grieving and treatment

My father passed away a couple of weeks ago (the night before I started IT Herceptin, in fact). His service was last week. It was small and private. I was very impressed with the priest who had never met my father but listened to my mom and my sister and said some very thoughtful things.

The end of my father's life was not an easy one and, in his last days, I was unable to get to the hospital. I didn't (we didn't) want to put my treatment in jeopardy by exposing myself to hospital germs. 

It was the right call but it was hard and it made everything seem less real and further away. 

I have realized that grieving, or working through, a death is perhaps not so compatible with intense cancer treatment. I need to stay focused, informed, strong and clear as we go forward.

I need to keep putting one foot in front of the other and get to treatment every single week. I need to build a relationship with a new oncologist (who I had never met before starting the IT Herceptin). I need to figure out what I wish to do when it comes to increasing doses and deciding how to proceed (my new oncologist is very thoughtful but also consultative. He acknowledges that we are smart and well informed - and that there is a paucity of information out there). 

I need to walk that line between getting stuff done, having some fun, staying vigilant and getting enough rest.

It turns out that my regular oncologist, who has followed me since 2006, is unlikely to return for several months (I do not know the details as to why and don't feel that I am entitled to them. Something very hard must have happened and I hope that he is getting what he needs). What I didn't realize is that the other doctor, who convinced my oncologist to go the route of IT Herceptin, is finished at our hospital and is now in Boston. At least he is reachable via email by my medical staff but he's not here to question and to reassure.

All that to say that I want to grieve. I want to hold up my emotions to the light and and think about what this recent loss means. I don't cry easily and it has yet to really happen.

The service helped. And I have been thinking of the things that were important to my father that he passed on to me: intellect, honesty, respect for privacy, a love of literature and a curiosity about the world and it's differences. 

And despite all that he went through at the end, I know that he would want me to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Two of my boys out for our meal after the service.

the best laid plans

The good news is, I have a new port and it works.

The bad news is that I found it a much harder experience than I had anticipated.

And there's some other stuff that's kind of in between good and bad news. I haven't decided yet.

My friend Lise picked me up early on Tuesday morning and we arrived in plenty of time for my 8am appointment. I really, really liked the nurse doing intake (and I told her so when I left) and Lise stayed with me for as long as she was permitted.

That part was just fine. I didn't even mind too much when the nurse had a hard time accessing a vein for my IV - I was in for a new port precisely because my veins are hard to access.

Tasha, the nurse, told me that I had ruined her "one poke record." I reassured her that she shouldn't blame herself and that it shouldn't even count because "I'm special. How many people go through years of chemotherapy and actually live to tell the tale?" She liked that and agree that I am pretty special.

I spoke with Tasha about my expectations about my port surgery, "In. Out. All on the left side" and she confirmed that was what was written on my chart.

Unfortunately, the surgeon had other ideas. 

He came to see me with the consent form, as I lay in a hospital bed, in the hallway, already hooked up to IV. I was all by myself. I can't remember his exact words but he told me in graphic that he would have to "rip through" scar tissue to put a replacement port on the left side. He said that the possibility of infection was much, much higher and that it would be "100% more work" for him. 

But it was up to me.

I still don't know what I should have done and I felt very pressured. I could have asked for more time and put off the surgery. I could have insisted that he try the left side.

I chose the path of least resistance. I signed the consent form and the surgeon said, "This is what I would tell my wife she should do."

The surgery itself was pretty uneventful, although I was told I would forget and I have not. I know that I slept through lots of it but I remember him sewing up the right side and most of the removal on the left.

When I had my old port put in 6 years ago, there was only one surgeon, Dr. Waters, doing portacath insertion. Now there are seven and Dr. Waters has moved on to other things. The surgeon from last Tuesday told me that portacaths are usually always on the right side unless the patient is going to have radiation on the right. I've already had right-side radiation, so, according to him,  there's no reason not to do the right side. 

However, while I was drugged up during surgery, that Dr. Waters actually preferred left side ports, so I know there is at least one surgeon out there who thinks left-side ports are just fine. 

In addition to the vanity of keeping my scars on the same side, I was concerned about the fact that my right side is already tight and sore (I seldom feel comfortable wearing a prosthesis) and I have truncal lymphedema (which no one seems to understand, except the folks who have it). If cuts to the arm can make arm lymphedema worse, then wouldn't surgery to the chest worsen truncal lymphedema?

Perhaps this was the right decision. Maybe it would have been excruciating and difficult to put in a port on the same side as my old one. I've just found doctors and nurses to be dismissive of the pain in my chest and ignorant of truncal lymphedema. It's hard to accept reassurances that the port won't make these things worse, when doctors have never really understand that they exist and are serious in the first place.

I've been really, really sore for the last couple of days. They told me that Tylenol would be enough for the pain but I was glad that I still some more serious painkillers on hand to get me through the nights. I'm not sure if the medical team just underestimates how much it all can hurt or if I hurt more because the right side was a mistake.

The port worked beautifully on Tuesday (the same day as the surgery). Tomorrow, I'll have my bandages changed on both sides and the needle and tubes removed that have kept it accessed. That should make me more comfortable.

It's been a tough couple of days, compounded from the usual challenges of treatment weeks.

Hopefully, by the weekend, I'll be feeling much better about all of this.

a man, a boat and some respite

I was listening to the radio this morning and I heard an interview with a man who was sitting in a boat outside his flooded home in Calgary, fishing. He said that his furnace, freezer, everything in his basement and much of his first floor were submerged in water but he was making the best of it.

"People pay thousands of dollars to do what I'm doing. How often do the fish come to you?" he asked the interviewer. "I can sit and be miserable or hang out like this and keep a smile on my face for a couple of days."

I was quite taken aback with this interview. At first, it seemed like an incomprehensible attitude to have in the face of such tragedy. But as I thought about it, I realized that not only do I understand, I can relate.

I don't actually believe that the guy has been sitting in his boat and smiling for the last few days, or that he's immune in the face of loss. He's just found something, in spite of all that's happening, that makes him happy. No matter what is going on in any of our lives, there is hopefully at least one good thing that we can cling to like a life-raft, something that brings respite while we gather our strength to face all that lies ahead.

I would never choose to have been diagnosed with cancer. I would never wish what I've been through on anyone. But there have been so very many good things - the friends and loved ones who've rallied around, things I've learned about myself and a new appreciation for all the good things - that have sustained me through the darkest times.

I hope it goes without saying that I don't think everything happens for a reason. The floods in Alberta have been horrific and terrifying. This is a tragedy of enormous magnitude.

It's just that this morning I listened to that guy, fishing in his boat while his home was underwater and I felt that I understood him.

Barbara Brenner: a real hero

A formidable woman passed away earlier this month. Barbara Brenner was the former Executive Director of Breast Cancer Action and an articulate and out spoken advocate for change. Her voice cut through a haze of pink, raising awareness of corporate exploitation, pink ribbon crap and the environmental causes of breast cancer. She was a real hero, who died way too young.

My friend Tamara sent me this excellent article from the New York Times. She drew my attention to the last line, a wonderful quote from Suzanne Lampert, Ms. Brenner's spouse of 38 years:

“I always told her that I would make sure her obituary said she died after a long battle with the breast cancer industry.”

for Orit

photo: Andrea Ross/Mark Blevis

As of Saturday, June 30th, I have been in remission for five years. This is a huge milestone and I'm very fortunate to have the chance to mark it.


But I really didn't feel like celebrating.


Just a couple of days before, my beautiful friend Orit passed away, leaving three young kids, a loving spouse and a large group of family and friends in deep mourning. I spoke to her husband Sean early on the day she died and afterwards posted on Facebook what was for me an unusually vague status update:

"Warning: This would not be a good day to tell me that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes wrong stuff just happens. And sometimes life is terribly unfair."

So much about cancer is a crap shoot. Some get cancer, some don't. Some walk away, others live with the illness forever. Some live for a long time and some die way before they are ready to go.


Orit had strength and determination and a great love for her family and community. She had access to the best health care and, prior to being diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer, was healthy and fit. She never stopped fighting to live and she most definitely did not lose a battle.


Despite the fact that we lived in the same neighbourhood, I met Orit less than a year ago, not long after her cancer diagnosis. Our illness brought us together but we soon found that we had so much more than than cancer in common. We both found humour in the world around us, sought to nurture our creative selves and wore our hearts on our sleeves when it came to those around us. I had the privilege of watching her face light up when her husband got home and the clear eyed love she had for each of her kids. We had the chance to talk about being in cross-cultural relationships and about the values we hoped to share with our kids. We talked about petty grievances and big ideas. And we shared our fears, hopes, sorrow and anger at facing the scourge that is cancer.


One evening, as we were yarn bombing our local community centre, Orit and I sat on the pavement sewing a 6 foot tube of yarn onto a bike rack. As we took turns holding the piece in place and passing the needle, she suddenly said. "I really wish that we had the chance to know each other before. We would have been such good friends."


I felt my heart break as I struggled to find an appropriate and truthful answer. But I knew it would be wrong to say "We will get to be friends for a long time" or even "It's going to be OK." Instead, I said swallowing the lump in my throat, "I agree. I wish I'd met you sooner as well."


The last time I saw Orit, we had tea on her front porch while she knit. She had been in the hospital the night before because of unmanageable pain. That morning she seemed fine, if weak. She talked about convincing her oncologist to try one last course of treatment and her profound grief at the thought of leaving her children. We both cried.


And then I left for a yoga class, borrowing a t-shirt before I left. It didn't occur to me that I would not see her again.


A few days later, she was hospitalized. And a few days after that, she died.


I wish I had told her how amazing I thought she was. That I thought she was a great mother, an interesting person and inspiring in a way that transcended her illness. I wish I'd said how beautiful she was.


I've struggled for two weeks to write this blog post. Orit's family have been so kind, loving and generous to me but I can't help thinking how grossly unfairly life has treated them.


Which is why I haven't felt like celebrating.


I am very lucky to be alive and I hope to be around writing blog posts in another 5 years. None of us knows when our time will come. We need to live bravely, love fiercely and hold on to the things that matter. We need to tell those we care for how much they mean to us and to do those things we always wanted to do. No matter how long we have on this earth, we need to truly live.


I, for one, plan on doing a little more yarn bombing. I have Orit's last piece of knitting so a little bit of her will be there as well.


Care to join us?

video: Mark Blevis

i've been a bad friend

I've been brooding a little bit lately over all the ways I have been a bad friend since my breast cancer diagnosis.

I know I have and can still be a good friend much of the time but I've been thinking of how good people have been to me and I feel like I've fallen short in the reciprocation department.

I'm not being too hard on myself for cocooning during the worst of treatment. But there have been lots of good weeks during remission. I have missed so many important events in friends' lives - the births of children, loss of loved ones and serious illness. And now I don't know how to make up for that.

Friends, acquaintances and co-workers have sent me on trips, bought me presents and food, taken me out and sent me beautiful messages of support. I've been better lately at being the kind of person who does these things for others but I think, for longer than I cared to admit, I was too busy staring into my own navel - at least some of the time.

I'm in a pretty good space these days. Today, however, I am especially aware of regret.

lost my mojo

Mid-winter blues.

Bored.

No new ideas ("said it all before" syndrome).

Too much loss.

Whatever the reason, I have not felt much like blogging (or doing any writing) lately. 

I couldn't even muster up the energy to blog about the recent Komen debacle (although I took it all in with great interest).

And I can barely bring myself to think about Rachel (a scathingly brilliant and funny anti-pinkwashing activist and kindred spirit) or Susan (an equally brilliant leader, founder of Mothers With Cancer and mother of two young boys) without becoming undone. They deserve the kind of tributes others have written but I can only say who devastated I am that cancer has taken two more wonderful women.

So, I've been taking a break. 

And fallen out of the habit.

I think I might be ready to come back soon. Or to get back to writing down some thoughts.

And spring will come soon too.

Meanwhile, please know that all my latest tests have been gloriously normal. I'm doing OK. I just need to get past this dry spell, so I can return to writing with joy and enthusiasm.

not imaginary

It's a running joke in my house, "Mama's talking to her imaginary friends." They're the people I've met online over the last few years, through blogging and various social networks. Of course they are very real people and when bad things happen to them, I do feel it keenly.


S., though, was someone I met in person - at the Conference for Younger Women Affected by Breast Cancer in early 2009 - and with whom I continued to connect online. We first connected because we both had metastatic breast cancer but soon realized that we had much more than the cancer in common - a progressive outlook, quirky gifted children and we both chose to expressive ourselves in creative ways. Unlike me, though, S. was a bona fide artist who used fabric as her medium.


S. was about my age. She had been diagnosed at Stage 0 but the cancer seemed to have quickly metastasized (was it just very aggressive or had something been missed? This was one of the things we discussed over dinner on the evening we met). We ended up spending all of our free time together, during that long week end in Atlanta - every coffee break, meal and evening. We even grabbed lunch together before grabbing our shuttle to the airport.


We stayed in touch after we got home, exchanging the occasional email and through the Care Pages that S. set up to share news with family and friends. She wrote to me about her latest art project (which integrated images of cancer cells), her daily life and a wonderful trip that her family took to Costa Rica. She also shared her frustration with the fact that no treatments seemed to slow the progression of her cancer.


Last week, I received a notice that S.'s Care Page had been updated. I logged in and found a message from her husband: saying S. had had moved from treatment to hospice care. Yesterday, he contacted us to say that this remarkable woman had passed away in her sleep.


I've run out of words to describe my sadness and the grief I feel on behalf of her family. Another child has lost her mother. It's all so wrong.


Over the week end, Zoom remarked that having cancer brings a lot of people into your life but takes a lot of them out, too. And, the truth is, I would do nothing differently, even knowing I would face loss and be forced to confront the possibility of my own death. The people who have come into my life - online and off- since my cancer diagnosis have improved my life immeasurably. I wouldn't trade that for anything.


But, right now, my heart is aching.

Judy

I'm sure she did not "go gently into that good night." 


Judy was a fighter, a woman whose Facebook page stated "I love my life." And that was life centered around her family and friends, especially her 10 year old son and her husband.


I first met Judy (and I do feel like I knew her, even though we never met in person) when 20 or so women were brought together by Susan to form the group blog, Mothers With Cancer. It was clear from the outset that Judy  would become a particular friend.


She had a passionate sense of social justice, a dark sense of humour and a straightforward manner that endeared her to me immediately. Like me, she loathed the pinkwashing that takes place every October. We even both had dogs who were considered part of the family.


Judy never stopped being angry about cancer. She railed against the unfairness of a world that afflicts so many of us with this evil disease.


At the same time, she never stopped appreciating the beauty in the world around her - in her environment, at work and in her family and friends. She never stopped finding things about which to laugh.


It's because of Judy that I applied for Little Pink Houses. I know that her family's week with the organization was a glorious experience (and so was mine). We often said how great it would be to meet up in person. Jeanine from Pink Houses did meet both of us and told me she is confident that we would have liked each other as much in person as we did online.


Judy, my friend, I miss you already. My heart goes out to everyone who loves you, especially Nate and Frank. Many, many, many people mourn your loss and celebrate your life.

Deanna: a tribute

Brilliant.


Funny.


Committed.


Accomplished.


Artistic.


Strong.


Insightful.


Perceptive.


Inclusive.


Accepting.


Activist.


Loving mother, daughter, sister, friend.


I struggle for the words to write you the tribute you deserve. You are loved, admired and missed by so many.


My heart goes out to your family. I will hold you in my heart forever and continue to be inspired by you every day.


http://deeupdates.blogspot.com/

growing up

Daniel, who is eight years old, has been badgering us to let him walk the three blocks to school by himself. I'm not ready.

I've known for a while that this time was coming. Last year at this time, he was still holding my hand. Now he likes to walk a few steps ahead. I have to give him his hug goodbye before we are within sight of the school. When he walks into the yard, he doesn't look back.

A few weeks ago, I sent Daniel to the corner store down the block by himself for the first time. He came back clutching the chocolate chips he'd been sent for so tightly that half the bag had melted. And he was so, so proud.

Yesterday afternoon, Daniel asked Tim to ride ahead on his bike so that he could walk by himself. "Let me show you what I can do," he said. So Tim let him walk, circling the block a few times to check up on him and I waited anxiously at home for the knock on our door. Again, when he arrived home, my boy was so, so proud.

I remember the gut-wrenching anxiety I experienced when his brother was this same age and demanding to be allowed to walk on his own. In the years since, we have gradually given him more freedom and he's impressed us with his sense of responsibility - even in some very challenging situations.

It ought to be easier the second time around - and it some ways it is. I feel more relaxed as a parent since Sacha has acquitted himself so well. But I still worry every time one of my boys is out of my sight for too long.

Mostly, I don't like having to let them go. The days of thirteen year old Sacha sitting in my lap to watch a movie are behind us. Every hug from him is precious because they are doled out so sparingly. And Daniel is my baby. There are no little ones coming up behind him to help mitigate my sense of loss.

I know that kids must grow up and away from their parents. A big part of this whole exercise of parenting is about teaching them to be happy, independent people. I just wish it weren't happening so quickly.

And I still want to walk down the street, holding my baby's hand.

please be aware

Today is Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day.

Six years ago, I thought I had a pretty good vocabulary but I didn't know the meaning of "metastatic" until I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

According to the American Cancer Society, only 15 per cent of women with mets will still be alive 5 years after their diagnosis. I'm one of the lucky ones ( stats are bogus anyway).

I think one of the reasons I get so angry at campaigns aimed at "saving [insert infantile name for 'breasts' here]" is that, for those of us with metastatic breast cancer, the breast was only the beginning. Our cancer has spread to our bones, brains, liver, lungs or skin. We are "the bad girls of breast cancer."

And we want you to know about us.

We are:

Catriona

Rachel

Katie

Jeanne

Deanna

Judy

Susan

Katherine

Eileen

Delaney

Kristina

Dirty Pink Underbelly

Susannah

And we remember:

Sarah

Emily

Rebecca

RivkA

Sue

Andrea

Kate

Chris

Daria

Lisa

Jill

Renee

for Rebecca

The memorial for my friend Rebecca is tomorrow. I won't be able to be there but I will be thinking of her all day. Maybe I'll do something silly and fun. I'll eat good food. I might even sing a little off key, in lieu of taking part in the karaoke that's planned for her celebration.

Because I can't be there, I asked my friends to go out and do something fun and dedicate the memory to Rebecca and let me know. Here are some examples of the the fun and the joy that was experienced as a tribute to her:

Maggie sang with her friends and dedicated the happiest song for Rebecca.

Nat danced in her kitchen to a band called “The Drop-Kick Murphys.”

A friend of Rebecca's went to the beach. She also said that Rebecca taught her “alot about about life.”

Jenny decided not to work late and went for a bike ride along the river. She says Rebecca reminded her that “life is a gift.”

Lee Ann said, “I dedicate my wonderful day on Saturday riding the life sized Thomas the Tank Engine with my 3 year old son Noah to your friend Rebecca. Such simple, beautiful kid fun, seeing this wonder through Noah's eyes.”

Lene thought of Rebecca as she took on a new adventure – her first photographic portrait commission.

Rebecca C. went for a swim with her mother in a moonlit pool. She said, “We were tired and could easily have passed on the opportunity, but in the spirit of your request, I urged us on. Gorgeous night, lovely memory, living in the moment. “

Rachel went to the amusement park and got on the “big bad roller coaster that I have been avoiding.”

Blondie wrote Rebecca's name on her hand and took her, in spirit to a big rock concert and to the state fair. She wrote about facing her fears and having on her blog.

Julie Harrison promised to do something that was “pure fun.”

Kate spent her week end at a horse show and “stayed and watched and cheered.” She said it was “great fun” and dedicated her time to Rebecca and all her friends and family with breast cancer.

Jillian spent the day at the beach with her family.

Tish laughed with friends at a party and with her sister at the gym. She dedicated her laughter to Rebecca.

Karin went for a swim on a hot day, “I watched my kids be brave and have a blast: RJ and RM held hands as they dove to the bottom of the deep end, and CJ rocketed down the slide sans life jacket. Floating in the water, I stopped to think of your friend Rebecca.”

Judy went out to dinner at one of her favourite restaurants and had a sour apple martini.

Jeanne went to the beach of her pups, “one of which is a pitbull named 'Denver'.”

Jojo went sailing on a beautiful lake.

Amanda cuddled and played with her puppy. She added, “yesterday as we worked on a swingset for our kids, I romped with him, talking to him about the pine cones he was chomping and chirping at him as he frolicked. It was incredible to really be present with him. As his red collar winked from between his floppy black and white hair, I was reminded of this post and of your wishes in Rebecca’s honor.”

Jill wrote, “I intend to ride my bike to the top of Mt. Montara within the next week, and when I do, I’ll sit on the little bench overlooking the Pacific and say a prayer for your friend, Rebecca, as well as send up some thanks for her gracing the lives of those who loved her. “

Shallowgal “blew off swim practice” and took her boys out for chilli dogs. She toasted Rebecca over her dinner.

Cait had a fun day with her kids and though about Rebecca as she pushed them on the swing.

Sylvia thought of Rebecca as she watched her daughter jump off the diving board for the very first time.

Darcy toasted Rebecca with friends and family as they gathered as a big group at a cottage with lots of good food and fun.

Celeste thought of Rebecca as she took a vacation with good girlfriends.

Michael paddle-whacked a tennis ball into the lake for his wolf-hound cross named Boo. He's sure that Boo would have loved Diezel.

In memory of Rebecca, Frederica went for a bareback ride on her daughter's pony. She writes, “The real fun started when she started trotting: she was going like a bat out of hell, I was popping up and down like a jackhammer trying to post, grinning from ear to ear.”

Andrea promised to have fun with her daughter.

Deb spent an evening knitting and drinking beer with two good friends.

Cathie tickled her girls, hugged them and rolled around on the floor with them.

Allie “stopped by McFatty for a burger and DQ for a strawberry shake.” She added, “Thinking also of Rebecca's family, of Diezel, and of the joy of a scooter and open roads. Thanks Rebecca for the steady example of choosing well, every day.”

And I went to a dog rescue fundraiser called Take the Plunge. We saw dogs pulling scooters, jumping off a dock into a pool, doing agility runs and just generally milling around. I lost count of the different breeds. The highlight was watching a 10.5 year old pit bull sail off a dock and fly through the air, as his owner fist-pumped in triumph.

Rebecca had a big impact on me. I miss her. I send much love to all those who will gather tomorrow in her memory.

smiling can't cheat death

I'm a reasonably happy person. And I believe that concentrating on the half full part of the glass has helped me to cope with many aspects of my life, including breast cancer. However, there have been times when a good wallow or a raging tantrum have been just as necessary and cathartic.

And I don't, for even a second, think that people who worried too much, or got mad or who didn't have a positive attitude brought cancer or their own deaths upon themselves. Nor do I believe that temperament or attitude is what causes one person to go into remission and another to succumb to the illness. I find the belief system that blames the patient to be repugnant.

In many ways, cancer is a crap shoot. It helps to have excellent medical care, good nutrition and the resources that help you cope with the disease and the treatments' side effects. But luck plays a big role in survival as well.

I've been thinking about this lately, and so it appears have other women. Yesterday, I stumbled on a great post at Uneasy Pink, by Katie, who, in turn, pointed the way to Coco, guest-posting at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer. These women really tell it like it is.

Last week, Canada lost Jack Layton, a leader who was, by all accounts active, optimistic and happy. And we lost him way too young. Many media reports used the common phrase "lost his battle with cancer." Jack didn't lose a battle - there was no failure on his part - he got cancer and died. No amount of positive thinking could have changed that.

(Shout out to my friend Sharon, who first used the phrase "tyranny of positive thinking" in my presence. She has kindred spirits out there, too).

Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

grateful through my tears

"My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world." - Hon. Jack Layton (1950-2011)

dogs can fly

The day after I wrote the post about my friend Rebecca, I went to Take the Plunge, a fundraiser for local dog rescue organizations. It was a lot of fun. We had the chance to meet many different kinds of dogs and the people who love them. They came in all shapes and sizes, colours and temperaments. We also met a miniature horse and some ferrets. One woman was pushing a cat in a stroller. The cat wasn't strapped in and seemed quite relaxed amidst all the canine chaos.

The central event of the afternoon was the dock diving competition. We watched all kinds of dogs leap after toys into the pool. Some of the dogs needed to be persuaded to get out of the water. Most seemed incredibly pleased with themselves. Everyone - spectators, dogs and their human handlers seemed to be having a wonderful time.

This dog took my breath away:

I thought a lot about Rebecca as I sat in the sun; this was the fun event I had chosen to dedicate to her memory. And then the most incredible thing happened. I watched a pit bull terrier, among all the retrievers and border collies, launch himself off the dock and fly an incredible 18 feet. His owner jumped with joy and fist-pumped the air as she yelled, "Ten and half years old!"

I had goosebumps and tears in my eyes. I thought of my Jasper who didn't make it to his tenth birthday. I thought of Rebecca's pit bull Diezel who is waiting for a new forever home. And I thought of Rebecca and how life is far too short not to enjoy a day in the sun, doing the things we love.

It's not to late to do something fun in Rebecca's memory and let me know. The family is planning a celebration of her life, in accordance with her wishes (they're also asking for suggestions as to what to write on her urn). I'm tracking all the stories you send me and compiling them for the family. I'll eventually publish the list here too.

do me a favour: honour my friend by having some fun

My friend Rebecca died this week. She was all of 37 years old (if I've done the math right) and she had metastatic breast cancer. She was also one of the funniest people in my online community. She was also generous, straigtforward and honest. My heart goes out to her friends and family - the people she loved, wrote about and who knew her best.

Rebecca left strict instructions that we were to shed no tears after her passing (I'm afraid I've let her down on that front but I've been doing my best) and that, instead of a funeral she wanted a celebration of her life. I'd love to join the party and to hear the stories that those closest to her would be bound to share. Because Rebecca took her fun seriously.

I won't be able to attend the celebration (Rebecca lived in Cape Cod) but I would like to do something. And I need your help.

1. In the next week or so, please go out and do something fun. Do anything at all, as long as it makes you happy. If you need inspiration, Rebecca loved dogs (especially her pit bull, Diezel), cooking, eating out (her restaurant reviews were among my favourite blog posts), her scooter, her little car, road trips, NASCAR, kick boxing, books, funny movies and music. If none of these things appeal to you, please go out and do your own thing. If you like, bring someone with you to join in the fun.

2. Let me know. You can leave me a comment on this blog, send me an email (laurie dot kingston at gmail dot com) or message me on Twitter (I'm @lauriek). Just a few words to let me know what fun thing you did in Rebecca's memory. I'll compile a list and make sure that it gets to her family.

That's it. It already makes me feel happier, thinking that there will be a little more joy in the world this week. I think Rebecca would approve.

I still miss you so much

in translation

The cancer centre has implemented something new. When patients check in for treatment, we're asked to fill out a questionnaire related to our well-being (it has some acronym but I can't remember it). We're given the option of filling it in on a central computer but I'm really squeamish about germy public terminals. I always ask to fill the thing in manually (furthering my feeling that I am more of a Luddite than some of my seniors).

Filling out the form involves reading statements such as "I am in pain" and then circling a number between 1 (no pain) and 7 (excruciating pain - or something like that). Most of my numbers were very low except for the ones about my emotional well being and sleep habits. My answers resulted in the following conversation with the well-meaning nurse who checked me in for treatment:

Nurse: 

"You're depressed. Why?"

Me: 

"I'm just a little blue. Five years of doing this is a long time." (Translation: "I'm pissed off and fed up and I have survivors' guilt.") 

"I'm seeing someone at the psychosocial oncology centre." (Translation: "I don't want to talk about it with you, in front of the all the strangers in the room"). 

"The crisis is over and now it's all hitting me." (Translation: "I think I have PTSD. Did I mention that I'm pissed off and fed up?")

Next time, I'm stuffing the damn form into the bottom of my purse.

beautiful eyes

That's what struck me when I met Sarah in person: she had the most beautiful deep brown eyes I had ever seen, with a lovely smile to match.

It was February 2010 and we were both in attendance at the Annual Conference for Young Women Affected by Breast Cancer. We had met online through our online community, Mothers With Cancer.

A short time after we met, Sarah found out that her breast cancer had become metastatic and she began treatment anew. A few weeks ago, she learned that the cancer had spread to her brain and she started radiation treatment. A couple of days ago, she was admitted to hospital with breathing issues. Last night, she passed away.

I won't claim to have known beautiful Sarah better than I did. But I did consider her my friend. And I will miss her.

Here are some things I knew about this remarkable woman:

She loved her three daughters very much and she was incredibly proud of them.

She was happily married.

She was a talented photographer.

She loved animals, especially dogs and horses.

She had an appreciation for good coffee.

She left this world way too soon.

Sarah, you will truly be missed. My heart goes out to your family and to all who loved you.

You can read more about Sarah at her blog, Spruce Hill. Tributes have also been posted by Jenny (cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer), Susan, Nicole, Ree and Mary Beth.

Note: Blogger was down for about 20 hours and when it came back up, this post was gone (as were the comments from my previous post). If you are seeing this twice in a row on the blog, it will be because Blogger has returned it to me.