at least i roasted a chicken

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

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

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

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

This totally bummed me out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world is going nuts.

Thank goodness for Pastafarians.

sunday afternoon endeavours

This is my niece.

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

I cannot tell you how proud this makes me feel.

ouch

I had way too much fun last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go figure.

back to work

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

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

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

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

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

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

getting creative

I've been taking this creative writing course.

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

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

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

Cornered

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

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

Perhaps he already had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If it wasn’t already.

He looked at his watch.

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

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

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

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

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

the here and now

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

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

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

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

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

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

hot stuff

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

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

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

why breast cancer isn't sexy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate my prosthesis. I hate what it represents.

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

Breast cancer will never be 'sexy.'

not bloody likely

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

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

But it' s not easy.

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

Still working on patience, though.

where i'm at

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made me feel really good.

not much left

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

gifts that cancer gave me

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

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

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

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

not enough to think pink

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'a kinder season'

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

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

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

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

Amen to that.

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

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

seeking balance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll let you know how it goes.

more than skin deep

The stages of recovery from radiation:

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

2-Fragile and sensitive.

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

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

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

And my skin is healing, too.

the last time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I might cry.

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

bizarre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sometimes it's hard

I'm a bit of a mess these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," I answered.

He looked so relieved.

Sometimes, I hate how hard this is.

herceptin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Among the findings:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

grumpy

I am burned and tired and just plain fed up.

Only six more treatments to go.

a conversation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So many people have cancer now."

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

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

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

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

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

She waves goodbye as she gets in the car.

I liked her.

I wonder how much of her story was true.

good to be here

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

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

It does indeed.

It's good to be here.

in perspective

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

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

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

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

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

And we have been.

the revolution starts now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cancer and me

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

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

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

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

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

That's when she lost me.

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

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

Absolutely not.

I am still furious.

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

39

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7. Laughter really is the best medicine.

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

9. I have a nicely shaped head.

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

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

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

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

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

15. Somewhat paradoxically, admitting vulnerability makes me stronger.

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

17. Sadness and joy can be inextricably mixed.

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

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

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

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

22. A pedicure is good therapy.

23. Exercise is a panacea.

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

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

26. I will never be a religious person.

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

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

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

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

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

32. Life is too short for pettiness.

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

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

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

36. Medicare works.

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

38. I have a very good life.

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

overwhelmed

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

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

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

Twenty-three radiation sessions to go.

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

it ain't contagious

Cancer makes some people very uncomfortable.

Even some folks I know fairly well clearly find it hard to meet my eye or spend any time in my presence since I started undergoing treatment.

They should be bit more like my friend S. I had beer and nachos with him and a couple of other friends last Friday night (although we've been in regular contact, it was the first time we'd seen each other since I went on leave from work in January). At one point I commented that I was feeling pretty full and sleepy. "Don't pass out!" he admonished. "We'll take a marker and write stuff on your head!"

I really believe it's better to name the elephant at the table. And if you can make me laugh in the process, so much the better.

Tomorrow, I go under the beam. I'll write soon about what is bound to be a surreal experience. Meanwhile, check out David Hlynsky's blog (http://davidhlynskybeam.blogspot.com). It is a beautifully written account of undergoing treatment for prostate cancer. David has finished treatment and his blog is done. I miss it.

the wisdom to know the difference

I'm not much for prayer but the first few lines of the mantra for twelve steppers (http://www.aahistory.com/prayer.html) are speaking to me today. I'm working on "the serenity to accept the things I cannot change" and "the courage to change the things I can."

I've been finding it hard to give myself the space to get better. I am tired of feeling like a cancer patient and I want to feel like my old self again. I had a very important conversation with a very wise friend today about cutting myself some slack. She told me that it's not a failure on my part to admit that there are some things that I am just not ready to do. I really needed to hear that.

The pressure to have fully recovered is not coming from my spouse or my family. It's something I'm doing to myself. I am impatient and I want to put treatment behind me. I also want to remind myself and others that I am smart and competent and that there is much more to who I am than cancer.

I read an interview with an oncologist yesterday who said that, in her experience, the time it takes to recover is the same length of time from the first sign of cancer (i.e. finding the lump) to the last day of treatment (not including Tamoxifen or Herceptin). If this applies to me, and radiation ends on September 6, I should feel like myself again in May 2007.

Meanwhile, I am accepting the things I cannot change. Progress is incremental. Chemotherapy has left my muscles and ligaments stiff and sore. An old case of achilles tendinitis has flared up again so I have had to forego the running clinic. I have lymphedema (swelling in my arm, chest and back due to a build up of lymph fluid), which is exacerbated by heat, salt and repetitive motions (including knitting or spending too much time at my computer keyboard).

Every day look for the courage to change the things I can. I can't run but I can swim. Not well, or for very long, but even a few minutes of swimming or exercising in the water really help with the swelling in my arm. I had thought that swimming during radiation was a no-no but my research has indicated that it's fine to swim as long as I stay moisturized and stop if radiation burns cause the skin to break.

I was tempted to try an aquafit class at my local YMCA but put off at the idea of being bald and one-breasted in an exercise class. I enlisted my mother-in-law and went anyway. It turns out that everyone was too busy exercising to pay attention to me and I was too busy concentrating on the exercises to feel self-conscious. It was a good workout. Tonight my arms are that good kind of sore.

At the end of the class, a woman came up to me in the showers and said, "We're part of the same club." She finished treatment eleven years ago.

It turns out that someone did notice me. I'm glad.

tired

I am unbelievably tired.

Early mornings with this child...


...and late nights with this one...

...and making sure this family member is exercised...

Have left me so tired by day's end that I can barely move.

I am feeling very frustrated with my post-surgery, post-chemo body these days. My body doesn't look or feel the way it once did. Recovery is slow and there are some things that have been irrevocably changed. I have moments every day that I want to cry from frustration and my feelings of loss.

But my dependents pictured above also take me out of myself, provide love and distraction and remind me of the things I am still able to do.

They're good for me.

I just wish I weren't so damn tired.

gobsmacked

Yesterday, I had the following conversation, in a cab, on my way home from seeing my shrink.

Driver: How is life these days?

Me: Good, thanks.

Driver: Are you a married lady?

Me (Don't ask why I answer these sorts of prying questions. It must be the first born child in me, or the fact that I am stuck in this guy's cab with the doors locked): Yes.

Driver: Your kids are out on their own, then.

Me (See above): No, they're not. They're three and eight.

Driver: Oh! So it was a late marriage.

Me: Not that late.

Driver (Turning around to get a better look): You look like you have no hair.

Me (Sharply): I have cancer.

Driver (Chagrined): Oh! I'm sorry. (Pause) I shave my head most summers.

Silence

Driver: But I didn't this summer.

Me (Politely): Mmmm.

Long, awkward silence.

Driver: So are you going to be OK? What do the doctors say?

Me: I hope so.

Driver: Good, that's good.

I was enormously relieved when his cellphone rang. It was the longest cab ride of my life.

My spouse, when I told him the story: Did you turn the cab around and go right back to the shrink?

When given the choice, I prefer to laugh than cry. And a little righteous anger never hurt anyone.

a week in paradise (or what i did on my summer vacation, part 2)

I have a hazy memory of, at some point during cancer treatment, being told by a nurse to imagine myself somewhere that I feel safe and happy (to distract myself from whatever horrible thing was happening at the time). Last week, my physical self got to go where my mind has gone many times over the last several months.

My father-in-law has a cottage on the most beautiful little lake in northern Ontario. Time stands still there but the days go by quickly (I've never been able to figure out how that works). It is a place of healing (my father-in-law sought refuge there during his own cancer treatment two summers ago), relaxation and joy.

On July 13th, we toasted the fact that I wasn't in chemo (I had treatments every third Thursday) and every day I felt a little stronger. On July 16th, we drove home, feeling restored (the kids didn't even fight once during the five hour drive). My little family really needed this respite.

I did mention that we were in paradise, a place where even children behave perfectly.

what i did on my summer vacation (part 1)

I'm back.

We did manage to get away. And had a wonderful time.

On July 7th, we celebrated my mother-in-law's 65th birthday. The next day these people (her three sons, spouses and assorted children):

all piled into cars and took her on a surprise trip to Niagara Falls (this was taken in our hotel parking lot and it should be noted that D., my young son who dances naked in front of the mirror at every opportunity and loves to be photographed, refused to take part).

During our week end together, I was struck repeatedly by how much I genuinely like each of these people. What's more, their support and love during cancer treatment has made me realize to what extent they are not just my spouse's family but mine, too.

This is a gratuitous photo of my children at Centreville on the Toronto Islands. Doesn't S. look thrilled to be riding with his little brother? For some reason, this cracks me up.

In other news, I have learned that I will start radiation therapy on August 1st and finish on September 6th.

The end is in sight.

what passes for normal

This is what we did today:

In case it's not obvious, the boys are being Wolverine (as so ably played by Hugh Jackman in the Xmen movies).

We used coffee grounds to make the chest hair.

Look at this angelic child. Surely not the same one who's temper tantrums are legendary in these parts.

We had a busy Canada Day with friends and family. I was feeling relaxed and quite celebratory (my own personal no-more-chemo milestone trumping my feelings about Stephen Harper and the Tories). It slowly started to sink in on this beautiful long week end that I am not recovering in order to get ready for the next round. I am done. No. More. Chemo. I am so relieved.

We are in chaos at the moment; trying to get organized to get out of town for a couple of weeks. The house is a mess, we are still working our way through our to do list and my spouse and I have been more than a little irritable with each other. If we are all still speaking to each other, it will be good to get away. I'm going to pretend I'm not a cancer patient, just a very tired bald person.

I've had my "radiation planning session" last week (more on that in a future post) and am now in the queue for radiation. I could be waiting anywhere from two weeks to two months. I plan to use that time working at feeling healthy again. I'm going to do a running clinic for breast cancer survivors at the Running Room (www.runningroom.com) and maybe take up yoga again.

Unfortunately, I seem to have developed lymphedema in my right arm. I am trying not to feel sorry for myself but it does feel pretty unfair. You can find more info on lymphedema at www.breastcancer.org and http://www.cancersupportivecare.com/lymphedema.html.

Thanks to all those who sent messages of condolences about Emma-dog. She was a lovely beast and we miss her terribly. As someone pointed out in the comments, we have fourteen years of beautiful memories.

Emma Goldman Kingston (aka Golden Breeze Lady Emma Delight), b. July 17, 1992, d. June 29, 2006.

I am grieving an old and dear friend today.

By L. (age 38) and S. (age 8):

We miss Emma because:

1. She loved kids and always protected them, even when they didn't need protecting.

2. She was so affectionate with us.

3. She thought her name was "Beautiful Dog."

4. She enjoyed a good tummy rub.

5. She was the most stubborn dog we've ever met. From the time she was a round little puppy carrying tree branches, she did things her way.

6. She lived until she was almost fourteen and still loved us.

7. She once ate a dozen chinese buns and was so full she could barely stand up.

8. There will never be another dog to replace Emma.

mushy and queasy

It has been brought to my attention that my last couple of posts have been a bit over the top. I am completely unapologetic about this. Years ago, my spouse said to me that I always describe the people I love in terms of superlatives. Can I help it if my family and friends are all gorgeous, brilliant and wonderful people?

I just feel incredibly grateful for the all the love and support that people have shown since this cancer nightmare began. It is because of my friends and family (and some complete strangers) that I have found the strength to get through the worst of the cancer treatment.

Despite how hard many things are right now, I have moments where I can't believe how lucky am.

Last chemo completed yesterday. I feel pretty crummy today. This is the last time, though, and that does make it easier.

once more unto the breach

Tomorrow is my last chemo.

I have not written much in the last few days because I have been too busy spending time with my kids and being hedonistic in my spare time.

I have spent my time with people who fill me up - make me feel good about myself and fortunate to be in their presence.

A lovely dinner Friday night with three amazing women. I am awed that they think of me as their friend.

An extended week end with my friend L. Spending time with her is like a balm. I don't have words for how wonderful she is. We met on the first day of an impossible class in university. I walked up to her and said, "You look like someone I would be friends with." This was totally out of character for me and the best thing I ever did.

I spent most of today with my friend B. We went for lunch, engaged in a little retail therapy (cancer presents: new clothes that fit my chemo-bloated body. I feel so much better about myself) and a facial at the spa. When I told B. last January that my biopsy had confirmed that I had cancer, she said, "This is a campaign and we are going to win it." B. is a formidable woman. When she says things like this, I believe her.

On another note entirely, it turns out I am not as much of a hypochondriac as I thought I was. My oncologist took one look at me this morning and said, "Your eyes are irritated." It turns out irritated, runny eyes are a common symptom of chemo, especially near the end. I feel vindicated.

for a very good dad

Today's blog is dedicated to a wonderful father.

I love you, my dear spouse. You have exceeded my expectations of a partner, father and friend in the fifteen years we have been together but never more than in the last six months. The boys and I are very fortunate to have you in our lives.

Happy Fathers' Day!

the hardest thing i've ever done

There is a sense of pride and accomplishment that comes with knowing that I have almost completed chemotherapy. Nothing I've ever done has been as hard as this.

I am stronger than I thought I was. And tougher.

I know that I still have one more horrible chemo and the grind of radiation (not to mention Herceptin treatments every three weeks for a year) but I just realized today that the worst really is behind me.

Breast cancer has cost me a lot, physically, mentally and emotionally. I have not stopped being angry that it happened to me (and to other women, in frightening numbers). I have, however, gained a sense of my own strength and the confidence of understanding what it means to be a 'survivor.'

I know that others have always seen me as confident but I know how often I avoided challenges or situations which made me feel scared or intimidated. I think that will happen far less often in the future.

It's not that I don't expect to feel frightened or intimidated. It's that I know I can face those fears. I've written before that I did not anticipate how much of the fight against cancer is mental. I now know that I am brave enough to face a life threatening illness and strong enough to survive treatment with my optimism and sense of humour intact. There are very few challenges that now seem insurmountable.

That is the gift my cancer has given me.

portrait of the insomniac as an eight year old boy

After tossing and turning (and a few tears of frustration), S. finally falls asleep on his bedroom floor.

bald hypochondriac

I never see other bald women when I am out in public.

For the first several weeks of being bald, I kept my head covered in public all the time. Then it got hot. And I got sweaty. And the hat or scarf started to slide around on my head.

I just don't suffer in silence very well, so I've started taking off the head covering and offering up my head to the elements (or rather, to the air conditioning. I do keep my head protected from the sun).

The first time I exposed myself like this, I was out at a nice restaurant with friends. I felt naked and acutely self-conscious at first but became gradually more comfortable. My friend B. said afterwards that there was at least one woman in the restaurant that night, hot and sweating in her wig, who was wishing she had the confidence to do what I had done.

I wonder if that's true. Given the cancer stats, there should be many more bald women out there. I'm not particularly brave, nor do I enjoy drawing attention to myself. I just don't have a high tolerance for discomfort. Am I violating some taboo I didn't know about? Where are all the bald women?

On another note, the depressed immune system from chemotherapy is exacerbating my not-so-latent hypochondriac tendencies.

My spouse took my youngest son to the doctor last week with a suspected eye infection (another child had been sent home from day care with an infection earlier in the week and D.'s eyes were suspiciously puffy), which I became sure he had given to me. All morning I complained of itchy, watery eyes. I figured it was just a matter of hours until the infection would blind me completely.

I was stunned when my spouse called to say that D. did not have an eye infection. He had a mild case of tonsillitis. My eyes cleared up immediately.

At least I can't become convinced that I have tonsillitis, too. I had my tonsils out when I was eight.

going bald

On March 18 (after the first round of chemo), I shaved my head. The wisdom of others (and my own gut) told me that, even though I had very short hair, it would be infinitely easier to have it fall out in bristles than in thick clumps. I was right.

It turned into a bit of a party. Who knew so many people would want to watch me shave my head?



My friend L., who sports a tattoo under that now-conservative hair cut, did the honours. I don't think he was expecting it to be a performance but he took it all in stride. And he donated the clippers. What a guy.



No going back now...


We had a wonderful evening. And I think it made the whole going bald thing much easier for my kids, as well as for me.

random thoughts

There are trees in the cancer centre where I go to receive treatment. Real ones. They built the building around them. They're a little spindly but I love that they're there.

There is no rhyme nor reason to what I want to eat, after the first couple of days post-chemo have passed. This round it's shrimp soup, spaghetti, my spouse's super-high-fibre granola bars and soda biscuits. The first couple of rounds it was chicken soup and pita. I think about food a lot these days and the pleasure I know I will get out of it when I turn the corner. My appetite tends to come back with a vengeance about 10 days after chemo, and, every round, I have killed the time lying in bed imagining the things I am going to eat when I feel better. I also love that so many people have fed my family over the last several months. The impact of this food has been a source of sustenance that is much more than physical.

My cyclical funk has set in. Too much time to think and too little energy to do anything or concentrate for very long. The lingering effects are relatively minor (mild nausea, lightheadness, foul taste in my mouth, fatigue and the surgical aches exacerbated by sitting still) but they serve as constant reminders that I have cancer.

I did not fully expect how much of fighting this disease would be mental.

A poll of the medical staff at the cancer centre confirms that my new-grown fuzz will likely fall out again before chemo is done. It's OK. I only have one more round to go.

friends don't let friends knit stoned

So I picked up my knitting needles yesterday evening. This is always a sign to me that I am starting to climb out of the trough, but I think I may have been a little optimistic.

I am knitting a garter stitch shawl (for non-knitters this means that I knit every row, over and over, gradually increasing stitches until I have a shawl), so I figured that even though I was feeling pretty stoned from all the chemo drugs, the pattern was simple enough that I should be able to knit away without screwing anything up.

I was wrong. I will now have to spend more time fixing my mistakes than I spent making them. Sigh.

Someone step up and stop me before I do this again, OK?

p.s.: For my knitting readers (and I know you're out there), the yarn is from Fleece Artist, in Halifax (http://www.fleeceartist.com/) and I am knitting with the Goldilocks. You can see why this is going to be a huge pain to tink (knit backwards) and redo, even if it is just a couple of rows.

Toxic Nation

I'm not really up for writing much today. Instead I provide you with the following link:
http://www.environmentaldefence.ca/toxicnation/home.php.

Food for thought, no?

chemo day

The gorgeous woman pictured above is my sister. She is coming to chemo with me today. This picture was taken at my head shaving party. I didn't plan for a head shaving party, once just kind of happened and it was wonderful. More on that in a later post, but I do highly recommend to others that shaving your head makes the inevitable hair loss much, much easier to take.

I have had someone different come to each chemo appointment with me. Each session lasts more than three hours, so this companionship has been incredibly important (In fact, I would also advise cancer patients to bring someone with them to most appointments. It is common to find that any info provided is forgotten as soon as it's heard unless you have someone to take notes. Just as important is having someone to help you find where you're going and to keep you company while you wait).

Each person who has come with me has been special to me.

My spouse came to my first appointment. It was great to have his wry humour and our shared sense of the bizarre as we took in this experience for the first time.

My friend J. drove me to the second chemo. We work together and have always really liked each other but chemo gave us the time to really get to know each other. I feel like our friendship has become richer and more intimate.

D., one of my oldest friends, came to chemo number three. We both lead very busy lives and don't see each other as much as we'd like, so it was lovely to have this uninterrupted time together. D. stood in for my sister at my wedding (my sister was working Japan at the time). D. has always been very important to me. I also have to stay on her good side; she has my power-of-attorney (I call it 'power to pull the plug') should something happen to both my spouse and me.

My friend H. came to my last appointment. We had really just found each other as friends when I found the lump, yet she was one of the very first people I told. She has been one of my most important sources of support throughout this experience and continues to exceed my expectations of friendship. She has also injured herself prior to each appointment that she has attended with me. Not sure what that's about.

B. will be coming to my final round of chemo. She is a true force to be reckoned with and a wonderful friend. B. puts the same energy into coordinating a political campaign as she did into coordinating friends to come to appointments, make food for my family and provide support in so many important ways. She also really knows how to have a good time and has helped me to remember how to have fun during these last few months.

I really am a very lucky person.