progress and next steps

I had an MRI a couple of weeks ago and got the results last week. There has been slight progression in all three tumours in the brain.

That's the bad news.

The good news is that there are no new tumours and that my spine and cerebrospinal fluid remain clear, with no detectable cancer. This means that the Herceptin must be doing something for things to be progressing relatively slowly.

We just have to figure out how to make it better at its job.

There is very little research, when it comes to leptomeningeal disease (or leptomeningeal carcinomatosis), so in lots of ways we are making things up as we go along. The first thing we are going to do is increase the dose of Herceptin and to try and slow the drug down as it enters my brain.

At tomorrow's treatment, we are going to increase the dosage from 60mg to 80mg. The Ommaya Reservoir only holds 60mg and at the end of treatment, the oncologist usually empties it by pumping (really just pressing down on it a few times). Tomorrow, once it is empty, he will add another 20mg and let it drip down over time into the brain.

The next step (we have not determined when) will be to add methotrexate. Herceptin has been shown to be more effective when used in concert with a chemotherapy drug and methotrexate has been shown to be safe for intrathecal treatment (directly into the brain, either through the Ommaya Reservoir or a lumbar puncture).

You may have noted my use of the word "we". More than at any stage of treatment, this process has been incredibly consultative. My oncologist (and the one who replaced him when he was away) has discussed every option with us (Tim and me) and encouraged us to do our own research and bring it in. Since there is just not that much out there, we are trying to find what we can.

We've also discussed safety, liability (for everyone) and quality of life. At this point, I am not willing to go in more than once a week (or to feel sick all the time) nor am I willing to do things that are only in the initial phases of safety or as Dr. G put it "could fry your brain." These desires dovetail nicely with the hospital's and and my doctors', so we are not in a battle about resources.

Hopefully, more things will be available, once we have tried these next steps. When I am sad about how much life has changed for me, I remember that these last few months have been a sort of gift. As my oncologist says, I am "not supposed to be here."

I'm mostly comfortable sitting in this place. I live in this body, so I am not surprised by this news. I want to stick around as long as I can but I also want this time to be happy. It's a delicate balance.

every week. in pictures.

I have now had 24 treatments of Intrathecal Herceptin. A few weeks ago, my friend Karin came and took photos. They were for me (because I can't see my own head) and they helped me a lot to understand the process. It's occurred to me that some of you might like to see them too. 



Every week, I am placed in a private room. It's been the same room every time and I have come to think of it as mine. I get the usual "pre-meds" of intravenous Gravol (dramamine) and Demerol (meperidine) that I have had for years with Herceptin to keep from having a reaction. 

My oncologist (only doctors are trained to deal with the Ommaya Reservoir), comes in after the meds have kicked in. This is what it looks like before treatment (after my hair is combed out of the way).

Dr. G shaves the Ommaya to sterilize it.

Iodine is the next step in sterilization. Rubbing alcohol comes after.

  

We joke around and laugh a lot at the beginning of every appointment. I look forward to that
part. The atmosphere turns very business-like during the actual treatment. I appreciate that, too.

Before treatment, a sterile cover is put on my head, with a convenient hole in it.

The needle is injected in the Ommaya. It doesn't hurt. Really (remember, that's iodine. I am not bleeding).

Before anything can be inserted, brain fluid must be extracted. This, to me, is the really freaky part.

I will be getting 60 mg of Herceptin, which is about 30 ml (about 1 fluid ounce), so that amount of cerebrospinal fluid is what is taken out of my brain. It will be sent for testing, to see if there are detectable cancer cells. It’s a good sign that the fluid is clear and so far the tests have been negative.

Then the Herceptin goes in. As with the extraction of fluid, it's done over several minutes.

I am the first and only person to have this done in Ottawa, so sometimes I am asked if it's OK to have staff in to observe. I always agree to this.

When it's all over, the needle comes out.

And we are done.

The oncologist leaves and there is a 30 minute observation period. The nurses “take my vitals” after 15 minutes and at the end of the half hour. Then I can go home (except every 4th week, when I stay an additional 90 minutes for the intravenous infusion of Herceptin).

This week, I have a spinal MRI and the following week one of my brain. 

I hope treatment is working.

(Photo credits: Karin Jordan)

limbo and dreams (updated)

I am still in limbo. My head is healed and I feel more like myself, except for some odd symptoms (my jaw is still freezing shut intermittently for a minute or so. It's so annoying. And embarrassing. It's not really something I can hide and it happens at the most awkward times).

I had my surgery on May 9. Everything said to me leading up to that implied that moving ahead was urgent. And yet here we are. I have a lot of faith in my medical team but this time information is not forthcoming and it's making me crazy. I can't plan a thing and I would just like some kind of information. I know I haven't fallen through the cracks. I would just like someone to explain to me where things are at.

I like information. It makes me feel in control.

So don't ask me when I will be having treatment because I don't know.

On another note, I had some strange dreams last week.

I dreamed that the area in which I lived was being flooded and I had to rush back and get a few things before all was washed away. When I arrived at home, though, the rain stopped, the sun came out and there was a brilliant blue sky. I didn't have to leave after all.

In another dream, a small furry mammal was hit somehow and fell to the ground, dead. In my dream it was a "possum" but it looked more like a groundhog. The body lay in the same spot throughout the dream and I would check on it periodically to see if it was still there. The last time I looked before waking, the animal jumped to its feet and bolted up a tree. After several days of lying still, it wasn't dead at all.

Deconstruct that. No so hard.

Now let's get some news, so I can follow my dreams.

Update: I finally have dates. I don't start for a couple of weeks. I asked why and was told that my oncologist said that it's "not urgent". I asked if this was because of the decent MRI and the nurse said she thought so. After the first date in June, I will go in weekly for a few weeks and then I guess we will re-visit the schedule.

I feel mostly relieved because I can plan my life a little. I just wish I didn't have these annoying symptoms that remind me what's happening.

beating the blood brain barrier

Ouch! My writing muscle hurts! I realized this week that I have not blogged since March 23. I have so much I want to say that I don't know where to start, so it feels a little overwhelming. 

About 10 days ago, I had an Ommaya Reservoir, installed in my brain. Compared to my other brain surgeries it was a walk in the park but I'm still dealing with all kinds of fallout from the anesthetic, pain and healing. I had my staples out yesterday, though, so the end of the tunnel must be in sight (although my head hurts as I type this).

You can see my incision and the staples here. It's in a semi-circle at the front, slightly to the right.

The good news is that we have decided to try something that is still pretty experimental: injecting Herceptin (also called trastuzumab, to which I have been a super responder. I have been on the drug for 9.5 years and since since going into remission, have no detectable cancer below the neck) directly into my brain, thus getting past the issue of the blood-brain barrier. This is known as Intrathecal (or IT) Herceptin. There is currently a trial happening in Montreal (and a resident who works on it was just in Ottawa, working with my oncologist) and there are stories of people going through the process in the Western US. I will be the first in Ottawa. I'm told that everyone in the hospital is very excited.

By artwork by Patrick J. Lynch, Kuebi = Armin Kübelbeck - own work, the brain is taken from Image:Skull_and_brain_sagittal.svg made by Patrick L. Lynch. Made with InkScape., Public Domain,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6066950

IT trastuzumab was effective in targeting extramedullary (LM) metastases. This resulted in the prolonged survival of our patient for 46 months, compared to a median life expectancy of 3–4 months for breast cancer patients following the diagnosis of LM without treatment [18]. Given that IV trastuzumab does not cross the blood–brain barrier or blood CSF barrier, IT trastuzumab offers a direct approach to the leptomeninges. (from: "Intrathecal trastuzumab: immunotherapy improves the prognosis of leptomeningeal metastases in HER-2+ breast cancer patient", US National Library of Medicine)

The decision to go this route is the first time I have felt hopeful in a while. My oncologist is nervous about side effects and finding the right dose. I had a very intense reaction to Herceptin when I started and because this kind of treament is still experimental there are potentially some very serious side effects (even death). There is also little clarity as to what dose would be both safe and effective.

Anecdotally, and in trials in Montreal (and elsewhere) the response has been very positive, over all. I'm glad my oncologist has been convinced to give it a go. Additionally, my latest MRI has revealed that the three tumours in the brain lining are all stable, so we are feeling less urgency. This is also good news, although I am keen to get started.

The bubble wrap is called a "Bear Hugger" and it's warm and lovely.
The drugs probably helped with that feeling.

looks much worse than it is

On Saturday night, I was the victim of a freak knitting accident. Well, I wasn't actually knitting at the time, I was pulling a circular knitting needle out of a basket and the end sprung loose and hit me in the eye.

It stung like crazy when it happened but the pain soon went away. There was a little bit of blood but that stopped quickly, too. I called Telehealth, which was very reassuring but ignored their advice to go to Emergency. After consulting Dr. Google, I decided that there is no treatment and the wound will heal with time. And if the biggest risk is infection, I was not going to the ER to sit with a bunch of sick people for hours, only to be told I didn't really need to be there.

 

I saw my GP today, who reassured me that all will be well. My vision is fine, the wound is healing and I'm basically "very lucky". I could just as easily have poked the iris, which would have been a whole different story. She said emphatically that I made the right call re the ER and added "You have no idea how many people are sick right now. In fact, get out of here. And sanitize your hands on the way out. You don't know who was in here before you."

I posted the above photo on Facebook and much hilarity ensued. There were multiple references to "extreme knitting". One friend said, "It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye. I would like to watch you knit. It must be quite the workout." And the best: "Can't you take up a less dangerous hobby? Bungee jumping or cliff diving maybe?"

funny, funny troll spam

Has anyone else noticed a new trend in blog spam? Usually spam comments tell me how brilliant I am, before linking to the stuff they sell. Then there are the ones about sex and related paraphernalia - often gibberish and including phrases like "home coffee maker porn shoes cologne gnocchi". 

Recently, I've had a couple that sound like trolls - accusing me of letting down my readership with laziness or self-pity. This appears to be a new spamming strategy.

My last post, "i don't have a brain tumour",was a photo of a bottle of Prosecco and a glass full of the bubbly stuff. There was not text, as I felt the title and the image were pretty self-explanatory. Before I delete all today's spam into oblivion, I thought I'd share this shining example of incongruous, inappropriate spamming:

"The very next time I read a blog, I hope that it won't fail me just as much as this particular one. After all, Yes, it was my choice to read through, nonetheless I truly believed you would probably have something interesting to talk about. All I hear is a bunch of crying about something that you could fix if you weren't too busy searching for attention. Feel free to surf to my web page: xxxx"

Ha! I'm sorry my celebration was so un-interesting, depressing and attention-seeking.Thanks especially for inviting me to check out your site, even though I'm so disappointing.

Do these links ever work?

I loathe spam but this totally cracked me up. 

i have a dent in the back of my head

Now that the swelling has gone down, I have come to realize that there is a sizeable dent in the back of my head. I'm not sure if it's visible but I can certainly feel it.like - a chunk of the back of my head was scooped out with a melon baller.

I find this both distressing and fascinating. I spend a lot of time feeling the dent and comparing the two sides. It's all I can do not to ask everyone, "Want to feel the back of my head?"

This is probably another good reason to grow my hair out. It's one thing to have a scar that goes from my nape to above my ear. The dented bit just adds to the impression that I might be related to Frankenstein's monster.

I feel pretty normal for someone who is missing a bit of her head. The missing piece can't have been to important. And seriously, if you know me in real life, it's totally OK to ask me about it. I'll even let you feel it.

look what we did!

Remember my secret happy project?


We did it! We yarn-bombed a corner of my neighbourhood. We were 10 knitters, 14 installers and one videographer. It was so much work but so much fun. I dare you to watch this short video without smiling:


   
(video: Mark Blevis)


There are lots more photos up at our web site, Frivolknitty.com. It was so much fun - we're already planning for the next time!


An observer pointed out that three of the knitters/installers involved in this project have lived with breast cancer. I don't think it's coincidence that we all wanted to share in a little frivolity.

off the top of my head and maybe out of my mind

Last spring, I shared a bit of tabloid inspired writing about a mother who is revolted by her own child that I'd done as homework for a class I was taking. A few days after I wrote that piece, we did an in class excercise, starting with the prompt, "It was a strange creature and it was looking right at me." How could I not be reminded of my bat boy? I wrote this by hand and in ten minutes but I think it's kind of fun.

I love the inspiration and motivation that comes from being part of a writing group. I miss it.

It was a strange creature and it was looking right at me. Someone had called to say they'd seen a strange looking man hanging out by Berit's Cave. No one thought much of it, until some smart young deputy mentioned the report that had crossed my desk the day before. The missing boy from up North. He'd stolen a car and not been heard from since. The thing was that the car was expensive but that was not what had folks all riled up. What really mattered was what had been inside the trunk of the car – a brief case full of cash. The had likely not known the bonus he was acquiring when he stole that car but he had stolen it and the folks in Maryland were very keen to get it back. And they'd said the boy was odd-looking, too.

Odd-looking. Funny-looking. Those expressions did not do justice to the creature that stood before me. At first glance, I thought I was seeing a monster. When rational thought returned, I saw that I was looking at a young man – a boy really – whose features looked disconcertingly like those of a bat. He had pointy ears, tiny eyes, a pushed in nose and his teeth – I saw them when he opened his mouth to yell at me – were small and sharp, as though the owner had filed them to a point. Not to put too fine a point on it, the kid was hideous.

I started to ask who he was and about the stolen car when he charged at me, head lowered like a battering ram. He wasn't very big but the attack and the accompanying ear splitting scream caught me by surprise. Before I could react, I had fallen ass over tea kettle and the boy was on the run. It took a second to regain my composure – was it only a second? Before I called for back up. I told 'em to send for the young deputy – I hoped his feet would be as fast as his mouth.

I didn't want to chase the boy. It wasn't really my bad leg – the excuse I gave to my sheriff. The fact was, the boy had really freaked me out. It wasn't just that he was ugly – although he was that – but it was the eyes that had scared me the most. There was no soul there. When I looked at him, all I saw was emptiness reflected back at me.

I wish I'd thought of sharing this on Hallowe'en. I wonder if there's more writing my bat boy can inspire.

has anybody seen my boob?

As anyone who has ever been to my house can attest, the place tends to be a total disaster pretty cluttered. We lose stuff all the time, only to find it months or even years later, after it's already been replaced.

But I have to admit that never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I'd find myself typing this sentence: 

I can't find my prosthetic breast.

We've actually been making some inroads in terms of beating back the clutter. But some rooms are getting worse before they get better. And our bedroom is complete tip.

Now admittedly, I don't wear my prosthesis all that often. But there are days when I want to fly below the radar. There are clothes that just look better when they're symmetrical. And I haven't seen my fake breast for weeks.

Could I have absent-mindedly stuck it in a drawer that I haven't checked?

Could it have become mixed up in the bags of clothing destined for donation?

Could it be under the mounds of clothes yet to be sorted?

Could I have left it somewhere?

It's a mystery.

If you find it, please let me know. 

Or just leave it in my mail box.



Update May 26: We found it! It was in a suitcase. In our bedroom. From a trip on which neither I nor the boob were in attendance. I think I took it off one night and too lazy tired to put it away, popped my bra with the boob still in it, in the open suitcase. Then, the suitcase was closed and left. Three weeks later, when my love finally unpacked - he found my prosthesis. Mystery solved.

fiction: tabloid inspired

A couple of weeks ago, the homework for my writing class was to take a headline from a tabloid and use it as a jumping off point for a more serious short story or poem. I was uninspired by the headlines in my grocery star tabloids ("Brad Gives Angie Ultimatum!" "Jennifer Lopez Fights Eating Disorder!" "Larry King Marries Again!") and decided to go to that old standby - the now sadly defunct Weekly World News. I stole a legendary headline from them. The monologue that follows is all my own.

"Bat Boy Found in West Virginia Cave!" by Bill Creighton, Weekly World News, June 23, 1992

I blame the doctor.

I wanted a baby so badly. The other doctors I'd seen wouldn't help me, so I sought this one out. The office was in a bad part of town and it was dark and smelled a bit funny but he didn't ask me many questions. He said he would help me get pregnant.

And he did. I don't know what the shots were for or what was in the medicine he gave me to drink but I didn't care. I would soon have my baby.

It wasn't a difficult pregnancy. I didn't get too sick. The last few months were hard when I had trouble sleeping but that was it, really. It would have been more fun if there had been someone – anyone - in my life to share in my excitement, throw me a baby shower or help me set up the nursery. But I didn't mind so much. Soon I would have a baby to love. I wouldn't need anyone else.

He was born right on his due date and, from the first, I could tell something was wrong. The first time I held him in my arms I felt not love but revulsion. This was not the child I was meant to have. He was not my baby.

In those first few months he cried a lot. I made sure that he was fed and his diapers were dry but for the most part, I left him in his crib. He was safe there and I did not have to look at him.

As he got older, I continued to cringe at his touch. When he tried to crawl in my lap, I would push him away. When he cried, I left him to it. No one could say that I did not take good care of him. He had food and clothes, I even bought him books and toys. But nothing could make me love him.

I don't feel too guilty about that because it soon became clear that he was a bad kid. The first time he got into trouble in school, I went in to meet with the his teacher. After that, I didn't bother answering her notes or phone calls. If he couldn't get along with the other kids there was really nothing I could do.

The first time he ran away, I called around to the neighbours. The second time, I left the door unlocked so he could come in when he decided to come home. The third time, I locked it.

The first time he was arrested, I went down to the police station right away. The second time, I let him spend the night in jail. The third time – I decided he was the state's problem not mine.

A short time after that, he stole a car from the school parking lot. I haven't heard from him since. This morning I got a call. He was found hiding in a cave in West Virginia. They want me to come to him. But what would be the point?

That child, that particular child, was a mistake. He should never have been born.

I am sad, though. I do feel a loss – not for that child but for the baby I might have had. The mother I might have been.

Maybe I should try again.

This time, I'll go to a different doctor.

not really the end

Did you know that the world is going to end on May 21st, 2011? I saw a guy on a street corner today with a sign that said just that. And then I saw a big-ass caravan with the same message.

Contemplation of our impending collective doom helps to put yesterday's election into perspective. It doesn't matter if the Conservatives were gifted with a whopping majority if none of us is going to live long enough to deal with the consequences. There must be more of these end of the world types than I previously suspected. That would help me understand how it is that so many of us thought endorsing the Conservatives would be a good idea.

Or something. You'll have to forgive me, it's been a hell of a day. I stayed up way too late watching the election results and then stumbled around like a zombie all day. I'm delirious.

I even went across town to an appointment, only to discover that it's on Thursday.

It was a very odd feeling last night to watch the NDP take over 100 seats (the previous high having been 43) and not feel elated. Proud, yes but not elated. I just kept watching the Conservative and NDP numbers rise at the same time and feeling like my head was going to explode.

Those of us who oppose pettiness, meanness and bigotry and who support human rights and democracy (not to put too fine a point on things) have four years to get our act together. 

And I think we need to really start screeching about proportional representation.

Meanwhile, I really am thrilled that my party is going to be the Official Opposition. There is hope for the good guys (thanks, good guys, for working so hard to get yourselves and like-minded folk elected). I'm thankful to all the volunteers, staff and veteran politicians and candidates who worked so hard to make this happen.

And, even if I am slightly hysterical, I'm choosing to repeat the words of one of the surprised, young, brand new MPs from Quebec, "It's going to be all right."

now this could be fun

I've written before about the one major limitation of Herceptin - that it doesn't cross the brain-blood barrier. A couple of years ago (after meeting several young women with metastasis that had spread to the brain), I underwent a brain MRI. To my very great relief, there was no evidence of trouble but I think I'll will be requesting another before too long.

A few days ago, my friend Deanna posted a link to Breast Cancer? But Doctor...I Hate Pink and to Ann's take on the news that Viagra may help Herceptin to (ahem) penetrate the blood-brain barrier and thus help reduce the size of brain tumours.

 As Anne tells it:

"Herceptin, the wonder drug, has a flaw: it does not cross the blood-brain barrier. The blood-brain barrier was erected designed by nature to protect our brains from dangerous substances, such as bad viagra jokes, but what it means for cancer patients is that certain drugs can't get through to kill swollen bad cells. Herceptin cannot treat HER2+ breast cancer that has engorged spread invaded the brain. Apparently, if you add a big large generous dose of Viagra to Herceptin, it adds enough thrust power to break through that blood-brain barrier and bathe the brain in its heaving healing properties."

It's seriously interesting news but go read Ann's full post. It will make you laugh.
 
Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

cluck, cluck.

The following things have occurred in my recent past. My spouse has moved his office to our house and I have acquired a smart phone and the knowledge/ability to send text messages.

 Now that we are in the same house all day, it's possible that we actually speak less. He works in the attic and when I want to talk to him, instead of picking up the phone to call him, as I used to, I'm more apt to send a text (I'm late to the texting party, I know but I'm making up for lost time with a vengeance).

The following conversation took place this morning, via text message (the blog post in question is the one directly below about last night's dream):

Me: "Can you proof my blog?"

T.: "Sure."

Me: "Thanks!"

T. (a few minutes later): "No typos, that I could see. Just weirdness."

Me: "Do you want to have me committed?"

T.: "Hardly. We need the eggs."

Me: "I don't understand."

T.: "Old joke about a man who thought he was a chicken."

Me: "SNORT."

riddle me this

I had a very vivid dream last night.

Perhaps you can help me understand it.

I was a participant in a "So You Think You Can Dance" type show and it was time for three "girls" (I know I am long past girlhood but that's how it was worded in my dream) to be voted off by the other contestants.

When it came time for the results to be read, I felt absolutely relaxed. I was very confident that I would not be cut - and yet my name was the second one read out. I was voted off the show.

While I was surprised at this, my disappointment was fleeting and almost immediately replaced by relief. Euphoria even. I wondered to myself if I'd been voted off because I was viewed as a threat but mostly I was just happy to get the hell out of there.

All of this had taken place in a doctor's office waiting room and the three of us who had been ousted were expected to leave right away. 

But it was winter and I had lots of gear to put on and then I couldn't find my mittens (this kind of thing happens to me in dreams a lot). I checked in the closet, under chairs and then finally in the bathroom. As I left, after giving up, I noticed that the show's producer (a bland, balding man with a pocket protector) was looking worried.

I quietly asked if I could help with anything and he said, "Not unless you can defuse a bomb."

To which I replied, "Well, actually I can."

When he looked skeptical, I handed him an invisible business card, which he took from me without hesitating. I told him to call the number on it to confirm that I was indeed an undercover agent.

I went to the guest room (yes, there was a guest room. It had a single bed and and a faded bed spread, carpeting and a big closet) to lie down and await the go ahead. I was visualizing defusing the bomb and mentally preparing himself.

A few minutes later, the producer came in a with a younger, heavily made up woman (as though dressed for success in a high end law firm). She was holding a set of rental car keys and said, with disgust, "The number you gave us was for a car dealership."

I was perplexed but determined to sort things out. I gestured towards the cell phone that the man was carrying and dialled the number on the car keys. The phone rang a couple of times and then an automated female voice said, "You are being connected to Leila."

The call was forwarded to Leila's voice mail and I said, "Leila it's Juno. I'm at the studio and there's a bomb here that needs defusing. I need you to get in touch and give the OK."

And then my alarm went off (in real life) and I woke up, very disappointed that I didn't get to defuse the bomb.

I told T. about the dream. He agreed that it was pretty weird. I instructed him to call me Juno all day today.

Armchair psychologists: I leave it to you. What the heck did this dream mean? What am I trying to tell myself?

when the doorbell rang (part 1)

It's 3:00 am and about half an hour ago, my doorbell rang.

At least I think it did, but my spouse thinks I was dreaming. I remember that I was dreaming but about eating pastries while being handed a wad of twenty dollar bills. Who interrupts a dream about eating pastries and getting free money by dreaming the door bell? Some kind of Freudian diet police?

My reaction to the doorbell ringing was swift. I woke up my husband.

And then I lay there all cozy and warm in our bed while he went downstairs to investigate. I even muttered (somewhat sheepishly), "Be careful."

It was like something from one of the sitcoms I watched when I was growing up. Except that by then it was the seventies and eighties and in the sitcoms the wives would tiptoe downstairs behind their husbands.

And the men would usually be clutching a baseball bat.

We don't keep a baseball bat by the bed. We don't even own a baseball bat. The only thing close at hand that would be the approximate size and weight one could swing at an evildoer would be the dog. Who, incidentally, wasn't barking. I suppose one could take that as further evidence that I was dreaming.

So T. went downstairs and checked the front and back doors. There was no one there.

I think that whoever it was ran away. T., as I said before, thinks I dreamed it.

Fortunately, my dear spouse fell back asleep almost immediately. He's snoring now, as I type this, wide awake. Some kind of karmic justice?

The thing is our doorbell did ring, at around this time, last Saturday night when I was out of town. It was also the night before Hallowe'en, which at least in the telling, makes it creepier. But that's a story for another blog post.

Maybe now that I've confessed, I'll be permitted to return to dreamland.

really random news

1. According to an article in the Globe andMail, women and men respond very differently when they are on the recieving end of an apology:

“Women who are starved of an apology for rude or hurtful behaviour suffer an increase in blood pressure which can raise the risk of a heart attack or stroke, a study found,” The Daily Telegraph reports. “But those who hear a well-timed ‘sorry’ calm down more quickly, with their blood pressure returning to normal 20 per cent faster, the research showed. Conversely, a man’s blood pressure takes 20 per cent longer to recover after an apology – suggesting men become more worked up after hearing an admission of guilt.”

2. My sister sent me an article from the CBC web site this morning, about a colossal cookbook typo with the subject line "Oops." I've made some pretty big errors by not proofreading properly but this tops it all.

3. My friend, O. posted a story to Facebook today, with the headline "Woman with parrot perched on face arrested after throwing inhaler." Note to self: Don't throw an inhaler while a parrot is standing on your face. You will be arrested.

4. I'm still waiting for my CT scan results, which could be why I'm letting myself be distracted by all this silliness.

buckets of pink sh*t

If you've been reading this blog for a while, then you know how I feel about corporations selling pink crap in the name of "breast cancer." I even have a "don't buy pink crap" tag that use pretty regularly, especially in October.

There have been some pretty awful pink products sold over the years but in launching "Buckets for the Cure," KFC and Susan G. Komen for the Cure have sunk to what may be a new kind of low.

This stupefyingly bad idea was brought to my attention by Clergy Girl, in a post called "Buckets Of Saturated Fat For The Cure" over at Mothers With Cancer. She writes:

This was a sell-out Komen.  Did you ask anyone with breast cancer how they would feel seeing that big pink greasy bucket of chicken?  Was someone going to lose their job if you didn’t raise cash quick?  I really don’t get it?  Research also shows smoking and alcohol consumption are clear links to cancer, so why not team up with Marlboro or Bud Beer?  It’s not just about money, and quite frankly, don’t raise money on the backs of research that is clearly linking to cancer promotion.  Please!

Shame on Komen for lending it's name to this outrage.

questions

Have you ever blogged about the search for a bathing suit?

Are charcoal barbecues worse for our health and the environment than gas barbecues?

How do you organize your time and set priorities so that the most important things get done?

Did you watch Glee last night? Did you think that it wasn't as good as you remember?

How much do you need to spend on a bicycle if you plan to use it to boot around town, a few days a week from spring to late fall and you want it to last a really long time?

How do you take care of coloured hair when you swim regularly?

Also, I dreamed that my cat came back from the dead. Do you remember your dreams? What do you think this one meant?

hello again

I'm back.

All is well here, I just used up all my writing mojo in November writing a novel (more on that experience in a future post).

Then I took a few days off to hang out with a wonderful friend and, well not write for a few days,

And while I was gone from the blog November 24th (the anniversary of my diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer) and December 2nd (the anniversary of the night I found the first lump) came and went. I noted both events in passing, took the time to breathe deeply and be grateful, and then got on with my day.

It's been four years since I found the lump. It's been three since the cancer spread to my liver. And it's been two and a half years since my first clean scan.

I had an appointment with my oncologist yesterday. I had nothing to tell him. He said, "Shall we keep dragging you in here every few months just to say 'hi'?"

I readily agreed.

I have chemo next week. They've been building a new treatment centre for what seems like years. I have often jokingly pointed in the direction of the new building and said, "They're building that for me."

Yesterday, I discovered that the new building is open and the chemo room has been moved. No more listening to the sounds of construction during treatment. No more listening to the intimate details of the constitutional issues of the patient beside me. There will be a little more light and a little more room and hopefully, a little less noise.

I'm kind of excited.

And yes, that is somewhat ironic. I have lived long enough to be excited about getting chemo in the new building.