Favorite Place

Cape Breton.
Most beautiful place on earth.

My surgery is tomorrow, and I’ve been getting prepared. Belleruth Naparstek, my new best friend, has been guiding me through some meditation. Her voice, which comes through my ipod, tells me that my body (intelligent & vital) and the doctors (caring, confident) will work together to make me strong and whole. In soothing tones she reminds me that bright new cells are lining up to do exactly what they’re supposed to do, and I am completely, and utterly safe. She neglects to mention if any of the doctors are incredibly handsome.

Then Belleruth encourages me to go to a place that I love. It is of my choosing, and can be real, or imagined. Once there, she invites me to look around, feel the sun on my face, enjoy the comfort of a warm breeze, or a cozy fire. The feel of a soft blanket,  the smell of the ocean, a pine forest,  the sounds of laughter, or birds.

This part of the meditation drives me a bit nuts because there are too many choices. At first, I settle down with Earl and Kathleen on the back deck of their house in Cape Breton, and listen to the crickets. The sun is indeed on my face. From the kitchen I hear fiddle music on the radio, and off in the distance, the sound of tires crunching on a gravel road. Earl is telling a story, and is chuckling. I am breathing deeply and with contentment. But wait!  There’s an empty muskoka chair on a dock in Honey Harbour. Dammit! I’m on the move.

I'll be back!

In a split second I go from Cape Breton to my cousin’s dock, where she is laying out lunch for four of our girlfriends, which we will eat while gazing out over the water. Belleruth tells me to breath more deeply, but I’m not even settled into my chair! Would I like a glass of  Proseco? Yes please, that would be lovely. Quickly I try to catch up to Belleruth. I experience the sun on my face, a bird, and the sounds of the popping cork. I await contentment.

At this point I’m supposed to be deep in my favorite place. I try to concentrate on the soft air, and the gentle breeze that blows around me. Is my hair blowing?  (Belleruth doesn’t mention whether or not my hair has grown back, or if I’ve been able to dye it, or if even Cosmo has been available for an an appointment). Perhaps I am barefoot, says Belleruth, and can feel the warm floor beneath my feet. Wait! Warm feet are a great idea, but why not go for warm rocks – the kind that slope gently from Kathy Morgan’s cottage in Go Home Bay. And just as I’m supposed to be going into deeper relaxation I’m zipping off again, where I quickly place myself down on the warm rock between my friends Kathy and Katie, and a delicious plate of cambazola.

Kathleen, Jim, Lobster

By now Belleruth is way ahead of me and is introducing my ‘magical friends and protectors’. Huh? I’m barely settled and have to start all over with the warm breeze on my face. I look for a bird. I haven’t even decided if I’m lying on a towel or directly on the rock, and Katie still hasn’t opened the wine cus she can’t figure out the corkscrew. I lean back and try to inhale sunlight into my belly. (Why didn’t I bring a screwtop?) I should be relaxed, but I’m curious about what Kathleen was making for dinner, and end up back in her kitchen just as Earl and Jim are about to crack into a perfectly chilled lobster claw.

I am not relaxed. Not at all. I have too many favorite places, and my ‘magical friends’ are getting hungry, and one of them is a vegetarian.  But I am happy and grateful that I have so many places I like to be. So I send the vegetarian back to Marilyn’s, and tell Katie to call me when she figures out the corkscrew. In the meantime, I stay in Cape Breton for a lobster dinner, and listen to the rest of Earl's story.

Oo - Oo Itchy Woman

When I was in high school, I had a friend with a swimming pool in her back yard. She wasn’t my friend just because of the pool, though being associated with such luxury was a major coup.

On sunny summer afternoons, when we should have been working, we’d watch ‘Another World’ followed by a leisurely swim. Both her parents worked, so we pretty much had the house to ourselves. On hot days the phone would start ringing, and other friends would drop by. It was all very relaxed unless we received a phone call from ‘the guys’.

Me

‘Okay Jan,’ she said, hanging up the phone one afternoon, ‘The guys are coming over. Get up, we’ve got to shave.' We were only sixteen, and didn’t know anything about getting our bikini lines waxed, so we took care of things with any available razor. I’d like to think it was her mom’s, but who knows? It all happened with such urgency than I used any tool that was placed in my hand.

By the time our gentleman callers had arrived we were hairless, and reclining prettily on the chaise lounges. They didn’t care. They thought of us like sisters and wouldn’t have noticed moss growing out of our bathing suits. Water was the only thing that interested them. Followed closely by their DuMaurier cigarettes, six-pack of Export Ale, and a Burger King Whopper, with fries.

Them

Hair grows very quickly when shaved. And in sensitive areas, it comes back itchy. So following our afternoons with the guys came a whole lot of scratching. Multiply that feeling by a few decades, and here I go again. The return of my hair is not nearly as subtle as it’s departure. It’s like springtime all over my body (yes, I'm bald everywhere), and in the more delicate areas I’m keenly aware of its return (scratch scratch). It’s barely visible, but I can feel a million tiny follicles bursting with life. As exciting as this may be, I’ve enjoyed my silky smoothness, and having legs that were pool-ready, all the time.

Tomorrow is spa day (my first in a long time) with some favorite friends. Tonight four gorgeous gals will be drinking Chardonnay and wrestling with wax, hiding in their bathroom and contorting into painful pretzels, trying to rip out every stubborn hair. And moi? I’m still almost as smooth as a baby’s arse, and as long as I can keep from scratching myself, pool-ready one more time.

Foxy Lady

I was wrestling with my wig recently, trying to make it pretty. It was sitting in my lap, and I was attacking it with a brush, when Jim poked his head in the room. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. To which I replied, ‘Trying to fix my hair.’ He looked at the tangled mess in my hands and told me,‘That is not your hair.’ Then he pointed to my head, ‘That’s your hair.'

The funny thing is, the wig has become my hair. It took me about two months to get used to wearing it, but since it sat right next to my skin, it became my official 'do. Because it was comfortable, I made it a habit to keep it on all the time, taking it off only in the evening.  In my mind, I am a girl with a smart brown bob.

But underneath the wig, I am a Silver Haired Fox-ette. The little bristles have gotten longer, and are not so bristley anymore. In fact, I can grab my soft hairs between my thumbs and forefinger and give them a little tug. (The area that was formerly a Friar Tuck bald spot has started to fill in, though it is in no way fit for public viewing, as the hairs are only slightly longer than a hamster.)

Foxy Lady!

So now, instead of having Head & Hair, I have Head & Hair & Hair. It feels wrong to have two layers of hair! Particularly since both of them are mine, and I still need to wear them together. My $1,600 investment is no longer disguising the fact that I am bald, it is now disguising my unwelcome shade of silver.

Due to popular demand (not really) I am attaching a photo. But don’t expect to see it in person, because the moment it gets long enough, I’m going to add some colour.  This Fox-ette, as soon as possible,  is going back to brown.

Second Best Story, Ever

I don’t like hospitals. But then Jim reminds me that Mt Sinai Hotel & Spa is a place of healing, rather than a place of torture. It’s always a welcome reminder, and a few days ago I had the chance to experience a stranger's success story in person.

I was standing in the lobby, waiting for my friend. It was a busy afternoon, and people were rushing around everywhere. On all sides of me patients were pouring out of elevators, as revolving doors spat out one puffy parka after another. Medical personnel, surgical masks hanging around their necks, whizzed by clutching midday caffeine. 

Amongst the throngs, I noticed one man standing still. I’d happened to glance over at an elevator just as it unloaded it contents; a Shriners’ busload of passengers.  As they flew off in different directions, this man stayed where he was, standing just outside the elevator doors. He was short fellow with a thatch of thick white hair and wore a retirees uniform of beige windbreaker, button down shirt, and baggy chinos that were clean and ironed. His hands were in his pockets. I guessed he was Irish, and if he hadn’t look so tired he could have been an elf. But he was slightly stooped over and appeared a little lost. His large eyes, which were clear and blue, scanned the crowd slowly.

Following his gaze, I noticed a tall woman rushing across the floor. Her smart green hat perfectly matched her coat, and she carried a handbag.  She looked worried, as though she may be late, and I took her to be his wife. It was she who he was waiting for, and when he saw the green hat move through the sea of plainer hats his face softened, and he stood up a little taller. They were about twenty feet apart when their eyes finally locked, and as she worked her way through the crowd he started to smile. Unable to contain himself, his smile broadened, and as his face split wide open a thousand laugh lines formed around his eyes and he took his hands out of his pockets, extended both arms, and held up his thumbs with such vigour that I thought that lightning would fly across the room.

The lady in the green hat paused and cupped her hands over her mouth. With one more step she threw her arms around the little man and pulled him close. Laughing, he gazed up at her, sharing happy details. She looked down at him adoringly, pulling him even closer, and buried her face in his hair. He leaned into her chest, his arms around her waist, hands clasped tightly behind her back.

My friend kissed me on the cheek and I turned to greet her. When I looked for the couple they'd left, and the spot where they’d clung together had already been taken over. But at that moment I knew two things. Firstly, the couple, wherever they went, were heading towards something splendid. I knew that for certain. Secondly, (and more selfishly), their memory is mine to summon forever. There will be bad days at Mount Sinai, and I have many more appointments ahead. But for days that are less than perfect, there will always be a small blue-eyed man standing by the elevator, waiting to share some good news, with lightening flying out of his fingers.

Preparing for a Second Date

My surgeon and I had a date last Friday. He’s got a glamorous South American name, but because my sister Sue can't remember it, he is known amongst us as Dr. Escargot.

Because of an upcoming procedure (which is very small) I’ve been practising some relaxation techniques. I don’t actually enjoy surgery, and this was evident to everyone involved in the first operation.  I was anxious going to sleep, anxious waking up, and didn’t calm down until the Percocet kicked in, a few hours later.

Preparing for Surgery

But this time is going to be different. Recently I’ve discovered Guided Meditation, and it’s going to help me stay calm through surgery. They promised! According to the CD, it will make me feel relaxed, happy, and confident about my surgical team. We will all work together to make it a stressless situation.

There are a few steps to total relaxation. (Previously my preferred method of relaxation was a one-step wonder known as Atavin). According to my CD, you picture yourself in a nice place, as well as a few other scenarios, eventually picturing yourself in your hospital bed saying, ‘Oh, I’m so comfortable’. In between are a couple of other awkward steps, one of which is meeting with the anaesthetist.

The meditation lady suggests calling him/her and requesting that they say positive things during the surgery about how the success of the operation. She believes these positive affirmations from the medical team will make me feel that we are all participating in the same adventure. I like this idea, if only because it’s a better option than having your surgeons make fun of you while you slumber.

As I was sitting with Escargot, my CD fell out of my bag and onto the floor. He picked it up and examined it closely. I told him that I was going to be the most relaxed patient he’d ever seen.  He looked slightly skeptical, but I told him about my wake-up goal, and thinking, ‘I’m so fu*king comfortable’.  I explained how this is psychologically superior to thinking, ‘I’m so glad it’s over’, since that suggests that surgery is not your friend. And, I am endeavouring to be pals with my surgery.

Dr. Escargot leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. ‘I like that,’ he said in his soft Colombian accent, sounding slightly like Marlon Brando playing a drug lord. ‘Surgery as a friend. That’s good. I’ve never thought about that.’

Never?! In forty years of medicine he never thought of surgery as being slightly disagreeable to the patient ?!   Escargot's scientific brain, or his ego, has been guiding him for far too long. Meanwhile I'm being guided my a soothing stranger on a CD. 


And thank God for that. Our next date is in two weeks. 

The Customer is Always Wrong

Next to Doctors, my Sales Ladies are the smartest people on the planet, and much better at giving advise. Today I headed to the wig salon at Princess Margaret Shopping Mall to see what I could find in the way of spa gear. When oncologist gave me the all-clear to return to public areas, my first thought was that I wanted to go to a steam room. My second thought was that I needed something to cover my hair.

'Which Way to the Pool?'

The wig shop offered two options. One was a saucy pink bathing cap with white polka dots and a little bow on the back.  I was ready to wear it home, but the bossy wig lady shook her head. ‘It’s just for pools,’ she said, ‘You’ll melt in the sauna.’ The other option was a turban.  I thought it was fabulous until she snatched it off my head and told me I looked too old.  Then she ordered me to go to a bathing suit store, which was just down the street. I don’t argue with the salespeople in the canceritis world anymore. Whether its wigs, hats, or vitamins, they all know better than I.

I arrived at the store just as it was closing, but the small Asian lady in black trousers kindly allowed me to enter.  Immediately, I was drawn to a plastic torso wearing a lacey brown bra, the most exquisite undergarment I’d ever seen. ‘You like?’ the saleslady asked. Oh yes, I thought, fondling it dreamy. I floated over to the bathing suit rack, admiring a beautiful one-piece belted suit with a stylish clasp. So lovely I gasped. ‘You like my store?’ the lady asked. I nodded. ‘You having mastectomy?’  I looked at her quizzically. She smiled and showed me the flip side of the bra. Each cup was fitted with interior pockets. In fact, everything in her store was designed  so it could be outfitted with pretend boobs.

 

I checked the brown lacey bra. It too had interior pockets. The saleslady smiled happily while steering me towards a stack of pretty pink miniature hat boxes. Inside each was a set of silicone breast forms. She took one out of the box and placed it in the palm of my hand, where it sat pertly, gazing up to me. I was silent. ‘Nice, ay?’ the saleslady said. She plopped another, much lighter, breast form in my other hand, ‘For summer,’ she explained.

I was speechless. Not only had I learnt that bathing caps are adorable, but that lingerie for the boobless is quite fun. I examined the bathing suits more closely and found that not only were they outfitted with fake breasts, but were more stylish than anything I’d seen in regular stores.

The saleslady showed me some camisoles and pointed out the feel of the fabric. She said that she wore them herself, (in spite of her real breasts), because they felt so nice. And sometimes she wore the bras, just because she liked them. Her eyes darted around the room as she hastily unbuttoned her white blouse and held it open, exposing a scrumptious raspberry brassiere. She beamed, and quickly re-buttoned her shirt.

Before I left I asked if she had any stylish headgear for baldies. I pointed to my head, ‘It’s a wig'. She reached up to touch it, ‘Nice!’ Before saying good-bye she said she didn’t have what I wanted, but gave me a quick hug, instead.

I’m still short one turban, but after experiencing such exquisite customer service, I’ll never go to a shopping mall again.

Clown Hair

This weekend Jim suggested we play a little game. ‘Hey,’ he said. 'Let’s take a photo of the top of our heads and see if anybody can tell who's who!’ I wasn’t very enthusiastic about his game. I was even less enthusiastic about the fact the my hair is short and grey. But what really irks me these days is that I have a bald spot on the top of my head, which is the size of a fried egg.

There was a time, long ago, where I thought it was cute that people saw a resemblance between Jim and me. The first time it happened we were sitting at the bar of a divey saloon in Illinois, enjoying a couple of ice cold beers.  I leaned over and kissed Jim’s neck. As two more Michelob’s were slammed down in front of us, the bartender said, ‘Are you guys brother & sister?’

He wasn’t the first person that has said that we looked alike. My mother was once asked if we were both her kids. And work colleagues have told us the same thing. I don’t really see it, but apparently we both have little noses, round eyes, and a winning smile. Also, we both like Levi’s. When someone remarks on our resemblance, we both take it as a compliment, and consider the other person to be extremely lucky.

Moi

But that was before I started to look like Friar Tuck. The hair on the sides is coming in just fine, and is beginning to create a gauzy halo around the sides of my head. On top, the hair is short, sparse, and the scalp is clearly visible. The sideburns, oddly, are a little bit darker. (And since they are more obvious, give me a bit of the cool factor, like Arthur Fonzarelli). But on the crown of my head I am almost completely bald. Call it what you want. Cue ball. Male patterned baldness. Clown hair. It really is quite worrisome.

However, all the books I’ve read say that the hair will ‘most definitely’ come back. They promised. It may not be what I wanted – and so far it’s a little disappointing - but I’ve got hope. And just in case my wig is stunting my follicle growth, I try to spend a little more time au natural. In private I ditch the wig, and behind closed curtains sit on the couch with a bald head and a Corona.

Sometimes Jim joins me and we’ll sit side by side. Just two brothers wearing Levi’s, enjoying an ice cold beer.

What’s Wrong with this Picture?

I don’t play the cancer card very often. It’s a conscious decision not to be viewed as less than healthy. Mostly, I save it for when I want my friend Jess to pick me up in her BMW with the passenger seat pre-heated.

But just because I’m not complaining doesn’t mean I want to listen to someone else’s problem, unless its from a very close friend. So yesterday, I was dragging the basset hound down the street, when I ran into a woman with whom I’ve had several conversations. She also has a dog, is my age, but apart from that, we have little else in common.

Sherman

Often, I listen to people more than I’d like to, because Jed will plant himself in the middle of the sidewalk, for long periods of time.  Moving him is like pulling a Sherman tank and I’m a sitting duck for grumblers.

So she asks me how I am. ‘Super Fantastic,’ I lie.  In fact I wasn’t fine at all, having had a wildly frustrating day dealing with hospital politics and absent doctors. But thinking that I was on top of the world, she launched into her own woes. One of which was having thinning hair. She’d had a high fever and some of her hair had fallen out. I didn’t care. ‘Look,’ she said, taking off her hat to prove how bad it really was.

‘Shut the f*ck up,’ Inner Voice said. But my outer voice, without thinking, blurted out , ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m bald.’ Her face fell, slightly confused, but with a spark of understanding. I threw her a bone. ‘I just finished chemo. And I’m fine. But this is a wig.’ She put her hand on my arm and said in hushed tones, ‘Oh no...do you have c..?’

‘Had,’ I cut her off. And then I turned the conversation around, saying that her hair, which was a thousand times more abundant than mine, would grow back. She was busy scanning my face. ‘Oh yeah,’ she said, ‘I can tell by your eyelashes. They’re thinner.’

No kidding. And this is exactly why I don’t talk about myself, because people look at you like a science experiment, or one of those puzzles at the back of People magazines, called, ‘What is Wrong With This Picture?’

Then she suggested that we have lunch some time. (I don’t think so). Thankfully Jed chose that moment to howl at a daschund, and the Sherman Tank turned into a Ferrari, and dragged me down the street.

5-Star Hair in a 3-Star Hotel

Celebrations were in order following the excellent results from my CT scan, so Jim and I headed for an overnighter in Niagara Falls USA. Not the prettiest town in the world, by any stretch of the imagination, but full of good shopping and some above average food. Also, the falls are pretty impressive.

After a day of shopping, and an early bird dinner, we headed back to the hotel to enjoy our luxury mattress and flat screen TV. For us, there’s nothing more delightful than climbing between crispy white sheets in a bed that someone else has made. For full relaxation, I decided to ditch the hair. The problem was, that I had nowhere to put it.

According to my friends at Continental Hair, a wig must be stored properly when not in use, to maintain its' $1,600 quality. Normally, after a long day of making me look good, the wig is placed over a styrofoam head in my closet. But since the head doesn’t have a passport, it had to stay at home.

A Fine Bob

So I looked around our 3-star room, and the only logical solution seemed to be the ice bucket. It was slightly tapered, so I flipped it over and placed my wig over its base. Still, the base was a bit too big and I didn’t want to overstretch the elastic. So that left the coffee machine. And since we had no intention of ever drinking weak American coffee, it was in need of a purpose. (Why drink motel coffee when Jim was perfectly capable of walking to Starbuck’s at 9 am in the middle of a snowstorm!)

So we lay in bed, (me in my sleep cap), looking at the hairy coffee machine across the room. ‘Did you know,' said Jim, ‘That I counted three ladies wearing wigs in the restaurant tonight?’  Really?! I did not know that, and I usually have a highly sensitive hair radar. But he was certain, having a stylish mother who dabbled with acrylic hair in the 70’s. 

‘It makes perfect sense,’ he said, ‘Saturday night. Niagara Falls. Early Bird. Seniors. Wigs.' Of course was right. And surely he was describing them, and not us. I thought of the ladies across town, who were probably at home, ripping off their fake hair, and storing it properly. So I sipped my red wine, thinking that the only thing separating me from those gals was about 35 years, a man in my bed, and a well coiffed Mr Coffee.

Live 'er

A tiny little spot has been bothering me for months. It turned up on my CT scan last October, and was on my liver.

‘I’m not concerned,' snapped my crabby oncologist, dismissing it as though I’d just announced that we were running low on paper clips. My surgeon agreed I needn’t worry, but said so more kindly. He said we have spots all over the place, and I really needn’t fret. So I turned to his Nurse and said ‘What if it is something?!’ She said that if it was something, which was quite unlikely, we’d deal with it later.

So for the last few months I’ve been thinking about this spot on my liver and praying (to various entities) that it was indeed nothing. But not-so-deep down, I was quite scared. Breast cancer is a bitch, but liver cancer would be a motherfu*ker. And this spot has been in the back of my mind every day as I covered my food in flax, while cutting out my beloved red wine, and sugar.

My secret plan was, that if the spot should turn out to be something, I would go directly to Brazil and take a pilgrammage to see ‘John of God’.  We’d line up for three days in order to be operated on with a rusty knife. (It works. My Russian Nurse told me) And Jim would go with me because every man needs the opportunity to run down a beach in Rio, wearing nothing but a thong.

Tuscan Soup & a Basset Hounf

Last Monday I had another CT scan, and since then I’ve been waiting impatiently for the results. I’ve been a wreck. I’ve slept very little and have forced myself to keep busy, resulting in an excessively clean house and a six gallons of Tuscan bean soup in the freezer.

Last Tuesday I went to see my psychiatrist, who asked about my current state of mind. When I told her I was afraid of dying from liver cancer she said, ‘That’s what we’re here for – to help you through.' Of course, I assumed this to mean she was privy to some top-secret information, and was preparing me for the worst. I related this conversation to Sue who said,  ‘She’s an asshole, don’t see her anymore.'

But what if the spot was something after all. That would only give me a few years to write my memoirs, eat escargot in France, learn to paint, build a house in Cape Breton, spend more time with my nieces an nephews, go hand gliding, take Jed on a road trip to Alaska in a Winnebago, and marry Jon Bon Jovi.

Lucky Frog

This morning I had an appointment with my mean oncologist. Not only did I want my test results, but I had chemo questions as well. I pictured Dr C coming in the room wearing high heels, opening her manila folder, and telling me she had some bad news.  In preparation I’d filled my pockets with some of my little talismans. A little frog (for longevity), a bag of sea salt (to ward off bad energy), and a picture of my father. I also took ½ an Adavin. After sitting in the exam room for an hour, we were told that doctor crabby pants would be late, but her intern was available. Desperate for someone to talk to, I said I’d talk to the intern until Dr C arrived to give me my test results.

Moments later the door opened and in breezed the intern. All white teeth and long hair, and so young she couldn't legally rent a vehicle.  I sat nervously in my chair, my list of questions perched on my lap, ready to fire away. ‘Hi Janet,’ she chirped,  hopping up on to the counter, ‘Nice to see you. By the way, your test results are fine.’

And that was it. No manila folder. No high heels. No sympathetic looks. No talking about how much time I had left. No problem with my liver. In six short seconds she’d just given me back my whole life. Downstairs in the lobby I shed a few tears of relief, and Jim’s ears let go of his shoulders. He opened a pocket and took out a green crane.

My liver is fine. We’re back to nearly normal. The road trip in the Winnebago will surely happen. And tonight we’re going out for wine.

Scarface

My hair normally parts on the right. I have no choice in the matter, as a scar on my upper forehead dictates the style. This 25-year-old scar starts just below my hairline and is barely visible. Most of it is covered by hair, and the remainder is covered by bangs. I rarely think about it, until someone points out, ‘Hey! You have a scar on your forehead!’ And I’ll quickly offer a Coles Notes version of the story.

In a nutshell, I hit my head on a rock when I was on vacation in the Dominican Republic. And yes, I was sober. I was knee deep in water with my back to the ocean, and a large wave knocked me down. I went to a local doctor and got stitches.

Place Scar Here

‘Holy shit,’ Jim said, the first time he examined my big bald head, ‘that scar really is big.' I took a look in the mirror, and sans hair, could clearly see the line where the skin had been split open. Surprising! It was much bigger than I remembered. While only one inch is obvious, it’s actually three inches long.  But since only a Coles Notes version of my scar was visible, I’d subconsciously adjusted the size my story. Now that it was totally exposed, the story came back to me in its entirety.

After hitting my head on the rock, I ended up horizontal on the beach. Two people helped me sit up and tried to stop the bleeding. The friend who I was travelling with recalls looking up from her sunbathing to see me with two strangers, and assumed that I’d made some new friends. Shortly a little crowd gathered and someone ran to find a doctor. I knew my name, but I didn’t know much else. Then a gorgeous brown woman in a bikini came bursting through the crowd, carrying a ‘Julio Iglesias’ lunchbox. She quickly took control, opening the box and taking out bandages, gauze, and an antibiotic. Unfortunately her Julio Iglesias First Aid kit offered only temporary relief -  it was clear I needed to go to the hospital.

Some time later (I had no track of time), a pick-up truck came roaring down the beach. I was put on a lounge chair, which was hoisted onto the back of the truck. My friend (and kind strangers) took me to the closest medic, a gynecologist who operated a one-room clinic in town.

I remember looking up and seeing the doctor (I assumed he was a doctor) threading a needle with thick, black thread. I remember my friend, in her skimpy bathing suit, singing me a song in an attempt to jog my memory. And I remember the sound of the scissors as my hair was cut away from the wound. Once back in Toronto, my own doctor examined the stitches and said how lucky I was to have found a gynecologist, as he was probably the most capable with stitches.

But as I told Jim this story there were other things I would like to know. For instance, I would like to know who the people were that helped me, and especially the man was who drove me to the hospital. It must have taken four people to lift me into the truck I don’t know who any of them were.

The soft hairs are slowly coming in will soon cover my scar once again. I’m glad I had the chance to see it bare and unprotected. It’s easy to dismiss something when it’s invisible.

Monkey Arms

When I was in grade five, during the heat of early summer,  I would wear a cardigan to school.  Some kids would ask if I was hot, to which I’d answer, ‘I’m fine.’ Truthfully, I was boiling. But sweating like a pig was a better option than exposing my hairy arms and being teased by my classmates.  ‘Monkey arms,’ is what the mean girls would call me, revealing their limited exposure to other cultures, and our hairy Mediterranean sisters. 

Later, I was delighted to find that my best friend Kathy Morgan also had hairy arms. She wasn’t shy about showing them off, and would twist the hairs between moistened fingers, to see if she could twirl them into a tiny stand-up ponytail. Eventually, even she got tired of the hair, and one afternoon before the high school prom, she shaved them.

Many years later, I was standing on a bus in Korea. Not only was I the tallest person, but also the hairiest. My arm was extended upwards, holding on to a strap. Dark eyes were discreetly looking up at my pale hirsute skin. Once again, I was flooded with that old self-conscience feeling.  I thought about the offending hairs, and wished them away.

But oh how things have changed! Recently I was going through my post bath ritual of dousing myself in moisturizing cream. I noticed, not for the first time, how I hairless I really am. Every place that hair should be on a regular gal is silky smooth on me. Except for my 14 eyelashes, I am as smooth as a baby’s arse.

Hairy Arm (foreground) &  Hairy Dog (background)

That is, except for my arms. I have seen them everyday since I was born, and examining them pretty closely since grade five. But only in the last few days did it occur to me that the arms on my hair is still mostly there. True-  it's thinned a little,  and the hairs are fine and blonde, but at a time where my body has sometimes let me down, my loyal limbs have stubbornly refused to desert me.

This morning (while watching Coronation Street) I did something I haven’t done since high school. I licked my fingers, (a la Kathy Morgan)  grasped the hairs, and twisted them into delicate spirals, and they stood in triumph  on my dry, sun-deprived skin. Childhood shame had been replaced with grown-up pride. I couldn’t stop looking at my arms, which looked so alive, and wonderfully familiar. My monkey arms. Loyal friends.

So, many years ago, in a classroom kept at a toasty 90 degrees, I covered my arms with a sweater. In these chilly days of winter, when I meet friends for coffee, I am going to wear a short sleeved shirt. 

‘You must be cold,’ they’ll say.

‘I’m fine,’ I’ll reply, ‘But look at my arms, and check out the hairs! My hairs are standing on end.’

A Tale of Two Chickens

Yesterday I went to my hospital for a small procedure; one which required that I deprive myself of food for a number of hours. At about 1 pm, I was sitting in the waiting room, hungry, thirsty, and tired. Having just finished my book, I had little to do except stare around the room at my fellow fasting testees who were almost all focused on the TV, gazing longingly at the food commercials.

Several people were with their companions. The buddies are there for moral support, and don’t have the same restrictions we do. Of course, nobody is telling those folks not to eat, but common courtesy would dictate that you don’t bring your lunch to the 5^th floor waiting room of Mt Sinai Hotel & Spa.

So I was slightly alarmed when one fellow, who was waiting for his wife, quietly slid his hand into his man-purse and pulled out a lunch bag. He was sitting at the end of the row, and seemed to think he was invisible. Without looking up, he unrolled the bag and pulled out a saran wrapped sandwich the size of an oven mitt. He slowly and lovingly pulled back the saran wrap and leaned forward to take a big bite. I was staring at him, disbelieving, the whole time. From where I sat I could make out what appeared be a sliced meat extravaganza featuring mortadella, salami, tomatoes, red onion, and ham.

Because of my current lack of ability to self-censor, I’m afraid to think nasty thoughts lest I say them out loud. ‘Put it away Dagwood’ ran through my head. As did, ‘Arsehole’. But I said nothing, as it wasn’t the worst waiting room breach of etiquette that I’ve ever seen.

The worst was back in August when I was waiting for my lumpectomy. At that point I’d been fasting for over twelve hours, and was sitting in a fluorescent room wearing a blue gown, paper slippers, and a hair net (I wasn’t bald, yet). I’d been up since 5 am and hadn’t had a coffee. I was thirsty, and I was scared. Around me patients like myself shuffled around nervously, trying to get comfortable in their hard plastic chairs. The room was barren of entertainment, and all personal items had been stowed away.

Then there was a familiar smell. The kind of smell that dances on your tongue and clouds your better judgment. One associated with Christmas, Festive Specials, and a Chalets in the Alps. There, amongst a dozen people awaiting surgery, in a room smelling of medicine, some giant ass was tucking into his half chicken dinner from Swiss Chalet!

I remember turning to Sue and watching her eyes widen, and my mother thought it was kind of funny. But neither of them were as starving as me, or the other hungry inmates. I found it such an act of such inconsideration that I wanted the Mt Sinai Politeness Police to toss the offending party back to the outside world where he belongs.

But such a force doesn’t exist. So the Eater remained, working his way through his fries with gravy, as the rest of us waited for surgery. And even though it was annoying and thoughtless, one must accept that there are idiots everywhere, and the least they can do is provide a distraction.

So while we rolled our eyes in disgust I stopped thinking about surgery and forgot to be scared. And in the end, wanting a chicken from Switzerland was better than being a chicken at Mount Sinai, in paper slippers and a blue cotton gown.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Steroids are a funny drug. Not funny ‘ha-ha’. Funny in the way that my nerve endings sizzle, and the humming deep in my core is poised to erupt into a full scream. At any given moment, should anyone touch me inappropriately, or ask me a stupid question, I will change from mild mannered bald lady into the giant green monster known as the Incredible Hulk. Last week I was full of steroids, with the puffy face to prove it. Normal-ish on the outside,  I was spring-loaded on the inside. Bright lights hurt my eyes, harsh sounds hurt my ears, and pointless conversation hurt my brain.

During steroid week, I can end almost all conversations with, ‘I don’t give a sh*t’ and ‘Why are you still talking?’  The people in the dog park, normally inoffensive, seem as though they’ve been put on this earth specifically to annoy me. One lady with a faux leopard hat said that she’d taken the day off work to go to the dentist. “So?” I may or may not have said out loud. Seconds later, I’d wandered away, blinded by the sun, overcome with hostility.

I know now that there are things I should avoid during steroid days, which is pretty much everything. In the outside world, I don’t want to put myself in a position where someone might invade my personal space. God help the person who bumps my arm while I’m pouring milk into my take-out coffee, or nudges me off the sidewalk as they roll through Leslieville with their double wide jogging stroller, and a Labradoodle.

Things aren’t that much better at home. I avoid Jim’s tough lines of questioning, such as ‘What can I make you for dinner?’ or ‘Would you like an extra blanket?’ (And I've apologized to him for throwing box of Shreddies at his head). I especially avoid anyone who may leave extra long messages on their answering machines. I don’t want to sit through another Buddhist prayer, or listen to an entire family explain in rhyme, why they’re not home. I don’t care. Why are they still talking?

Unfortunately for my Psychiatrist, I was steroid crazy when I went to see her for our last session. She was 15 minutes late for the appointment so I was already jumpy when we finally got started. I’d barely sat down before launching into a brisk monologue regarding my lack of patience and crawling skin.  She nodded in that way that people nod when they’ve been to medical school for fifteen years. (I noticed that she was wearing ugly men’s black ankle socks). I glared at her, willing her to respond, my right knee bouncing uncontrollably. “I understand,” she said finally (finally!), “People are dealing with issues that have solutions, while your situation is life or death.”

I sizzled. My knee stopped jiggling. The hum in my stomach started vibrating wildly. “I need to correct you,” I said in someone else's voice, which sounded to me like Kathleen Turner, but was probably more like Lou Ferrigno. “I am not dealing with life or death,” I said, “ I’m dealing with life or life. Death is no longer an option.” I glared at her through blood shot eyes, ready to squish her like a bug with my enormous green hands.

The Hulk was angry. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath while Dr L.  crossed her legs, and apologized for her careless wording. The Hulk thought she should also apologize for her socks. But he accepted the apology, and I watched as my hands turn back to their regular size and colour. 

I sat up and smiled, “Okay Doctor, let's move ahead.”

Let Me Eat Cake

My darling big sister confessed that she is relieved that I've looked healthy throughout my treatment. She was afraid that I’d become one of those skinny cancer people, and to be honest, so was I.

The first time we sat in the waiting room awaiting my first IV, there was a woman sitting across from us who weighed less than 100 pounds. Her oxygen tank was on wheels, and she had a friend to help her pull it along. Her gold rimmed glasses slipped down her nose, and it took all her energy to slowly push them back up. At that time, we looked around the room, scared and confused, and wondered who I was going to become.

My biggest fear was that I’d be frail. Other fears, in no particular order, were weakness, nausea, mouth sores, brain fog, leg pain, and loss of nails. Baldness was down at the bottom of the list. With one round of drugs coursing through my veins, I don’t want to take anything for granted, but so far, it’s all been manageable and there’ve been no horrible surprises. Except this. I’m getting pudgy.

At first it was just the pie face, which I chalked up to those nasty steroids. That I could deal with, even though I didn’t look pleasing in the Christmas photos. I told nurse Marion that I was feeling chunky, and she cheerfully told me that one of her chemo patients had gained 25lbs!

Smugly, I considered myself exempt, since having cut out wine, I’d shaved off a substantial portion of my diet. However there has been a great deal of baking kicking around this Christmas, and I haven’t been shy of partaking. I’m eating everything, and between meals, I’ve had an insatiable appetite for cake. I don’t need it to be fancy either. Any old stale pound cake will do, including the ones from Loblaws, that are old, and celebrating someone else’s birthday.

The jeans, that hung off me in the summer, are now completely full. And then I remember that I haven’t done Pilates in four months, and the dog walking, which keeps me outdoors for three hours a day, doesn’t take me very far. Jed’s legs are only six inches long, and he spends a lot of time standing still.

Dieting really isn’t a consideration. (The most I will do is think twice about eating the icing). Somewhere over the last four months I’ve started thinking of my body as a vessel that has to be pumped with fuel, so I give it what it demands.  Often it requires orange juice and kale, but since it sometimes demands cake,  I give it that as well.

I do not want to gain 25 pounds. But nor can I hold tightly to the notion of my ideal body at this point in time. Luckily Jim doesn’t mind bald, and is oblivious to my expanding tummy. He's just happy for the days I'm feeling healthy and often volunteers to run (drive) out for treats.  So far I've yet to send him to the 'day old' section at the supermarket for an unclaimed birthday cake, but I feel that day is coming. 

So as far as ‘What I was going to become’,  I think I have my answer. Bald, still, and a little bit fatter, with no obvious sign of cheekbones. But I'm grateful I can breath my own oxygen, and I'm glad there's more of me, rather than less.

Eventually I'd like to be comfortable in my favorite jeans, or at least, my second favorite. And there are  longer walks in the future, and hopefully hiking. Eventually I intend to get back to Pilates. One day I'll do it without a wig. And then I have to think about going back to work. And giving up daytime TV. And being more productive. And making the most out of my life. But all that is all very ambitious.

So for now, there's cake.

Blushin' Russian

My Russian nurse came by for his last visit. Or so he says. We’ve said good-bye before, after my post-op treatment, where he said he hoped to ‘never to have to see me in this house again.’ But he did. And he quite liked it! He said he enjoyed the calmness, and the pets, and the music.

(This time there was no music, as I was fully immersed in a home decorating show, and didn’t have time switch it off. So, instead of the cool new-world-music kind of gal he’d come to expect, he got that real me. The shallow version.)

Alexi and I compared notes about Christmas and the New Year. I told him about my olde tyme skating party, to which he scowled, ‘I hade skading.' Turns out that it brings back bad childhood memories when he was forced onto the ice in freezing weather wearing a furry muskrat ushanka, complete with earflaps and a string under his chin. (I’m assuming the fashion details). Instead he’d opted for New Year’s champagne and ‘too much food’ which he illustrated by patting his perfectly flat stomach. And then he gently jabbed me in the ass with one last perfect $ 2,700 needle.

So for (allegedly) the last time, Alexi slipped on his fancy leather gloves and headed for the door. I was reluctant to let him leave, having learned so little about him. Our relationship wasn’t balanced. I pried, he deflected. I knew only that he prefers champagne to vodka, his wife is an artist, and he’s a Reiki master. Also, he has Pomeranian dog, and he grew up in a nice (but chilly) apartment in mother Russia. He knows so much more about me. He’s met many of my family, and has seen me topless, bald, and sort of bottomless.

As he left I gave him a hug, and he hugged back and wished me only good things. I thanked him and told him I’d miss his visits. He nodded. ‘And by the way,’ I said, ‘My mom thinks you’re gorgeous.’

That got him. With one gloved hand on the door he bowed his head, and smiled. I think he was even blushing. And then he exhaled a noise that sounded that sounded almost happy and said, ‘I’m very flattered.’

And with a bit of crimson still in his cheeks, he nodded once again, adjusted his Hugo Boss jacket, hopped in his silver Jaguar, and drove off into the sunny afternoon.

My Psychiatrist Called in Sick

My psychiatrist called in sick.

I must admit to being annoyed, as I’d planned my entire week around this meeting. Dr. L had been assigned to be by my social worker, who said that an appointment, whether or not it was necessary, was a healthy pre-emptive strike. So I agreed to do it as long as it didn’t involve any group activity.

Put Patient Here

My first, and only appointment was in November. My second appointment would have been this morning if things had gone according to plan. During our first meeting, Dr L focused on getting to know me. To see if I had any suicidal thoughts (no), depression (no), or mother issues ( All dealt with, thank you very much).

After talking for two hours, she came up with this diagnosis. Apparently I spend too much time worrying about other peoples reactions. Admittedly, others' feelings are often foremost in my mind. I thought that most people experienced this concern, to which Dr L replied, ‘Most people are selfish pricks’, or something to that effect.

She recommended that I don’t worry about what others think. Offer no explanations if people look at my hair. Don’t hide the fact that I’m going through chemo, but if people get overly sympathetic, say matter-of-factly, ‘I appreciate your concern’. Let's move along, shall we?

So today I was looking forward to talking to my Psychiatrist. It’s true – I did enjoy talking to someone who had no emotional investment in my situation, and I liked saying whatever I wanted without being self-censored or articulate. Over the holidays I’d even come up with a few choice topics – and I was looking forward to our conversation.

So when Dr. L's secretary called to tell me she was ill, I felt I should say something generous about a speedy recovery. But I was a little angry, and I’m trying not to care about other people’s feelings. So I said that I’d turned down an out of town event for this appointment, one which I’d been waiting anticipating for seven weeks. I told her that I was upset. Unapologetic, she said she’d try to squeeze me in next week. I wanted to say more, to tell her that their system of having appointment two months apart is ridiculous, even without the cancellations. I also wanted to tell her that I didn't like her attitude, but just in case she was having a bad day, I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

Clearly I need another appointment. Not caring what people thinks takes work.

Happy New Year, George Clooney

Not our motel

This New Year's Eve, Jim and I  stayed in a quaint motel in Cobourg Ontario. We'd come to celebrate with a long time friend who’d relocated from the mean streets of Toronto, and had kindly offered to host an olde time skating party.

Jim and I have stayed in many motels over the years, but this was Jed’s first time. (As another first, I was a New Year's baldy. Not really a big deal – but sort of). Our room had two beds, and Jed couldn’t believe his luck. He had a double all to himself, which he christened immediately, stretching his stubby little legs to their full eight or nine inches.  Though he was reluctant to leave the room, we dragged him to the skating party, which was as excellent a celebration as you can imagine, when you’re with top-notch friends in a picturesque town over the holidays.

Proper Dog Bed

Back at the motel we collapsed into our super comfortable beds and fell asleep. But only for an hour. At 2:30 we were wakened by an overhead thud, then footsteps, which was the start of a Jacuzzi party that continued well into the morning. Jim, bless his heart, could sleep soundly if he was riding the Tilt-a-Whirl at the CNE.  Jed too, as he was worn out from barking at skaters and fireworks. So I was the lone occupant of room # 2 who was wide-awake and crabby. People loudly filed by our room, thundering up the stairs, hollering at nothing in particular.

My natural inclination is to fling open the door and politely ask people to ‘Shut the f*ck up.’ But these days I can’t be that spontaneous.  Firstly, I’m almost bald (the bristles joyously persist). Secondly my pj's were covered with hundreds of brown chihuahuas wearing pink pearl necklaces. Though they were not of my own choosing, they are of excellent quality, have pink piping, and are amongst my favorite.  Still,  I didn’t want to be seen flinging open the door in dog pajamas, my head's tiny bristles silhouetted by the moon. Nor did I want to dig around for my wig, which I’d sleepily tossed in my overnight bag, where it clung loyally to my chapeau.

I thought of calling the front desk, but the motel brochure said they were closed after 11. So I lay in bed and listened to the noise. Instead of getting cross at the drunken antics, I used a few tools I mastered  last year. If I don’t like the way I see something, I change the picture. (This was particularly helpful when I visualised my tumour. When I saw it as black, a dear friend said ‘pick a different colour’. I picked pink, and this tactic has saved my sanity)

George

So I listened to the footsteps and created my own story. I pictured the people upstairs as carefree, happy, and goodhearted. Like elves in Santa’s workshop, but with giant hammers. Maybe missionaries, bathing the homeless and counting out bags of money.  Or George Clooney and his friends holidaying in Cabo, topless, with magnums of champagne and plates of giant lobster.

4 am, and George, Ewan McGregor, and Sting were still frolicking in the tub. In room # 2, on either side of me,  my boys were snoring peacefully, and in unison. The bed was dreamy, and twinkle lights sparkled through the window. I couldn’t sleep, but I could listen to other people being happy. And I could think about all the great moments of the last year, because there were many. I’d created strong bonds with wonderful people, and renewed bonds with those who I knew I could rely on, all along. Despite all the scary parts, I laughed a lot, and had people to laugh with me.  There was always a fridge full of homemade food, and someone to hold my hand. With their time, people were most generous. To those people I sent my thanks, and willed them happiness. Finally I slept.

Epilogue

First thing in the morning I raced to the front desk to complain about the noise. From the office window I could see the guilty party loading up their vehicle. Bleary eyed and sloppy, they looked like they’d just stumbled out of a perogie eating contest where the winner got an orange plaid jacket, and runner-ups got punched in the face. 

Obviously, George had left the building.

No Bubbles for Jesus's Birthday

I’ve drastically cut down on my drinking. Especially in the morning.

Christmas 2010

Unfortunately this does not bode well for our Ottawa Christmas tradition of celebrating the birth of baby Jesus with champagne and orange juice, soaked up by some artery clogging cheese and a bucket load full of buttery carbs.

My mother Violet was never to keen on this tradition. Her ideal festive morning would involve a little more cardio, in the form of a brisk walk, or cross country skiing. However, she went gamely on, delivering us our mimosas by the fire in the living room, where we’d be lounging in our pajamas. My sisters enjoyed a little bubbly, Dad thought it was fun, and I thought it was fantastic.

Christmas 2011

This Christmas morning, like all other years, there was champagne. My mother offered it to Sue and I as we lounged by the fire in our p.j.'s. “No thanks,” we said in unison. She looked slightly startled. “Scones, then?” We shook out heads. “Well”, she ventured, “I was thinking of having oatmeal”. Sue and I perked up, “Great!” we said. Slightly baffled, but hesitantly delighted, my mom went back to the kitchen.

Obviously my eating habits have changed. Not only should food be delicious, but it must fuel my body as well. This has been my mom’s philosophy for years, and now (by necessity) I’m fully on board. So, when Vi came out of the kitchen she presented us with a healthy breakfast –and what a breakfast it was. She'd put together a tray of oatmeal, surrounded by pretty little bowls of almonds, blueberries, mandarins, and flax.

Christmas 2012

Somewhere up in heaven my dad was frowning. Christmas wasn’t Christmas without Mahalia Jackson, snow, and champagne. (‘Bring on the Joy Juice!’) Thankfully my younger sister was carrying on the family tradition, celebrating across town with her boyfriend and a glass of something yummy. Later that afternoon they would join us, and there would be more sparkling stuff, (including the traditional bottle that accidentally explodes in the freezer).

But that morning, by the fire, we enjoyed our festive oatmeal. Our tummies were happy, as was our mother. Then we decided on giving her another Christmas bonus. She encouraged us to relax, and  and enjoy the tree and the fire. But no lounging for us! Sue grabbed my hand, and her DVDs and led me down to the basement.

Happy birthday Jesus. It’s time for yoga!

Woe is you!

Jim had the sniffles.

I could tell he felt poorly by the way he walked around the house, occasionally sneezing like a kitten. He passed me in the hallway, his eyes a little bleary, and his skin a little pale. He sniffled. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

So we stood and looked at each other. I’d just come off a steroid binge that had turned me into a maniac, and hadn’t slept in days. Minor achy side effects had kicked in, which I’d numbed with half a percocet. And I’m so dehydrated that I constantly feel as though I’ve been licking the salt off the sidewalk. Jim and I stared. And then he laughed, “Sniffles don’t quite cut it any more, do they?”

Nope. Nobody can outdo me. I am quietly winning the ‘woe is me’ contest and will continue to do so until the spring. My sisters, who both have headfuls of thick wavey hair cannot, in good conscious, whine about not being able to control it. And they know better than to say, “You’re so lucky you have a wig”, even though they are likely tempted.

Driving home to Ottawa on Christmas Eve day, my big sister and I were about three hours into the trip when she complained about having stiff legs. I waited for a few minutes while she listed her symptoms and then I chose to trump her. “You know,” I said, “One of the side effects of my steroids is shooting pain through my legs”. She immediately looked so concerned that I had to confess that I hadn’t actually experienced any acute pain. In fact, I was no longer in any pain at all. But I made my point. I can always outdo her.

I can pretty much outdo anybody. My neighbor (who I barely know but was forced to talk to cus our dogs engaged in a sniff-a-thon) was delighted when I asked him how he was. He used the next ten minutes to tell me that his wife had a kidney stone and that his shopping was in turmoil cus he had to be at the hospital, and he was missing his workouts. And he had a cold. After he finished boring me, he asked how I was. That could have been an easy victory, but I don’t want to be viewed as sickly, and I only used my power for good. 

My mother Violet, who has the best room in the house (as it should be), generously moved into a smaller bedroom so that Sue or I could have her little luxury suite over Christmas. Both my sisters love that room - who doesn’t like a TV and a walk-out balcony? But my mom said we’d have to sort it out between ourselves, so I did. I said to Sue, “Mom says whoever had canceritis gets her bedroom.” Under a mop of curly blonde hair I could see the wheels turning, going over all her old chestnuts. (She’s the eldest etc), but she had nothing.

For the next few glorious months I can make her do pretty much anything I want. We’ve been eating non-stop for the last 24 hours and she's rolling around in a turkey and chocolate-covered-cherry haze. From the sofa I can hear her groaning about being tired. All I have to do is catch her eye, and she sighs in defeat, “…..but not as tired as you.”

Pretty Parcels

Christmas is in full swing at our house. The tree is up, the porch is lit, and Jed is walking around with a furry red collar. Jolly cards are arriving by the handful, and parcels are gathering under the branches. But in truth, there have been pretty parcels floating around our house since the summer.

It all a started with a stack of bandages handed to me unceremoniously by a delivery man. ‘Delivery from Starkmans’ he’d said, thrusting the bag it into my hands. I threw it in the closet, annoyed by it’s very presence. I didn’t want to see anything medicinal. Nor did I want to see the pill bottles that I’d hidden in my underwear drawer. Or the thermometer.

Pretty Parcels, and Pills

If one isn’t careful after an operation, one’s house can start to look like a pharmacy, and reminders of illness scattered all over the place are depressing. So in an effort to make things pretty, I trotted off to the dollar store and stocked up on decorative bags and boxes. I took all my pills and put them in a merry blue and white striped box. Bandages went in a variety of lovely colourful bags, separated by size, and frequency of use. Scissors, tape, and other accessorizes went into polka dot bag which looked lovely, and inviting! (Percocet of course, got a special vessel of it’s own).

When nurse Alexi came to check my post-op incisions, he’d order me ‘Get bandage, bleeze’. I’d reach in the closet and grab a tasteful parcel, and it was as though I was handing him a gift. He never questioned my wrapping. Indeed, he probably wondered why I didn’t go a step further and get Hugo Boss carrying cases, since that’s more his style.

Now when I open my closet door, instead of a medicine cabinet, it looks like a tiny party! Since my dream room is Candy Spelling’s ‘Wrapping Paper Room’, this pleases me immensely. And I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t incorporate a piece of two of decorative ribbon. To complete my project, I took the mounds of canceritis literature that had been thrust upon me, and organized it into tasteful pastel folders. Candy Spelling would be proud.

Pretty Cute

I rarely go into those boxes anymore, though occasionally I’ll pop a recreational pill. Thankfully my summer anti-illness packages are being outnumbered by happy Christmas boxes, and my tiny wrapping paper closet is bursting with the festivities surrounding Jesus’s birth.

I can still wrap a mean gift, even though my brain is a bit foggy. And hopefully I can label the proper parcel, because nothing sends ‘Merry Christmas’ less than a band-aid, and a syringe.