Germbusters!

Today I took a subway across town, and it was full of germs. Microscopic organisms were everywhere, while stranger invaded my personal space. When I wasn’t getting run over by a dirty stroller, I was getting hit in the back by mindless teenagers strapped into their giant Jansport knapsacks.

I sat very still in my seat, my hands folded in my lap. Around me, people in shapeless black coats were coughing and sneezing, and I was planning my escape route so that I wouldn’t have to actually touch anything. Inside my bag were my trusty ‘YES to Blueberries' towelettes. ( Paraben free, and 99% natural!)

I never used to be afraid of germs. Raised in the 60’s, our playtime meant finding anything on the street that could be put in a bucket with a pile of earth so we could make castles. This could be worms, spare change, old nails, and candy wrappers, with which we could make a flag. Occasionally I’d even peel a piece of old gum of the road, and once I even popped it in my mouth.  When we were thirsty, we’d grab Pop Shoppe cola, and pass around the bottle.

My mother, who was a nurse, packed us full of fibre rich sugarless foods.  We got lots of sleep, plenty of exercise and lived a carefree life, unburdened by thoughts of germs, or washing our hands. Our immune systems were through the roof! But now that everybody bathes in Purell, immune systems are compromised, and the world is full of dangerous bacteria. 

I looked around. Across from me, on a three-seater, were two people. One was a lady in a parka with a baby,  both of whom were sniffling. (But bless her, she still managed red lipstick). Beside her was a very large Rastafarian with long dreadlocks who took up two seats, and was full of facial piercings. He was starting at nothing, and rocking slightly to invisible music. It looked like he had a metal bone through his nose.

The lady coughed. I glared at her. She had done nothing to cover her mouth and her germs were hovering only a few feet away. The big man glared at her too. He stopped rocking. After a moment everything went back to normal, and then she coughed again. One at a time he removed the earphones from his ears, and then he turned to her.  “Ma’am," he said, in deep baritone. All eyes swivelled his way. “Ma’am,” he repeated, “When you sneeze, it’s a good idea to sneeze into the crook of your elbow. Like this,” he demonstrated, fake-coughing into his leather arm.

She looked at him. “Okay,” she sniffled. “You’re right.” (Damn right, brother!) He nodded, and as he continued, his voice rolled through the train. “I know old habits die hard. But I’m a body piercer, and I’m a freak for hygiene.”

Then he slowly replaced his earphones, nodded, and went back to his music.  A quiet superhero covered in metal and leather, saving me and many others form certain disaster. In a perfect world he was on the way to meet my mother. Giant Pierced Rasta Man & Violet. Together they could make the world a safer place.

Hairdressers Don't Lie

For the past few months I’ve been constantly reassured me that my $1600 hair could pass as my own. I’ve requested that my loved ones tell me if something goes awry, such as obvious slippage or badly coiffed bangs. But it’s unanimous. Everyone says my wig is perfect. Everyone except Cosmo.

August 2011. Cosmo's Best Work.

Cosmo has been my hairdresser for over twenty years. I’ve cheated on him with other stylists, but I always come back to his salon because we belong together. I love him because he’s honest, unapologetic, and excellent with hair. He loves me because I’ve paid for his Audi.

Yesterday I went to his salon at the Manulife Centre.  He sat me down and gave me a good long look, followed by one of his rare frowns. “Who cut this?” he asked. "Richard", I said, in the tone of one who admitted that they had snuck off to Top Cuts. Then I asked if he could tell it was a wig. Cosmo didn’t hesitate, “Yes.”

Finally! Thank you God and Haridressers! What a relief to hear what I’ve suspected all along. Though I’ve always thought that while my wig looks good, it doesn’t look like the real thing. (But not as bad as the tranny at Continental Hair who was having his ringlets curled. I know I look better then that). I’ve never been one of those people who wants hear that I look good unless it's true. The ultimate kindness is telling a friend when they have a fashion disaster, because you’re giving them the opportunity to improve.

If my arse looks fat in a pair of jeans I want to know. And I truly appreaciate being steered from colour that isn’t flattering, because I’ll never figure things out by myself. (Sister Sue says no more black turtlenecks 'cus I'm too pale and too old. Thank you!). So I’m truly grateful when someone gives me the benefit of their opinion. It’s may be going out on a limb but if someone makes the effort of giving honest feedback, I’m stepping up to the plate. I’m still a work in progress, and I don’t work well alone. 

“The average person probably can’t tell it ‘s a wig, but I can,” said Cosmo, gently sweeping the bangs out of my eyes, “But that’s okay. We’re going to fix you.”

Keep on Truckin'

When I was in high school, my friends' super groovy brother had a T-shirt that said ‘Keep on Truckin’.  It was in a crazy rounded font with bad grammar, but I thought it was really cool. Originally from a comic book, it became a slogan for optimism in the 70’s and resonated with people of all ages, even me.

Prior to that, I don’t remember any zippy slogans at all, unless you include the biblical ones. My Grandma Catherine used to say that, 'God helps those who helps themselves’, which, when you think about it, isn’t that much different than ‘Keep on Truckin’. In fact, most of my favourite life quotes bear semblance to my friends’ brothers’ T-shirt with the big fat font.

When life eventually evolved beyond acne and essays I found a few new phrases which were helpful in day to day life.  ‘Keep the Faith’ (Jon Bon Jovi) made it’s way into my heart, as did, ‘Life’s a Journey not a Destination’ (Emerson, then Tyler).  Later, to cover any missteps and adventures I fell back on ‘Man Plans, God Laughs’.

These days I’ve come to rely upon a few chosen words. As November winds down I feel victorious at having made it through my least favorite month without falling  apart. Granted, the treatments are making me feel a little more crabby (at times) and puffy (at times) and hairless (all the time). But with a little bit of lipstick and a few favourite quotes, I think I’ve done rather well.

This isn’t the first time I’ve shared my precious jewels, but as most of my friends are losing their memory, it’s like they’ll be hearing it again for the first time!

◊ Ask for what you need

◊ Do what ought to be done

◊ Feel the fear and add some courage

◊ Stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone ought to be

◊ No one can make you feel inferior without your consent

To me, these words are perfect in their strength and simplicity. But if you need to gussy them up, to each could be added ... and Keep on Trucking.

Chemo Curl

Granny Hair

My Scottish grandmother had whispy white hair covered by a hairnet. Beneath the net, which had tiny sparkles, she had a tight white perm. I used to marvel at the small neat rolls and wonder how they came to be, until I caught sight of the wee spongy hair rollers that she left on her dresser. It is a hairdo I never wanted, but surprisingly, one that I may get nonetheless.

In the excitement about my bristles growing out this spring, I’ve overlooked the reality that my hair will probably not return the way I want. For the record, I had really great hair. Thick and glossy,  in an expensive semi-natural shade of chestnut brown. Hair stylists often complimented my abundance of hair, and I agreed. I had nothing to complain about.

But there’s a rumour swirling around about something called  ‘chemo curls’. After waiting impatiently for months, my hair might come back in the form of a really bad perm. And it’s not like a fun 80’s perm either, it would be along the lines of Grandma’s. Can it be straightened? No! Tools are strictly prohibited during the first few months of regrowth due to the hairs fragility.

And it get’s worse. There is no colour guarantee, and many women are confronted with their natural silver. I did hear of one formally grey woman, whose regrowth was a delightful mahogany, but that’s seems to be the exception. In one scary tale, an acquaintances’ once dark hair came back crinkly, and red! Can it be dyed? Again, no. Dyes aren’t allowed for at least six months, until the scalp has time to heal. So my worse case scenario is a tight white geriatric perm. I can just hear my sister voice saying, "Um, maybe you should think about covering that up.”

So I check my tiny bristles daily to examine their hue. Initially there was none -  my specks of hair looked tiny rows altar candles viewed from space. These days however, my sturdy little bristles are dark and I believe they’re getting anxious to return.

Self Portrait

So in the New Year there’ll be regrowth. That much is for sure. Firstly the tufts of a duckling, followed by Style Surprise. Worst case scenario is my Gran’s hair, looking like a headful of rolled pennies (if I’m lucky), or dimes, as the case may be.

But maybe it will be the exact same brown of my youth; the one that I’ve been paying Cosmo to recreate for the last 15 years. So I gave my follicles a pep talk, and requested a silver lining that is  10% silver, and 90% chestnut brown, as befitting the head of a half Scottish lassie rather than her Gran.

Soup Angels

I have Soup Angels that come to my house. Over the last few months loved ones have been very generous with filling up our freezer. But since fall rolled in, there’s been a glorious abundance of soup.  These soup deliveries come in various forms. Some are drive-bys where the Soup Angel will pull up in a mini van, fling open the side door, toss me a container, and speed off into the afternoon. Others are a drops-offs on the front porch. Or special delivery, via a third party.

So this morning Jim left me a little note, reminding me to eat the Homemade Chicken Noodle Soup before it goes bad. I hardly need reminding to eat, but it would be tragic to see such deliciousness go to waste. I opened the fridge to take account of my stock ( I feel like I’m living in Pusateri’s, but without the security guards) and looked over my bounty.  I realized that the personality of each Soup Angel shone through from each offering. Maybe that’s why soup is so popular, cus each serving has an intimacy not offered by a sandwich, or a Mars Bar.

Ballsy

Here’s what I saw. The Chicken Soup is a big robust meal full of strapping noodles that require a big spoon to eat. No tidy half measures here! It’s a fabulous lively mess, and at it’s heart is a ballsy broth that infuses everything from the tender slabs of chicken to the hardy chunks of carrot. The master of the soup, who is a dear friend, is a brilliant sledgehammer of a chef whose kitchen pulsates with life. To put it more bluntly, (which she would appreciate), she doesn’t need an orderly environment or a measuring cup to create her masterpieces. Step down Mario Batali- nothing can be recreated, nor improved. It’s all freehand, instinctive, and full of love, flavour, & booze.

Sophisticated

Butternut squash soup from Jim’s sister. It’s cookbook perfect, and  could be in a glossy LCBO magazine, yet tastes a million times better than something so sophisticated. It’s a deep, rich velvety soup that is totally polished and ready for a soup centerfold.  It looks like an elegant well-presented dish, but once you dive in, you sink into many surprising layers of fun and fantasticness, and will eventually want to kick off your shoes. Likelihood of booze in the soup is fairly high (and if not in the soup, it’s in Jim’s sister).

A Seafood Novel

Fish chowder comes from my cousin (and favorite friend) in a generous, and stylish, saucepan. She’s made this for me on several occasions (birthdays, thanksgiving, canceritis) because she’s kind, thoughtful and doesn’t like to see me beg. This soup is a juicy seafood novel. It gives off an excellent first impression, quickly gets you hooked, and keeps building with discovery of each buttery chunk of crab and delectable piece of scallop. It makes you want to keep eating even though you know you know you will be very sad when it is finished. But you keep eating anyway because it just keeps getting better and better and better.  The extra effort it takes to create this chowder is apparent, but she does so with ease, and when she says it was a pleasure, I believe her. Booze quotient? A gracious current of cognac in the chowder, and probably a Chardonnay in it’s maker.

Another Soup Angel is one I've never met who is a friend of Jim’s sister. She’s loaded us up several times, and as I don’t know her I can only say this. She is an excellent cook, extraordinarily kind, and has lovely taste in mason jars. Booze quotient? I’d like to think she was drinking champagne.

Lastly, I made my own barely & mushroom soup. It was dull. But healthy. Booze quotient - zero. Overall, boring, but with the promise of getting better.

The French are Always Right

This morning I was feeling sniveley. It’s a grey November Monday and I would have preferred not to get dressed. And when I did put on clothes, I made the mistake of wearing sweatpants (not exactly the Rocky Balboa kind, but close). Don’t know why I was feeling so drab. Maybe it’s because my eyelashes are thinning and I’m feeling like less of a girl. Still, it’s temporary – hardly grave enough to warrant dressing like a boxer, even if he was Heavyweight Champion of the World.

My nurse warned us patients against letting ourselves go. They urge us put a little care into how we dress.  On dark days, especially, it’s best not to give into the gloomy moods that might come our way. Nothing brings a girl round like a stylish sweater, and a smear of bright lipstick!

It’s good advice actually. French girls do it all the time. Even for days like today, when one’s main activity is to drag a basset hound down the street, and do taxes, it doesn’t hurt to add a bit of colour.

But this morning I didn’t feel like it. Today I grabbed the heap of hair from the dresser and slapped it on. Then the largest toque in my hat collection and pulled it down low like bored rapper. I put on a fleece that wasn’t supposed to be fluffy, it was just covered in fur. Then on the way out the door, with one last reluctant swipe, I added a bit of colour to my lips.

Following Jed down the sidewalk I had to pass by my neighbor, a tall man who was holding his toddler. I moved to the edge of the sidewalk, and attempted to walk by. The toddler, who was at my eye level, said something in gibberish as I passed and I gave a halfhearted wave in return.

As I kept walking and in the background I heard a little voice say, “Nice lady”.

It took a second to realize that he was talking about me. And that he correctly assumed my gender!  Feeling the gloom lifting we trotted off merrily to Queen St, feeling that no matter what, I’m still a girl, and you should never underestimate the power of lipstick.

Nail Polish & Champagne

The front doorbell isn’t working, so I had to rely on the mighty hound to announce the arrival my Russian nurse. I opened the door to see a  shiney gloved hand jabbing at the doorbell. “Why iz not working?” he demanded. Preoccupied with his gloves, I didn’t answer, merely ushered him in and gave him the once over. Fitted dark suit, knitted grey cable mock turtleneck, suede ankle boots, and black gloves that glistening like a pair of leather tap shoes. “Shiny gloves!” I said, but he ignored me and bent down to press his forehead against Jed’s.

In his glistening hand he clutched a stethoscope. In any other situation it would have looked like a medical tool, but surrounded my gleaming leather it looked like an instrument of torture. I’m torn between whether he looks more like James Bond’s evil double-agent doctor, or the skating coach for the Russian team at the World Championships.

Jed, Alexi, and I filed into the kitchen so he could wash his hands. Part of my treatment includes a large dose of steroids that makes me sleepless, talkative, and unable to sit still. So I apologized in advance as I hopped up on a bar stool babbling about nothing in particular. Now he gave me the once over, settling on my crimson toenails. “I much appreciate the colour of your pedicure.” I personally found the colour garish, but obviously our tastes run a bit differently, and I was scoring a 9/10 in the red department. I told him that, as my chemo nurses warn me away from nail salons with germy tools, I had to paint my own toes. He frowned, “Iz hardship for you?”

‘Damn right it’s a hardship!’ I almost screamed out loud. But then I thought that maybe he’d had a harder life than me. Uprooting his family, leaving his friends behind, moving to a new country with overpriced vodka, and driving around in a Jaguar tending to the wounded.  Perhaps he wouldn’t sympathize that I sacrificed a leg massage in a vibrating chair in lieu of perching my foot on the edge of the bathtub. So I kept quite, and offered him a cup of coffee.

He declined, and said that what he really wanted was something he’d provide for himself in a couple of hours. With the promise of an early afternoon, he was going to celebrate with a bottle of French champagne. ‘Tattinger,’ to be precise.  Then he jabbed me delicately with  $2,700 worth of white blood cells while I complimented him on his brilliant, painless technique. “I know,” he said, and almost smiled.

So later that day, as my nurse sipped his sparkly treat, I settled (sort of) in front of a decorating show to redo my whoreish nails. Iz hardship, of course. I'd rather swap bottles with Alexi. Polish for champagne. But in the grand scheme of things, with fresh cells soaring through my body, I can manage.

На здоровье, Alexi!

Lady Stardust

A person very close to me, who I’ll call ‘Jim’,  recently asked about something in our house that had been misplaced. As kindly as possible, he asked if I’d seen it. Both of us know that if something goes astray, it is likely because of me.

Due to my treatments, my memory isn’t as sharp as it ought to be. Occasionally I forget to put lids back on jars, lock the front door, or recall words with more than three syllables. According to my mother, I’m not that much different than her group of lady octogenarians. Although slightly amusing, I'm not quite ready for bifocals and bridge, though I do appreciate a comfortable shoes.

Me, in my painting clothes

Today I was doing a little painting around the house. My sound track was Ziggy Stardust, which I haven’t listened to since I wore it out on my turntable. As I turned the walls white, I sang along to the music, and here’s the thing. There are 11 songs on the album, and I know every syllable of  lyric. Even the long words  like 'suffragette' and 'trasnformation'. Not only that, but I can predict every nuance in David’s lovely voice, the length of each breath between words, and all the guitar riffs (I think they’re called ‘riffs’). I can also hum along to the sax solos, and join David on the exact millisecond that he hollers, ‘Wham Bam, thank you Ma’am!’

So I haven’t lost my memory. I’m just blowing off all the trivial stuff. And rather than being an 80-year old card player player, I am a secret glam rocker with some awesome dance moves.  Ziggy played guitar, and I know every beat on the album. I may not know where the hell I put my keys, but I can still sing along note for note with with the coolest guy on the planet.

Everyone Loves a Winner

Cutting through Yorkville recently, I happened upon a little store that was bursting with colour.  En route  to visit my pals at Continental Hair,  I was toying with the idea of experimenting with a headscarf, rather than a wig, one of these days. (Inspired of course, by Mary Richard’s funky neighbor Rhoda).

So I stopped into this little shop which was tastefully packed to the rafters with a rich rainbow of fabrics. Amidst this colour explosion was a little Indian woman wearing a sparkly pink sari. She was so small that I could easily look down upon her little white head, with hair that looked like cotton candy. She asked me if I was looking for anything special and I sputtered, “I’m looking for something, for a friend.”

I felt like an idiot. I hadn’t used the ‘friend’ line since I was a teenager trying to get my hands on some Kahlua. So I corrected myself, and confessed that the friend was me, that I like blue, and that I was temporarily hairless. Her deep brown eyes looked up at me and I felt compelled to say more. That I was going through chemo, that I was wearing a wig, and that I felt the need for colour.

She put her arm on mine said. “I had a mastectomy three years ago”. Then she broke into a grin and said, “My hair grew back so beautifully, and see how nice it is.”  I looked down on her whispy white hairs curled into a delicate bun, and it was indeed quite lovely.

Then she reached up and wrapped her delicate arms around my neck. She was so tiny that she hung off me like a shiny pink pendant. Muffled by my sweater, I heard her say. “You’re going to be fine. I just know it”.

The lesson here could be that when offer your authentic self, you will never be rejected. But that’s not the lesson she wanted to teach me. What she said was that her scarves were pure silk, expensive, and a little slippery.  She suggested I get a cotton scarf because it ties more securely, and they have a ton of them, at Winner’s.

Toddlers and Cartoons

I wear the same outfit every day.

Five (maybe six) days a week I put on the same skinny Levi’s, striped singlet, and fitted purple hoody. Not only is this ensemble comfy, but (with the right pair of boots) stylish as well. With just the right amount of stretchability, it goes easily from dog park, to sofa, to café. And for the record, my clothes are almost always clean, because I am a minimalist, and not a hobo.

It all happened organically. Being a serial purger, I rid myself of everything that I never planned to wear. Then I went through all my drawers, liberating every piece I hadn’t worn in under two years. And everything black. Since then, life is so much easier. I open my closet, and though the selection is sparse, I like everything I see. My drawers are uncluttered, so I needn’t dig deeply for something I enjoy. When I go out to an event requiring dressier clothes, I happily make an effort to wear something nice. But otherwise I save my energy for hats, pretty undergarments, and my wildly expensive hair.

This morning, as I was enjoying my alternate outfit of pajamas and the aforementioned sweatshirt, I pondered the type of people that wear the same clothes every day. Private school girls and the Pope were obvious subjects. Deciding to dig a little deeper I did some Googling and this is what I found.

Toddlers like to wear the same clothes every day. For these tots, somewhere near two, life is chaotic and having an outfit gives them a sense of stabilty. This also applies to people with autism. (I suppose I could also fall into this category, but for egotistical reason, I prefer to think that my fashion sense is ruled by choice, rather than chaos).

Cartoon characters never change their clothes. Look at Barney Rubble, Homer Simpson, and Pig-Pen. There are exceptions such as Veronica Lodge and Betty Boop, who were, to be honest, just a couples of teases. Otherwise the fellows, with their daily uniforms, are sloppy and depressing. And then there’s Gumby, who doesn’t wear anything at all. As I am not depressed, or surrounded by a cloud of dirt, I don’t like being classified with this group of non-people either.

Superheroes, on the other hand are fine role models. Wonderwomen, Robin, Superman, and Mr. Incredible, who is my personal fave. However, their outfits are all skintight (and devoid of male genitalia), so that counts as skin, more than clothing. Naked with a cape doesn’t work for me.

Surprisingly there are a lot of websites on this topic, and an astounding range of viewpoints. I selected those which have nothing to do with insanity. For instance, ‘Thinking less in the clothing area, encourages thinking in other areas’. This appeals to my creative side – but still leaves too much room for crazy.

Determined to find like-minded people, but with slightly more glamour, I googled some more. An actress, talking about life off the red coarpet said. "When I'm not doing this, I wear the same pants and same shirt every day. On occasion I wash them but I have a few of the same things. I don't change.”

Finally! Someone I can relate to. High Five, Angelina Jolie.

13 Again.

I am 13 again.

When I was little, and home with the flu, there used to be that one last day where I was practically recovered, but Violet didn’t bother sending me to school. She just let me enjoy being at home, pretending to be an only child.

No  Scurvy,  Chez Vi

Today is such a day. Apart from the snoring hound, it is just the two of us at home. She made me a half grapefruit and pre-cut all the little pieces.  I rummaged around for other food and she hovered over me (slightly annoying) offering up suggestions. I settled on brown bread with cheese, and shared it with Jed.

When the phone rings, it is never for me. I politely answer that my mother is busy, and write down the message on the blackboard. Usually it’s a friend of Vi's friend confirming a hiking date, or lunch at the Vietnamese Restaurant. They seem slightly surprised to hear someone else answering the phone, but on the other hand, these gals in the 70’s don’t surprise too easily.

Lazy Boys

When I got dressed this morning , I just wore the same thing that I wore yesterday. I did this when I was young because I didn’t have any sense of style, or very many clothes. Now I do it because it’s easy.

In fact my beauty regime is pretty much like it was when I was 13. Which is, nothing.  I use a lot more moisturizer, but I’ve cut back on mascara because I don’t have many eyelashes, and I don’t want to startle the few that I have left.  Truthfully, I’ve never had great eyelashes. They're short, stiff, and boyish. I have a friend who lost her luscious long eyelashes (chemo-itis) and they grew back like mine. I’m hoping that for me, it will work in reverse and that I get eyelashes like David Cassidy.

On sick (sort of) days, my mother let me watch whatever I wanted on TV. We were flipping around last night  while eating roast chicken, and (I’m embarrassed to say) settled on Two and a Half Men. I don’t know if it was her choice, or mine, but we blamed it on each other and laughed in unison when they used the word ‘penis’.

Because it is a sick day (but not really), I don’t normally have any playmates. Luckily my friend Kathy (who lives in Ottawa) has a foot injury, so we’ve made plans to get together. She doesn’t have to stay in bed either. So we might shop, or sit by the canal looking at University boys. And once again, we knew that if we were to touch a naked University boy, it would be considered very inappropriate, and Kathy would tell everyone, and I'd write about in in my journal.

My mom offers to drive me downtown, but naturally I say that get there on my own. (It used to be a good opportunity to smoke, though I don’t do that anymore) So I change my mind, and gratefully hop into the passenger seat of the zippy blue Honda.

The world is my oyster! I have my sunglasses, a day off, a playmate and a credit card. And a mother saying, “Call me when you’d’ like to come home.”

Violet Lite

Breakfast of Champions

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I said to my mom this morning as she poured skim milk into my coffee. She looked at me suspiciously, when I told her I don’t like cream. Then as I ate her leftover oatmeal,  and snatched away her orange, she was cautiously thinking, 'Who is this marvelous girl?'

Jed and I are in Ottawa, staying at my family home. My mother Violet, the healthiest women in all the land, has zipped off to an aquafit class in her new blue Honda, leaving me here with a treasure trove full of low fat foods.

Mecca

There was a time when my sisters and I would mock my mothers cooking. We arrogantly tossed around words like ‘bland’ and  ‘flavourless’, while secretly tossing more garlic on whatever bird was cooking in the oven.  We also teased mom about her drinking habits, or non-drinking I should say. Half a light beer and she’d be ready to dance on the table. Except for the dancing bit, she’s just one barn-raising away from being Amish.

Maybe it’s because I’ve got Sober-itis, or maybe it's my treatment, but lately all I’ve wanted is my mother’s food. I’m craving the low-sodium- heart- smart- stir-frys that used to make me cringe, and the giant pot fulls of steamed rapini. Inside the fridge, everything has a number on it. 2% this, 1% this, and 1/3 reduced fat gouda that could sometimes be confused with wax.

To be fair, mom’s a good sport when we visit. Not only does she stock up on red wine, but creamy cheeses, lovely breads, and (in honour of my dad) crab cakes or other treats from the sea. But this time I told her not to, as I now share her once ridiculed tastes. I told her that whatever she wants to cook is absolutely fine with me.

Unused to my easy going nature, she can’t believe that I’m so satisfied with everything that is here. Now I'm her dream daughter, as I sit patiently while she reads me the back of a cookie package, riveted by the information. The salmon that she made me last night was perfectly seasoned, and served with a mound of things colourful and delicious.  Tonight, instead of going to Big Daddy's for martinis, I will probably stay home, and like last night, be in bed by nine. 

Now my mom is bobbing in the water, probably baffled by her perfect daughter. To complete this rosy picture, she would probably like  me to have a game of Scrabble. But that would be taking advantage of my newly generous nature. So a game of Scrabble (which I still loathe) is highly unlikely.

Mexican Bribery. Light.

And if happens, it will take a heck lot more than the other half of her light Mexican beer.

Om, my God!

Sunday evening, and my friend Jo and I went to our fabulous ‘Restorative’ class at our favorite yoga studio. Normally we just lie on bolsters and let our inner light shine through, while the teacher chats about positivity and lower chakras.

Last night though, the emphasis was on inversion. “Oh f*ck”, was my first thought as I met Jo’s eyes in horror (mine, not hers).  Headstand, shoulder stand, or anything upside down was in no way good.  Physically ill equipped to stand on my head at the best of times, throw a wig in the mix and it’s the opposite of relaxing. I was relying on my blue beanie to keep everything together.

The teacher, Vicki, guided us to our starting position. Body in an upside down V, head cradled in hands, then move head around to find a comfortable resting position an inch or two below the hairline. That in itself is a problem.  I have two hairlines; the one my parents gave me, which is now a row of tiny bristles, and the $1,600 dollar one from ‘Continental Hair’.

From my upside down position, I could see Vicki’s feet padding towards me. Then her face, as she bent down to check my position. She said she couldn’t see if my head was in the right place because of my hat. I ignored her. Like a petulant five-year-old, I merely pretended she wasn’t there. 

Then I felt her fingers on the back of my neck. “Keep it curved,” she purred, as she walked her fingers slowly away from my shoulders and up towards my hair. Still I ignored her, even though her hand was just a fraction away from the band of my wig.

Positioned in my upside down ‘V’ I had to make a decision.  Did I warn her that she was about to finger-walk into a wig? Or, should I just let myself off the hook while she came to her own conclusions. Here’s what I knew for sure. Jo’s eyes were upon me, and she was half laughing, yet mentally holding my hand and saying a silent prayer for hair.

So with that support, I let myself off the hook so Vicki could experience her own little ‘wig journey’. Her gentle fingers walked up beneath my hair, nudged the elastic, and leisurely walked back to my shoulders. She knew. And in a moment she’d absorbed the idea, and already moved head.

Still upside down, I was tempted to say something, but the pendant from my necklace had fallen across my lips and I so I couldn't speak.  So providing I didn’t choke, I was taking away a few sweet lessons. Firstly there’s always someone in my corner. Secondly –

Life may turn you upside, and no explanation is required.

Normal-itis

Ed

There’s a touch of Normal-itis going on around here today.

The 19 lb cat, though he has a bald patch on his back, has stopped licking. Apparently he had fleas, and is on medication. For the first time in weeks, he’s back to purring like a giant engine, lying on top of bodies, and smothering us while we sleep.

Sunshine and a Latte

Jed’s stitches came out and he’s walking around as thought he owns the neighborhood. Still sporting an undershirt (‘cus he scratches) he prances along the sidewalk soaking up admiring glances. The local crossing guard waits for our arrival, and as a greeting, hoists his ‘Stop’ sign across his substantial belly and sings ‘You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Only in Leslieville does one get admired for wearing a wife-beater shirt out in public.

Jim is busy bringing home the bacon, but returns at night to a calmer home. When the back door opens, the pets run to greet him. Two clumsy bodies for the price of one - that is Jim’s Happy Hour.

I’ve finally calmed down, (now that’s it been a week since treatment), to a near-ish normal level of lunacy.  No more putting milk in the cupboard, or wondering if I’ve shrieked, rather than  spoken, into the phone. Also, I had a massage yesterday, and feel like I left some of the crazy on the table.

Last night Jed and I made a triumphant return to the dog park. Jed sprang thorough the gate as though he’d just spotted a meadow full of badgers.  I was wearing my wig and cap, and I sidled over to my one friend who knows about my Bald-itis. It had been a while since I’d been in, and most people associate me with short hair, rather than the chin length bob that I was sporting. I told my friend I was bracing myself for comments. She laughed and said not to worry, “Everyone here is too self-absorbed to notice.”

Basset Bum

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The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins

I have a lot of hats. Maybe not quite 500, like Bartholomew Cubbins, but it sure feels like it. But like young Mr Cubbins, I am rarely hatless. Often I wear two at once! Coming in from the outdoors I take off one ‘going out’ hat, to reveal my smaller ‘indoor’ hat. That way, my wig will stay covered, and I won’t have to do a self-conscious swap in public.

Our front hall is now festooned with hats. Open the closet, and it overflows with jaunty caps, eager for the right occasional. About 100 of these hats are the result of my own panic buying. Prior to baldness I over-anticipated the amount of head coverings I was going to need. What made it more seductive is the best hat store in the universe, tucked away on the 3^rd floor of princess Margaret Hospital. They have a fine selection! (And the hats, though appropriate for baldies, are not specifically for that purpose. Their splendid stock is selected for it’s considerable size, excellent head coverage, and top-notch quality).

The 500 Hats of Me

Another bunch of caps were ordered on-line at 3 am from a company in Utah. They specialize in head coverings for girls like me, and while not particularly stylish, are very cozy for bed.

The remaining 300 hats (I exaggerate, of course) were gifts from my favorite people, who correctly predicted that I’d relax under the comfort of something stylish and cozy. These ones are special (Thanks Caleb!), because of the sweet consideration that went into their selection, and the understanding that an egghead needs low coverage, a generous fit, as well as a certain je ne sais quoi.

Both Bart Cubbins and I can stack our hats quite high. As he takes off one hat, another appears that is more beautiful than the last, until he reveals the final hat, which is gilded, and covered with gems.

My hat stack is a little shorter. As all the hats are removed there is a wig named Julie, which though not gilded, has some nice reddish-brown highlights. Beneath that, there is my own gilded crown. 

In itself it is a gem, and my mother says it is perfect. 

Pink Flamingos

Many years ago, Jim and I went to visit his parents at their winter home near Lakeland Florida. He enticed me by misrepresenting it as a ‘Trailer Park,’ when in fact, it was something a lot more classy.  Where I was hoping to find plastic pink flamingoes and rusted hibachis, I found instead generous doublewide mobile homes with tasteful furniture.

Life there went on at it’s own cheerful step. There were card games, Mai-Tais, and a community swimming pool. (There was also a little stream with an alligator in it). And when the senoirs wanted to bust out, they could go in to town to shop, or to Hooters, for some wings!

Freedom 55!

Life was nice in that park. The big world seemed to stay outside, announcing its' presence  through newspapers, or TV. Residents set their own pace, and familiar faces walked, or rolled around (on giant tricycles), amidst laughing, euchre, and gin.

Week three of my treatment and my life is going at my own pace. Calm tasks fill the day. If so inclined (I’m not) I could learn to knit, or try a new recipe. There are books to read, friends to see, and plants that need my attention. In effect I’ve created my own little Lakeland.

Life in Little Lakeland is okay! Firstly, I rarely go downtown anymore. It really IS loud, and I’ve lost my ambition to run yellow lights and scream loudly into my cell phone. When I want to socialize I tend towards in-home rather than going out. Firstly, being out takes a lot of effort.  Secondly, there’s pressure to do my hair. And thirdly, why eat in a restuarant when I can buy a perfectly delicious (organic) chicken pie, and serve it on the sofa!

Exercise, now, is of slower variety. Yoga, which had escalated to become a Lulu Lemon fashion show, is simple. No more twisting into a pretzel while showing off one’s flair for Sanskrit. My new mat mates roll around gently in their worn Winner’s pants, contemplating how to get themselves upright and home, without fainting.

And as for the alarm clock – I don’t need it anymore! If I don’t sleep well, it’s perfectly acceptable to have a nap during day. And no job means no getting up early. No dealing with deadlines, or super-stressed ulcer-plagued colleagues with their masseuse on speed dial. In fact, I don’t often have to rush to be anywhere. And, on most days, my friends can find me close to home, should they need me.

My own little Lakeland isn’t perfect . The real Lakeland had more cocktails, and to be honest, I never once saw Russ or Jeannie (Jim’s parents)  get tired. (In fact, they often took happy hour at the ABC Liquor Lounge, then carried on merrily to the Branch Ranch). But my home is peaceful, and  pleasant retreat. Eventually my desires will be more enthusiastic, and I will to add a few thing to my needs. So, I'm planning on holding onto the serenity, while adding flamingos, and late night TV.

Smart Girls Don't Wear Chin Straps

Normally on Halloween I like to dress as something sexy. As per tradition, I head over to my sisters' house to hand out candy, so she’s free to wander the streets of High Park with her little goblin. But last night I wasn’t feeling remotely flirty, so it was Jane Goodall who headed across town, complete with a bag of monkeys and a sensible hat.

Although I would have preferred to lie under my duvet, I forced myself to find chinos, boots and a turtleneck. To complete my sexless look I had cheap blonde wig which I put in a ponytail. Wearing a wig is no problem, I’m used to it. But wearing an itchy nylon wig is something no world famous primatologist should ever have to endure. Nor should I. So I rifled through my closet to see if my own store-bought hair had come with any helpful accoutrements.  Lo and behold, there were two packages in my wig box that were waiting to be discovered. One was a ‘Fishnet Wig Cap,’  and the other, also from the ‘Hairess Corporation’, was an Adjustable Chin Strap.

Inappropriate Headgear

Who the f*ck wears a chinstrap? Fake hair is bad enough, so why advertise it by wearing a brown elastic under the chin. And this is no discreet strap. It’s as thick as an earthworm, with two gigantic clips on either end that could only be disguised by gigantic ears and an enormous head. The only human known to mankind to engage with this sort of contraption was Alice, (from the Brady Bunch), who wore a chin protector in private so that she wouldn’t get jowls. And as morose as I was feeling yesterday, I was nowhere near the point of being an architect’s maid, sequestered in a windowless room off the kitchen.

I must admit, it made me a cross. We bald ladies are vulnerable to the occasional hair crisis, but we work hard to be strong and subtle, and it cheapens all our efforts to have someone toss an ugly Adjustable Chin Strap our way, as though it’s going to save the day.  Neither Jane nor I were to be bothered with such nonsense.  We could keep our hair on just fine without the ‘Hairess Corporation’. We are resourcefull gals. And smart. All we need are brains and a Tilley hat.

Proper Jungle Attire

Fueled by something other than self-pity,  I stood proudly on my sister’s front porch, a monkey on my hip, and my hair in a sensible pony tail. Though I missed my kitten-ish outfits from previous years, I was warm, comfortable and dressed as someone brilliant.  However, none of the kids knew who I was, and many didn’t even bother looking up. They just grunted something primordial, and held open their giant pillowcases. To them I offered meagre rations. Then one beautiful princess with long blonde hair scrambled ups the stairs, guarded by her mother. “You’re Jane Goodall!” said the mom. The clever princess looked up at me, broke into a big smile,  and squealed. “ I LOVE Jane Goodall.”

Thank you pretty princess, I love you too. Have a bowl of candy.

Meltdown Monday

I have a close friend (kind, generous, very funny) who works hard to make her life happy.  Some of that work includes therapy, which is great for me, since she does all the grueling analysis, pays all lot of money, then passes her knowledge my way. She’s sort of like my personal ‘self-help’ shopper. And she usually offers exactly what I need.

One of my favorite pieces of advice comes from this lovely girl, and here it is.
“Just because you’re having a meltdown doesn’t mean you're not coping”.

Now I’m not saying today’s going to be a bad day. But it is Monday, the days are getting shorter, and soon the streets will be filled with kids dressed like sleazy housewives, and aliens. The 19 lb cat has to go to the vet because he’s licking himself bald, and I packed away all my summer sandals. Sadly, I need to run a bunch of errands, even though I’d be happier under a duvet. There's not enough hand sanitzer in the world to make me feel protected,  and by the time I’ll get to Loblaws, there's a chance they’ll have run out of candy.

So I’m carrying this pearl of wisdom in my back pocket,  just in case. Because according to my friend, it doesn't matter that I may need to shove aside a few strollers filled with germy dinosaurs. As long as I get out of the Bulk Barn without really hurting anyone, I'm still coping. In my own delightful way.

Date with the Russian Nurse

 “What time would you like to receive me?” my Russian nurse asked over the phone, in order to arrange my post-chemo shot. “Anytime before noon,” I managed to say, without adding ‘your Royal Highness’.  Then, as is befitting nurse royalty, I got to the task of straightening up. Dusting, shaking out dog blankets, and programming some CD’s. Sounds crazy, I know. But here’s why.

Possible Nurse Ancestor

Over the summer the Russian Nurse was my one structured moment of the day. Because I was convalescing, I liked to have a certain amount of order. And that meant that our normally tidy house would be super-duper clean. So, pre-visit, I’d vacuum (with one arm) all the dog hair, do the dishes, and put on some soothing CDs. Lhasa, Cesaria Evora, Norah Jones, girls like that. One day, after our bandage changing, the Russian nurse declared, “I truly appreciade your eggsalent taste in music.”

I thanked him, and for each subsequent visit made sure that I programmed something that might meet his approval. Even if I were in the mood for a Blue Rodeo marathon, (which I am today) I would switch it to Glenn Gould, Edith Piaf, or some other ‘bandage changing music’.  One day Jim came home while I was programming the CD player, “What is this, a date?” He asked. And it pretty much was. Here was the routine. Alexi (for that is his name) would arrive at my door in an angora cardigan, pressed trousers, and stylish shoes. He’d come in, greet the dog,  I’d turn up the music, and we’d all head up to the bedroom. I asked if he minded having Jed staring at him, and he said “Absoludely not. Dogs are much smarter then beeple.”  Jed would hop on the bed, I’d take my top off, and Alexi would check my incisions. “Beauty-ful!” he’d declare.

Today when Alexi came he told me I looked great. I told him he looked great (he was all Hugo Boss) to which he matter-of-factly replied, “ I know.”  Because it was just a quick shot in my behind, he did his work in the dining room to the strains of Leonard Cohen. And really I must admit that he can almost justify his arrogance, because he does flawless bandaging and painless needles. The tiny shot, incidentally, costs a whopping $2,750.

So as far as dates go, this ones not so bad. A dashing man pulls up in his Jaguar, gives you a three thousand dollar treat, and hands you a compliment. 

There are worse ways to start the day.

Spa day

There are three good things about chemo day. (Actually four, if you include the life-saving aspect) Firstly, I’m amongst my people. Most scenarios,  I’m the only person wearing a wig, and the only one with a secret. Yesterday I invited an acquaintance in for coffee, and once we got in my house, I realized I couldn’t take  my hat off  (my hair sometimes comes with it). But at Mt Sinai Hotel  & Spa, my brethren surround me.

Today, in the waiting room, I was the only one with hair.  Three women wore kerchiefs, two were wearing hats, and one had a glorious purple scarf wrapped around her head, a sparkling diamond clasp at the nape of her neck. Another woman, the most beautiful in the room, was completely bald, and glowing. I’d seen her a week early, with full dark Mediterranean curls. Now she was even more gorgeous, fully accessorized, laughing, and acting as though hair had been an inconvenience her entire life, so she’d decided to get rid of it. Like a bad marriage. Or a futon.

The second good thing are the egg sandwiches. A cheerful Scottish volunteer rolls around a trolley full of food. Today she was wearing pearls.  Amongst her wee snacks are juice, cookies, cheese & crackers, and egg  sandwiches.  She hands them out to everybody, patients and companions alike.  As far as egg sandwiches goes, these are the really good ones only found at senior’s bridge games, and funerals. 

Squishy white bread, a thin layer of egg (with a droplet of mayonnaise), thoughtfully cut on the diagonal. When she saw us walking down the hall (en route for a blood taste) she was genuinely concerned that we might miss our treats and drove her trolley at top speed to load us up with cookies. Later, when we were settled, she came by and offered Jim a sandwich. “Egg or Tuna dear?” His eyes lit up “ Egg Sandwich, Please!’’

Thirdly are the nurses, and  particularly mine, Nurse Marion. She moves around the room as though she’s hosting a cocktail party, handing out blankets, sharing tips on shoes, and checking my IV bag. “Oh look dear, we’re almost done with this one, let’s have another!” she says merrily, as though it just occurred to her that one more Mai-Tai might just be in order. Her mood, like the other health care people in the room, is decidedly upbeat.

As we left yesterday, loaded up with cookies and juice (something for the road) I said goodbye- to Marion. In the corner of the room was a fragile looking lady, sleeping under a blue blanket. She was in a vinyl lazy-boy like mine, and her little bald head was resting on a pillow. As the trolley went on it’s final round, her head jerked straight up and she said, “Dammit! Did I miss the sandwiches?”

Just another day at the spa.

Kale, Glorious Kale

I knew I was in trouble when I saw the Pie Chart.  Having failed miserably at group therapy, I signed on for a nutrition class. Arriving a few minutes late, the speaker was  mid-PowerPoint presentation when I crossed the screen to get to a seat. He wasn’t amused. As is often the case with health food people, he looked undernourished and slightly anemic. Certainly the last guy I ‘d pick for a baseball team. (And if he made the cut, I’d put him way out in the field). 

Even though he was the only one without cancer, he was the grouchiest person in the room.  When one tiny Asian woman struggled with English to ask about cooking oils, he said, “I think we’ll just stick to our presentation, if you don’t mind." Dink.

By the end of his horrifically dull presentation I hadn’t learned a thing – clearly I’d underestimated my own level of knowledge, which, thanks to my support team, is constantly improving.  My diet has always included a lot of salads, salmon, blueberries, red wine, and nuts. So I’ve had a good start. My marvelous masseuse (who has a vast knowledge of alternative medicine) sang the praises of barley, and shitake mushroom, so I promptly whipped up a cauldron of barley/mushroom soup. Delicious!

This is not Jim

High on my list are the cruciferous vegetables such as broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower and kale. The greener the better, and kale is everywhere this time of year. Because my next treatment is tomorrow (#3. Halfway!) I’ve been jamming my body full of fruits and vegetables, regardless of my appetite. Besides my ten thousand gallons of water, I’m including freshly squeezed oranges, coconut water (boring, needs rum), and pomegranate juice.

But Kale, to me, is king. Right now it’s so grand & and leafy, and wilts so stubbornly, that it’s got to be working miracles. (It also takes up most of the fridge). I’ve tried it in many different ways, but here’s my new favorite.  Rip the leaves into bite size pieces, drizzle with olive oil, and bake. Sprinkle some sea salt on the finished product and, Ta-Da! Delicious nutritious chips.

I think it’s time that a certain nutritionaist   re-drew his  Pie Chart  to include a little 1% slice for something more fun than steamed fish.  Who cares if it disrupts the power point presentation? Life’s too short not to have chips.

A Fine Whine

I’ve slimmed down lately. For the first few months following my diagnoisis I was on the 'stress diet', which is as equally effective as my teenage ‘first boyfriend break-up diet.’ Ten pounds came off just like that!

Then came chemo, and the never before attempted ‘no wine’ diet. The weight comes off slowly, and miserably. Most boring diet ever.  Friends with kids say that it’s just like being pregnant, which just a big fat fib. My understanding is that pregnant woman lose their craving for alcohol. I, on the other hand, have not lost my craving one bit. I crave wine all the time.  Yesterday I went to the liquor store to buy some cooking wine (for wild mushroom risotto), and as I walked through the aisles with tears in my eyes an Argentinean Cabernet called my name. “¿Donde esta usted?”, it asked.

I miss everything. Selecting a wine that goes nicely with the meal, easing the cork out of the bottle, and the deep glug from the depths, as the wine leaves the bottle and splashes into my glass. And I truly miss a luxurious cambozola on crusty bread, washed down by something red, deep, and delicious.

The irony is, that I often wake up feeling a slightly hung-over. Chemo dehydrates, in much the same fashion of a 1980’s university hangover where you had so many Black Russians that you thought you can do the splits. Not fair to wake up wake up with a headache without a drop to drink. So to counteract, I drink gallons of liquids a day. Water is crucial to help flush out the toxins, so I’m dedicated to pouring as much as possible through my system. (My skin, which should be dry, is actually feeling pretty great).

Come the New Year, my treatment will be complete. By then I will have saved thousands of dollars on alcohol, and fit into my favorite old jeans. I’ll also have salvaged hundreds of hours by avoiding bars, and making drunken late night calls to Kathy Morgan, my oldest friend.  There’s a lot to being said for being sober – its kind of fun to be alert every moment of every day. And I enjoy watching my friends get hammered, or pouring Jim into the passenger seat. So there’s a part of me that thinks I could give up drinking forever, but then from the distance, I hear the sweet pop of a cork.  Jolted back to reality I remember what happened at the liquor store as I walked through the aisles gazing at my old friends.

When the Argentinean wine called to me, I called back softly.  “Amigo, me espera, I will soon return.”