metastatic

November 9: I wake up with a stitch on my right side. I figure that I had either pulled a muscle doing abdominal exercises or was coming down with something. I take the day off work.

The week of November 12: The pain has intensified a little and I am plagued by the 'gut-rats' (an expression I coined during my pregnancies to describe the intestinal discomfort I felt). I take a pregnancy test (negative, thank gawd). Towards the end of that week, I call to make an appointment with my family doctor.

November 18: It occurs to me that I might be showing symptoms of Celiac's disease (an auto-immune disease that causes an inability to digest Gluten). My sister has it and it tends to run in families. I groan and cross my fingers. Celiac's would be a pain.

November 19: Returning from a walk with my son, I have an attack of the most intense abdominal pains I have experienced since giving birth. It occurs to me that I might have something more serious than Celiac's with which to contend. I notice for the first time that my waist seems to have disappeared and the area on my right side between my waistband and ribcage is hard and swollen.

November 21: My GP examines me. When she asks me to take a deep breath, I yelp in pain. Obviously distressed, she tells me that my liver is very enlarged. She says, "I'm sorry. I know that's not what you wanted to hear." That's an understatement. In the last few days, I have learned that when breast cancer metastasizes (spreads to areas of the body other than the breast or nearby lymph nodes) it most often goes to the bones, chest, brain, lungs or liver. My GP calls the nurse who works with my medical oncologist and urges them to schedule an ultra-sound as soon as possible. I go from the appointment and then get my hair cut and dyed red in defiance.

November 22: I have a previously-scheduled appointment with my medical oncologist, although I end up seeing the GP who works with him. It is clear that she, too, is very worried. She orders bloodwork and says that they will get me in for an ultrasound before the end of the week. She does say that other conditions can cause a painful swelling of the liver and that they will test for those things as well. As we are leaving, my spouse and I agree that, "when you are hoping to test positive for hepatitis, life has become very weird."

November 23: The blood test results are in. My liver functions are elevated. Everything else is fine. I am scheduled for an ultrasound later that day.

November 24: I have a late-afternoon appointment with the oncologist. We wait a long time. My knees buckle when the nurse comes for me. I know that I am about to hear bad news. My oncologist enters, grim-faced. He is compassionate but doesn't sugar-coat things. I like him. He tells me that I have more tumours on my liver "than they could count." He tells me that from now on, we will not be talking about curing me but extending my life and making me as comfortable as possible. The first thing I remember saying is, "I have two beautiful children!" and "I'm only 39 years old" - as though these things should exempt me.

My oncologist was wonderful, clear and, as I said before, very compassionate. I finally screwed up the courage to ask, "How long do I have? Weeks....?" "I'm better than that," he replied (I really loved that answer). Then he said, "Years. Not decades."

So I start chemo, along with Herceptin tomorrow. My heart has still not recovered as much as my oncologist would like from the chemo but, as you can tell by the timeline above, my cancer is agressive and fast-moving. We need to act now.

The good news is that the new chemo drug I'll be taking is less hard on the body and less likely to cause nausea and hair loss. I may also be able to avoid taking the steroids that I hated almost as much as the chemo.

I am, all things considered, in fairly good shape emotionally (and not just because I am full of morphine). I have lots going for me and I intend to revel in the good things, especially my wonderful community of family and friends.

Don't get me wrong. I am really, really pissed off. And I'm sure that the real emotional fallout is yet to come. But, for now, I'm OK.

And I intend to keep blogging. My posts of the last few days have been terse, and not just for lack of NaBloPoMo inspiration. I needed to have answers before dropping hints and then I needed some time to absorb. I've missed being able to blog through my feelings and experiences. My blog will have very different content than I would have hoped in the coming months (and my blook a very different ending). But so it goes.

pet therapy

The house is a mess. There is lots going on. But I have a cat and a dog on my bed, both stretched out and very relaxed.

I am calm.

the raven and the sun

This summer, I was out enjoying the sunshine towards the end of a chemo cycle and I stopped in at Magpie jewelry to browse. I spotted some lovely rings, designed and crafted by Native artists from the west coast.

My favourites were silver with the animals of Haida legend in gold. None of the rings fit me but the staff person who showed me the rings said that the artists would do custom work, if I wanted to give some thought to which animal I wanted.

It didn't take long for me to realize that I loved the story of the raven, who put the sun, the moon and the stars back in the sky after the world had gone dark. The imagery, as I viewed the light at the end of my own tunnel, really captured my feelings of hope and joy at the thought of having put cancer treatment behind me.

I put in my order. I had no particular requests of the artist I had chosen (Joe Descoteaux), mentioning only to the clerk at the store that I loved the story of the raven and the sun.

The ring arrived on my birthday (several weeks earlier than I had been told to expect) and it is beautiful. It is also very special. The artist designed my ring with a raven with the sun in his beak, about to return it to the sky. I love it.

Just as the raven is very tricky, so, also is fate. My life is taking some twists and turns that I did not plan for when I ended treatment. My ring, however, still symbolizes hope and joy to me, as well as all the good things that bring light into my life every day.

the raven

I am spent. So, tonight, I am copping out and linking to artist and storyteller Bill Reid's version of how the raven restored light to the world.

Tomorrow's blog will tell you why this story is so meaningful to me.

hospital fashion

I've written before about the indignity of hospital robes. In my experience, they are hideous, never fit right (either they are tiny or huge) and just generally add to the vulnerability you experience as a patient.

Then I discovered the three-armhole robe.

It's a really neat design (and they actually had detailed instructions as to how to put it on taped to the changing room wall). Left arm. Right arm. Then bring it around to the front and put the left arm through the third hole. Comfortable, modest and stays put without ties.

It was a truly ugly yellow-green colour, though. I guess, when it comes to hospital gowns (and many other things in life), you can't have it all.

when the going gets tough...

This is from Despair, Inc. I love their "demotivational" posters.

Nothing like laughing at fear to diminish its power.

my first hair cut

Bye bye hedgehog!

Are there any red-violet hedgehogs?

No more chemo hair.

D. and I have the same hairline.

It's good to have hair.

building my vocabulary

I love words. And I love learning new ones.

Just after I went on leave to start treatment, a friend got me hooked on online scrabble (I know, the pixies are a bit weird but the site is well run and I love the rythm of their version of an online Scrabble game, where players are notified over email that it's their turn).

There are, however, words that I have learned in the last year that have not given me pleasure:

Adenocarcinoma.

Lymphedema.

Metastatic.

Especially metastatic. A word I didn't know a year ago that I now think about every day.

What's the old rule for learning a word? Use it five times and it's mine for life?

his version of reason

My three year old son, D., clutching his arm: My ankle hurts!

Me: That's your elbow.

D.: No! My ankle hurts!

Me: That's your elbow, honey.

D.: No! My ankle hurts!

Me: This is your ankle.

D., clutching his ankle: My ankle hurts!

why nablopomo?

Why did I sign up for NaBloPoMo?

1. Because it sounded like fun.
2. I thought it would be a good way to get the creative juices flowing.
3. Because I wanted to win one of the prizes.

Now that we're more than half way to the end of NaBloPoMo, why do I continue to participate?

1. Because I said I would do it and so I am going to, dammit.
2. Because I want to win one of the prizes.

I don't even care which prize anymore. I just want to win. And it's not bringing out the best in me. When Fussy, who came up with this whole torturous enterprise in the first place, announced that she had decided to relent and allow the participation of bloggers who had signed up after the deadline (midnight on November 1st) and who had blogged every day since, I did not praise her for her fairness.

I cursed her.

I'm not proud of myself, but it's the truth.

I want to win a prize.

That is all.

book fun

One of the blogs I check out most days is SassyMonkey Reads. I really enjoy her writing and have added many of her recommendations to my already too-long list.

A week or so ago, Sassy answered a meme question on how she manages the list of books she wants to read:

On the computer. It started off as a Word list. And then once it got to about 6 pages I turned it into an Excel sheet. Then I started with the whole colour coding thing…. me = geek!

This totally speaks to me.

I wonder if Sassy knows about Library Thing? My spouse turned me onto it last night. It's a website that lets you keep track of your books, manage your lists and connect with others with similar tastes.

My spouse has actually started to log his books. I don't think I'll be doing this, at least for a while (too bogged down with NaBloPoMo and mastering my new cell, phone, PDA and wireless keyboard).

I did, however, spend way too much time last night playing with the Book Suggester. I particularly enjoy the UnSuggester. Just enter the name of a book you like and it will generate a list of books that you probably won't like. The results were interesting, if not always accurate. Apparently enjoying Steinbeck and reading knitting books are mutually exclusive. I had no idea.

blook!

Want to know a secret?

OK, so I know that I'm telling this to hundreds of people I don't know (and quite a few that I do). Sometimes telling the blogosphere some things seems easier than telling my closest friends.

When I started this blog, I did not anticipate how important the writing it would be to enduring, processing and celebrating my progress through treatment and beyond. I had even less of a sense of what powerful connections it would help me strengthen and create with the people, near and far, who were so central to my survival.

And now, I will turn it into a book (well some of it, at least. One of the tasks ahead of me is to separate the wheat from the considerable chaff) or, more accurately, a 'blook' (a book based on a blog). I still have a hard time believing that anyone would want to read what I have written through the course of the last year, much less publish a book about it.

But I just signed a contract (complete with a 'witness') that commits me to writing and a publisher to publishing.

Unbelievable.

The deadline for the manuscript ('deadline for the manuscript'?! How cool is that?) is not until the fall of 2007. The publisher wants me to continue to blog about my physical recovery, return to work, emotional fallout and other relevant musings (I will, of course, continue to write lots of irrelevant musings. I can't help myself).

And do please continue to let me know what you think.

a safe city

It's 9:30 in the evening and I just got back from a walk with my dog.

We were out for more than an hour and we went through several neighbourhoods, including the downtown core. I was thinking to myself how safe I feel walking the streets of this town.

Ottawa just elected a new mayor. He promised to freeze taxes and to 'make our streets safer.'

I think our mayor and I have different ideas as to what makes a city safe.

I don't think that 'cracking down' on panhandlers and harassing homeless people will make my city safer. If safety is what matters to our new city council, these are the things they need to consider:

Ottawa is one of the few cities in Canada that has yet to pass a bylaw banning pesiticides for commercial and residential use. It is past time for this to happen.

Many of our parks, especially in the downtown core and in poorer neighbourhoods have play structures that are badly in need of replacement.

Ottawa needs more affordable and mixed income housing.

We need to address homelessness and child hunger. This means improved funding to shelters and more no or low-cost children's programming.

Funding for libraries and the city's bookmobile must be protected. Library hours could be increased and more programming, especially for older children, should be a priority.

You see where I'm going with this.

I don't feel threatened when I am out walking in most places in this city (and my dog and I log 30+kms/week). I would be much more fearful in a city where even more angry, bored and hungry youth had no where to go for support, to blow off steam or to put some food in their bellies.

It makes more sense to fund an arena than to buy one kid (or even a whole team of children) a pair of skates. And I feel strongly that my taxes are well spent when they fund these kinds of services.

I fear the mayor's solutions will make my city a more dangerous place and one where most of us will feel a lot less comfortable.

what passes for normal (part two)

A couple of weeks ago, my son came home with what looked like orange marker on his arm. We were curious.

me: And why do you have orange marker on your arm?

S.: I was trying to make a wound.

me: A wound.

spouse (simultaneously): Cool! After your homework is done we can work on making it look more authentic.

And here you have it. Pretty gruesome, no? In case you're wondering, it's red food colouring, vaseline and cloves.

Thank you 'y' chromosome.

NaBloPoMo cop out (Hallowe'en pictures)

Finally, due to popular demand (OK, only one person asked for them) and as a way of meeting my NaBloPoMo commitment, are the photos I promised from Hallowe'en.


This is my younger son, D. Last year, I bought him a truly beautiful bee costume, complete with a cute little stinger and a gorgeous pair of wings. When I showed it to him, he ran screaming from the room in terror. He went out in a ratty Spiderman costume that my spouse bought at Value Village.

This year I got smart and took him to the second hand store myself. There were racks and racks of beautiful costumes and this is what he chose. A Power Ranger. It cost me $2.95 (A note to my friend S.: I think this disproves once and for all that D. was upset last year because I didn't make his costume).


S. is Wolverine again, in a more seasonally appropriate costume:


Check out the facial hair. This costume broke my heart. I kept seeing some serious flashes of the man he will become.


The 'scars' were added in the evening. This despite the fact that Wolverine has the power to heal. So much for authenticity.



My nieces (and their Dad). The littlest would not permit me to photograph her with the cat-head on. A shame, it was too, too cute.

What I said above about my oldest son applies equally to my niece, Z. She was a fine Fortune Teller.



And they're off!


My sister-in-law really gets into Hallowe'en.


Dividing the spoils. A time-honoured tradition. It was a lot of fun to watch them do this.

paging dr. jung

I had a dream last night that the cancer came back. Or rather, that it had never really left.

I'd had a test of some sort and it revealed that I had tumours in my chest and abdomen. There was nothing I could do to make it go away; just eat well and take good care of myself.

And it was sort of implied that the cancer had metastastized (spread, invaded, colonized) because I hadn't been taking good care of myself.

Not that hard to deconstruct.

Where my consciousness fears to tred, my subconscious takes me.

baking bread, breaking bread

The boys and I spent our Saturday afternoon learning how to make bread. They worked harder than I did.




And then we ate. They did more of that than I did, too.

important things

1-Some things are easy.

The phone rang this morning. The caller ID showed the school's number. I grabbed it. And went on to have the following conversation:

My oldest son, S., age 8: (Tearful) You forgot the refreshments for the party! (They were having a class party as a reward for good behaviour).

Me: I can bring you the Cheesies (lest you judge me, last time there was a party, we sent home made granola bars. All but one - eaten by the teacher - came home again).

S.: OK. You can bring my agenda, too.

Me: OK...

S.: And my POW (it means "Problem of the Week, a weekly homework assignment that had been completed on Monday). It's the only thing I haven't handed in.

Me: Is there anything else you might need?

S.: Let's see. You could bring in a CD of dance music.

Me: (Silence)

S.: Wait a second. Are you being sarcastic?

Me: I am being sarcastic. But I'll bring you a CD.

And I did.

2- Being injected with radioactive isotopes is scariest the third time around.

I had my heart scanned today. The last time, I barely thought about the test. I was much more focused on where to go for dinner.

Today, I was nervous.

I want my heart to have recovered.

I want to start Herceptin (mostly because I want to finish Herceptin - I'll be taking it for a year).

I also want to know for sure that I am among the ninety-eight per cent of chemo patients whose hearts are not permanently damaged by chemotherapy.

I'll have the results on November 22.

3- Some friendships are built to last.

My friend dd had a birthday today.

I didn't get to see her.

But I thought of her all day.

She's been my friend through ups and downs in both our lives. And she's one of the few people with whom I am comfortable letting my guard down completely.

I hope she realizes how much I love her.

pain and my inner selves

I'm in a bit of pain today. My shoulder is very tight, having been damaged by surgery and radiation. It's become much worse in the last couple of weeks. My massage therapist and physiotherapist (ah, the advantages of a good insurance plan) have both reassured me that, if I keep doing my exercises, the ache will go away and reaching for a glass from the cupboard will no longer take my breath away.

I also have a stitch in my upper right abdomen. It feels much worse if I stand up, cough or breathe deeply. My spouse thinks it's a pulled muscle (from the above-mentioned exercises). My inner hypochondriac (aided and abetted by the Internet) would have me be worried about pancreatitis, gall stones or worse. I have decided to ignore my inner hypochondriac.

I know that lots of people deal very stoically with living in constant pain. I've been feeling some newfound empathy and respect for these people. My pain is very likely to go away in short order. Not knowing if this would ever be the case would be very hard indeed.

Today, though, I am nursing my inner wuss, taking it easy and waiting for the pain to go away.

panglossian

A friend called me this a couple of days ago. I had to look it up here.

It's true. I can be pretty optimistic (and determined, for that matter) in the face of adversity. It is a characteristic that served me well tonight. I managed to get this post in to keep me in the running for NaBloPoMo, despite the fact that Blogger has been down for the last couple of hours.

I did have a little nap on the couch, though. Now I can go to bed.

at least i roasted a chicken

The path to recovery from cancer treatment is certainly neither straight nor flat. In fact, if I were training on a path like this one, I'd have some serious thighs of steel.

My commitment to taking good care of myself has been somewhat inconsistent. Some days I eat really well (today, I roasted a chicken, an experience that gave new meaning to the phrase, 'It takes a village' - or in this case, a good friend on the phone and an internet search). Some days, nary a vegetable crosses my lips.

Some days I manage a long, vigorous walk and my strength training exercises (key to strengthening my arm and relieving the pain in my shoulder). Some days, the end of the day rolls around and I have barely left the couch.

My return to work has felt a little bumpy as well. Today, I worked on an assignment I was asked to do last week. I had it almost finished when I left (I am working three hours, two mornings a week for the first month). Later this afternoon, I found out that a colleague had started work on the same little project. And I realized that what I had done was WRONG.

This totally bummed me out.

But I roasted a chicken today ('Do I need to do anything to the vegetables before I throw them in?' 'Which end of the chicken is the neck?' 'What do the innards look like?' 'Will the house burn down if I take a walk while it's cooking?' Thank goodness for my friend H., even if she couldn't stop laughing). That's something.

And I haven't missed a walk in more than a week.

When I finish this post, I'll clean up the kitchen and, then, I will do my exercises.

I don't really have the choice of giving up, or, to beat a metaphor to death, of leaving the path I'm on (though some days I need to just plop myself down in the dirt and have a good vent about how hard this can be). I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and hopefully, as time goes on, those hills will feel a little less steep.

Today's post is brought to you by:and the Flying Spaghetti Monster (if you're looking for cancer recovery/survivor content, scroll down to Friday's entry).

Somehow, the American elections got me thinking about the good old FSM.

Pirates are the root cause of global warming (for proof, see chart at the top of this entry)?

Makes about as much sense as supporting Proposition 85 or the war in Iraq.

The world is going nuts.

Thank goodness for Pastafarians.

sunday afternoon endeavours

This is my niece.

I had been teaching her to knit before I started treatment but we hadn't picked up the needles in a while. This afternoon she did several rows in record time. The kid is a natural.

I cannot tell you how proud this makes me feel.

ouch

I had way too much fun last night.

A group of friends and co-workers took part in World Trivia Night, an annual event that is always a blast.

Chemo brain was not too much in evidence, although I am not convinced there were any questions to which I was the only one from my team to have the answer.

However, it's not the trivia that is causing my hangover.

I like wine. A lot. However, it is highly unusual for me to have more than a glass or two with dinner (and that, only a couple of times a week). Last night, I had this tiny little plastic wine glass and it just kept getting refilled (note my use of the passive tense here).

I was thirsty. The wine tasted good. I had a really good time.

Today, however, I have my very first hangover in a very long time.

Funny thing, the same spouse who was unbelievably sweet, caring and sympathetic during chemo was most decidely unsympathetic when I was dragging my ass around this morning (OK, so it was noon and he was making french toast and cleaning up the kitchen at the same time).

Go figure.

back to work

As reported in this space a couple of weeks ago, I have begun to ease back into work. This is how it's been going:

October 16, meeting 1:30-4:30
Spend morning on computer.
Take dog out for abbreviated walk.
Realize I am running late. Run through shower.
Take taxi to meeting, arrive late, sweaty, dishevelled, prosthesis askew.
Realize I have forgotten to eat, spend meeting fighting to concentrate.
My friend H. comments on how energized I seem. I wasn't energized, I was hysterical.
Spend next day in bed.

October 24, meeting 2:00-4:00
Spend morning on computer.
Take dog out for abbreviated walk.
Call boss to say that I will be late. Find out that meeting is a half hour later than I thought it was.
Run through shower.
Take taxi to meeting, arrive just in time, looking slightly more pulled together than on previous occasion.
Actually pay attention in meeting.
Spend next day in bed.

October 31, 9:30-12:30
Get kids off to school and day care. Run around trying to find various things I need to bring to work.
Spouse drives me to work, arrive five minutes late.
Dump stuff in office, spend morning feeling completely overwhelmed, not sure what to do first.
Go home, sleep for two hours.

November 2, 9:30-12:30
Drop off son on the way into work.
Arrive fifteen minutes early.
Attend meeting, manage to pay attention AND participate.
Meet with occupational therapist, sent by the insurance company to assess my work space.
Spend last half hour sorting through files, go home, do homework for writing class and walk dog.

I'd call that progress, wouldn't you?

getting creative

I've been taking this creative writing course.

This week's assignment was to think of someone very different from myself, create a list of adjectives to describe that person and then create a life history. All this was a warm-up for the piece we are to submit this evening (and I admit to only doing this first bit in my head), a scene involving this character at a pivotal moment in his life.

So the text below is where all my imaginings took me. It's more than a little cliched but I am into new territory here. I write a lot, but it is either in the first person (my blog writing) or in the form of a report or other professional document.

This is the result of my attempt to move outside my writing comfort zone:

Cornered

Bill wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the bathroom mirror. Beads of sweat had collected on his forehead and the eyes that looked back at him were riddled with little red lines.

How many drinks had he had? He’d lost track. Again. The heavy drinking would have to stop. He wasn’t getting any younger, and sooner or later, the drink would take its toll. Or he would do or say something from which his reputation would never recover.

Perhaps he already had.

On nights like this one, though, drinking seemed the only way to get through the evening.

It was much harder than he had anticipated having both women in the same room.

He knew when he entered into the marriage, that being with Liz would be no picnic. But marrying the boss’s daughter brought with it many advantages (or so he had thought). And Liz had been so different from the girls he’d gone out with. So together. So sure of herself and her rightful place in the world. He’d wanted to be a part of that world and all the privilege it afforded.

Daddy’s little girl. There was no denying the fact that he held his position in the company because of her, in part (she would no doubt say that this was entirely the case). Her infatuation with him had soon turned to contempt. Now every evening brought with it a litany of his failures and the ways in which he would never measure up to her father.

It had become much easier to remain late at the office, if not working, then at least away from Liz and her unrelenting scorn.

He’d more or less fallen into the affair with Mary. She was the first person he saw every day when he walked into the office. Unlike his wife, she always seemed happy to see him, remembered how he liked his coffee and laughed at all his jokes. She’d made it clear she admired him.

One night, when he’d had to work late, he’d asked her to stay and help him. They had ended up going out for a drink. That had been all, until the next time, when one drink became two and then three. They’d ended up at a motel.

This was a sequence of events that had repeated themselves several times since that night.

It had been heady and fun at first. He’d felt powerful. And attractive. Now he was definitely feeling the heat.

Mary had begun to drop hints that the status quo was no longer enough for her. He knew it was only a matter of time before she would start to demand more from him. More of his time, his attention and a more public – and permanent – role in his life.

He needed to break it off with her before it was too late.

If it wasn’t already.

He looked at his watch.

Just a few more hours and he could go home, take off his tie, pour himself a stiff drink and get ready to spend another night on the couch.

Just a few more hours to keep Mary and Liz away from each other. A few more hours of the false cameraderie, the backslaps and forced laughter.

He could do it. He’d faced much tougher challenges in his life. But not many.

With one last glance in the mirror, Bill straightened his tie. He turned and put his hand on the bathroom door. It was time to re-join the party.

I'll let you know if I get any interesting feedback. And yes, I'd be happy for yours as well.

the here and now

It's not that cancer has turned me into a happier person. It is true, however, that I now experience joy differently. I have a renewed sense of the pleasure in the little things and, to my great surprise, a much greater ability to live in the moment.

I just spent a near-perfect week end attending the theatre and tasting wine. I stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast with my sweetie (pictured above at Stratus, an eco-friendly winery with some great product). We had so much fun.

Speaking of living in the moment, nothing is as entertaining as helping four frenzied children get ready for Hallowe'en (photos will be posted when I can get the technology to cooperate). My sister-in-law was also a spectacular witch (one of the best costumes I saw all night). I wore a 'Happy Hallowe'en t-shirt and red light-up horns (sent as World Cup souvenirs by my brother-in-law who is teaching in Korea).

The older children (my niece Z. and my son, S.), especially took my breath away. Confident in their costumes (a fortune-teller and Wolverine, respectively), you could see flashes of the adults they will become. They will both be breathtaking beauties.

Finally, this month, I will be participating in NABPLOPOMO, so expect to see a little something here every day. I was turned on to NABLOPOMO by Amanda, who writes in several fora, including BlogHer (on Health and Wellness) and her personal blog, The Cat Lady ('Stability is higly overrated'). Amanda is a beautiful writer and a young widow, whose writing has made me laugh and cry (sometimes in the same few seconds). I've really got to figure out the technology, so I can put her and a couple of others on a blogroll.

Life is full of so many interesting people and fun things to do.

hot stuff

Yesterday's post received the most hits of any I have written so far. I can't help but think that more than a few people landed on my blog after googling 'sexy' and ended up with a totally different kind of eyeful.

I'll be away from the computer for a few days (yikes!). My spouse and I are delivering the kids to Grandma and then heading off for a week end get away.

If you miss the blog, you can always check out BlogHer. I'm completely addicted. So much good, smart writing by women in one place!

why breast cancer isn't sexy

I loathe my prosthesis. I have entertained fantasies about attacking it with a knife and watching its silicone innards ooze all over the floor.

I hate how it feels, I hate the way that it never looks quite right. I hate that I have to wear it (actually, mostly I don't wear it). And I know I need to work at a solution, as I don't want the first thing that people notice to be my missing breast and all it represents.

There has been much good feminist writing about the hype surrounding Breast Cancer Awareness month, and I have referenced some of the more interesting pieces in this blog. I join these women in their condemnation of the commercialization of breast cancer. And I certainly don't believe that one form of cancer is more worthy of support than another.

But a couple of writers have referred to breast cancer as 'sexy'.

It wasn't so long ago that breast cancer was considered shameful, a secret to be protected. For many women, this is still the case. After all, breasts are still not something we talk about at the dinner table, in the boardroom or in most day-to-day situations.

My breasts have variously been a source of embarassment, shame, confusion, pleasure and pride. Now I only have one, and a big scar where the other one used to be.

I thought long and hard about going public about my mastectomy but I decided that if I am to write honestly about my experience, this enormous source of discomfort, frustration and sadness must be included.

Breast cancer mutilates a highly sexualized, commercialized and central part of women's bodies. It is also a major cause of lymphedema, a further strain on our bodies, emotions and sexual selves.

I hate my prosthesis. I hate what it represents.

Self-confidence is sexy. So is love. Power can be a turn-on. So are broad shoulders, a quick wit and a sense of humour. Sometimes, I am sexy.

Breast cancer will never be 'sexy.'

not bloody likely

My radiation oncologist always treats me as if I am about to burst into hysterical tears. It makes me crazy.

When I start to show annoyance, he seems to take this as further evidence of potential instability and it only makes him worse. I am trying to learn to keep my mouth shut, get the information I need and get out of there.

But it' s not easy.

On the other hand, yesterday's appointment held no nasty surprises. My skin is healing well and so is the rest of me, slowly but surely.

Still working on patience, though.

where i'm at

In mid-September I had a heart scan. This is the test where they inject you with radioactive material, wait twenty minutes, then take video of your heart, pumping away. I got to watch a little bit of it and, as far as I could tell, my heart seemed to be doing a very good job.

I found it to be a pretty reassuring experience (and slightly less bizarre then I did back in January when I first had this test done).

A week or so later, I went to see my medical oncologist, expecting to be given a date to start Herceptin. Instead, I was told that my heart had not sufficiently recovered from chemo.

The chemo I had was pretty aggressive. And that there is always a 1-2% chance that chemo will permanently damage your heart. There is also a 1-2% chance that Herceptin will damage the heart. Taken too close together, there is a thirty per cent chance of the heart being permanently damaged.

Chemo is very, very toxic. And Herceptin, which I will be taking every three weeks for a year, is pretty toxic, too.

My next heart scan is scheduled for November 10th and I expect to start Herceptin shortly thereafter. My heart and head should both be ready by then.

I have an appointment with my radiation oncologist this morning. My skin seems to have recovered really well and that I am working hard at regaining strength and mobility in my shoulder and arm. I expect to be told that I am doing well but I admit that I'm nervous.

I am making good progress, though, and as my hair grows, I look more like a hedgehog than a cancer patient.

I think I have reached the point where it is not immediately obvious that I've been in chemotherapy. A highlight of the staff retreat I attended a couple of weeks ago was the moment a colleague from Vancouver (who doesn't know me well) inquired as to what kind of leave I'd been on.

That made me feel really good.

not much left

I just crawled out of bed, where I was reading Cancer Vixen, a beautiful graphic novel written by Marisa Acocella Marchetto (and a testament to the fact that each cancer story is so different, yet we do share much common ground). My favourite moment is when the author yells, "Cancer, I am going to kick your ass! And I'm going to do it in killer five-inch heels!"

It's a rainy day in Ottawa and I am fighting off the cold my young son brought into the house. I feel like fixing myself a nice comforting, healthy snack. But the question of what to eat is not one that is easily answered.

I've been reading (or rather skimming the chapter summaries of) Foods that Fight Cancer: Preventing Cancer Through Diet. It is, all in all, a positive book, full of beautiful pictures of leafy greens, bright citrus and even lovely dark chocolate and red wine. However, the author's list of foods to avoid leaves me cold:

• Fried foods (fair enough)
• Processed foods (makes sense)
• Red meat (in excess)
• Alcohol (in excess)
• Smoked foods (ack!!!)
• Marinated foods (double-ack!!!)

I understand that this is not so terribly restrictive but add to this the 'foods to avoid' one from the (very helpful) information session that I attended this week on lymphedema management and prevention:

• Processed and refined foods
• Coffee (oh no!!)
• Alcohol (bye, bye red wine)
• Sugar
• Saturated fats
• Red meat
  
• Dairy
• Chocolate (so much for my daily guilt-free fix)
• Salty foods (no more Vietnamese noodle soup?)
• Spicy foods (might as well eat Pablum for the rest of my life).

'What's left?', I ask you. Fruit, vegetables, water....flax seed.

OK. Going to make vegetable soup now. I'm going to use broth with salt, though. Because it's all I've got and, as the lymphedema trainer said, "You've still got to live your life."

gifts that cancer gave me

Cancer is not a gift. It is an evil scourge and I am still really pissed off that I got it.

But someone asked me this evening if I write every day and I said, "Yes. That's the gift that cancer gave me."

Here, in fairness to Cancer, are some other things it gave me (which doesn't mean I'm not still working on kicking its ass):

1. The knowledge that humour can be found in the darkest places.
2. A renewed appreciation for the people who love me.
3. A sense of confidence in myself and my ability to face new and tough challenges.
4. Perspective.
5. An abiding love for a good pedicure.
   

not enough to think pink

Pink is not my new favourite colour (unless it's hot pink, then maybe we can talk).

I will never, ever buy a pastel pink sweater with pink ribbons on the buttons just because "a portion of the proceeds" goes to breast cancer research.

Lots of good writing has appeared in the blogging world on this subject in the last couple of weeks. You can read lots more about this on BlogHer, my new favourite thing (in particular, you should check out posts by Suzanne Reisman (Breast Cancer is Sexy, or Pink Ribbons, Advertising, Class and Race) and Liz Thompson (The Bad Business of Buying for a Good Cause).

I resent large corporations benefiting from breast cancer and find the small donations made by some to be tantamount to fraud.

But I knew there was more to my extreme annoyance than this (and the fact that very many breast cancer baubles are hideously ugly).

And then I had a conversation that had nothing to do with breast cancer.

I was in my local fair trade coffee shop the other day buying beans. I ordered Brazilian, their very darkest roast and was informed that it would not be available for several months. "Do you want to know why, asked the clerk?"

She told me that Wal-Mart decided they wanted to start a fair trade line of coffee and had bought out all the beans from the co-op in Brazil. Shortly after they had cancelled these plans, leaving the co-op farmers to reach out again to their smaller distributors.

That Wal-Mart wants in is a testament to the power of the fair trade consumer. But that this low-wage, anti-union, sweat shop-supporting behemoth should hop on the fair trade bandwagon is beyond hypocritical.

And that, I realized, is what bugs me about breast cancer product promotions. Too often the products sold are full of carcinogens or are made under conditions that are highly toxic to the environment. I don't want any part of that.

Let's make our donations directly to organizations that are working to prevent, treat and cure breast cancer.

I'm off to a lymphedema workshop at Breast Cancer Action, one of those great organizations. I'll make a donation while I'm there.

'a kinder season'

I can't get enough of this new CD, by my friend Eve Goldberg.

Eve has the most beautiful voice and her songs get right under my skin. I was fortunate to have been given an advance copy, right after my diagnosis, and her album was one of the things that got me through some of my darkest moments.

Eve's mother passed away from breast cancer in June 2005, Eve's music is infused with heartbreak and love. In her words:

"'A Kinder Season' was recorded in months following my mother's death. Although none of the songs are directly about my mom, the album is permeated with the emotion of that time - a time of great sadness but also of extreme clarity, beauty, even joy. If I learned anything from my mom's death, it is that sweetness can be found in the bitterest season."

Amen to that.

And this time, right now, is my 'Kinder Season.'

You can find out more by visiting Eve's web site or through her record label, Borealis Records.

seeking balance

Apparently, people on long term disability don't often call their insurance company to say, "Can I go back to work now?" (At least that's what my insurance rep told me when I spoke with her).

"What's the rush?" asked my oncologist when I mentioned a return to work.

And there certainly are many other things with which I could fill my time and not get bored (aside from physiotherapy and trying to find my house under all the rubble).

I know how lucky I am to have a supportive employer with a good insurance plan. I am also very grateful that I live in Canada where we have socialized medicine (women without health insurance face alarmingly high death rates) and a terrific oncologist who supports whatever choice I need to make (as long as I promise to take things slowly).

In part, I want to return to work slowly so I can build up my stamina gradually and not feel overwhelmed by the shock of trying to get up to speed.

But that's not all. I attended a staff retreat last week (at the Chateau Montebello, in a village near where I grew up. I'd always dreamed of staying there) and the truth is, I felt energized by the experience, and, in fact, have continued to have more energy since my return. It was so good to be around people and to have my thoughts be consumed by something other than cancer for a while.

I love my work (and my co-workers were an enormous source of support during treatment). And a significant part of my identity has always come from my work life.

I am a mother, lover, friend, trade unionist and now, irrevocably(but not primarily), a cancer patient. Each of these identities is important to me and I need to give voice to each of them in order to feel whole.

I know that I need to be careful. The last thing I want is to end up on sick leave again (and labour movement jobs are famous for being demanding and stressful). I am going to have to set clear boundaries and figure out how to pace myself.

But I feel ready to start re-claiming the life I had before cancer.

I'll let you know how it goes.

more than skin deep

The stages of recovery from radiation:

1- Burned, blistered, raw, achy and sore.

2-Fragile and sensitive.

3-Renewal. Still very tender but on the road to healing.

4-Better. Not as new, but strong, healthy and fit.

I am hovering somewhere between stages three and four, sometimes taking two steps forward and one step back. I am making progress, though.

And my skin is healing, too.

the last time

Today, I will go to radiation for the last time.

I'll enter the cancer centre and turn right at the door marked radiotherapy, scan my card to get in the queue, go and change into my robes (one backwards and one open at the front) and sit in the waiting room.

When my name is called, I will go and lie on a table that has been set up just for me. I'll slip out of my robe, lift my knees so they can put a cushion under them and tuck my left hand under hip. My right arm will go over my head and into a special brace. I won't move again until the end of treatment.

The therapists will spend some time making sure I am aligned perfectly, with the help of lasers, lines they have drawn on me (with permanent marker) and the five little tattoos I was given before I started treatment. When they are satisfied that everything is set up the way it should be, they will drape something called a bolus (pliable plastic-like material that draws the rays to the skins surface. Treatment will be interrupted part way through to remove it) across my chest.

Then they will turn off the lights and leave the room.

The door will close with an audible click, a green light will turn to red and treatment will begin.

The machine they used looks like a giant lamp, with jaws at it's centre that open and close to control the amount of radiation emitted. As it moves around me, it makes a whirring noise and a high-pitched buzzing with each dose.

It will take only a few minutes to treat my back, chest, axilla (under arm) and clavicle (this felt like so much longer during the first week of treatment when I was still freaked out about being treated with radiation).

Then the therapists will come in, I'll say 'thank you' and be on my way.

I might cry.

Radiation was a pretty dehumanizing process. As a coping mechanism, I deliberately engaged the radiation therapists, asking questions or making observations. I am very grateful to the therapists and nurses who took the time to respond and who treated me as a whole person and not just body parts to be treated. I hope they realize what an enormous difference this made.

bizarre

Cancer treatment is a very strange thing. The purported cures come with a whole host of side effects that I'm convinced are not fully understood by anyone.

I know a woman who was travelling abroad to celebrate the end of treatment. One day, she noticed that her treated breast had turned brown.

On her return home, she consulted her radiation oncologist, who insisted that this change could not have been brougth on by treatment.

She raised the subject with an alternative practiotioner, who said, "Don't ask your doctors. Ask other women."

The next time her support group met, this women mentioned what had happened to her breast. Four of the twelve women in the group had experienced the same thing. None had told their doctors.

Brown breasts, blistered skin, blackened toenails and bald heads.

Sometimes I think we haven't come that far since the days when people were treated with leeches.

sometimes it's hard

I'm a bit of a mess these days.

I've got quite a bad burn from radiation and have been afflicted with a fatigue that defies description (a bit dramatic that, no?).

So, it's not surprising, I guess that my emotions are all a little close to the surface. I was especially feeling it earlier in the week. Frustration, the effects of treatment, the time I've lost to cancer and ramifications of battling a life threatening illness...it all hit me with the force of a tidal wave.

I'm feeling quite a bit better now, though. I spent the week doing as little as I could. Resting, reading. I even had a friend come with me to radiation (this had been planned for a while but the timing could not have been better).

My spouse and the boys have gone away for the week end. Last night they saw Spamelot in Toronto. Today, S. and my spouse are taking part in the year's most highly anticipated event - a comic book convention. Before leaving, S. hugged me and said, "Don't die while we're gone."

I started to reprimand him and then realized that he wasn't joking. He asked me, "There isn't a chance, is there, that you could die before I come back?"

I reassured him that the cancer treatment was to make sure that all the cancer was out of my body. "And you know what, if it ever does come back, we'll treat it again."

"So does this mean that we don't have to worry for at least a year?"

"Yes," I answered.

He looked so relieved.

Sometimes, I hate how hard this is.

herceptin

Well the Alberta government has finally seen fit to make Herceptin available to all breast cancer patients who would benefit from this drug.

For more info on Herceptin, check out this excellent article from the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, www.cbc.ca) web site:

The promise of Herceptin
Last Updated August 30, 2006
CBC News

When the government of Alberta announced that it would begin picking up the tab for the breast cancer drug Herceptin for patients in all stages of the disease, it became the last province to do so.

Before the Aug. 28, 2006 announcement, Alberta covered the cost of the drug only for people in the advanced stages of breast cancer treatment. That's what the drug was approved for by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration in 1998. And it had proven quite effective in lengthening the lives of women in the late stages of breast cancer.

Herceptin therapy can cost $40,000 a year per patient. Alberta's health minister — Iris Evans — estimates the move will cost the province about $8 million a year.

"I'm very satisfied that the clinical trials have given strong evidence that this is an important therapy for us to use," she said.

Most provinces began paying for the drug for patients in the early stages of breast cancer a year before Alberta's move. Evans said the province wanted to wait until clinical trials were complete before making the same decision.

For advocates of the therapy, the evidence of Herceptin's effectiveness had been indisputable long before Alberta agreed to follow the lead of the other provinces.

Herceptin is an antibody that binds to a protein on human skin cells — the human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (HER2). It is believed an excessive amount of this protein increases breast cancer growth — and increases the risk of recurrence of the disease and death.

Approximately 25 per cent of patients have this aggressive form of breast cancer.

In May 2005, three large-scale studies of the drug were abruptly halted because of overwhelmingly positive results.

The studies showed the rate of breast cancer recurrence was reduced by more than half when Herceptin was given to women undergoing chemotherapy compared to women who received traditional chemotherapy alone.

Among the findings:

* After two years, there were 261 events (such as return of the cancer, second primary cancer or death before recurrence) in the control group and 133 events in the group taking Herceptin.

* After three years, 87.1 per cent of patients taking Herceptin were alive and disease-free compared to 75.4 per cent in the group not taking Herceptin. After four years, 85.3 per cent of patients on Herceptin were still alive and well compared to 67.1 per cent for those on standard chemotherapy.

* Women taking Herceptin with a particular chemotherapy regimen had a 33 per cent reduction in risk of death.

Dr. Brian Leyland-Jones of Montreal's McGill University was the lead author on one of the studies. He called Herceptin the most important advance in breast cancer therapy in 30 years.

He noted that in traditional breast cancer therapy, one in four women will see their cancer spread sometime after undergoing surgery. In the Herceptin studies, that number dropped to one in 10.

"We're not quite sure [how Herceptin works]," Leyland-Jones said. "There are different factors that stimulate the growth of cells in your body. The targeted therapy interferes with the binding of this stimulating growth factor."

In October 2005, the New England Journal of Medicine reported on the three clinical trials. In an editorial, the Journal called the results "revolutionary."

"The results are simply stunning. With very brief followup (one to two and a half years), all three trials show highly significant reductions in the risk of recurrence of a magnitude seldom observed in oncology trials," the editorial said.

As many as 5,000 Canadian women a year stand to benefit from early use of Herceptin.

There is one significant side-effect. There is a small risk of heart damage in women undergoing Herceptin treatment. Approximately one woman in 200 could suffer heart damage.

grumpy

I am burned and tired and just plain fed up.

Only six more treatments to go.

a conversation

As I sat waiting for my family to pick me up outside the cancer centre yesterday, I was approached by an elderly woman who had been sitting on the next bench.

"You have beautiful skin," she said. I was of course thrilled at the compliment, as I have been feeling anything but beautiful lately.

She asked if I was in treatment at the centre. I said that I was.

"I have lung cancer," she said. "I never smoked but I worked in intelligence. I worked mostly with men. The rooms we met in would be blue with smoke."

"And also, the spyplanes brought in films taken overseas which I handled regularly" she continued, "They had a coating on them. My colonel says he wouldn't be surprised if that's what caused the cancer, as several others we worked with also have it."

I told her that I have breast cancer. She replied that her sister had breast cancer and is doing well but is nervous as she approaches the five-year mark.

"I have lung cancer," she repeated. "And it's not the good kind of lung cancer."

"I'm thinking of going to San Antonio, Texas. There is a doctor there...They can cure cancer now but if the drugs don't make money, then the drug companies won't sell them. And the doctors here, they won't do anything that isn't in the medical mainstream."

"I think I'll go. But I need to find out more. I shouldn't say this, but I have lots of money. Still, I want to make sure they aren't quacks. I looked the place up on the internet and it looks good. I have a brother who is a doctor in Victoria. Im going to get him to look into it but I think I'll go."

"So many people have cancer now."

She paused to look at the book in my lap, "What are you reading?" (It was The Lighthouse, by PD James). "I haven't read that one. She's not my favourite. Well, her stories are OK, but as a person...(makes a face)."

"Are you waiting for a ride?" I ask her.

(Laughs) "Yes, my daughter. She drives an old jalopy. It's a wreck. She has a million dollar house but still drives that thing. She's not a showoff, that's for sure."

"Such beautiful skin," she says again, and reaches out to stroke my face.

I go back to my book, and shortly after, her daughter pulls up in a battered blue Toyota Camry, with the windows rolled down.

She waves goodbye as she gets in the car.

I liked her.

I wonder how much of her story was true.

good to be here

I ran into a group of friends yesterday, one of whom I hadn't seen in a long time. When she said that it was nice to see me, I replied, "It's good to be here."

My friend C., who was in my shoes two years ago, said, "It means a whole lot more than it used to doesn't it?"

It does indeed.

It's good to be here.

in perspective

I was going through some papers today, looking for information on lymphedema when I found some notes summarizing the results of the tests performed on my tumours.

I've been so bogged down in the grind of treatment and its side effects that I sometimes lose perspective on why I am doing this. This was a worthwhile, if chilling, reminder to re-visit the medical big picture.

The pathologists from whom I had asked for an informal second opinion explained that I had a "high grade tumour and very agressive cancer." They also advised me that I probably had dormant cells elsewhere in my body, since my cancer cells "showed an inherent characteristic of dissemination", as was evident from the fact that I had positive lymph nodes (and, by the time of surgery, palpable tumours under my arms). Their final words of advice were, "don't hold back thinking you'll have multiple ways to come back at this. Assume this is your best shot now."

And that is why I am putting myself through all this. Agressive cancer means agressive treatment.

As my friend A. said, in a very loving message she sent me in February, "Cancer is bad but we will be badder."

And we have been.

the revolution starts now

Today's blog is brought to you by Steve Earle, from the Revolution Starts Now (2004).

I was walkin’ down the street
In the town where I was born
I was movin’ to a beat
That I’d never felt before
So I opened up my eyes
And I took a look around I saw it written ‘cross the sky
The revolution starts now
Yeah, the revolution starts now

The revolution starts now
When you rise above your fear
And tear the walls around you down
The revolution starts here
Where you work and where you play
Where you lay your money down
What you do and what you say
The revolution starts now
Yeah the revolution starts now

Yeah the revolution starts now
In your own backyard
In your own hometown
So what you doin’ standin’ around?
Just follow your heart
The revolution starts now

Last night I had a dream
That the world had turned around
And all our hopes had come to be
And the people gathered ‘round
They all brought what they could bring
And nobody went without
And I learned a song to sing
The revolution starts now

I especially love that second verse. Sometimes, during treatment, I have needed to stick my head in the sand. Sometimes, like tonight, thinking about the big picture has helped me to feel strong and optimistic and purposeful. This is such a hopeful song.

Next week end, Steve Earle is playing at the Ottawa Folk Festival and I am going to see him.

cancer and me

A few days ago, I attended a Melissa Etheridge concert. It was an amazing show. The woman is a wonderful musician and song writer who performed with great energy for more than two hours.

And she's a cancer survivor. In fact, she discovered her lump when she was last in Ottawa in 2004. Her return to this city must have felt triumphant. I have always been a fan of her music but the way she handled cancer and what she wrote about the experience have turned her into one of my heroes (and her description of chemotherapy really resonated with me. It's hard not to feel a kinship with someone whose experiences so closely reflect my own).

I have listened to her music a lot during treatment; her old songs, to which I know all the words and some new ones, recorded more recently, that can bring tears to my eyes or make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

It was quite wonderful to see her on stage, obviously strong, fit and joyous.

There was, however, a moment during the concert that has given me much to think about. Melissa talked about the brutality of chemo and the love and support of her spouse and community that got her through. She also talked about how cancer made her re-examine her life and re-think her priorities. These things are true for me as well. Then, she summed up her experience by saying, "Cancer is a gift."

That's when she lost me.

There is no question that there are ways that having cancer has enhanced my life. I am stronger and more confident. I am also much more cognizant of what a fortunate person I am. I have benefitted greatly from the time I've had to reflect over the last few months.

But would I say that cancer is a gift? Am I glad that it happened to me?

Absolutely not.

I am still furious.

Not long after my diagnosis, I purchased a t-shirt from www.gotcancer.org that more accurately reflects my feelings. It has the letters CCKMA emblazoned on the front, with the smaller caption: "Cancer can kiss my ass."

39

Sounds like a fake age, doesn't it? But today is really, truly my 39th birthday.

Thirty-nine things I have learned this year (in no particular order):

1. Sometimes all it takes is a bit of initiative to create change in an unpleasant situation.

2. Most people will surprise you with their goodness and generosity (this is especially helpful to remember in today's disturbing global context).

3. I have a greater capacity to forgive than I thought I did.

4. It is possible to fall in love all over again.

5. Children, no matter how sensitive, are surprisingly resillient.

6. My children are lovely human beings (OK, so I knew that already but the boys have been tested this year and have impressed me in countless ways).

7. Laughter really is the best medicine.

8. I am loved (I knew that before but now I can feel it in my bones).

9. I have a nicely shaped head.

10. I really am a 'glass is half full' person.

11. I am also, as a friend said when I was first diagnosed, 'a tough customer.'

12. I should feel proud of my strength and positive outlook. They are getting me through treatment in better shape than many cancer patients.

13. I can do anything I set my mind to do.

14. I don't have to do everything, just because I can.

15. Somewhat paradoxically, admitting vulnerability makes me stronger.

16. As youth is wasted on the young, good health is wasted on the fit. I didn't know enough to appreciate good health until my health was seriously threatened.

17. Sadness and joy can be inextricably mixed.

18. Someone I love told me a few months ago that I had impossibly high expectations of those who care for me. Just because someone cannot do one thing I ask or expect does not mean they do not love me or that they are rejecting me. She was right. This was a very important lesson for me to learn.

19. Trusting is not a sign of weakness, nor is distrust a way to protect myself from getting hurt (see above).

20. It is OK to ask for help when I need it.

21. Red and blue are my two favourite colours. Passion and peace, activity and reflection. These are things I require in equal measures.

22. A pedicure is good therapy.

23. Exercise is a panacea.

24. There is no perfect way to support someone in crisis. Whatever feels right to you will probably be the right thing.

25. I am less judgemental than I used to be.

26. I will never be a religious person.

27. Very sick or severely disabled people used to scare me. They still do but I know how to get past my fears.

28. My own fears help me understand why some people are now uncomfortable being around me.

29. It is fortunate that I was in the best physical shape of my life when I was diagnosed with cancer. I was the only woman in my arm of the clinical trial who was not admitted to hospital during treatment. My doctors think this is because I was mentally tough and physically fit.

30. I love to write and I'm good at it.

31. Being patient is very hard work but worth the rewards.

32. Life is too short for pettiness.

33. Having a life-threatening illness is not a scary as I feared it would be.

34. A missed opportunity is not a disaster. Life is full of opportunity if one is open to it.

35. It is infinitely easier to be sick and middle class than sick and poor.

36. Medicare works.

37. There is a cancer club. None of us would have chosen to join but we understand each other in a way that no one else can.

38. I have a very good life.

39. I still have a great deal left to learn.

overwhelmed

Too much to think about. New experience, new information to absorb. I had been warned that the mind can go to a pretty scary place when the door closes on the radiation room and the buzzing starts.

It's too soon to feel the effects of the beam and each session only lasts for a few minutes. I find it hard, though, not to lie there and ponder what these rays could be doing to my body. And to consider my own mortality. It is after all, a bit of a mind-fuck that the treatment for cancer is in itself carcinogenic.

I'm fine, though, really. And the radiation therapists are really nice.

Twenty-three radiation sessions to go.

I think it's time to curl up with a bowl of ice cream and a good murder mystery while I listen to my dog snore on the couch beside me.