short term planning

I kind of left you in suspense yesterday.

I was sitting an exam room, waiting to see my oncologist to discuss whether I could continue my break from chemo. 

Here's what happened next:

We waited.

We played a little Lexulous.

I knit. My hands shook a little.

And then the door swung open and Dr. B. entered the room. 

Dr. B. is not my oncologist. The cancer centre has a title called GPO (which I assume means general practitioner - oncology) for doctors who work with the oncologists. I hadn't seen Dr. B. in more than a year and without hesitating, we hugged each other - something I've never done with any doctor. She's wonderful and she's the only doctor I trust as much as my oncologist.

After a physical exam (liver is where it should be and the size it should be. Chest sounds fine) and looking over my bloodwork (everything normal), we had the following conversation:

Dr. B.: "I'd bet you'd like to extend this break from chemo."

Me (nodding vigorously): "Yes!"

Dr. B.: "For the summer?"

Me: "Or longer? I'd love to think about longer term plans."

And...she shook her head. She said, "When it comes to metastatic breast cancer, there are no 12 month plans."

While it may seem like forever to me that I've been at this, it really is still pretty new. And as I've written before, many times, there is just too much uncertainty to make any longer term treatment plans or even to be absolutely certain what choices are the right ones.

It was very good having Tim there, though, as he brought a different perspective to the table. I wanted to choose between a short break and an indefinite one. Tim's concerns were more about the risks of taking even short breaks from chemo. He loves me and he wants me to feel well but also to stay healthy.

But Dr. B. explained that the break from chemo is not just to give me some respite from side effects (although I needed that, both physically and emotionally) but to help my immune system and bone marrow to rebuild so that chemotherapy, when I need it again, will continue to be effective. She also said that most stable metastatic breast cancer patients need to take breaks long before I did.

This was a breakthrough moment for me. I've been feeling like my body failed me by becoming run down and developing more side effects. I felt like I was wimping out by feeling an emotional need for a break. I felt that I just wasn't strong enough.

I felt ashamed.

However, it turns out that I'm not taking an irresponsible risk by taking a break from chemo. I'm readying my body for whatever lies ahead. And I'm not weak. I've been doing this for more than five years, while continuing to live my life. I'm actually pretty damn tough.

It was a great appointment. I feel relieved of an awful lot of guilt I didn't know I was carrying around. I feel hopeful. And my step was a little lighter today.

So for the next three months, I'll continue on the Herceptin. In early September, I'll have a brain scan (because Herceptin doesn't cross the brain blood barrier) and an abdominal scan. I'll do more bloodwork. And we'll plan for the next three months.

not so jaded after all

Yesterday, I had an appointment with my oncologist, the first since our decision that I should take a break from chemo and do Herceptin only for three months.

I usually do my appointments over the phone but I decided to go into the cancer centre so that I could have a physical exam and meet with him face to face. Also, I wanted Tim to come with me, so that he would get the same info as I did first hand and have a chance to ask questions.

One of the great things about doing appointments on the phone is that I can carry on with my life around the house as I wait for my call. I was reminded of this after waiting first in the waiting area and then in the exam room for nearly an hour.

But it was worth it.

The first person I met was the nurse who works with my oncologist. It was the first time we met face to face. After checking me in, she hesitated for a moment, then looked me right in the eyes and said, "I read the article you wrote for the CBCN newsletter (after the conference I attended last fall). It was wonderful. You are very inspiring."

I hope that I sounded as pleased as I felt when I thanked her. It always means a lot to me when someone is moved by my writing but to hear that a nurse who hears all kinds of stories every day was inspired by me...I was floored.

pirate day

in translation

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

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

Nurse: 

"You're depressed. Why?"

Me: 

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

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

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

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

kitchen conversation (he's so, so right)

My spouse (after listening to lengthy rant #342 yesterday): "Not to excuse that person's bad behaviour, but a lot of things piss you off these days."

Me: "True."

Spouse: "Oh! We forgot to put the compost out!"

Me: (String of expletives, unprintable in a blog my children might read).

Spouse (Meaningful silence)

Then we both burst out laughing.

I need to get some perspective.

But at least I can still laugh at myself.

generation gap

On Tuesday, as I waited at the Heart Institute for my regular echocardiogram, I had the following brief conversation with the older gentleman sitting beside me.

Me: Is that a Playbook?

Him: I don't play! This is an ipad!

Me: Oh. I was just curious about the Blackberry version of the tablet.

Him  (scornfully): Do you have a Blackberry?

Me: I do.

I didn't bother explaining that I don't find touch screens to be intuitive and that I prefer an actual keyboard for sending emails and texting. Instead, I pulled out my knitting, thus eradicating all doubt that I was the Luddite in our conversation.

has anybody seen my boob?

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

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

I can't find my prosthetic breast.

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

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

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

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

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

Could I have left it somewhere?

It's a mystery.

If you find it, please let me know. 

Or just leave it in my mail box.



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

"none of us knows when we are going to die"

On April 25th, Alaina Giordano lost custody of her children. A North Carolina judge ruled that her two kids need to move to Chicago to live with Giordano's ex-husband. She based this decision, in large part, on the fact that Giordano has Stage 4 breast cancer.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

I can't be articulate about this story, except to say that I work very hard to make sure that my kids will be all right- no matter what happens. I wish I could protect them and all those who love me from the realities of cancer. But do I think that cancer makes me a less fit parent?

Not on your life.

Want to read more?

I first read about this on BlogHer, where Jenna argued very articulately that anyone who has ever been ill or ever might be should care about this story and the frightening precedent it has set.

My friend Judy (from Mothers With Cancer) wrote a beautiful response called "We Are All Terminal." 

You can read Alaina's own words on her blog, Beauty in Truth.

I couldn't find a single post or comment by anyone who agreed with the judge's ruling.

For that, I'm grateful.

selfish (dear loved one)

I'm sorry that my fear becomes yours.

I regret that you get pulled into my panic.

I feel ill when my every cough, ache or bump twists your insides the way it does mine.

I would prefer to protect you.

I want to watch you smile, hear your laugh, feel your heart thump with joy when you pull me to your chest.

I don't want to make you scared, or sad or worried.

But I can't wish you weren't ever scared or sad or worried.

Because I need to share.

Because I need not to feel alone.

Because I need you.

beautiful eyes

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

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

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

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

Here are some things I knew about this remarkable woman:

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

She was happily married.

She was a talented photographer.

She loved animals, especially dogs and horses.

She had an appreciation for good coffee.

She left this world way too soon.

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

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

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

taller than i

My beautiful first born turned 13 yesterday. The cliche is true - it happens in the blink of an eye. He's a good person - smart, creative, caring and funny. We are so proud of the man he is becoming.

fiction: tabloid inspired

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

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

I blame the doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I should try again.

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

alone on mothers' day

When my spouse first mentioned that he was thinking of taking the boys to the Toronto Comic Arts Festival in Toronto, I protested, "But that's Mothers' Day week end!"

Then I stopped to think.

"Would you be taking both boys?"

"I think I'd have to."

After a moment's thought (empty house! to myself! quiet writing and reading time!), I bravely said, "I think you should go. I don't want to deprive the boys of this chance."

My spouse (clueing in) "Do you want your Mother's Day present to be a week end by yourself?"

Me shaking my head and stammering and not quite keeping a straight face, "I'll miss you."

So they went. And I have missed them. I've also slept more than 8 hours each night, done a considerable amount of cleaning, read a book, watched stuff on Netflix, had dinner with a friend and taken the dog for a run. I still have time to catch up on some writing, make soup, take the dog out again and do most of the laundry. I'll be starting the week of with far less stress than I often do.

My boys had a lot of fun this week end doing things I wouldn't have particularly cared to do (even Grandma went to see Thor last night). I felt a pang of guilt when they left but I quickly let that go. It sounds like they've had a great time. And soon enough they will be home and I will once again embrace the chaos of my family.

Happy Mothers' Day!

not really the end

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

how he moves in the world

My baby turned 8 on Friday. I love him so much.

i could lose myself in this.

Actually, I have.

Someone posted a link to Hyperbole and a Half on Facebook this morning and I was so tickled (and so willing to procrastinate that I got sucked right in. I now have no time to write but I think you'll enjoy her more anyway.

not about the Beatles

I don't have the energy to write anything of substance today, so I thought I'd share a little bit of silliness from my writing class last night.

Our teacher instructed us to "write about the Beatles" and this is what happened for me:

"When I think of the Beatles, I think of the Rolling Stones. I was a teenager in the 80s and both groups had already passed into iconic status. Which band was better in my mind? The answer, to my adolescent self anyway, seemed obvious.

Paul was cute. John was smart (and tragic) and I couldn't even imagine what the other two guys looked like. But Mick...Mick was hot. With those eyes, those lips, that hair. And those hips.

I couldn't have told you whose music was better, more complex, which group would have staying power. 

I just knew that the Beatles were pretty but Mick made me feel warm in places this Catholic girl wasn't supposed to think about."

bittersweet moment

Yesterday afternoon, my baby fell asleep on my chest.

He's almost 8 now and it had been years since this happened. He had two late nights followed by two early mornings, and he'd been tired and cranky. I suggested we curl up in bed for some quiet time. He had a new book to crack open and he was keen.

But after awhile he grew restless. We talked about putting on a movie. I told him I felt tired and lazy. He said he did, too. After a few moments of lying quietly, his breath began to slow.

Suddenly, he sat up, “Mama, could you stop feeling so lazy. I thought we were going to watch a movie!”

“We could do that,” I answered. “But I thought we were going to have a little snooze first.”

To my surprise, he said, “OK. I'll have a little snooze.” He put his head on my chest, and within seconds was sleeping soundly.

We lay there like that for more than an hour (at one point he woke up, said “Where'd my book go?” I said, “You've been sleeping.” He said “Oh!” and went back to sleep), and I was blissed out. I was happy to have my book within reach but I spent a long time just looking at him, listening to him breathe and loving the feel of his weight on my chest.

As I said, this was the first time this had happened in years. And it was quite possibly the last.

All too soon, he woke and we went on with our afternoon. If I close my eyes and listen to my own slow breaths, I can still feel his weight on my chest.

i can relate to this...

...and so can, I would wager, anyone who has been harassed by  condescended to infantilized by dealt with an insurance company on health related matters.

Especially if you have been on long-term disability for any length of time, you can expect regular correspondence. Blogger Katherine describes this experience:

"But as sure as the swallows return to Capistrano, every March CIGNA sends me information on its Cancer Support program. Last year’s began “Good health is a gift.” This year’s reads like a grade school report:


Dear KATHERINE O’BRIEN:


The American Cancer Society estimates that two men and one in three women will face cancer in their lifetime. Although these are scary statistics, CIGNA HealthCare wants you to know we’re here to help…"

Most of us just sigh, groan, maybe yell a little and then toss the letters into the recycling bin (unless it is one of the letters making demands to send information we have alread sent them SEVERAL TIMES. Then we scream a little louder, call the company, get transferred to voice mail, leave a message and then never hear back, send the info as requested and then get ANOTHER LETTER requesting the SAME INFORMATION and scream some more. Or maybe that's just me.). After years of this kind of correspondence, Katherine decided to write back (CIGNA is her insurance company):

"Dear DOUG:


Thank you for your letter of March 2010! I couldn’t agree more that good health is a gift! I was blown away that you want to help me make the most of it.


It was gratifying to know that “as health care claims are submitted to us, we review them and identify steps you might take to help improve your health.” Gosh. I feel a little guilty. I mean, you are poring over my health claims and I am doing bupkis for you. Maybe I could clean out the coffee room fridge in Bloomfield some time? Police the parking lot? Just let me know.


As you might have gleaned from your research, I have metastatic breast cancer. My doctor says that in 2010, there’s no cure for metastatic breast cancer. Of course that’s what she said in 2009. So I do intend to doublecheck in 2011. I will keep you posted...


...I think it is important to take care of me, too. I see Dr. Gaynor once a month. It might be hard to see her more regularly than that. Unless she wants to join my mahjong group. I will make inquiries."

You can read the rest of the letter and Katherine's post about it on her blog, ihatebreastcancer. Thanks to Anna Rachnel (ccchronicles) of The Cancer Culture Chronicles for telling us about Katherine's letter via Twitter.

my kids are alright

I had a dream a few nights ago.

My kids were in a giant flash mob, dancing their hearts out, surrounded by dozens of other kids and adults. They were exuberant and focused, their movements fluid and in synch with those around them. My heart swelled with pride and joy.

I learned that the flash mob had been created to drum up excitement over an upcoming performance. In a couple of hours, my kids would go on stage and perform. I could tell they were ready.

Then I was handed a note. My own performance was scheduled for right after theirs. I was wholly unprepared. I hadn't even looked at my script. I was rushing off to find it when my alarm went off.

Sacha was in a play very recently. And they did organize a flash mob a week before the performance, as a form of advertisement. And Sacha performed beautifully. My heart did swell with pride.

In part, my subconscious might have been remembering the play but I choose to believe that I was also sending myself a message.

Life with metastatic breast cancer is filled with uncertainty. But no matter what happens, my kids will be fine. They are smart, talented, resourceful and resillient. They have friends and family who love them. My kids will be alright.

vote early, vote often

I watched last night's English language election debate with interest. I was shocked at how quickly the two hours passed, although this was greatly aided by the fact that I wrote and read a steady stream of commentary on Twitter and Facebook (sorry to my followers and friends who don't give a damn about the Canadian federal election!). It helped me to keep watching without blowing a gasket. I felt like I was at a bar with friends hooting and hollering, except that I was in my basement drinking tea with my son and my spouse (another advantage to Tweeting during the debate was that I had to keep looking down at my Blackberry. This kept the orange decor from searing my retinas and Harper's cold eyes from turning me to stone).

I thought that all the opposition party leaders did well. Duceppe delivered the best opening line ("Congratulations, Mr. Harper, for answering your first question from a citizen during this election campaign.") but petered off  towards the end. It's got to be brutal doing a two-hour debate in one's second language. By and large, I find it a pity that the Bloc only speaks for Quebec, as they are so consistenly solid on most social issues. They lose me, however, when it comes to questions of immigration and multi-culturalism. Nationalism and multiculturalism don't go so well together.

Layton was calm and measured and many people with whom I've spoken found his performance to be much stronger than in previous debates. Personally, I would have liked him to be a bit more aggressive, as he left it to Ignatieff to drive home the points that are near and dear to my heart. Kudos to him for mentioning proportional representation and for this seriously funny (but cheap) line: "I don't know why we need more prisons when the crooks seem so happy in the Senate."

I thought the evening, however, belonged to Ignatieff. He stayed on message (although I found "You shut down what you can't control" to be more effective the first time he said it than the tenth) and was forceful and articulate. He hit all the right notes on all the key issues and challenged Harper on gun control, immigration, crime, health care and transparency. He looked positively Prime Ministerial (my favourite Iggy line of the night, "This isn't bickering Mr. Harper. It's democracy.")

Is any of this going to change my vote? Absolutely not. I remember when the Liberals were in power and they were singing from a different songbook then. Happily, my NDP candidate is an incumbent who has done an excellent job, locally and for the country. I'll vote for Paul Dewar and I won't even have to hold my nose.

But if I lived in a riding where the race was one between the Tories and the Liberals? I just might be voting strategically this time around.

Perhaps none of it will make a difference though. All the pundits who did wrap-up commentary last night seemed to agree that Harper had won the evening. Even my beloved Chantal Hébert was unhesitating in her praise of Harper's performance. Did Canadians watching at home feel the same way? Did undecided voters? Do any undecided voters watch the debates?

I can't recall a time when I have felt as strongly about voting. I keep reading assertions that if all eligible voters under 25 and all women voted, Harper would be out on his ass.

Let's make that happen, shall we?

without judgment

Every day is filled with an overwhelming number of choices. Some are fairly trivial, others will have lasting impact. Some days, I'm so overwhelmed by the choices I must make that I long to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

When I was younger, I saw the world in terms of black and white. There were wrong decisions and right ones. The rules of engagement with life seemed fairly clear. And I thought I had most of the answers.

Sometimes, I wish I still saw life that way. But the truth is that the world is filled with shades of gray. When faced with a choice, two people can make completely different decisions and sometimes, both can be making the right choice.

Don't get me wrong. There are still many clear cut choices to be made and situations where it ought to be obvious what is just and what is right. But with most of our day to day choices, things just aren't that clear.

So I have become much less judgemental than I used to be. And, for the most part, I'm happier that way.

The one person I still consistently judge - and harshly- is myself. And I tend to reflect these feelings onto others and assume that others are judging me harshly as well.

There are times when I don't engage in activities that appeal to me or do things I want to do because I fear I will be judged.

I had a bit of an epiphany about this this yesterday. If I am more gentle with others than I once was, should I not assume that a significant percentage of the people in my life will be gentle with me? And if others do judge me - so what? What consequence does it really have for my life? Why should the opinions of others stop me from living as I wish, as long as my choices are not harmful to others or to myself?

It's time for me to try and let go of self-judgment. It's not going to be easy. And I expect lots of back-sliding. It's going to be hard to separate out setting priorities and acknowledging mistakes from judgment. But I plan to try.

I start a writing class tonight. I'm feeling very anxious about it. Let's hope I can keep some of the words I've just written in my heart and allow myself to participate, learn and have fun.

optimism tested

As we were listening to yet another story on the news this morning about how the Tories and the RCMP have barred people from attending campaign events (for things like having a photo of Ignatieff on their Facebook page or having been involved in an youth environmental organization), my spouse announced "It's going to work."

I was only half way into my first coffee, so I made him repeat himself. "None of this is going to matter," he said. "It's a story for now but it won't affect the election. The Conservatives will get a majority and then, next time, the other parties will have learned that hateful advertising and ignoring the truth are the best strategies to get ahead." (Forgive me, Tim, I'm paraphrasing. That's the gist of what he said)

I fear that he's right. Even the revelations about former aid Bruce Carson have barely affected the campaign.

Perhaps politicians have always said one thing and done another. These days, though, they barely have to pretend otherwise. And some, like Rob Ford in Toronto don't pretend at all. He's thoroughly corrupt, rude and uninformed. And people love it.

And then I learned that Bradley Manning, the 22-year-old U.S. Army Private accused of leaking classified documents to WikiLeaks has been subjected to torture in prison (Avaaz.org has a petition, if you want to add your name), despite the fact that he has never been convicted of any crime (not that conviction would justify torture).

So the message, boys and girls, is as follows. Telling the truth could lead to severe punishment but stealing and lying can only get you ahead.

It's enough to make any thoughtful person feel like ranting. Although I could never do it as well as Keith Olbermann.

Or Rick Mercer.

And please, if, like me, your sickened by corruption and lies and if you believe that a democratic government is a transparent one, please get yourself to the polls on May 2.

fat. not unfit.

I am overweight.

It's worth noting, that, even with years of therapy and a good feminist critical analysis, it still feels shameful to write that.

But it's the truth that as a result of genetics, too many diets started at too young an age (I was put on my first one when I was nine), too many emotional issues related to food and sheer laziness/inattention I am carrying around at least forty extra pounds.

Yet I wouldn't say that I'm unfit.

My cholesterol, blood sugars and blood pressure are all excellent. I have a resting heart rate of 66. And I have heart scans every three months (because Herceptin can damage the heart), so I know that vital organ is pumping along very efficiently.

I average 5.5 hours of cardio exercise every week. I run 3-4 times a week, for more than forty minutes. And, now that the snow is gone, my bike is my favourite way to get around town.

Yet, even people who know me sometimes express surprise when I mention that I've just been for a run. Or that I resumed running consistently a year ago. They are so surprised that many times, when I say "run", people hear "walk" (the fact that many people can walk as fast as I run is a separate issue entirely).

Neither my oncologist nor my GP are concerned about my weight.

And while I may not be fast, my endurance is better than lots of folks who are much thinner than I am.

So next time you see an overweight person at the gym, on the trail or on the bike path, please don't assume that they don't know what they are doing. Don't act shocked when they tell you they exercise regularly. Don't give them gratuitous advice on how to "start an exercise program" or "how to exercise safely." 

Fat does not necessarily mean unfit.

early memories

A few childhood memories remain incredibly vivid. Some have been worn into grooves in my brain, they have been retold so often. With those, I am unsure where my recollections end and those of others begin. Others, I am quite certain, are mine alone.

Here are twenty memories, off the top of my head. Some I have likely shared here before but of some others, I have never spoken, let alone written:

1. Sliding down the driveway at my friend's house, until my pants were worn out. I was wearing a jump suit with giraffes on it and I was in big trouble.

2. Being in love with an airline pilot. He was my aunt's boyfriend and he brought me presents from all over the world. He also called me Miss Muffet.

3. My father telling me that my baby sister had been born.

Those first three memories were from when we lived in Montreal. We moved away just after I turned four. All the rest are from Hawkesbury, Ontario and take place before my 11th birthday.

4. Going to the Dairy Queen with my aunt to get a Buster Bar and dropping it on the way home.

5. Getting caught peeing in my neighbour's rose bushes.

6. Ringing doorbells with my friends and running away.

7. Knocking on my neighbours' doors and asking them for their autographs.

8. Having the belt on my blue coat ripped off by a boy.

9. Being pushed into a bush by some bullies on my way home from school.

10. Trying to ignore a class-mate who was standing at my desk chanting "Tête carrée!" (It means square head and was the standard put down that francophones used against anglos. I had an English last name, and spoke English at home, so I was fair game).

11. The boy I liked in Grade Five telling me that all the boys, including him, had crushes on my best friend.

12. Making up sins in confession because I was too embarassed to tell anything real to the priest. "I talked back to my mother" was a frequent sin.

13. Winning a medal for "best behaved girl" on the same day as my crush won "best behaved boy."

14. My friend Philippe telling me how babies were made - through kissing. I was fascinated and horrified.

15. Being on the winning team during Carnaval at Ecole Marguerite Bourgeois.

16. The way the principal of that school smelled like pipe tobacco and how much I loved him.

17. Being flashed, as I cut through the church yard on my way to school.

18. Seeing a dog that had been hit by a car on the street in front of my house and how it felt like hours until the city came to take it away.

19. Getting a red bike with a yellow banana seat for my 7th birthday.

20. Bringing my new cat across the street to meet my neighbour and telling her "If you don't like my cat, then I can't come to visit you anymore."

Your turn. Can you share some random childhood memories?

random on a rainy day

There's something about a cold, rainy day that makes me just want to crawl back under the covers. I've resisted that temptation all day but I'm fighting a cold and my brain doesn't seem to want to function, except in fits and starts.

Here are some random thoughts, that I'm posting as a compromise between cogent and nothing at all.

1. All four performances of my son's play went very, very well this week end. I could not be prouder of him. He worked very hard for many months, to learn his lines and his blocking and he got himself to every rehearsal on time. The director gushed about him and said that she'd loved to work with him again. He had a big part and he was brilliant.

2. I thought, as his mother, that I was very restrained. I found myself reacting quite viscerally to the kids and teacher who bullied him on stage (Sacha tells me that they are all very nice people) and had to remind myself that they were actors in a play.

3. I was also very restrained during the after-party at a local pub. We sat in a different room from Sacha, gave him money (hey wait - the community centre paid for dinner and drinks and he still kept our twenty bucks!) and we only went to talk to him when it was absolutely necessary. I did call out "There's my baby!" when he walked in the door but otherwise did my best to embarass him only minimally.

4. The pub did not have a wide selection of food, so I decided to pretend I was a student again and share calamari, antijitos and nachos, washed down with beer. Afterwards, my GERD reminded me that I no longer have the constitution of a student. My GERD is well managed but apparently fried things can knock down the best defenses.

5. My jaw is very sore today. I think I'm going to have to break down and wear my mouthguard. Every time I think of it, I remember Tina Fey and Steve Carell in Date Night. It really is that sexy.

6. I've been editing a book in progress for a friend and loving it. It's made me remember how much I love that kind of work - especially when I'm working with good writing and interesting information (which I definitely am).

7. My skirmish with Zellers ended with them sending me a cheque for $7.48 because they "value my business."

8. This blog post was interrupted when Daniel's school called. He was sent home with a tummy ache. He was fine when he got home. This happens every Monday afternoon. Time for a meeting with the school.

9. Daniel just told me to "stop being so moody."