I'm a Full Time Job

Tomorrow I start a part time job. But today, as all other days, my full time job is me.

Back in the fall, when I was preparing myself for chemo, a favourite friend said, ‘You have to take care of yourself. That is your job.’ I listened, and took note. But I never thought that I would be so high maintenance. Turns out that I am a full time job. Here's why

Eating Right: (2 Hours)

Jugo sde Naranja

Mom was right. Breakfast truly is the most important meal of the day. These days it’s hot oatmeal, freshly ground flax, sliced fruit, and fresh squeezed orange juice. I use an old fashioned juicer I bought in Mexico. It weighs about a thousand pounds and is a pain in the ass to clean.

Lunch or dinner often involve kale, or something equally and green and leafy. Kale is excellent for it’s health benefits, but takes ages to prepare. Washing, cutting, waiting for it to wilt. Or getting impatient and eating it half cooked, but then it takes too long to chew.

Medical Stuff (3 Hours)

Since the diagnosis, I’ve been to a 63 medical appointments. And since doctors generally keep me waiting, this ads up to a part time job all by itself. Not to mention the time spent on the phone dealing with idiots. During radiation, I’m at the hospital every day. Not a hardship really – but I’d rather be doing something less radioactive.

Exercise (3 Hours)

Man's Best Friend

Walking a basset hound isn’t really ‘exercise’. Carpenter ants pass us on the street. Regardless, I am outdoors on the end of the leash, or in the dog park, trying to be invisible.

And yoga. Classes are 90 minutes, plus travel, and who has time for that? No wonder people are racing across town with their yoga mats looking like they’re on the verge of a heart attack. It’s not healthy.

Domestic Drudgery (2 Hours)

My favourite household task is shaving my pilling sweaters. I have a hand-held machine that is not only highly efficient, but also extremely rewarding. Plus, I can shave while I watch Dancing with the Stars

Man's Other Best Friend

Grooming: (4 Minutes)

Optional. But I always wear lipstick.

Total Time    10 hours and 4 minutes.

Clearly I’m going to have to have to make changes to accommodate my new schedule. Since I go to bed at 9, something has to go. And since Jed, food and canceritis treatment are a priority, something must be struck off the list. So,  So Long Domestic Drudgery! The lady is going back to work.

The Sizzler vs Mother Nature

The Radiation Technicians run from the room once the machine is turned on, leaving me on the table. Radiation comes at me in the form of a giant C-shaped arm that moves around me with a low hum. Unfondly, I think of it as the Sizzler. I lie on the table with my arm over my head cradled in u shaped wrist rest, and a piece of triangular foam under my knees. It isn't uncomfortable. What is uncomfortable is the idea of is what this giant machine actually does. So I don't think about it. The fact the the technicians dash out of the room once it's turned on? That's worrisome.

The benefit of radiation is that is kills the pesky disorganized cells that cause canceritits. But the side effects, naturally, are numerous. Most commonly they include fatigue, rashes, itchiness, burning ....things like that. To alleviate the effects of radiation there are a wide variety of potions, lotions and creams. But as an antidote to the two-ton cutting edge hunk technology, I have my secret weapon.  Aloe.

Sizzler

Aloe gel is the cure for everything. My grandma used to have a plant in her kitchen, and she'd snip off a leaf whenever she needed to tend to a scrape or burn. My mother does the same thing. So does my sister. And now I am counting on it to keep me from looking like a drunken British holidayer who went to Cancun for the first time, covered up appropriately, then fell asleep in the sun after too many margaritas, with one breast fully exposed.

Aloe, aloe

Although many creams have been recommended, I am reassured by something pure. Though I likely still have chemo drugs in my system, as well a daily doses of tamoxifen, and massive doses of radiation, I don't want to put anything on my skin that wasn't created by mother nature. Ultimately, I have faith in both her, and my lovely Lithuanian grandma. I think that they both knew that all that heals us comes from the earth..

'Awesome,' was the way aloe gel was described when I went to the health food store. The sweet boy behind the counter told me that he used Aloe for everything. He swore by aloe for cuts, bruises, rashes, and pimples. According to him, it even cured his varicose vein.

So thrice daily I slather myself with gel, then walk around topless while it is absorbed by the skin (this will be difficult once I start working).  I also use a saline solution, because salt also comes from the earth. (Perhaps I should consider using cucumber since the combination would be delicious!) At home I have a tub of aloe gel. And I carry some around in my bag. Today I am going to pick up a plant, so that I can commune completely with nature.

Tomorrow I will head back to Princess Margaret for the 5th of 25 treatments. Once the green light turns on - the technicians will flee to safety. But my bag, with my aloe gel will  stay in the corner of the room. Mother Nature doesn't leave one's side.

Lounging at Princess Margaret

If Mount Sinai is a Hotel & Spa, then the basement of Princess Margaret is the airport lounge.

I’ve been all over these two hospitals, but for ‘Radiation Therapy’ one goes to the floors ‘below’ of Princess Margaret.  Nothing menacing about the décor, as it is the superior hotel in terms of guest seating.  Downstairs, where we get sizzled, is no exception.

Pale walls, fish tanks, and caramel coloured club chairs all make the area very inviting.  It is not unlike, though not as nice as, the first class lounge at Pearson. Yet there are newspapers and magazines strewn everywhere and people look fairly relaxed, in the loungey way of being in limbo before the final destination. As an added touch, there are little juice cups laid out on the side tables. And I think there may have been biscuits.

But here’s the best part. Upon descending the wide staircase, the passenger passes by an information kiosk. Rather than talk to a human, we scan a card that was presented to us during the preliminary appointment.  On the screen my name comes up, and the unit to which I’m assigned. 15B.  Then on another screen it lists the various available units, and their status.

Perhaps someone is running late? So I look for 15B and there it is. ‘On Time’.  

First class all the way.

Easter Egg Head

I have only left the house twice without my wig since I adopted it, back in the fall. The first time was a dark winter afternoon, when I was given one minute to jump in the car, and I threw on a Russian fur (fake) hat with ear flaps and a visor. The second time was yesterday.

The event was Easter at my cousin’s house full of family and friends, a charming and familiar group of people.  Because I am a chicken, I warned her ahead of time that I may not be wearing anything on my head. ‘Awesome,’ she said. I told her that I hoped it wouldn’t make her kids uncomfortable. ‘They’ll love it,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should wear a hat?’ I ventured. ‘No!’ she screamed into the phone.

So I planned my outfit carefully. Because my hair is now silver-ish, I have the same colouring as Anderson Cooper. So taking my fashion cues from him, I  put on a grey shirt, and accessorised with a blue scarf that would hopefully bring out my eyes while distracting from my super high forehead. And because I wanted to look like a girl, I put on some biggish earrings, which seems to be a common trick amongst bald ladies. And then I put on a hat. ‘Why?!’ cried my stylist, Jim. 'You’re with you family, you don’t need a hat!’ His sentiment was echoed by my sister, ‘What the point?’ she said.

I explained that I didn’t want to make anybody feel awkward, since nobody had ever seen me, for over forty years, without a brown bob. I am not someone who has ever willingly changed his or her appearance and I almost feel a sense of obligation to show up with straight brown hair. Furthermore, the world has revolved around me for the last six months, and I’m used to a lot of well-deserved attention.

Easter Egg

So we drove up to my cousin's house without the wig. Though I did wear a cap for security. And I walked into the house. And I waited. And nobody noticed my hair. Silly me. I am so used to thinking about myself that I stopped remembering how everybody else was changing. One girl in the room was a serial hair-changer, and had drastically changed her look every few month. To her, variety is the spice of life. One boy had grown his hair, shaved it, grown a beard, and genuinely didn't notice what people had coming out of their head as long as there was something good coming out of their hearts. Two of the men, formerly-lock lustered were showing a bit of their scalp, and cheerfully took it in stride.

And the fact is, that everybody else has so many interesting things going on in their lives, that short grey pseudo-lesbian biker hair barely makes it on the radar. Clearly, being wigless with loved ones is an easy thing to do.  The only person making it difficult for me, was me.

So in the safest of environments, I’ve officially come out. It’ll be a while before I debut my head in the dog park. And work will be another story. But for now, I’ve officially come out to my family.

And thanks to them, it was a lovely Easter. The Egg Head felt right at home.

Nurse on Wheels

As I was walking down my street toward home,  a silver Jaguar purred up alongside me. Since I only know one person who drives a Jag, I wasn’t too surprised when I bent down and saw my Russian nurse.

‘Hello Mizz MigLoud!’ he smiled. I smiled back. ‘You look great,’ he said. I realized that he’d probably never seen me in full stride before. But that day I was walking purposefully, and being decked out in knee high leather boots and grey peaked cap, I practically looked Russian. He, on the other hand was wearing a soft gray turtleneck sweater that looked like the underside of a rabbit. ‘You look well too, ’ I told him. He bowed his head slightly, in a bad attempt to be humble.

Russian Nurse Training

I was going to tell Alexi about my last little surgery, but it didn’t seem important. I was also tempted to tell him about radiation, but it’s not something he endorses. Nor is he very enthusiastic about chemotherapy, or any of the aggressive western treatment on which I have been reliant. No matter what we talked about, I rarely had his approval. And I realized approval is something I want in the health care people who have surrounded me during canceritis. Even though it shouldn’t matter, it did. But as I was feeling less vulnerable, I was trying to break the habit of wanting to please.

 Then he told me that his wife and daughter were headed to Brazil to see John of God. I’d first heard about this mystical healer from Alexi who had met him a year earlier. Apparently everyone in the world seems to know about him, thanks to Oprah. For many who do make the pilgrimage, it is as a last resort for a serious illness. In the case of Alexi’s family though, I think it was mostly curiosity.

‘I hope I never have to see John of God,’ I said, ‘I feel good’. Alexi nodded solemnly, ‘I am buhleezed to know that,' he said. Then he rapped his knuckles on the polished burled elm dashboard of his Jag. I told him that it didn’t count unless it was real wood. He looked horrified, as though he’d just witnessed Evengi Plushenko crashing down in the middle of a triple axel. ‘Of course is real wood,’ he said, ‘This is very expensive car!’

I remembered a remark I’d made about his ‘nice car’ last fall. He’d been defensive, saying, ‘Iz just car’. Finally! He admitted that it isn’t just a car. It’s a fancy car, befitting an international man of mystery, nurse, fashion plate, and holistic healer. And since he makes a living doing healing house calls, it's also a calling card.

Unable to think of anything to say, I said good-bye. He drove north, and I went south. And just in case he was watching in his rear view mirror, I marched briskly, just to prove how healthy I actually am. And that was me, seeking approval, hopefully for last time.

Mini Meltdown Monday

Here's what they don't tell you about radiation. In order to get the beams right, they have to mark a series of dots on the intended area. I sort of knew this, but only cus I'd heard it from a friend. And I knew that I'd need a CT scan a week prior to the process, which was today.

I'd gone to a radiation Q & A, so I knew all the fancy terminology, and I'd seen the power point presentation about how radiation works. I read tons of literature, both pros and cons. And as usual, the list of side effects was about fifty miles long. But since I'd made it through chemo without too much trauma, I'd decided that radiation would be the same.  I would make it through unscathed. I'd been advised about all the best creams, saline solutions, and powders, and I intend to use them all.

So I was laying on my back,  ready for my scan. The radiologist, Simon, was doing something to the right side of me that was completely painless. Apart from being chilly (I was, after all, topless) I was relaxed. Then he said that he was going to give me four little black 'tattoos'. These are essentially the size of a pin head.  'Fine,' I said, and let him get to work. 'So when do these things come off?' I asked. 'Never,' he said,  'They're permanent'. I almost sat upright. Never?! I remembered hearing that before, but I guess it hadn't really sunk in. Permanent markings. A permanent souvenir on my chest, of radiation. Not just for me to see, but for anyone who happens to look just off centre from my cleavage, on a day where I might happen to be wearing a V-neck shirt. And as am I am a gal who like to hide things, this was a bit to much for me. I would always have them. Four tattoos. For ever.

So since I hadn't had one for a while, I decided to have a mini-meltdown. It was long overdue.

My New Favorite Spa

Last week I upgraded from my regular spa, known as Mount Sinai Hotel, to a far superior spa, known as St Anne’s. Everything there is better. White hooded fluffy robes instead of thin blue cotton coverings. Pedicures instead of X-rays.  Pillow top beds rather than a narrow examination table. And an afternoon bobbing in the outdoor hot tub, rather than a waiting room.

Our Room with a View at Mt Sinai St Anne's

I ended up there courtesy of a favorite friend who decided we both needed a break from the city.  As we were driving away from Toronto she asked what I was going to do about my hair. I honestly hadn’t thought about it.  This would be my first post-canceritis watery playground, and I was so excited about the getaway that I hadn’t developed my wig strategy. I pondered for a moment and decided that I’d just play it by ear.

Upon arriving at the spa we slipped right into our bathing suits to go into the pools. I took off my hair and hung it in my locker. But going from a swing brown bob to short gray brush cut made me feel like grandpa in drag – so I grabbed a towel and made myself a giant turban. Much better! (There’s something about a head covering that balances my body and makes me feel secure. Without it I just feel like an exclamation mark).

The turban worked beautifully in the waters, and was absolutely appropriate as we wandered about the facility. Taking it off would have been fine too. Almost all the guests are floating around the facility in an Aveda haze wearing only their robes, and if they’d paid any attention to me at all would just have assumed I was a lesbian.

For dinner, we put on some clothes, and I put on my fake hair. Let me point out that everyone in the dining room looks beautiful. Most people are make-up free with dewey skin, and looking twenty years younger when they rolled off the 401. Also, most people had a bit of an alcohol glow. This spa, unlike Mount Sinai, encourages one to bring your own wine and most people were a bit drunk. The lady beside us, Janet,  was a lot drunk. We’d bonded in an earlier yoga class because we shared the same first name. We also apparently shared a love for red wine. We were casually discussing our similarities when she said, ‘But you have much nicer hair then me.’ 

I wanted to laugh. Which I did. I wanted to tell her that it was a wig, which I didn’t. Even though I thought she deserved to know that she was actually the real winner of the ‘Which Janet has Nicer Hair’ competition, I decided to keep quiet.

So I wore the turban the next day too. I could have taken it off, and probably should have. But there were two reasons why I didn’t.  Firstly, I’m shallow, and really enjoyed the compliment.  Even though it’s not my ‘real’ hair, I did have it cut to my liking and had invested a bit of time with my blow dryer.  And secondly I didn’t want to bring up anything to do with chemo, and the other, less enjoyable spa on University Ave.

I don’t mean to knock Mount Sinai. After all, it does save lives. But it doesn’t have a hot tub, and they don’t give you lemon water and biscotti in the lounge. And I may have been there about forty times, but it only took one trip to St Anne’s to know that I like it a whole lot better.

One Small Step

Back in October I took a ‘Look Good Feel Good’ class at Mount Sinai Hotel & Spa. Two pieces of advise stood out. 

Firstly, if you’re wearing a cheap wig, don’t stick your head in the oven. Secondly, be persistent with mascara. Even without eyelashes, there may be some tiny baby hairs to which the mascara could stick.

So I’ve kept it up, and have worn mascara all winter. Usually it ends up smudged on my eyelid, with more little bits on my face, making me look as though I’d just rolled out of bed with a hangover. But I liked putting it on 'cus it made me feel like a girl.

Well this morning I brandished the magic wand, and lo and behold. I have an eyelash, and the mascara stuck to it!

One small step for a lady, one giant step for an egghead!

Dr. Tiny Hands

Dr Escargot and I met last week to follow up my recent surgery. I thought it was all about me, but judging by the look on his face, I think he likes to admire his handy-work. He smiled and nodded, and the glint in his eye said, ‘Job well done, everybody.’

Dr Escargot (Left), Me (Right)

He’s a lovely man and I trust him completely. While I slept (with the aid of Bellaruth and my anesthesiologist) he has twice looked around and cleaned me up. I couldn’t imagine not trusting my surgeon. It has occurred to me many times that this man, literally, has my life in his hands. But what I didn’t realize until last week was that his hands are so teeny!

After my examination, he asked if there was anything else I’d like to talk about. Since he asked, I mentioned a purple finger that had recently been concerning me. My middle finger had been quite swollen, and a startling shade of purple. It had since returned (almost) to normal, but I’d thought I’d bring it up.  He wasn’t terribly worried. But he did say that he had a purple finger as well.

‘Look,’ he said, putting his hand beside mine. My first reaction was to say, ‘My God you’re hands are small!’ though I knew that wasn’t the point of this show ‘n tell. But I was less concerned with his tiny purple fingernail than I was with the fact that he had the hands of an eight-year-old girl. They were certainly smaller than mine. ‘How did that happen,’ I asked. And what I really meant was, ‘How did a grown man get hands that little?’

After he left the room I discussed this with Jim. He said that Escargot was blessed with delicate digits, so he could maneuver his way around veins and arteries. But what else could he do? I doubt he could lift a hammer, hand brakes on bicycles would be a challenge, and he may or may not be able to grip the steering wheel of a car. A pencil would be fine.

His hands were also very soft, and looked a little squishy. Characters from Sesame Street popped in my head, and I pictured the muppets and their soft, clumsy mitts.  Bert, I think, had the smallest hands of all – which explained why it was Ernie who got to hold the rubber ducky.

But Jim was right. The tiny hands are an advantage for a surgeon in need of fine motor skills. And it made him more cuddly, and less intimidating. And I do have to hand it to him. He did one heck of a good job.

A Letter, Overdue

Mount Sinai Hotel and Spa usually contacts me by phone. Sometimes the news is good. Sometimes it’s not so good.  Either way, whenever they call, my screen says ‘Private Number’.

At first I took all my calls without checking the display.  The friendly voice on the other end might say ‘We’re returning your call’ or ‘We’d like to schedule an appointment.’  Then there was the chilling ‘Can you come in to see us.’ That usually meant that they had to deliver the news in person. And since the appointment wouldn’t be immediate, there was plenty of time to feel as though you’d swallowed a hot bowling ball that was exploding into a million pieces.

The worst ‘Private Number’ call was from my family doctor who called one sunny afternoon as I was driving down Queen St. I knew it was bad when she started the conversation by saying ‘Where are you?’ I told her that I was driving and she suggested I pull over. At that point I was a week past my mammogram, and three days past my ultrasound. I had told her that if the results came in on a Friday I didn’t want to know, as I was heading off to Cape Breton for the long weekend. And her call came on a Friday. ‘The test results are in,’ she said.’ And it’s worse than we thought.’

I remember nothing else during that conversation. Nor do I remember going back to work, or going home to pack for my trip. However I do remember being In Orangedale and managing to have a good time. (I’ve got the pictures to prove it).

Almost as bad as ‘private number’ is the manila folder. When test results delivered in person, it is from a doctor who is holding my future in their hands. And I’ve learned from experience that Dr Escargot has the same manner regardless of the outcome. If it’s difficult for him he doesn’t show it. But it’s terrible for me. From the time he says ‘hello’, an eternity will pass until he finally says ‘everything looks ok’. 

So last night I was enjoying a peaceful evening in the kitchen, with glass of red wine from France. Jim came in holding an envelope. ‘This is for you,’ he said. I read the return address. ‘University Health Network/ Mt Sinai Hospital’. We both stared at it.  Knowing that the wrong information could be the first step another battle, I could barely breath. ‘Open it,’ said Jim pretending that nothing could be wrong. But I didn’t want to because I wanted to preserve my peaceful evening as long as I could.  Avoidance was my only tactic. But the letter, which was sitting in front of me wouldn’t go away. So I braced myself, ripped open the envelope, and unfolded the paper. And this is what it said.

‘We’d like to inform you that the book that you borrowed form the Mount Sinai Library is overdue. Please return it at your convenience. Thank you.’

No thank you! And the peaceful evening continued.

Almost Letting Myself Go

My stylist took me aside today, and told me that I was letting myself go. He (Jim) confessed that there have been several recent occasions where people have been looking quizzically at my hair. ‘Do tell!’ I said encouragingly, proving that I was open to criticism.

Over the last six months I have made it clear to my friends that I am relying on them for hair alerts. If the wig were to slip, blow off, or display telltale elastic, I would really like to know. So far nobody has said anything, so I’ve stopped asking. In my mind,  I have perfected the art of wig wearing and am confident in my smart brown bob. So, even though I was slightly taken aback by Jim’s observation, I had to remind myself that I had demanded this feedback.

‘Maybe you’re getting to used to it,’ he said kindly, ‘ 'cus you used to make sure it was on straight.' I smiled my fake smile, and forced myself to laugh. When I first wore a wig, I would always make sure that it was symmetrical, and I would spend time in front of the mirror, readying myself for the public scrutiny. At home, I’d delicately remove my hat, ready for private scrutiny. Now, I often remove my hat and hair together. Rather than place the wig carefully on its' foam head, I’ll toss it on any old flat surface. When go out, I slap it on like a baseball cap.

Valerie Bertinelli

‘Sometimes,’ said Jim, ‘You let it slip down over your forehead.’ I feigned amusement, even though I was not amused. In fact, I pictured Valerie Bertinelli from her years on ‘One Day at a Time’ with her  low hairline and strangely small forehead. This was not good news, but I forced a hearty chuckle.

Buoyed by my good nature, Jim felt free to carry on. ‘You should also give it a wash.’ Jesus! What else could go wrong? I let my mind go back to the last time I’d given it a good bath, but I couldn’t remember the date. But even though it’s real hair, it’s not exactly attached to my scalp, so it stays pretty clean. Doesn’t it?

‘Anything else (fucker)?’ I said to my soon to be ex-stylist.  He’d already said that it was a crooked old mop in need of a good brushing. Short of a bad haircut, there wasn’t much he could add. Beside, I keep it covered with a hat, so how bad can it be?

‘Since you asked,’ he said tentatively, ‘And please don’t take this the wrong way, cus you’re still cute. But you should probably stop wearing the knit hats. They’re starting to look kind of weird.’

‘No, you’re starting to look kind of weird,’ I snapped.

How much criticism can one gal take?  But then I looked in the mirror, and realized that he was right. Kind, even. Because the head staring back at me was starting to resemble a dirty Zeller's mannequin from 1973.   So I tossed my rats nest into the sink,  gave it a good cleaning and a blow dry. When I re-emerged with my silky bob, Jim nodded his approval. His position was intact. There was a moment where I'd thought about letting him go, but I couldn't let that happen to both of us.

Life Lessons at Starbucks

I went for a head-clearing walk yesterday, because it’s time to think about my future. The cozy days of being holed up in the house are coming to a close. Radiation might knock me on my arse, but since that hasn’t started, I’ve got to start making plans.

Nothing major, of course. But I do need to go back to work. My job, which often involves long days and traffic doesn’t seem very attractive anymore. I’m also wondering how and when (if ever) to debut my short gray hairs. And I do need to keep on top of little life chores. For example, how do I tell my accountant that she’s been replaced? Do I make the dreaded phone call or write a polite (passive/aggressive) email? Or, do I forget it all and go on a road trip with my cousin. Overwhelmed by decision-making, I choose to do nothing and go for a walk instead. Somehow I end up at a Starbucks on the Danforth, standing behind a dad and his daughter.

Planning for the Future

The daughter is looking into other pastry case and going over all the options. She’s about three feet tall, and is taking her time. Dad is coaching her on the pros and cons of each option. She likes the little cupcakes and dad tells her that’s a ‘great choice!’ But, she also finds them a bit too small, and is curious about the giant chocolate chip cookie. He says that’s also a ‘fantastic choice’ and asks her the pros and cons of her cookie. 'It’s big.' Dad says it’s big enough to share, and she scowls slightly.

Normally I prefer not to be stuck behind this kind of parental life coaching. Or be at Starbucks at all, but this was kind of interesting. Dad was getting impatient. ‘Make your choice,’ he said. She looked up at him. ‘Just make your choice,’ he continued, ‘And commit.' He slapped his fist into an open palm,  like Tony Robbins, and continued, ‘Just choose what you want, and stand behind it!’

The kid looked like she was going to cry, but I was soaking it all up. Yes kid, commit! Dad was shifting into high gear, as I suspect that was his nature. ‘If you don’t make a choice, Sophie, you will end up with nothing’. Yes! That’s exactly what will happen, I thought. Which is why I ended up wandering up to Starbucks  (which I loathe) rather than tackling life at home. ‘Doing nothing gets you nowhere,’ I was tempted to chime in.  So I resolved to go home immediately to make my own coffee, write my accountant, and get in touch with my cousin.

I wanted to bring the dad home with me, and hire him as my life coach. But his daughter needed him more. Just as dad thought he’d was in the home stretch, little Sophie wanted to discuss the merits of a brownie.

Recovery Road Trip

I was prepared as I could ever be. For two weeks, I’d been listening to my Guided Meditations at least twice a day. All my free mental moments were spent conjuring up images of  the happy places I’d been, and filling my belly with sunlight.

Plan A

Knowing that I couldn’t wear a wig or lipstick in the operating room, I’d painted my toe nails bright red so that I would still look like a lady. The night before, I’d gone to a yoga class, followed by a massage, and a last blast of guided meditation. My two brilliant wing men (wing people) Jim and Joanne were there to escort me to the hospital. And when I was finally changed into my cap and gown, it was Deborah, my all-time favorite surgical nurse on the planet, who was there to greet me.

It was only 8 am as she walked me into the operating room. We chatted a bit about her upcoming trip to Arizona where she has a time-share. I know she was doing this to keep my mind busy, and I appreciated her efforts. She also introduced me to the bodies in the room, none of who were recognisable behind their masks. Over in the corner Dr Escargot was texting on his iphone. (At least I hope he was texting – he might have been playing video games). But we’d spoken earlier that morning, and had already said our hellos.

Plan B

So I jumped up on the operating table, my mind filled with all my favorite places. Quickly, I tried to summon all my ‘magical friends and allies’ who were ‘proud of my courage’, and who were going to watch over my spirit. I also tried to think of what I would have for lunch, after I woke up and ‘calmly and comfortably’.  Then settling down, I tried to evoke images of all the places I love to be. My favorite rocks, deck chairs, birds, and lovely people.

‘Hey!’ said Deborah, ‘Have you ever been to Arizona? That’s a place you and Jim should go’. I told her that we had been there and liked it very much. She said that there’s nothing like the dessert to make the soul feel alive. Being wildly susceptible to suggestion I agreed. Although it did interfere slightly with the delicate tableau that I was trying to establish in my mind, I could picture the red sand and the rich blue sky.

Last Minute Plan

Deborah's cheerful face loomed over me. ‘You should think about the dessert while you fall asleep. You and Jim in a convertible going down the highway’.  Dammit! The whole idea was to stay in the country. It was all I could do not to go to France, and now someone was dangling the Arizona highway in front of me like a big dusty carrot. Also, the drugs from my IV were starting to kick in. The open road was looking pretty good.  ‘Will you come with us?' I asked Deborah sleepily. ‘There’s room in the back seat with Jed.’  She grinned. ‘Sure thing! I’m a dog person too. I’m definitely coming along.’

So there I was, off to Arizona. I didn’t think it would take too much to convince my magical band of allies about the change in plans, because apart from picky eating habits, they seemed up for pretty much anything. So much for careful planning. I was all set for a day with cocktails, lobster, and bird sounds, and I ended up in the front of a Cadillac.

Those who know me well can attest to the fact that I’m a terrible planner. But I make up for it (sort of) by surrounding myself with good people and beautiful places. And though this road wasn’t one I’d planned on, it must have been good, ‘cus I woke up feeling calm, and comfortable, and almost ready to stop for a Corona. Though I settled on an apple juice,  instead.

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.