getting unblocked

To beat writer's block, you need to write.

I learned this from Julia Cameron and then Anne Lamott drove it home.

Write three pages, longhand. This is what Julia Cameron advises in The Artist's Way and I what I did for the 12 weeks that I followed her program.

Then I switched to doing my "morning pages," as she calls them, on the computer. Then I stopped altogether.

Then I became blocked.

On the computer it turns out, I was editing myself, which is fine when I am drafting an essay but not when I am trying to unlock my creative muse. The editing also took longer and made it feel more like a chore.

I am now getting started most days by hand writing those three pages. Often, by the time I'm done, I have a pretty good idea of what I am going to write that day.

I wish I didn't have to keep being reminded to do the things that are good for me.

I would save myself a lot of grief.

me: from a to z

Feeling lazy today, so I am lifting a meme from Average Jane. I did this in complete stream of consciousness. I would probably write it completely differently tomorrow.

Update: I did the meme wrong! It turns out that I was supposed use all the same alphabet words as everyone else and just comment on them. I'm not changing it now and this was more fun anyway.

A is for activism. Mine mostly manifests itself through my writing these days.

B is for banana. Love them.

C is for cookie. And that's good enough for me! (Whether you get this reference will tell me your demographic).

D is for dogs. Of course. What else?

E is for elephant. Still thinking about the one that went on a rampage and was eventually killed. So sad.

F is for future. Nice to feel like I have one.

G is for good. This is how I feel about my life today.

H is for hope. See F and G.

I is for ignominious. Just because I like that word.

J is for jazz. I feel guilty that I didn't create space for my spouse to go to more of the Jazz Festival.

K is for kangaroo. I need to read up. D. was asking me questions I couldn't answer last night. "When do their eyes open?" "How old are they when they can live outside their mother's pouch?"

L is for love. What I feel when I look in on my sleeping kids.

M is for money. It would be handy to have more of it.

N is for naughty. My puppy has taught me the meaning of the word.

O is for open. A good thing to be, most of the time.

P is for pizza. My downfall.

Q is for quiet. I love it.

R is for resting. What my doggies are doing right now.

S is for safety. A word I am still defining, figuring how much I need and when to step outside its bounds.

T is for travel. I am excited to be going to BlogHer and still need to pick up an SF travel book.

U is for umbrella. We have had too much umbrella weather this spring.

V is for values. Don't tell me I don't have any just because mine are different from yours.

W is for writing. The activity I procrastinate before doing. The activity that I miss most (along with exercise) when I skip. The activity that has become a habit and that has greatly enhanced my life.

X is for xenophobia. Because it's bad. And it's more interesting word than xylophone or x-ray.

Y is for yak. Because Dr. Seuss loves them.

Z is for za. A very handy Scrabble word. It is the 17th letter of the Arabic alphabet and also a short for for 'pizza.' Not sure which is the accepted definition, just that Scrabble likes it and I can play it. So there.

how to decide if a drug is "worth" the cost?

I have a new post up at MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com.

Living With Metastasis: Avastin - How Do We Decide If A Drug Is Worth the Cost?

Here is an excerpt (the paragraph in italics is a quote from an article in the New York Times, to which this is a response):

...If a drug like Avastin can prolong life by, let’s say four months, is it worth the cost? I know what my kids would say. Also, what exactly does it mean when it is said that patients in a clinical trial ‘lived four months longer’? I always return to Stephen J. Gould and “The Median is not the Message” when I need to be reminded that statistics do not always provide the clearest picture.

“Gailanne Reeh remembers what life was like within a few months of those initial scans, when her cancer began causing terrible symptoms.

Her abdomen grew so full of fluid that it was hard to bend to tie her shoes. Bowel movements were difficult, and even lying down was uncomfortable with that huge mass in her abdomen….After six months of treatment the fluid in her abdomen was down to just a trace, her tumors were stable or smaller and she felt like her former self again."

Quality of life is incredibly difficult to quantify. However, I am struck by how the symptoms described above are so similar to my own when the metastasis was diagnosed. The pain was excruciating. And to have those symptoms be alleviated eased not only the pain but the terror I had been feeling as well.

In my own case, as with Ms. Reeh’s, we cannot be sure how much of the improvement was due to the breakthrough drug, the chemotherapy that accompanied it or the combination of the two (although my oncologist believes it to be the latter). The relatively new and expensive drug in my case is Herceptin.

You can read the rest of this post at MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com.

on being brave

My family and I went to a little party for brunch on Sunday. This would not have been a big deal except that it was going to mostly former co-workers in attendance and since the cancer returned I have been avoiding these kinds of events.

But this brunch was different. It was a surprise in honour of a friend and former co-worker who is in ongoing breast cancer treament (she is also one of the women with whom I am involved in a writing project and that I wrote about in my post entitled "the building." There is a new building now but my friend still works for the organization). She has been treated quite shamefully by her employer (a supposed advocate for "workplace accomodation") who has consistently refused to accomodate her need for regular time off for treatment. The case will be decided over the next two days by an arbitrator and I knew I needed to overcome my trepidations to show her my support.

And I had a great time. There were so many people there who I was happy to see (I think it is a testament to my friend C. She is a wonderful person who attracts wonderful friends, all of whom wanted a chance to show her how much we love her). The food was great. I loved being there with my boys (all three of them). I always enjoy showing them off and they made me very, very proud just by being themselves.

I am so glad I went, despite my fears. I always tell myself that I avoid these things because it will be awkward and sad. But I don't think that I have been giving people enough credit. The truth is my tendency to experience social anxiety (which predates the cancer) has been exacerbated by spending so much time on my own (something I quite enjoy). I think I use the cancer as an excuse.

From the moment I stepped in the door, and saw all these people I genuinely like, I felt happy and excited and I know that my face and body language expressed that. It was lovely to catch up with people and easy to put them at ease. I know that going did me a world of good.

This post was inspired by "Do It Afraid" by Lahdeedah, one of my co-bloggers over at Mothers with Cancer.

One another note, I urge you to go read a post by Andrea Collins-Smith, who faced the ultimate fear with tremendous grace and courage. Andrea (who wrote as Punk Rock Mommy on her own blog and at Mothers With Cancer) passed away on July 5th, after succumbing to inflammatory breast cancer. She leaves behind six children and a loving spouse. I only became aware of her blog shortly before she made the decision to stop treatment and go into palliative care. She moved and awed me with every post. This last one was written a short while ago, to be posted after her death. It is terribly sad but also hopeful. I hope to one day face death as bravely.

Brace yourself.

rising above it

A few years ago, back in what seems another lifetime, I had a co-worker who was driving me crazy. He was incredibly insecure and often sought to make himself look good at others' expense. He was also lazy and very willing to let others slog away at the grunt work, grabbing the tasks for himself that would gain recognition from the leadership of our organization.

I started to obsess about the unfairness of this. I wanted something to be done. And I began to vent my spleen to anyone who would listen. Even when relaxing after an intense project, I found myself returning to this subject like a dog worrying a bone.

One friend in particular would listen sympathetically but he also seemed kind of amused. And he would, after listening patiently, gently try and get me to move on. He was very supportive and encouraging but he hinted that perhaps I should stop putting so much energy into being angry.

I remember thinking at the time that this guy just didn't understand the seriousness of the situation.

I have a different perspective now.

This particular friend is a cancer survivor and perhaps that's what led him to understand what I now see more clearly. It is much healthier (and better in the long run) to focus on what really matters and to save our anger for situations when we can actually hope to create real change.

I have recently become somewhat reluctantly involved (and only peripherally) in a situation where it seems that a group of people, for whom I have great respect, have lost sight of a common goal. They have become bogged down in a morass of pettiness and are choosing to express some legitimate frustrations in ways that are destructive. And some individuals are being badly hurt in the process.

I can't help thinking that life is way too short for this.

I think, in situations like this it is crucial that keep ourselves focused on what's important. I always try and ask myself what my goals are and whether my actions will move me towards it. And if I am acting out of anger or frustration then I am likely only contributing to the problem, not to solving it.

Anger and confrontation certainly have their place but they are not ends in and of themselves. We need to ask, yet again, what organization we want to build, be honest about the things that aren't working and take concrete measures to fix those things.

And we need to treat one another with a little more compassion.

better

I have a new post up at MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com.

I wrote about pulling myself out of the emotional funk, with the help and support of so many of you.

looking out at the world

My computer and my body are both still pretty sick.

I have been thinking though about my tendency to become a hermit when I get to feeling low, missing work and my old life (or give in to the fear, as cancer is still very real presence and I know that I have not escaped it).

Chemo weeks tend to be the worst but I will admit that I have been struggling a bit of late.

I have this friend who refuses to stop calling me, though, even when I don't call back. A friend who calls and leaves me messages that say, "Just checking in!"

A friend who refuses to let me turn completely inward.

I am very grateful.

paradox

I am afflicted with my usual pre-chemo malaise.

And something else. I made it a goal this year to write as much as I could about cancer and living with mets and yet, today I am sick of being a cancer patient, sick of cancer and everything about it.

Achieving balance has always been a challenge for me.

My computer is sick today. The fan has died and it will only work for a few minutes at a time. Tomorrow it will go unto the shop (how realistic is it to think that I will get it back on the same day?).

Hopefully, by Wednesday, my computer and I will both be up to writing again.

cancer is a chronic illness

My father-in-law, himself a cancer survivor, sent me a terrific article from the New York Times:

"Cancer as a Disease, Not a Death Sentence"

That about sums it up, for me.

I particularly enjoyed the following anecdote, so reflective of my own experience (the drugs are different, except for the Herceptin):

''Dr. Esteva described a breast cancer patient first treated with a mastectomy and the antiestrogen tamoxifen in 1995. Five years later, cancer had spread to her lungs, prompting treatment with a newer anticancer drug, an aromatase inhibitor. When that no longer worked, her cancer was found to possess a molecular factor, HER-2, and she began treatment with Herceptin, a designer drug tailor made to attack HER-2-positive breast cancer.

Herceptin therapy was able to stabilize her metastases for years, “something we had not seen before,” Dr. Esteva said.

The patient now receives a combination of Herceptin and another drug and enjoys a relatively normal quality of life, the doctor reported.''

The article describes beautifully the approach of my oncologist. First treatment A is tried until that stops working, then treatment B and so on. Ideally, treatment would continue in this way until a cure is found . For the time, being, though many of us are living longer than anyone thought we would and with a pretty good quality of life.

Cross-posted to Mothers with Cancer.

book review: the deceived*

Holey moley! I was in the mood for a page turner and with Brett Battles’ The Deceived, I got that in spades. This book sucked me in and swept me along in the way only a good, action-filled suspense novel really can.

The book’s central character is a mercenary with the alias Jonathan Quinn. Quinn is a ‘cleaner’, hired by government and crime bosses alike to go in and eliminate evidence (and remove bodies) after the violence is over.

In this, the second novel in a series, Quinn is hired to clean out a shipping container, only to find that it contains the body of a man who once saved his life. The man, a former CIA agent, was badly beaten and left to slowly die in the shipping container. He did, however, manage to scrawl a message (in blood, of course), consisting of a series of letters and numbers, on the container wall. And he died clutching a photo of his girlfriend - one that had been taken by Quinn himself when all three had been on a fishing vacation.

Quinn sets out to find out what happened to his friend and soon learns that the man’s girlfriend, Jenny, has disappeared. The reader travels with Quinn to several American cities and, eventually, to Singapore, as he begins to put the pieces of the puzzle together and very quickly puts himself in the line of fire.

The book is well-written (a real necessity for me to enjoy any book. Even with a great plot, badly written prose is like nails on a chalk board), with great dialogue between likeable characters, who manage to be believable despite their existence among the world of “secrets.” And the action scenes are great fun (they certainly got my heart racing).

The book did start to drag near the end (the part that takes place in Singapore), as it took a little too long to build to the climax. And there was one plot twist that I saw coming a mile away. However, there was a terrific ending and a few subsequent plot twists that did surprise, so I consider these to be minor quibbles.

I don’t know if I’ll remember The Deceived in a few weeks’ time but I certainly had fun reading it. If you are looking for some enjoyable summer reading and mysteries are your thing (and you don’t mind a little violent action), then get yourself a copy of The Deceived. I have already ordered the first book in the series from the library.

*This is a review of a book that was sent to me via Library Thing's Early Reviewer Program.

what inspires you?

I have been feeling kind of burned out lately and completely uninspired.

Perhaps I have been over-extending myself. And as much as I need and want to write about my experiences as a cancer patient, mining that particular vein can be draining (and I am trying really hard not to repeat myself too much in the different venues in which I am writing).

I did my morning pages today, for the first time in a while and I found it to be a tough slog. I started to list the things that inspire me and I realized that I have not really been making a lot of space in my life to do these things. My days have been focused on being productive and, perhaps, when I have had down time, I have not been engaging in the kind of activities that fill me up.

I think this needs to change. Yes, I have deadlines (and the house is a mess) but I think that I might spend less time staring at a blank computer screen, struggling over every word (or surfing the net to avoid writing) if I let myself spend a little time getting inspired.

Here's my list. What would be on yours?

Reading books.

Knitting.

Going for long walks.

Spending time in the arboretum and other beautiful places.

Taking in other people's art.

Listening to music.

Laughing.

Hanging out with friends and family.

Being silly with my kids.

Spending time with my spouse.

i've been here before

Yesterday, we had puppy class.

I have been working really hard with little Lucy, doing our homework and practicing, practicing, practicing. We have 'sit' and 'down' nailed.

Or so I thought.

We didn't walk her before class, as we had been busy with Father's Day activities in the morning and we hadn't wanted to make her too tired. As a result, she was excited and wild from the moment we entered the class.

Despite this, I was pretty confident when the trainer asked if Lucy would be the 'demo dog.' However, although the trainer had a juicy piece of hot dog in her hand, Lucy would not sit or lie down, after several minutes of encouragement.

The trainer passed her back to me and moved on to another dog. I casually signalled to Lucy to sit. She sat. I signalled for her to lie down. She lay down.

Sigh.

Lucy is a very smart dog and in her quieter moments is very obedient. But when she is wild (usually in the evenings, unfortunately for the kids) she is defiant, intransigent and a little bit out of control.

And when she is sweet, she is very sweet indeed.

Reminds me of someone else I know and love.

When D., my youngest son, was a toddler, I wanted to knit a hat for a friend's baby. I tried to measure D.'s head. He refused to cooperate. I kept trying for weeks. I would ask nicely, try sneaking up on him when he was distracted or firmly tell him to sit still. I begged and pleaded. All to no avail.

A few months later, when the hat was finished (I guessed at the size) and mailed off to the recipient, I pulled out my tape measure to check my progress on another project. D. approached me and sweetly asked, "Mama, do you want to measure my head?"

To this day, he wants me to measure his head whenever I am using a tape measure.

otherwise engaged

Today's blog has been pre-empted by an afternoon with my sister, a run in the sun with my son (and my sister), an evening at the park and a really good book.

Update: I have a new post up at MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com.

my efficient heart

I spent the better part of today at the hospital getting an echo cardiogram and seeing the oncologist.

The good news is that my heart is functioning just fine. It is most likely that there was never a problem and that the echo just gives a clearer picture.

connected

The hardest thing about membership in my community of cancer bloggers and activists is that we face more than our share of sadness, fear and loss. My friend Jacqueline once remarked that we have not been brought together "by our shared interest in quilting."

Two members of my community got bad news this week and I have been thinking about them a lot. I am struck by Rebecca's humourous description of her recurrence (which involves both potato and spaceship analogies) and Andrea's strength and grace as she choses between more treatment or hospice care.

But I am sad.

And a little bit scared.

I think I am going to go sit outside in the sun with the doggies now.

book review: home girl (building a dream house on a lawless block)*

In this memoir, Judith Matloff tells of quitting her job as an international correspondent (who very frequently worked in war zones), to seek stability and peace in her home country. When she and her husband buy a an affordable (read completely dilapidated) former crack house in Harlem, she finds her war zone skills being put to good use once again.

One of the things that I most appreciated about this book was the author’s intelligent writing and progressive analysis. She has a solid understanding of the economics behind the drug industry (what she doesn’t know at the outset she sets about researching in a way that really spoke to this former researcher) and manages to portray even the most sophisticated of dealers and hardened of addicts (along with those who oppose them) in a somewhat sympathetic light.

This book was a compelling read and the diverse cast of characters had me laughing, crying and turning the pages. I really enjoyed this book and it has made me want to seek out some of Matloff’s more journalistic writing.

*This is a review of a book that was sent to me via Library Thing's Early Reviewer Program.

I just found a link to this promotional video for the book. It's a hoot, whether you've read the book or not. And I think her respect for the members of her community is pretty clear.

mothers with cancer

Some people just seem to be 'doers.'

Since I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, in January 2006, I have bemoaned the lack of resources for mothers with cancer. I have attempted to address this problem by blogging here and by seeking out like-minded women in my online community.

But one woman I know (and I only found her recently through BlogHer, although I can't imagine how I missed this incredible mom, blogger and recent survivor of inflammatory breast cancer), not only noted the lack of resources for moms, she set out to do something about it. Susan (aka Whymommy) proposed a group blog that would act as a resource for mothers with cancer and within days has signed up sixteen moms, registered the domain name, set up the blog, posted profiles and got the word out that it was time for introductory posts to be posted. It all happened so fast, my head is still spinning.

Mothers with Cancer officially launched today and my introductory post went up last Friday. But don't just read my story (many of you know it already), check out the other women who are blogging there as well.

Each story is as individual as the woman who wrote it. We differ in writing styles, kinds of cancer, date of diagnosis, treatment experiences and prognoses. Our children are all different ages and our parenting styles no doubt differ as well. But we are all mothers with cancer, who want the best for our kids and who want to reach out to others who may find themselves in the same situation.

I feel very honoured to be a part of this group.

Update: Speaking of parenting through cancer, my new post is up at MyBreastCancerNetwork.com.

not here today

Oh my gosh but puppies can be a lot of work.

Today, I am here.

And here (tell you more about this on Monday).

I'm afraid I'm too tired to give you anything else. And I am kind of sick of my own stories, you know?

getting out in the world

Starting this week, I will now be posting twice weekly at MyBreastCancerNetwork.com, as well as acting as one of their patient "experts" (I cannot tell you how weird it is to see that bright yellow "EXPERT" above my head when I post a reply in their nifty Questions section).

You can check out my first post here.

Let me know what you think.

What other things do you think I should write about? My second post isn't up yet but it's about being your own advocate, speaking up and asking questions (I have lots more to say on this subject and will likely do so in future posts). Any suggestions would be most welcome.

moments of joy

I have a cherished memory. I was in my early twenties and working in New Brunswick at a summer English language program for adults. Students came from all over the world (but mostly from Quebec) and lived in residence on a university campus.

The staff, most of whom were young, lived in residence with the students and were (in addition to teaching all day and coordinating recreational activities) in charge of patrolling the halls at night to ensure that only English was being spoken (every student signed a contract to that effect and agreed that if they were caught in violation of this rule three times, then they would be sent home. I have never heard of a university based program to be as tough as this one. But it worked). Most of us loved the work but it was intense, exhausting (the hours were very long) and, at times, very stressful. And it was exactly the environment that fostered strong bonds between staff members.

One evening, most of the staff were told that we could have an unexpected day off. At eleven o'clock that night, a bunch of us piled into two cars and drove all night to a friend's cottage (stopping only for gas and to take pictures at the world's longest covered bridge). We arrived at dawn (I couldn't tell you where exactly, but it was beautiful), and a few of us immediately went to put on our suits and go play in the rapids. I remember laughing and playing in the cool water as the sun came up, then crashing for a couple of hours on the cottage floor. Later that morning, we all went for a paddle and I remember drifting lazily in the sun (I am still a very lazy paddler).

We left after dinner that night, to be back in time for work the next morning.

I have lost touch with all of my friends from that day but the memory remains a special one, as a time that I was joyfully living right in the moment.

I was feeling a bit sad the other day as I reflected that I am unlikely to ever have that kind of experience again, what with responsibility, health and (let's face it) age all working against me.

But then I realized that such joyful moments occur routinely, I just need to remember to be open to them. And my kids help a lot with that.

A couple of weeks ago, S. had his birthday party. This was the first such party he wanted in years, so we agreed to go all out and have it at the movie theatre. They were such a nice group of kids and had a great time being silly together! And as I looked down the aisle and took in nine enraptured faces (we saw the new Indiana Jones movie. Good fun), each kid balancing popcorn on skinny knees, I realized that I was having one of those moments. Pure joy.

Cross-posted to Mommybloggers.

i love the internet

Found this recipe, which became dinner (we had a 'cross rib roast' thawing. I had never heard of such a thing).

When I realized I didn't have rosemary, I asked the internet what to do and found out I could substitute savory.

It was delicious.

I am off to bed very soon (I am as tired as when my kids were babies) and will offer up a more coherent post tomorrow.

Good night.

my little leap of faith

Meet Lucy (she's the furrier one, on the right).

She's a Tibetan Terrier and she has just joined my family.

TTs can live for as long as seventeen years.

How ambitious am I?

We really wanted to get a dog from a shelter or a rescue organization (J-Dog is a rescue and possibly the best dog in the history of dog-dom). But we needed a dog that is healthy, good with kids, other dogs and cats (we almost adopted a wheaten terrier from a rescue group during winter but when the dog met a cat, he tried to eat it. Literally).

And hypoallergenic (D. is mildly allergic to both dogs and cats and we couldn't in good conscious bring another dog into the house who would irritate his allergies).

We also needed a dog who would happily come on long walks or runs with me when I am well and take it easier on the weeks I have treatment. After a year of cruising the internet and working the phones (I reached out to rescue groups across Canada and into the US), I reluctantly admitted defeat.

So we chose a dog from a very responsible breeder and a relatively rare breed with few genetic health problems.

And she's really sweet and cute, too.

I am almost as exhausted as right after my kids were born.

And very nearly as blissed out.

And, for the record, if something does happen and I am unable to take care of this sweet puppy (who we are all working very hard to train), T. and the boys will take good care of her. And of J-Dog. And even of our belligerent cat.

Because when this family adopts an animal, it's for life.

book review*: escape from amsterdam

Escape from Amsterdam, by Barrie Sherwood was a quick, fun and compelling read. And, for a first time novelist, the guy can write.

Any writer who can throw in a reference to reading War and Peace, at the end of a violent scuffle (in this case, to illustrate the length of time spent waiting for the elevator to escape said scuffle) has earned my admiration and caught my interest.

The novel is the story of Aozora, a cynical, bitter university student who is not much engaged with the world around him. He is also deep in debt to a local gangster, after losing too often at the Mah-Jong tables. An inheritance from an aunt may save his neck but to collect the money, he must find his sister, Mai (who has inherited along with him).

Aozora’s search for his sister leads him to the South of Japan, through the red light district and underworld to a gigantic theme park called Amsterdam. Along the way we meet a cast of characters reminiscent of the best of Carl Hiaasen (if Hiaasen’s novels were set in Southern Japan). The action moves quickly and even the most violent scenes are touched with ironic humour.

I didn’t much care for Aozora as a person, but I don’t typically have a ton of patience for the studied cynicism of middle class disaffected youth (although I did warm to him towards the end of the book, as he goes some distance to redeem himself). But I did appreciate his ability to laugh at himself (even after being thrown off a bridge by a pair of thugs or being chased at gunpoint by a gangster who just found him in bed with his girl). However, I appreciated the book’s cast of characters as a whole, most of whom are deeply flawed yet seem to have at least one redeeming characteristic.

The book’s setting is a character in and of itself – modern, tourist-driven, westernized Japan at odds (and yearning) for more traditional times. The author’s descriptive passages were perhaps what I loved most about the book, not overdone but highly evocative.

I also loved his descriptions of people. An old woman is said to have “the face of a dried prune” while a mobster is “a cross between Kim Jong-Il and Liberace.”

I can’t help but wonder, though what a Japanese reader would make of the book. While Aozora is Japanese, Sherwood is not and I don’t know enough about Japan or its culture to judge the authenticity of his voice.

The book is sprinkled with black and white illustrations. I am not sure that they added anything to the narrative and I actually, for the most part, just found them to be unnecessary distractions from the text.

On the whole, I really enjoyed Escape from Amsterdam and I found myself thinking about it when I had to tear myself away. look forward to another novel from Barrie Sherwood.

*This is a review of a book that was sent to me via Library Thing's Early Reviewer Program.

We hope you find the time to read the book and review it on LibraryThing. You are free--indeed encouraged--to put your review on your blog, or wherever else you want, and to talk about it in the Early Reviewers group. I want to repeat that, although writing a review will help your chances of getting more books, the actual content of your review will not.

this sums it up perfectly

If my life had a mission statement, this would be it.

Image and sentiment, courtesy of Sara, as this week's contribution to Love Thursday.

next year

Hopefully, I will be doing this at the 2009 BlogHer conference.

How cool is that?

And how cool is it to be planning for a year from now?

Chemo today. I will try and keep this happy thought in mind over the next couple of days.

flurry of activity

The last few days before chemo are always very, very busy.

All day today, I kept thinking of really great blog ideas.

But now I'm too tired.

And my head is full of snot (thank you to D. for that).

So after sitting and staring at the computer for an hour, I am off to bed.

I'll try to come up with something better when I next post on Wednesday.

Chemo tomorrow am.

Good night.

fond in spite of it all (and he is pretty spiteful)

Remember Eli?

Eli has taken to chasing his tail (and catching it) again, an activity that apparently became an obsession when I was in London (he doesn't have to like me, apparently to miss my presence in the house during the day). Upon my return, it became routine for us to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of a hissing, spitting cat fight taking place at the foot of the bed (and we only have the one cat).

Last Monday morning, I was sitting in the living room when I heard ear-splitting yowling coming from the kitchen. I ran into a scene straight out of a horror movie, as blood gushed from a three-inch gash at the end of Eli's tail. I simultaneously applied pressure and called the vet.

It turns out that he also had severely impacted anal glands (sorry if this grosses you out, I did warn you, though the blog is "Not Just About Cancer") and is hyperthyroid (this will mean medication for the rest of his life.

Every morning, I now find myself administering antibiotics and thyroid meds, then feeding wet food that has been sprinkled with metamucil to the cat, even before I have had coffee or breakfast.

And we haven't even begun to deal with the crazy (because although the anal glands and the thyroid problem may have made things worse, they aren't really the root of the problem).

OK, so maybe I feel a little sorry for him.


After fourteen years, it's hard not to be a little attached.

And he's always had a certain sociopathic charm.

I've got to go hold him down now, so that my spouse can change his bandages.

teaching and learning about persistence

Part One (in which running is harder than walking)

Yesterday, my oldest son and I went running.

He is a couch potato and I want him to get fit and get moving.

I used to be a runner but stopped shortly before my surgery in 2006 and have not run since.

S. balked at this proposal at first but I stood firm. Then we saw Run Fatboy Run and he came around (he adores Simon Pegg. And the 'slacker turns long distance runner and gets the girl' theme really appealed to him. Whatever works, I figure).

We did Week One of a beginner's run/walk programme. We ran for one minute and walked for two minutes for a total of twenty minutes (we also did ten minutes of walking to warm up and cool down on each end). Even though I walk almost every day (and sometimes quite briskly), I really felt it (I was also running in a pair of really crappy old shoes which I threw in the garbage when I got home). It's hard to imagine that there was a point in my life when I was able to run for more than an hour and that I once finished a half-marathon.

And S., who had started by saying that he can walk faster than I run (which is true), was panting pretty hard at the end and asking "are we done yet?" Every few seconds.

Still, we both agreed that it was hard work but not overwhelmingly so (I even think that S. was a little proud of himself) and that we would keep at it. I told S. that I expect him to finish the programme with me (in ten weeks we will be running for twenty minutes in two ten-minute increments) and then he will be off the hook.

By then, I am hoping that we will both be addicted.

He was asking yesterday about running a marathon. I think it would be fun to do a 5k together.

We'll see.

On Friday, we will go out and do it again.

Part Two (in which I am pretty)

It was well past D.'s bedtime last night when he asked if he could 'do' my hair. I couldn't resist.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved having my hair brushed. This hadn't happened for a very long time. My hair hasn't really been long enough for years and when it was, there wasn't anyone in my life who was interested in brushing it.

D. set to gently brushing (he was standing on the bed as I sat on it). As he worked, he would make comments:

"Tell me if I hurt you."

"S's hair tangles because it is curly."

"Your hair is like mine and S.'s is like Papa's."

"In the light, your hair looks golden."

and

"I like your hair, Mama."

After brushing, it was time to add some adornments. We both loved the end result:


I have been growing out my hair since it started growing back after the Adriamycin. What you see is the result of almost two years of persistence (I am sure that the current treatment regimen has slowed progress, too).

Recently, I have been thinking of giving up. I had very short hair in the months before my diagnosis and I keep coming across photos of myself with short hair in which I think I look pretty good.

But after last night I don't want to cut it any more.

And I've invested in all these cute little clips. Who knew I could wear them all at the same time?


Update on my heart situation: I just got off the phone with my oncologist. He's not really worried about the drop in my ejection fraction. We're going to proceed with next week's treatment as planned and he is going to book an echo cardiogram for me and see if it gives the same results.

People who would know have been advising me that such tests can produce inconsistent results and it seems that my oncologist agrees.

Cross-posted to Mommybloggers.

thumpity thump (or rather, whoosh, whoosh)

Last week, my appointment with my oncologist was cancelled. Apparently, he was very sick with a high fever. Having a cancer patient's selfishness, my first thought was, "Oh! It's good that I won't be coming into contact with him then!" Then, my more empathic self remonstrated and I wished him well, poor man.

The nurse who works with him was kind enough to confirm my CT results. The tech who did the scan (or rather her radiologist boyfriend) was right. My scan was clean and there is still no sign of cancer on the liver.

However, the nurse also told me that my heart scan revealed that my ejection fraction (the measurement of my heart's ability to pump blood) was down to 48%. Fifty-five per cent is considered normal (before I started treatment, my EF was 56%), so this is not as bad as it sounds. It is however, a fairly significant drop and likely an indication that the Herceptin is putting a strain on my heart (a common side effect of this drug).

This is not the first time this has happened. Adriamycin (the 'red devil') was also very hard on my heart, so we waited a couple of months to start the Herceptin, in order to give my heart a chance to rebound.

According to my oncologist, it is easier for the heart to recover from Herceptin than from Adriamycin. We've discussed the possibility of taking a break from Herceptin (while continuing with the chemo) if damage should occur, so I am confident that this is what he will suggest when I speak to him tomorrow.

I am really reluctant to stop the Herceptin, since it has worked so well for me. There is a voice in my head (one of several. You have them, too. Don't lie) yelling, "Don't mess with what's working!" But the truth is that it's not working if I need to start taking heart medication or worse, end up with heart failure.

So, if my oncologist suggests doing chemo only for the next couple of months, I will agree (what choice do I have?). I will wait for my heart to rebound (it's weird because I don't feel any different, really).

But I am just a little nervous.

And chemo won't be as much fun without the Demerol.

a bad idea, going badly

It seems that the Canadian Border Services Agency (CBSA) 'snitch line' is attracting a lot of frivolous calls.

According to an article in today's Globe and Mail, the agency logs between thirty and forty calls to the hotline a day, the bulk of which are irrelevant or even downright malicious:

As one log demonstrates, many callers don't quite grasp how the immigration system works: "Caller would like to deport a couple of people from Canada and she would like the website address to fill out the proper forms. Advised caller that it is not her decision who gets deported. Caller does not care."

Another person calls the watch line from prison - where he is serving time for assault and forcible confinement of his girlfriend - to report his girlfriend is engaged in a paid marriage of convenience. "There is a small concern about his credibility," a CBSA employee notes.

Um, yeah (I really love the understatement here. No doubt most CBSA employees would agree that their time could be better spent than answering and logging these kinds of calls).

The snitch line was an ill-conceived plan and one that exploits the basest of human tendencies. Encouraging Canadians to spy on their neighbours is distasteful and unproductive (to continue with the understatement). I think our tax dollars could be spent infinitely more wisely.

"Caller states he has a problem. His wife's family is interfering with his marriage and he doesn't want them to come to Canada," a watch line employee writes.

"Advised him to speak with his wife."

I have a new post up at Mommybloggers! It's about my boys playing hide and seek.

another one for the 'if only' files

First we find out that Vitamin D is thought to prevent breast cancer.

Then came today's news that breast cancer is more likely spread in women who are deficient in the sunshine vitamin (from the Globe and Mail):

Women diagnosed with breast cancer are nearly twice as likely to have the disease spread to other parts of their bodies and are 73 per cent more likely to die from it if they have low levels of vitamin D, according to a Canadian study...younger women tended to have the lowest levels because they generally didn't use vitamin D supplements, which older women often take to prevent bone fractures.

“Vitamin D deficiency is common,” observed Pamela Goodwin, senior investigator at Mount Sinai Hospital's Samuel Lunenfeld Research Institute in Toronto and principal researcher on the study. “It's associated with high-grade tumours, and in our data set, it's associated with an increased risk of [cancer spread] and death.”

bloggers unite for human rights

May 15 is the day that bloggers around the world unite to speak up for human rights (you can find out what some BlogHer contributors have chosen to write about by following this link).

I have been thinking all day about what I would like to contribute.

I visited the Amnesty International site and added my voice to their campaigns about human rights violations in China and in Guantanamo Bay.

I thought about my friend Eve Goldberg and how she wrote a song and then offered it to Amnesty to use in its campaign to end human rights violations in Burma.

And I thought about my own country where:

Far too many children still go to school hungry.

First Nations Peoples are still treated like second class citizens.

and my government has been complicit in many gross abuses of human rights (here's another example).

And I was thinking today that it's been a while since I have done much to address these injustices.

I vote.

I sign online petitions.

Sometimes I donate money.

And I can talk a good game.

All of these things are important but I think it's time that I resolve to do more. All too often, I let the opportunity to speak out, call my MP or write a letter slip by me. I simply assume that someone else is on top of it.

I resolve to take a little more action, step up and speak out when I get the chance. It only takes a few minutes to call my MP and only a few more to write a personal letter. And I can write more, right here in this blog about human rights at home and abroad.

I'll think a bit more on all of this and get back to you.

And speaking of human rights, good news coming out of California today, no?

10 lovely years

For the last while, blogging has taken a back seat to a bigger project. I am finally done (at least for now) and have time do a little catching up.

It's been a busy time and there is much to write about but, most importantly, I need to tell you that on May 10, my first born son turned ten years old.

We celebrated him in grand style, with presents, a movie outing, a walk in the tulips, family, Chinese food and still more presents. The next day, we were informed that the only thing he regrets about his birthday is that "it only lasted for twenty four hours." And he slept for eight of them.

It really was a beautiful day and the birth of this child is a wonderful reason to celebrate.

I like to tell the story of the day he was born. He came into the world on Mother's Day, after I had been labouring at home for many, many hours. When our midwife decided that it was time to head to the hospital, we set out along the route we had planned (we were fairly new to the city). We had to find an alternate route in a hurry, though, as our chosen route (and the fastest one) was closed off, due to a "Mother's Day" race. As I moaned in the car beside him, my poor spouse pulled out a map and plotted a new route to our destination, as the runners streamed by.

I also like to remind S. that his birth was a long, hard, drawn out process. But the truth is that it was all worth it. I love him so much and I couldn't be prouder of this smart, loving, creative, funny boy.

10 things S. did this year to make me proud:

1. Helped his little brother to write a series of stories, with titles like, "The Boy Who Got Stuck in the Toilet," and its sequel, "The Boy Who Got Stuck in the Sink." He then directed the movie version of these stories and created the best movie trailer ever.

2. Travelled to London with his mother, where he was mature, flexible, good-humoured, fun, patient, responsible, thoughtful and a terrific companion.

3. Looked out for his little brother, even when the littler one made that very challenging.

4.Learned to knit, demonstrating persistence and patience.

5.Made me laugh out loud, almost every day.

6.Hugged and kissed me whenever he saw me, even in public and even in front of his peers.

7.Proved time and again that he has a compassionate, empathic soul.

8.Learned to forgive and move on.

9.Was true to himself.

10.Gave me glimpses of the man he will become. I will be proud to know him then. I know I will always feel lucky that this terrific human being is my son.

blogs as a healing force

A while back, I put in a proposal to speak at the BlogHer conference (taking place from July 18-20 in San Francisco). A few weeks later, BlogHer founder Elisa Camahort, wrote back to say that, in fact they did have a panel that she thought would be "right up my alley."

Never one to leave a good metaphor unflogged, I responded excitedly that the panel sounded like it was not only "up my alley" but "parked in front of my house!"

It's called "Blogs as a Healing Force." I started this blog as a way to work things through and to communicate with loved ones. I had no idea it would become so much more. My online community (and I include folks I see in person and those I have never met face to face) has come to mean a great deal to me. Writing it has kept me sane through some of the darkest times. I even wrote a love letter to my blog when my lap top and I were reunited after a stay in hospital!

It will be a privilege to share my thoughts and experiences at BlogHer.

Speaking of privileges, I am a little in awe of my co-panelists:

Babz (who I first mentioned in this blog on Blog Day last year), who writes LoveBabz: A Life in Transition.

Susan (aka WhyMommy), who blogs at Toddler Planet.

Christine, of flutter: dark and divine.

I started to describe each of their blogs and decided that I couldn't do it as well as each of them already has. They are all beautiful, powerful writers. Each of them has left me speechless, moved me and made me cry. It will be such an honour to speak beside them.

when the bizarre begins to be normal

I have had two scans over the last few of days.

On Friday, I had a CT scan and was taken aback (but pleasantly so) when the technician informed me that she had checked and that there was no change from my previous scan and that there is still no evidence of cancer on my liver.

The events leading up to this conversation were a little outside the norm of what one should expect in a professional hospital setting, so I thought I would share them with you (actually, my spouse, when I told him, kept repeating, "You have to blog about this!).

I left for the hospital at around noon on Friday, still a bit woozy from the chemo and light-headed from fasting all day. I dodged construction in order to check in and seat myself in an unfamiliar waiting room. A few minutes later, I was handed two half liter cups with a clear liquid in them and told to drink them over the next hour and a half. "At around 1:30, someone will come and we'll get your iv started."

When, by 1:50, no one had come for me, I approached the front desk, where, once they clarified that I had in fact checked in and consumed my drinks, a man in scrubs (tech? nurse?) was asked about my place in the queue. He looked confused but said that someone would be along shortly, "They haven't forgotten about you."

Less than two minutes later, the same guy came to get me (which does lead me to believe that I had been forgotten). He led me back through the construction to a big room, with a few beds and two chairs in it for drawing blood. My guide gestured to the one empty chair and told me that a tech would be along shortly to set up the iv for the scan.

The two chairs in this room were extremely close together. The woman in the next chair and I were facing the same direction and could have put our arms around each other without stretching.

I had seen her come into the waiting room. She was young (anywhere from teens to twenties), wearing pajamas and an eyepatch. She also seemed quite weak and had been supported by the older (mid-forties? early fifties? I really go out of my way not to stare in these circumstances) man who was with her. Shortly after their arrival in the waiting room, they had been ushered out, around the corner and told that someone would be waiting to speak to them.

I don't know how long she had been sitting in the room where they usually do the blood work before I got there but within seconds of my arrival, a woman (who I later learned was a doctor) came through the door from the scanning room and began to speak to the woman and her companion in Arabic (I'm pretty sure it was Arabic).

They did not acknowledge me and there was nowhere for me to go. The doctor began to speak quickly, with the odd English word thrown in. I understood, "Ear, cancer, vocal chords." I also understood that there was a great deal of emotion in the room. I closed my eyes and turned my head away so that we could all pretend I wasn't there.

Within a few minutes, the door once again burst open and a diminutive red-headed woman called out my name. I was eager to leave but did take the time to say that I didn't have my iv in yet. "I'll do it in here," she barked (I didn't mention that for the last five minutes the fire alarm had been wailing in the background...)

"I brought you in here because there as a very hard conversation going on and I thought she deserved some privacy."

My eyes widened and I nodded vigorously.

"And you, too. It's not nice to be listening to that."

She then took down my particulars, prior to the test. When I told her that I was undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer that had spread to my liver, she grimaced, "Then that conversation must have been particularly hard for you. My co-worker didn't realize what was going on when he put you there. You shouldn't have had to hear that, especially as a woman."

Bearing in mind that I hadn't understood much of the conversation and had been acutely uncomfortable, I remained mostly silent during this ongoing monologue.

Tech: "Did you have a lumpectomy or a mastectomy?"

Me: "Mastectomy."

Tech: "Good! I used to do mammograms and my fiancé works at (a clinic that women go to for diagnosis of breast cancer). You could say that breasts are our life. Other than the fact that I have two."

Somewhere in the blur that followed she asked and I informed her about my initial diagnosis, the mets and how my liver had originally been "riddled with tumours" but that I had had three clean scans (with no signs of cancer) in the last year.

She was duly impressed.

A few minutes later she asked, "Doesn't breast c.a. usually spread to the brain or the bones?"

Me: "It can also go to the liver and the lungs."

Tech: "Liver, then lungs."

Me: "Liver or lungs." (I didn't have the energy that mets can manifest itself in other ways, too, such as skin cancer.)

By this time she was tapping on my arm, getting ready for the iv injection. "Do you usually have good veins?"

Me: "No." (Veins tend to shrivel up and collapse when you are undergoing chemotherapy. The cost of this has been driven home to me quite graphically)

Tech: "I'll get you the first time. I'm the girl they always go to when they have trouble getting a vein."

Me: "Then you're the girl I want to be doing this."

She trussed me up with two tourniquets and did it in one go. I was impressed.

Me: "That's awesome!"

Tech: "Thanks! It's because I like doing it. I am a sick, sick woman."

Me: "You are sick!"

Tech: "I also like giving barium enemas. No one understands that. But wouldn't you rather have someone who likes doing it give you your enema?"

And with that, she set up the iv, explained the procedure and left the room so that I could be scanned.

When it was done, I heard her voice through the intercom, "You can relax. I'm just going to take a look at your films."

A few minutes later, she came in to unhook me from the iv. While she was doing that, she said, "To make up for what we put you through earlier, I had my fiancé look at your films and there is no change from last time. Isn't that great?"

I thanked her and said that it was. I think she was a little disappointed that I didn't react more effusively but I was too stunned, overwhelmed and light-headed (I had not eaten anything since the night before, nor had I had any caffeine).

She ushered me out a side door and I stumbled outside the hospital to wait for my friend D. to come and pick me up. I also called my spouse to give him the news.

This is the first clean scan that we haven't celebrated. This is due, in part, to the fact that I was still feeling pretty lousy (post-chemo) on Friday and partly to surprise (the import of this news didn't really sink in for me until I was out for a walk on Sunday afternoon).

However, I do think that we might be entering a place where we assume that my scans will be clean and that I am continuing to respond well to treatment. And I don't think that's a bad thing.

This morning I had another kind of scan, to make sure that the Herceptin isn't damaging my heart. I won't have the results for a week or so. I'm not too worried. But I am covered in some spectacular bruises along my right arm and on my hand.

for a friend

Yesterday was Babz's birthday and I missed it!

I gather that the birthday was celebrated with friends, flowers and family. The day she'd planned sounded wonderful.

For her birthday this year, Babz had asked for written tributes from her friends. I am still a little muddle-headed post chemo but here is mine:

Big-Hearted Warrior

Larger than life
A woman whose love leaps off the page.
Honest. Joyful. Brilliant.

Head up through the toughest times
Facing the worst head on.
Strong. Angry. Determined.

Embracing the best life has to offer
Knowing how love and laughter heal.
Playful. Laughing. Ready.

This year will be a great one Babz, I know it. I can't wait to share a panel with you at BlogHer and that long anticipated glass of wine.

another clean scan!

I am not even supposed to know this yet.

I have just come from what was one of the strangest CT scan experiences of my life. But at the end, the tech told me that there is no change from my last scan.

She's really not supposed to do that but I am glad she did.

More on the scan tomorrow. Just wanted to share the good news.

the day after

I don't know why I always do this.

Ahead of time, I plan on being in bed the day after chemo (sure) but I also imagine all the things I will get done. In particular, I always seem to think the day after chemo will be a good day to get writing done.

And it always, turns out that, in reality, I can't concentrate long enough to read a book, knit on an easy project or even answer emails with any coherence.

And I am always disappointed in myself.

I know that some women work right through chemo treatments but I am not 'some women.' I am me.

And I have to stop beating myself up about it.

And I need to learn to lower my own expectations of myself. It's just so weird to remember, when I am feeling so well and healthy most of the time, that just a few hours of treatment will make me feel this crappy.

I did manage to read (and comment on) two great posts at BlogHer today. Check them out and let me know what you think:

I Want To Like Eckhart Tolle's Work. I just Can't Get There From Here by Mata H.

Paying The Price Of Vet Care - How Much Is Too Much? by lauriewrites