P-you? P-me!

My nephew has started to get hair on his legs. I first noticed this last winter as we were lying on my sister’s couch watching ‘Dancing with the Stars’. I was bald from head to toe and was completely obsessed with hair. He was eleven, and completely obsessed with watching Karina Smirnoff performing the Paso Doble.

Soon after that, the hair on my legs started coming back, and over the next few months we sort of went through puberty together. Our leg hair got longer and other hairs came back as well. Arms, head, and a light shadow over the upper lip (me, not him). What didn’t come back was the hair under my arms. I checked in every few days to see if there was any growth but I was as smooth as a baby’s arse.

How delightful! Canceritis sometimes offered a silver lining and this was it -  and as an extra special super bonus, I was completely odour free. I surmised (unscientifically) that this was due to the fact that I’d had a bunch of nodes removed from both sides. It made sense that if the surgeon was digging around in there, under several layers of skin, there would be a few modifications. Some delicate tubing must have been cut, particularly the one that pumps out scent, for instance. And hair.

With confidence, I have been living without deodorant. Summer came, a few hairs burst through my radiated skin, but even on the hottest days I could go completely au natural in the armpit department.  Puberty was over!  Caleb may still have a few things to deal with (think Peter Brady) but I was clearly done.

Or so I hoped. Recently I was in the car with my sister. She was driving, I was passenging, and Caleb was in the back where children belong. It was an unseasonably hot day and we were all wearing too many layers, which I was removing as we drove. ‘Something smells funny,’ I said to my sister. ‘Open a window,’ she said. So I did, but the funny smell persisted. I looked back to see what Caleb was up to – as he is a prepubescent boy and I like to blame everything on him. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said.

So I took off my jacket, and ignored the musty odour. I repeated that something smelled really icky, and he piped up, ‘Maybe it’s you.’ Oh - From the mouth of babes. Disappointment seeped in as I realise that my puberty was not over. No silver lining for me; I was as smelly as a teenage boy.  It had been 14 months since I used deodorant and it seemed as foreign to me as a ponytail. Odour had returned, along with a very unwelcome chin hair.

So I have officially trumped my nephew at puberty. My legs are hairier, I’m kind of sweaty, and I smell as though I’d just done the foxtrot with Chaz Bono (just before we we were unceremoniously mocked by Bruno, and kicked off the show)

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

Sisters, Not Twins

My wingman and I went out on a date last night. In honour of Breast Cancer Awareness Month Year we attended a Breast Reconstruction Information Seminar that was being held downtown. It was a jolly event. There were lots of interesting displays (fake boobs) refreshments (non-alcoholic) and many delicious treats (sugary and fattening).

There was also a whole lot of laughter, which seems to be standard fare for these cancer-y get together's where a whole bunch of woman in one room are determined to plough ahead, no matter what kind of crazy obstacles try to stand in the way.  Everybody travelled in small packs, either with girlfriends, or husbands, who took it all in stride.

From the outside, all the entire audience looked healthy. There were a few baldies but they were dressed for an evening out with earrings and make-up and looked very stylish.  There were lots of short haircuts, and lot of long ones and as for the inevitable ladies in wigs  - nothing stood out. Also, all the ladies had two boobs – or more specifically – two breast mounds under their shirt. It was revealed later that there was all sorts of stuff going on under their bras that had nothing to do with Mother Nature.

Later, we (chicks only) would go into another room for a ‘show and tell’ where woman who had had reconstruction would share their stories. These women were easily identifiable by their tiaras, long silk scarves, and the fact they were topless. They were available for questions, and also the chance to cop a feel, or as we used to say back in grade seven, ‘get to first base’.

‘Touch them!’ one young woman said to me. I warned her that my hands were cold. ‘No problem’ she laughed in her breezy Spanish accent, ‘I have no sensitivity!’ So I did, and she cheerfully told me that they felt natural because the surgeon had used fat from her stomach to replace the fat in her breasts. No breast tissue, no chance of breast cancer!  And a tummy tuck thrown in for good measure.

All the ladies had different stories, and all of them glowed with success. The recurring theme through the night was rebuilding, moving forward, and gaining confidence. Or, as one of the reconstructive surgeons said in her speech, ‘We just want to give you boobs that make you so  friggn’ happy……'

Sistas!

And in a quest to ‘return to normal-ish’ that often requires a set of boobs that are the same. Or not! As I have briefly mentioned, mine are a bit of a mess – and trust me when I say that as a woman who has never given birth– mine were pretty prefect.

But according to another speaker, a renowned micro-surgeon (with 157 years of education under his belt) said no set of boobs is ever supposed to be perfect. ‘They’re not twins,’ he said, ‘They’re sisters.’

The entire audience giggled, then breathed a sigh of relief. Of course we don’t have to make them exactly the same. They are sistas! 

And though not always perfect, a sista is the always the very best of friends.

The Longest Month of the Year

It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month Year, and once again I find myself wishing I had a handbook of clever comebacks. Because once again I found myself in a situation with my mouth hanging open and the little voice inside my head quietly saying ‘Why don't you just f*ck off.’

I was standing in line at the grocery store, watching for a line-up of tired parents filling their environmentally correct bags with orange juice and cereal. Really mundane stuff.  I got to the cash, had my groceries rung through, and handed the young cashier some money.

‘Do you want to give a dollar?’ she said, without even looking up. Obviously she’s been instructed to ask this question, and obviously she had no emotional investment in the answer.  ‘What for?’ I asked her. ‘Cancer’ she yawned.

I paused for a second, and my mouth might have fallen open. A dollar? I get that it all adds up, and that money needs to be raised, but I don't know where the money actually goes. And is it appropriate to be asked by a party so far removed from the cause, that she can’t even look up from her cash machine. Usually when someone wants something they at least make eye contact. Is cancer so mundane that it becomes part of the grocery list?  So I stood there perhaps a few seconds too long staring at the bored cashier with her greasy ponytail. Then the person behind me leaned forward and gently said, ‘It’s breast cancer awareness month.’

‘Is it now?!’ I wanted to shout, ‘You don’t say?!’ That's why I see a pink ribbons every time I look at a newspaper or turn on the TV! That why every single woman’s magazine is devoted to stories about  'journeys' and ‘survivors!  Canceritis is always inside my head, and for this month it is always outside my head, too. But  I stayed quiet, my head muddled, wishing that I had my handbook of clever comebacks. 

A tired little cashier wanted me to give a dollar. I’d already given eight months of my life, my cute brown bob, and the shape of my formally perfect boobs for breast cancer. And I’m getting chubby.  Haven’t I given enough? The cashier cleared her throat. ‘Do you want to donate a dollar?'  I shook my short curly head. No thanks. Not today.

And with still 17 days left of official canceritis awareness, I’ve got to start working on my comebacks.

Shiny Butterfly

My stylist, Jim,  gave me a silver necklace for my birthday. It’s an old wax seal, and on it is the image of a butterfly.  It’s very beautiful, as is its' symbolism, which is the soul, transformation, metamorphosis, and rebirth.

Regardless of the fact that I was transformed against my will, the message behind the necklace is profound. My transformation is both physical and mental, and I still can’t quite figure it out. There are the obvious things like the hair and the scars, and there are the invisible things like the fact that I’ve had to dig deeper into my soul than I ever thought possible. And then there is the fact that I’ve had the chance to peer into the souls of others, and was both humbled and surprised.

But the transformation of a butterfly is much more abrupt. It goes from an ugly little larva into something so astonishingly beautiful that you forgive Mother Nature for having invented more unsightly things such as Ozzie Osborne and genital warts. And of course, there is the fact that the ugly larva turns into something that can fly. Flying is the ultimate transformation, and something to aspire to.  How amazing to go from a something so clumsy and slow to something so light and beautiful and surrounded by air.

I am anxious to get to the flying stage. It’s been over a year since my diagnosis and I live in a world filled with confusion, night sweats, and mood swings that are only a few personalities short of Sybil. Not that my life is bad – not by any stretch – it’s just a constant period of readjustment. Big emotions trying to fit into old routines often come with a bit of pain.

So in receiving this necklace, I decided to do a little research into butterflies. I read all he scientific stuff, and as fascinating as it was, I promptly forgot everything. Except this. ‘The caterpillar spends practically all their time in search of food’.

Well, that’s me! Constantly in search of something to eat I am a caterpillar! And though it’s not what I aspire to be there is comfort in knowing that I am at a stage where I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.

Which means that one day, I’ll get to where I’m meant to be.

Be Careful What You Wish For

 ‘Hair Envy’ was something I experienced at a very young age. My older sister was born with beautiful blonde curls that brought her a lot of attention. Later, that grew into wild untameable waves that became her trademark. I too wanted to be untameable. But my hair was straight and boring.

Then my younger sister came along with wild chestnut hair. In exasperation she’d pull it into ponytail, and I’d gaze in envy at the determined curls that would escape from the elastic, and hang down the back of her neck. I wanted hair that would escape! It just seemed so alive. But when I put my brown hair into a ponytail, it did in fact, look exactly like the tail of a pony.

The Old Me (I'm in the middle)

Curly hair had personality. Unpredictable, sassy, bouncy personality - offering endless possibilities. I so longed for curly hair. During high school, I suppose, I had every chance to try it. Back then, everybody was getting perms, but there were two reasons why I didn’t. Mostly, I was chicken. I didn’t think I’d have the guts to walk down the hall with curly hair. People would stare. And I wouldn’t be able to use the washroom.

The Italian girls who smoked in the bathrooms scared me, and I was afraid to walk into a cloud of smoke from their DuMaurier extra-mild’s and have them say, ‘What did you do to your hair!?!’  I even had my imaginary answer prepared. I would say that I had naturally curly hair, but had just stopped straightening it. Then they would have rolled their eyes in disbelief because they all thought they were cooler than me. Which they were, in a slutty kind of way.

The New Me

But as of today, I think I may have their hair. Though not a total slut-head, I definitely have some curls. I’ve heard of chemo people who’ve had hair that grows back like a poodle, and I’m happy to say that my curls are looser (More Phyllis Diller than my Nanna ).

I haven’t determined if I like it or not, cus I’m still a little in shock. And I a still have to wear a scarf around my head because everything stands at attention, and my hair always looks like it’s just been yelled at.

The Newest Me

What I wish is this. I wish I hadn’t spent so much time wishing for something that I didn’t have. What a waste of time.  I wish I’d been able to admire my sister’s curly hair without thinking that mine wasn’t good enough. Because it was. In fact, it was fantastic. I wish I’d recognised that it was thick and dark and straight and shiny.

Now I’ve got the curly hair that I longed for, and it’s not that thrilling. I’m not any closer to being wild or untameable or interesting. To think – I spent all that energy wanting my idea of what curly hair would be like. And I was so busy projecting my fantasy, that I lost sight of how adorable I looked with a swinging brown bob. Some might say I was boring (Sue), but others (me) would say I was a timeless classic.

I am not going to envy someone else’s hair. I’m not going to wish that it was sraight. In fact I’m not going to wish for anything at all. Because the down side of wishing, is that it doesn’t give you the chance to enjoy what you already have.

Dollarama Cancer Club

It’s amazing how often the C-word comes up during the day. Billboards, radio, newspapers, T-Shirts, and bumper stickers. Or, from the lady who’s trying to steal the last green bowl from Dollarama.

It was Friday afternoon and I was flying through the store, trying to buy some bowls.  It was a favorite friend’s birthday, and we were heading up north,  to her surprise pig roast/pot luck for 150 people. I was making pesto pasta salad and was looking for bowls that would show off dish and make it look pretty. Secretly, I wanted mine to be the best looking dish on the table.

In the bowl aisle was a stocky woman who was reaching unsuccessfully for the top shelf. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked.  Waving one chubby hand in the air, she told me that she couldn’t reach the shelf.  Then she told me that the reason she couldn’t reach it was because she’d had cancer. I would argue, that she couldn’t reach because she was short. But she elaborated, and at times, her Eastern European accent was so thick that I could barely make out what she was saying. 

Turns out she’d had a couple of surgeries, and was no longer nimble. I told her I understood.  Then she said, somewhat apologetically, that the cancer was also to blame for her hair being so thin.  Her hair was indeed a bit sparse, and because I could look down on her I could see a lot of scalp – but bless her heart – she’d given herself a perm and dyed it red, the same colour as her lipstick.

‘I went through chemo too.’ I told her. Her eyes bulged. ‘You did?! But your-a hair is so thick!’  I tried not to gloat. Inside though, my heart was swelling with pride. I haven’t had a ‘thick hair’ comment since last summer, and it was long overdue.

Then I saw the bowl that I wanted. It was apple green on the outside, and white on the inside (A bargain at $1.25!) and would certainly compliment my pasta. It was perfect. I grabbed it, and then  grabbed a second one.

'That’s a nice bowl,’ said the lady. ‘Its-a what I want for my salad. It’s-a pasta’.  Uh-oh! ‘Are there more?’ she asked. I told her no. ‘I’m going to a barbeque,’ she told me. I nodded. ‘Tomorrow night,’ she said,  ‘For my son’s-a birthday.’

Barbeque.  Potluck. Birthday. Chemo. Saturday night.  There were definite similarities. But I didn’t want to share my bowls. There was a whole wall of bowls but I had the only two green ones in my hot little hand, and I intended to use them.

Then she lifted up her shirt. ‘Look-a at my scar.’ Across her round belly was a pink line about 14 inches long.  ‘They-a said it spread like Octopus. But it’s shrinking. It keeps a-shrinking. I’m-a going on-a Thursday for my test results. I’m-a very nervous and my husband won’t-a talk to me about it. He just watches TV.’

Okay! I couldn’t stand it anymore. She’d won. Her scar was worse, her prognosis was worse, and her crappy husband was the final straw. I handed her my green bowls. She smile up at me and asked if I thought her tomato fusilli salad would look good in them, or, if she should get the fake cut crystal bowls (a bargain at $1.50). Well, I honestly thought that her pasta salad would look better in fake cut crystal, and I reached up and handed them to her. She thanked me, and asked if she should get one or two. Two, I told her. Then she told me that she couldn’t concentrate because all she thought about were her tests. ‘Pray for me,’ she said. I gave her a hug, and told her that I would. Then I took my green bowls in left.  I haven't thought much about her until today.

But it's a-Thursday, and I’m-a praying.

Cancer Do's

Recently I wrote (whined) about a friend who I ran into who seemed very concerned about me, but had been ‘too busy to call’. In my defence, she had twelve months in which to do it. In her defence, maybe she didn’t really like me. Regardless – it was just my opinion of ‘what not to say’ to someone who has had a really bad year.

Cancer Don't

There are other things you shouldn’t say to a friend the first time you acknowledge their canceritis situation. ‘How ARE you?’  is top of the list. Especially with puppy dog eyes often found in black velvet paintings. It’s like asking why the earth is round, or why there were two different Chris’s on the Partridge Family. It’s too complicated, and nobody really knows the answer.

The other thing to avoid is, ‘I’m SO sorry’. Sure you’re sorry – but not as sorry as I am! Also, saying ‘I’m sorry’ is the same thing you would say to someone dealing with the death of a loved one. It’s bleak, depressing, and way too passive for such a big disease. Avoid that one at all costs.

So according to me, the very best thing you can say someone who has been diagnosed with canceritis is this. ‘What can I do?’ Not only is this pro-active, but it can be answered honestly and sincerely. Often the answer is ‘nothing at the moment’ and ‘thank you for asking’. But at least the notion is out there that things that can be done, dammit!

Cancer is a very solitary business. No matter how many people surround you, you alone been plucked out of the nest like a baby sparrow, and plopped into the centre of a volcano. When people offered to join the party, I felt immediately stronger.

I never wanted sympathy, and I must admit, that I never really got any. I got a whole lot of ‘what can I do’s’ and ‘ call me if you need anything’s’, ‘how can I help?’, and ‘What can I make.’

I hope nobody ever has to acknowledge a friend’s diagnosis. But the likelihood is that you will. So might as well be prepared, rather than sorry.

Dr. Who?

Evelyn was not happy to see me standing in her doorway. Evelyn is my Oncologist’s secretary, and between the two of them they are about as inviting as a couple of frozen pork chops.

I’d called Evelyn earlier in the week requesting an appointment for a mammogram. Evelyn of course, hadn’t called me back. This was no surprise as she made it clear very earlier on, that communication was not her strong point.  So I did what I always did, and went down to the hospital in person. ‘Hi,’ she said uncomfortably. I stood in front of her and told her what I wanted. She made some sort of gurgly sound and said, ‘Well, uh, I don’t know about that’. 

Considering the fact that I was supposed to be ‘closely monitored’ due to my higher risk factor, her reaction wasn’t very reassuring. ‘Maybe in six months’, she said.  Then she started shuffling files that may have been important, though it looked like an excuse to get rid of me.

I must confess, that after my last radiation appointment, I went home with the intention of sleeping for three months. I had no interest in seeing the inside of a waiting room for a very long time, nor did I ever want to take my shirt of under a fluorescent light. I needed a break. But then my stylist (Jim) casually said, ‘When’s your next check-up?’ I got out my well-used appointment book, and saw that the pages for the next few months were pristine. Though I have been taking care of myself, I realized it was time to find someone with better credentials to take get back on board.

‘Who is my doctor?’ I asked the frozen pork chop. She looked up at me. ‘Who do when I go to when I need to be looked after, or when I want to book an mammogram.’ She did some more fake-filing and told me I should book my mammograms through my surgeon’s secretary. ‘Try book with them,’ she said, ‘ and if you run into problems, you can call us.’ Bullsh*t! I wanted to say. But instead, I turned and left her office.

Dr Escargot’s secretary is much nicer. She (Jenny) was on the phone when I burst into her office, but she seemed more overworked than frosty. I sat awkwardly while she wrapped up her phone conversation with another patient, and I surmised that this patient was just diagnosed - which sent shivers down my spine.  It never stops. But while she was on the phone I tried to use my time wisely. I remembered something I read in Cosmo (or some waiting room magazine) about exuding confidence, and I tried to sit up straight, keep my shoulders down, and my arms away from my body in a relaxed yet powerful manner.

Finally Jenny hung up the phone. ‘Remember me?’ I chirped. She looked at me over her thick glasses. ‘You look familiar’, she said kindly. Familiar? To be honest, I was kind of surprised. I’d spent many hours talking to Jenny pre-surgeries, and I thought we had a connection. They were some of the most profound moments of my life! But to her, I supposed, I was just another patient. I felt a little deflated by her remark. I felt like I’d been kicked out of the club. Or, like I’d just snubbed by an ex-boyfriend.

I reintroduced myself. (Don’t be fooled by the short curly hair!) Then I told her I wanted to book a mammogram and she sighed, and spun her chair around to reach for my file. ‘You’ve got one next year,’ she said. That wasn’t good enough, I wanted one this year. So I said to her,  ‘Who is my doctor?’

She looked baffled. I continued, ‘Who do I go to when my rib cage is hurting or when I have numbness in my arm?’  ‘Well, she said, ‘You could try your GP. Or you could call your oncologist, I guess. And if you can’t reach anyone, I guess you can try us.’

There are times when I get so exasperated that I feel like my IQ dips into the single digits. I don’t have the tools to absorb big concepts, or big words. I like simple things. ‘Jenny’ I said ‘Who is the first person I should call when something is wrong. Tell me the order of who I should talk to.’

She pondered, and sighed. ‘Okay. Call us first. I guess. And then we’ll assess you and see who you should talk to next.’ Though unsatisfactory, at least her answer was clear. Nobody is taking charge here. And since someone needs to be in control, I ‘ve elected myself. Summer break is over. 

Dr. Janet is in the house.

Baby Rhoda

Rhoda Morgenstern was my favorite TV lady when I was growing up. Not only was she a straight talking New Yorker, but she really knew how to rock a headscarf.  Plus she was Jewish, which, at the time, made her seem even more exotic. I never quite understood what she saw in Mary Richards but it gave me hope that one day I too would have such a groovy friend.

So I was very pleased when my sister told me that I reminded her of Rhoda. I’ve taken to wearing headscarves and my sister pointed out the similarity. Then she elaborated, ‘Well you look kind of like a Chinese baby cus your hair is standing up on end. But a Chinese Baby-Rhoda.” I told her that I thought I looked more like an ostrich. Yes, she said. ‘But an Ostrich crossed with Rhoda. And a Chinese Baby.’

Unlike Rhoda, I have very little hair. Mine is short in the front, curly in the middle, and a bit mullet-y in the back. Or as my stylist Jim said, I have a ‘little claw’ in the front, and ‘some Amy Winehouse sh*t going on in the middle’, and an ‘I’m not sure what’s happening’ in the back. Stylish, it is not.

So I depend on the scarves to tame all my crazy hairs. Gel isn’t really doing the trick, and my temples are still bald, so scarves seem to be the answer. Unlike Rhoda, who liked to cover her entire scalp with a scarf, I tie mine around my head like a hair band. The whole head-cover, which looks great on some people, always reminds me of the ladies at Princess Margaret, and it is a look I vehemently avoid.  And a scarf/band does a good job squishing the ‘Amy Winehouse middle sh* while covering my bald temples at the same time.

More importantly, it gives me confidence.  My hair is no longer freakishly short, and with the scarf it looks like a proper hair-do. Maybe not quite appropriate for my face, but a hairdo nonetheless. With my big glasses and colourful accessories, I look just as brash as Rhoda, though inside I’m still me . So when I meet people for the first time, I feel like I’m dressed up for Halloween.

Last week I went out for dinner with a short haired friend. Even though she has three times more hair than me, hers is still pretty short. Yet it is lovely, and stylish, and suits her pretty face. Our waitress also had short hair. With her high cheekbones, and olive skin, she would have been a fool not to keep it cropped.

I was wearing  a blue scarf which was knotted at the back  of my neck, the ends hanging down just below the collar of my blouse. At the end of the night the waitress told me that she really loved what I was doing with my hair. It’s been so long that I’ve had a hair compliment that I automatically assumed she was talking to my friend. It took a moment to realize that it was for me, and I slowly came round in the way that you would if you’d been on a lunch break for the last ten months. I think my mouth was hanging open, and I may have said ‘Huh?

‘Your scarf is great,’ she said, ‘I feel inspired to do the same with my own hair’. I channelled my inner Baby Rhoda, and mustered up a confident ‘thank-you’.  As though I was a brash New Yorker living in an funky Minneapolis attic, and dressing windows for a living.  As though I was a baby fashion icon, as though I get compliments all the time.

East Coast Pat Down

On the way home from my favorite place, I was selected for the super-inspection from airport security. I was flying from Halifax, and after de-belting and de-shoeing, I still set off  al the buzzers. Having no metal on my person, I was surprised by all the commotion, and thought that maybe I was being penalizied for not purchasing a carry-on lobster from the airport fish store. Jim and I seemed to be the only ones who hadn’t bought any crustacean souvenirs.

But a very nice lady took me aside, and told I’d been selected to for an uber-check. She seemed conscious of the fact that this was a minor inconvenience. She also seemed to recognize the fact that I wasn’t a terrorist.

I had two options: a good old fashioned east cost pat down, or being enclosed in a giant tube, reminiscent of the one built for the Chilean Miners. I looked at the tube, with its’ exterior screen, and wondered who would be looking at me naked. What if I was be looked at by the airport perv?  Would he be able to glimpse beneath my Levi’s, and would he notice I had a-symmetrical breasts?  

‘Who does the the pat-down?’ I asked the nice lady. ‘Me’ she said.  ‘That’ll be fine,’ I said, thinking that she reminded me of my old kindergarten teacher –so how bad could it be.  Then her next question, ‘Would you like to do it here, or in private?’

At that, I froze. ‘Why would I want privacy?’ I asked, my voice a little higher than I intended. She explained that some people prefer not to be inspected in front of the general public. I looked at the line up of people behind me, tan happy faces carrying a box of overpriced lobster. My voice rose another half octave. ‘I keep my clothes on, right?’ She nodded and reached for her box of rubber gloves. ‘Right?!?’ I squeaked.

‘Have you had any recent surgery?’ She asked.  I paused. She looked at me kindly. ‘Anything tenderness I should be aware of? ‘ I paused again. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘But I have to ask’. I thought for a moment about my occasional breast pain and numbness in my right arm – and realized how often they pop up in my thoughts.  But there are always people worse off then me. There are people with brand new kidney’s for God’s sake – though they’re probably not driving the Cabot trail.

Now – while I have developed a certain intimacy with medical professionals, I’m not used to being fondled by a lady in uniform. But part of my brain has learned to click off when I’m going to be manhandled. After all, I’ve been to over 100 doctors appointments the last year alone, and most of those were topless. So I clicked on that new brain-part, and surrendered myself to a frisking.

She patted my arms and legs and gently tapped around my back and shoulder. Not bad. In fact, quite pleasant. ‘That feels kind of good,’ I told her. I wanted to ask her if she could go a bit higher and get at the area between my shoulder blades, but she had a whole line up waiting for her services. Jim, who was busily reattaching his belt looked at me with something akin to longing.

Of course, the whole thing could have been unpleasant. But it wasn’t. But sometimes things are fun when you allow them to be. Especially in Nova Scotia.

A Favorite Place

A Favorite Place

Cape Breton is somewhere I often go, thanks to Belleruth Naparstek’s Guided Meditation CD, which take me my ‘favorite places’.  Last week, thanks to West Jet, I went there again for real.

It had been just over a year since we'd been there, and had a visit to the to church. The little white church is in Orangedale, and it was where my grandfather preached as a minister for 24 years. It is a very small building, as it is in a very small village, with a population of about one hundred or so. The town has a store and a post office, and not a whole lot else, except some people who are very dear to me.

On last year's visit, I sat on a wooden pew thinking about my future. Specifically, if I had one.  I was pretty certain that things would be okay, but on very rare occasions, I’d imagine a petulant little voice saying, ‘Says who?’ It was the very early days of my diagnosis and all we new was that the tumour was for real, and it was the bad kind. In fact, the day before I left the city, my doctor phoned, and said, ‘its worse than we thought’.

So I sat in the pew and thought about stuff. I thought that being in that little wooden church would give me a direct line to my father, the son of my grandfather, and told him that I hoped he was happy wherever he was, and that he had lots of people to hang out with, because he wouldn’t be seeing me in his world for a while. And I asked my grandfather, very humbly, to put in a word with his big boss, to leave me here with my family. And then I had to apologize for not having being in church for the last twenty years, except to go to the occasional wedding and my cousin’s daughter’s christening. Even then, all I thought about was the warm white wine and crustless sandwiches that would be my reward.  Given my crummy track record, I didn’t think I had the right to favours, but on this occasion it didn’t hurt to ask.

Many of the pews were empty.  Jim sat on one side of me, and my Orangedale family on the other. They didn’t know that there was anything different about me. Jim however, did. But the information was so new, and so startling, that we didn’t know how to process it. Sometimes it was easily forgotten, and other times, it had huge importance. And sometimes, when we were looking at the eagles,  we just plain forgot.

But that Sunday morning I couldn’t forget. I’d never had the experience of being in church and wanting so badly to connect. I like church, but I’m not religious.  I have no solid convictions, but I like being somewhere that is a force for good. And as may have mentioned, I’m fond of crustless sandwiches, especially the egg.  So I sat there, feeling tiny in the universe, and waited for the minister to take his place.

When the minister made her entrance, she did it in a way that only a Cape Breton minister could. With warmth, and greetings, and a lot of cheery chit-chat about the day. She was about 50, and walked down the aisle with a cloud of energy – sort of like Pig Pen with his cloud of dirt – only instead of dirt there was glee. She was stilla student of theology, and had only recently started giving sermons.  I like to think that she left her old life in a red convertible with only a suitcase, but who knows. It’s all about second chances, anyway.

Then she stood at the front of the wee congregation and adjusted her robes, in the manner of someone who looked down and was surprised to notice a gown and collar. And then she started talking.  Well, this was no grandpa’s sermon form 1974. This gal was having a great old time. She was clearly happy about life, and even fist pumped a few times as she talked about the villagers' small victories. And then she got serious for a second and wish us all peace. She cast her kind gaze around the room and prayed for everyone who had ‘an illness, or a hardship’.  And then I swear that her sparkly eyes rested on me as she offered a prayer for, ‘anyone  waiting for a diagnosis’.

I felt like the lamb in a biblical painting, under a beam of light.  Or Maxwell Smart, listening to the words of Chief under the cone of silence. Her words felt they were directed me. Or maybe that is the power of church, to allow each individual to receive his or her comfort. I didn’t know what would happen, or even what the future held, but I knew in my heart that I was being looked after and that things would be okay.

It was last Monday when we drove back into the little town to join the Orangedalers for supper.  Jim and I came bearing a couple of pies, a bag of beer, and matching ostrich hairdos. Nothing seemed to have changed, but I don’t want to be too quick to say that, since the town could say the same thing about me. 

Kathleen's Ktichen

But before visiting, we drove down the hill to take a look at the little white church. There was nobody there, and the building not open.  The double front doors were pressed tightly together, like someone holding their hands over their heart.  Though I’ve known this church for over 40 years, it had taken on a new meaning for me and I felt I was beginning to understand its’ importance.  My dad had grown up in that church. Births and deaths had both been celebrated under that roof, and a community was held together. And when I was ready to let it, it welcomed me in and shared its hope and certainty.

I said a little thank you to the small wooden building and headed back up the hill. On Maple Drive other beacons awaited. So we headed up to Kathleen’s kitchen to another form of worship; a freshly cooked lobster, potato salad, and a cup of melted butter.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Until recently, my new best friend was my rear view mirror. For a cheap thrill, I’d take a quick glance and admire my new eyelashes from top to bottom. I’ve had them for a few months now, and I’ve been prouder than Archie Andrews showing off his red Ford Model T Jalopy to Veronica Lodge. My mascara tubes, which I used over the winter is still abundant, as I only had one or two lashes on which I lavished attention. So seeing my eyeball fully framed with lashes filled me full of glee.

However, I saw my reflection recently and was surprised to find that there was mascara all over my face. The person looking back at me looked like they’d just woken up in the sand after a late night of doing B-52 shots at a beach party. High school all over again. But, I chalked it up to a recent heat wave and gave myself a good scrub.

Later that day, and back in my car, I took a quick look in the mirror. I looked paler than usual and a bit pasty. Of course my mascara coming off would have explained a lot of that, but something was different. And then I realized that I hardly had any lashes. My tiny, but magnificent hairs were all but gone.  

I’ve heard of that happening. Ladies I’d spoken with have reported that their lashes fell out twice. One during chemo, then, following a quick regrowth, falling out again. Though I’d heard about it – I didn’t expect it to happen to me. Grrr. My whole face had been planned around my friggin’ eyelashes. The only way I can get by with my ridiculously short bangs is to have hair in the middle of my face.  And it’s not just cosmetic (but mostly). Eyelashes are very good at keeping tiny particles out of one’s eyeballs. And they serve as radar that something is nearby the eyeball, automatically forcing the lid shut should there be some sort of peril, in the manner of a sharp pencil, or the fizz from a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

I thought back to that morning, and how I’d applied my mascara. (Paraben free! Not tested on animals!). How could I not have noticed my sparse lashes? And how cruel that they could fall out again virtually overnight. It’s a nasty turn of events that I lost my most valuable hairs, rather than say – oh – the ones on my big toe that were a post chemo bonus.  The good news is that they’ll grow back. The bad news is that once again I look like a giant thumb with teeth and a headscarf.

But I’ll get over it, and work my way around it as I’ve managed to do for the last year. So for now, it’s back to giant sunglasses. And avoiding my rear view mirror. Unless of course, I choose to check for traffic.

Cancer Stinks

Animals can smell cancer. This has been well documented, and was described to me by a woman who I met at my one-and-only group therapy session. She had a dog, and said that it would lie on her chest and sniff her left breast. She had already been through cancer three years previously, and assumed that he was sniffing at the residue of history. Not so. Her cancer had recurred and the dog was the first to notice. At the time that I met her, she was waiting for her test results. The fact that the tumour was malignant was certain, and she was waiting to learn the severity of the invasion.  Scary stuff.

I rarely think about recurrence. I’ve had all sorts of treatments, with one more to come, and in an effort to keep my recurrence rate down to the absolute minimum I’ve upped my coniferous vegetables, and am trying to cut down on booze and stress. Not to mention flax, all natural make-up, exercise, and therapy. 

The Face of a Genius

So I was quite alarmed with Jed lay down on top of me and started sniffing at my breast. It was last week, during the heat wave, and I came home from work and sprawled on the couch. Not in a pretty way, either. Basically sitting with my arms flung out, and my ass sliding off the bottom of the seat with my chin resting on my chest.  I also happened to be in Jed’s spot, and he was a bit pissed, so he jumped up and stared at me. Then he started sniffing. And when he gets a scent, his little eyebrows furrow, his whiskers start to wiggle, and his sniffing gets pretty intense. He inhaled a series of very quick deep hound-sniffs. And I was paralyzed. (Well, as paralyzed as one can be when lying like a rag doll who has been flung on the sofa, with a hairdo that looks like it’s been through a washing machine). But I was frozen – and stayed that way for about 30 seconds, seized by the first grip of fear of felt in about six months.

Then Jed stopped, and sighed, and plunked his big droopy head down on my white blouse and looked up at me with his bloodshot eyes. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Worried? Satisfied? Protective?

Later that day I was checking myself out in a mirror. As usual, my hair needed flattening and I was covered in dog hair. (But apart from that, lovely!) Then I noticed a brown speck on my shirt. After trying to wipe it away, I realized that the speck was actually inside my pocket. I plucked it out, and it was a piece of cookie! I nearly laughed out loud. What Jed smelled was not canceritis returnis, but just a tiny remnant of my afternoon snack – a morsel of a ginger cookie.

Knowing that the source of Jed’s interest was now between my fingers, and not actually inside of me, made me giddy. Jed of course had known that all along, and was waiting outside the washroom door for his reward. Which he got of course, because dogs are so much smarter than we. 

PS For all you cat lovers out there,  here’s a story about a cat who predicted 50 deaths in a retirement home. It’s either funny/morbid/scarey, depending on your mood.

www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/2835787/Oscar-the-cat-can-smell-death.html