesome, to be sure, but the best part of all is that they still let me hang out with them so we can drink red wine and make fun of each other.
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