Question. Period.

Last night my wingman/stylist/partner made a list of all the things we need to do, in order to prepare for my recovery.

The list is long. There are things to do around the house. Support pillows to buy. Undergarments, frozen food, insurance claims, and making up a guest room for my mother, Nurse Violet.

Because it was such an extensive list, I wondered how much was absolutely necessary. F’rinstance. Do I really need giant panties? Will my tummy be swollen? And how do I go about getting a private room? I plan on entertaining quite a bit, so I don’t want any strangers crashing my party.

So at 8 this morning I called Katrina – secretary to my cosmetic surgeon. First order of business was finding out when I would have my pre-op appointment. I’m anxious to find out all the details (but not too many) of what to expect.

Katrina said I could expect to hear from someone next week. ‘What about compression garments?’ I asked her. She said the doctor H doesn’t normally encourage that – but if I need something I could get at the store next to the hospital. Great!

 ‘What about drains?’ I asked her. ‘When can I expect them to be removed?’ She gave me the same annoying answer I'm sick of hearing. ‘Everybody is different. Everyone heals differently.’

‘And when will I meet the anaesthesiologist?’ I asked. She sighed, and then told me he’d be at the pre-op appointment.

‘When do I stop taking tamoxafen?’ I asked.  I could hear her inhale,  ‘As I’ve told you, two weeks before surgery.’

‘Great. Just a couple more questions.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ I squeaked. ‘Really/?’

‘That’s right’

‘You’re cutting me off?’

‘Yes. If you have any other questions you can email me.’           

If I have any other questions?! I’m relatively low maintenance as a human being, but I’m about to have the rug pulled out from under me for the summer, and I have about 4,000 questions. I grabbed a litre of water from the fridge, and settled down at my computer.

 ‘Dear Katrina...’

Black Sharpie & A Martini

Samantha was the first person I thought of this morning. That is, fictional Samantha, from Sex in the City. There is an episode where she contemplates plastic surgery, and at her visit to the surgeon’s office, he draws on her with a black marker.

I remember watching that scene about twelve years ago (and more recently on DVD) and thinking how barbaric it looked. I also remember clearly thinking ‘ I will never do that’. And apparently she thought so too – and ran out of the office into the waiting arms of her girlfriends and a frosty martini. 

But I am doing it! Every time I think I have all the details covered, I drudge up another disturbing fact. Here’s today’s fun fact; I have to stand naked in front of my surgeon, while he scribbles on my tummy. And from what I’ve seen on TV – it’s not very scientific. It’s like a football coach scrawling on the blackboard, mapping out the next attack. Only, I am the blackboard, and there’s no chalk – it’s a Sharpie.

I know from experience, that I might buckle at the knees. I did that when I stood in front of him last time, and he squished my belly as though I was an avocado. That wasn’t scientific either. He was checking to see if I had enough tummy to make two new breasts – and it was just squish squish squish, followed by, ‘Okay. That’s good.’

So yesterday I called the Dr H’s office in a panic, to ask when the doodling would take place.

‘6 am. On the day of your surgery’.

Oh my God. Bring on Belleruth. If Samantha couldn’t do it – I don’t stand a chance! I’m going to need some courage, as well as my magical friends and allies. I try to remember that there are some things that can’t be controlled. The big black Sharpie is out of my hands, and in the small hands of a talented surgeon.

And then there are the things that I can control. I can’t follow Sam’s footsteps out of the office, but until that time – in 19 days -  it’s girlfriends and frosty martinis.

Dethroned by Angelina

Sigh.

Poor Jennifer Anniston.  Constantly upstaged by Angelina Jolie.  Jen gets caught topless, Angie gets caught in a burhka.  Jen gets high-lights, Ang gets a family.  Jen shamelessly promotes overpriced mineral water, Angelina promotes world peace.

Well last week Angelina stole my thunder. When her decision to have a double mastectomy was splashed all over every newspapers around the world, I got royally kicked off my thrown.

I don’t know if journalists were impressed by the surgery itself, or by the fact that Angelina managed to go through it so privately. Either way, they referred to her as ‘brave’, and as a ‘hero’.

Get of off my throne!

She certainly is brave. I know first hand that the decision to do something so drastic to your body is intensely difficult. It took me months to come to the conclusion that it was the right thing, and sometimes I’m only 85% sure. Not only is it a distortion of your old self,  but the recovery period is daunting.

So, brave? Absolutely. But heroic? No it’s not. There’s nothing heroic about it. She made a logical decision and bravely took a big step to drastically reduce her risk of cancer. It takes a lot of strength to do what she did, and she did it, most likely, with the support of a great medical team, as well as a team to take care of her family.

There’s another woman I kno, who was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s raising three kids on her own and works full time. She had her surgery, and went through chemotherapy. While she was going through chemo she got her black belt in karate. And when chemo was completed, she endured a ten-hour surgery to have a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction. And then she had a three-month recovery relying on friends, and her own resilience. And she did it because there was no option.  Nobody called her a hero.

Jen probably rolls her eyes when Angie is pictured holding her six kids as she walks down the beach. Sure it's tough to be a mother, but behind the camera are a team of nannies, chauffeurs, bodyguards, and a big bag of money.

I rolled my eyes when Angelina is touted as a role model.  I believe she is raising awareness for the BRCA mutation, and is an inspiration for many famlies. And she is strong and brave.

But a hero? Nuh-uh. Jen and I are climbing back on our thrones, and we toss our hair in indignation. 

Four Week Countdown!

When I first got my surgery date I made a list of all the things I need to do to whip myself into shape.

Here’ what I came up with.

At four weeks I planned to quit coffee. I can’t drink it during surgery/recovery, and I’ve heard reports that the headache from coffee withdrawal is intense.

Also at four weeks – daily exercise. I’m pretty good about it anyway, but I need to make sure that I’m doing something every day. I even got a brand new bike but I can’t find my helmet, so my wingman/stylist/Jim is expressively disapproving if I try to go riding sans chapeau.

But there’s yoga, my pilates video, and my job. Dog walking obviously doesn’t count. Jed, bless his hairy heart, is short limbed.  So I try to walk whenever possible. Why, just today, when I was forced to go to the ‘Wicker Emporium’ I parked my car as far from the store as possible. Given that it was at a suburban big box mall, it was about 20 kilometres.

At three weeks, I’ve planned to reacquaint myself with Belleruth Naparstek, and practice daily guided meditations.  I truly believe that it is because of Belleruth, that I woke up calmly from my second surgery.  Bellerruth helps me understand that I’m safe surrendering myself to someone else’s control, and to trust my body. (And my magical friends and allies)

At two weeks I plan to quit drinking.  I’m not a total booze-hound, but I really like a glass of wine with dinner, and I’m sad when I can’t have it.

At one week, I don’t know what’s gong to happen. I might have a nervous breakdown. But I’ll worry about that later.  (My toenails are a priority)

Yum

So today I woke up and looked into Jed’s droopy bloodshot eyes. My first thought was ‘Four weeks today!’ I thought of my giant to do list that includes making soup, buying loose pants,  a shower chair, and a whole bunch of other stuff. My second thought was, ‘I really need a coffee.’

 I wish I could say that this ended well.  I wish I could stay that I had steely resolve. But I didn’t have any resolve. I had a coffee. And it was delicious.  

Oh-oh. 

Keener

Back in March I told my reconstructive surgeon  that I was really scared.

‘Really?’ he seemed genuinely surprised. ‘There’s no need to be scared now.  A week before maybe, but not now.’

So I obediently held off for a while. But when I woke up this morning the first thing I felt was fear. I was seized with panic.  To be honest, it was a moment I’ve been waiting for, so I wasn’t surprised.

A surgery of this significance is not something that’s easy to swallow, even if one thinks it’s the right thing to do. I’ve started processing the nuts and bolts of the operation now, the smell of the anesthetic, the full day on an operating table, the scalpels, the big belly scar,  (to add to my enviable collection), the drainage tubes, the IV, the pain,  the painkillers, the eyes behind the masks.

People have occasionally said how lucky I was to be having this operation. A boob job and a tummy tuck! What could be better than that?  Well I’ll tell you what could be better than that! Doing a year of sit-ups and wearing a push up bra would be better.  Climbing a sheer cliff in the scorching heat would be better! Joining the military and crawling through mud in the middle of a rainstorm surrounded by hungry alligators would be better. And never having had canceritis would be the best thing of all.

So it’s no wonder that I'm freaked. I’ve been a cool cucumber for quite a long time and it was mostly an act. I held off on being scard for as long as possible, but I couldn’t hold off till the week before surgery. And as I’m starting the panic at this very second, it marks one of the few times where I’ve actually managed to do something so far in advance.

I'm planning on being the best patient, ever. My plans are in the works.

Bellyaching

All my favorite summer shirts have shrunk.

Last night I  put on my favorite  linen shirt, and once I exhaled, could see my pale white belly flesh poking out between the buttons.  It was gross and fascinating all at the same time. But mostly gross.

This could be me. It isn't.
But it could be.

So I tried on a few other tops.  In an effort to be French, I prefer that all my clothes have a defined waist, but since I don’t actually have a waist anymore, nothing fit. Even if I did hold my stomach in the whole night, I still couldn’t clap my hands or get something off a top shelf, and as I was going to a dinner party, I needed maximum range of motion just in case I needed to hail a taxi.

Luckily I recently bought a fabulous smock-y type thing that I was able to wear, but pants were another problem. The smart little Levi demi curve skinny jeans that I wore all last summer still do up, but ONLY if I arrange my tummy/boobs to hang over the waistband. Even then it’s hard to sit down, and crossing my legs is out of the question.

But nobody really wants to hear my bellyaching.  Probably because I have been whining about my weight since I was sixteen, and it’s gotten boring. And because the girlfriends who have gone through pregnancies  don’t get hung up on temporary weights. There are enough mid life crisis’s out there – and  low on the sympathy list is someone who has been exceedingly well fed.

Still, it’s hard to believe entire season of clothes is too small. But what’s really hard to believe is that, in five and a half short weeks from now, my belly will be up around my armpits. (Ouch!). Post surgery I expect to have all sorts of swelling and weirdness, as things settle into place. 

Followed, God willing, by a flat belly. The non-aching type.

Keef

I’ve always loved Keith Richards.

No matter what drugs he’s been on he always seems to be having a great time. Mick looks like he’s just bitten a chunk out of someone’s throat and is having problems swallowing, while Keith’s just having a blast.

I wouldn’t say he’s a role model. But, recently, there’s been a little pill popping going down at my place.

I’ve never really been a drug person, so taking a daily pill is as much as I can handle. My daily fix is tamoxifen, even though I miss a few days here and there. Not for any good reason.  Just because I‘m bad at taking pills. 

Keef!!!!

Then my sister Sue gave me some Happy Pills to add to my repertoire. They’re supposed to help with my wild mood swings, so I have them front and center in the medicine cabinet, where I can take them on a ‘Need-to-stop-bitching’ basis. I rarely us them, but it makes me happy just looking at them, so I consider them highly effective. I think of them as my Keef pills.

Last week my masseuse recommended two others. One is a magical mushroom pill that is supposed to be good for my liver and energy. Both could use a little attention. The other is a Chinese herbal pill that she recommends for (ahem) digestion, to ward off the side effects of oxycontin, post surgery. I’ve put those away for later.

So I have all my pills at home and I feel like a reluctant junky. But now that I’m six weeks away form surgery, I have to buckle the  f*ck up. That means taking my tamoxifen & mushroom pills on a daily basis. No more screwing around.

Mushroom Delight

Save These For Later

Yesterday I got up and had a coffee. Then I popped a tamoxifen. And as per my masseuse, I took two of my energizing mushroom pills. And then I put on my glasses to read the ingredients, only to find that I’d actually taken a couple of the Chinese herbal (anti-constipation pills), by a mistake. Meanwhile, the mushroom delights were in the closet.

Damn. Popping pills is tricky business. I fretted briefly about my pill combination and thought ‘What would Keef do?’.  Obvious. The Happy Pills! I need to stay relaxed and focused.

After all, I’m in training for a big surgery. And to quote from the Rolling Stone’s song Happy. – ‘I never blew a second chance’

Happy. Happy. Tra-la-la.

Boys R Dumb

I got a text today from a colleague with whom I have a love/hate relationship. It said, ‘Janet, what IS your deal anyway?’

Because I freelance, I often go for many months without seeing certain people face to face. When starting a new job it’s quite common to see friends who have gained weight, got divorced, grown a beard (men, mostly), had a kid, or joined AA.

This text was from a colleague I haven’t seen since last summer. At that time, he’d looked at me wide-eyed when I showed up with super-short hair. And not cute-short either. Just short-short, in a weird way.

Next week I’ll be seeing him when I start the new job. My hair is far better, but I’m carrying around an extra 15 pounds, which frankly, is mostly hidden under an empire waist, or if I’m desperate, a maternity top.

But this is a six-month job, and I’ll be leaving after five weeks to get my new rack.  So he’s curious. And passive-aggressive. And frankly, when it comes to putting 2 + 2 together, some boys can are a bit dumb and will come up with a 3. Or a banana.

So when I got a text out of the blue I knew that he was curious. And it hasn’t occurred to me to tell the truth. (Why start now?) I withheld all my canceritis information from the general public, so I really REALLY don’t want to start talking about reconstructive surgery to just anyone.

My story is going to be this. I’m having knee surgery. I haven’t researched this – so I don’t know the recovery time from a knee operation, but nor does anybody else. And this guy is squeamish so it’ll only take a mention of ‘cartilage’ and ‘ complications’ for him to change the subject.

If only girls were so simple.

Super Fantastic!

I have a friend who's been going through a couple of shitty years. Whenever I call and ask how she’s doing she’ll say, ‘Super Fantastic’.

We’ll talk a bit and she’d tell me about her areshole ex-husband,  her crummy job, and how her kid had the flu and had kept her up all night – and then her voice would crack, and she’d say, ‘But I feel super fantastic.’

‘Really?’ I’d ask. ‘Don’t you think that Super-Fantastic is a bit of a stretch?’

Not necessarily. Her point was that nobody wanted to hear her complain. Three years of silly antics from an ex seems just about long enough to hold interest. And those who say ‘how are you?’ don't really want to know that your six year old hasn’t slept in a week, and is rubbing his nose on your shirt.

So,  she replies with ‘Super Fantastic’ for two reasons. Firstly, it keeps the conversation alive.  Saying  ‘I feel lousy’, may cost you your audience. Especially if you’ve been feeling lousy for a long time. One is more likely to be invited out for a mint julep if they feel ‘super fantastic’, than if they ‘feel like crap’, and only want to complain.

And secondly, according to her – if you say that you are Super Fantastic, people will treat you like you’re Super Fantastic. And when you see that positiveness reflected in someone else’s eyes – you may actually start to believe it yourself. One can actually trick themselves into thinking that they are more capable than they are!

'Soop-ahh'

This morning, I put it to the test. Last  Friday morning I emailed my Surgeon’s secretary to RSVP to the invitation for a July 13^th surgery. I didn’t hear back from her until late Friday afternoon, when she emailed to say that they may have an earlier cancellation, and would I like to join them for a boob job and a tummy tuck on April 30th.?  

My first thought was – ‘lets get ‘er done!’,  followed immediately by ‘I can’t go through with this’, then ‘why the f*ck did she wait till the end of Friday to send this message?!’ The office had closed, and  I had a whole weekend to mull it over! But I resolved to keep an open mind, and when calling back on Monday, to embrace the idea before making any decisions.

So this morning I made the call. ‘So you have an opening next week!’ I said gaily, 'How exciting!' I opened my appointment book, as though I was a southern belle booking a hair appointment at my favorite salon in Atlanta. ‘Let's see if ah am free!’

‘No’, said the secretary, ‘There was no cancellation. We’re going to see you on June 13^th. 8 am. We’ll call to book your pre-op appointment.’

‘A pre-op appointment!’ I said with girlish enthusiasm, ‘Ah’ll look forward to it!’

Super. Fantastic.

Caller Unkown

I have just returned from four blissful days in the sun.

Finally having a surgery date, I felt like I could make plans to do something fun. So I got in touch with a favorite friend, who immediately planned a girly getaway to Southern Florida. She promised that amongst the seniors, we’d feel young, slim, and fit, and that I wouldn’t be the only one with boobs around my waist. She promised sun (lots), great food (miso sea bass, crab claws, lobster ravioli), and dolphins. Best of all was the company, which was excellent.

While I was relaxing, I kept my cell phone close by. Dr Escargot had said he wanted to move up the surgery date, and knew that the call could come any time. Every time I’d hear a phone ring, I jumped out of my skin. Even by the pool, I checked incessantly for messages. But – nothing.

So I swam, and biked, and ate, and felt nearly normal.

Landing in Toronto at midnight I checked my phone again. I guess I hadn’t programmed it properly for travel, because several messages came in. I looked at my call display. A few familiar numbers, and then the number I’ve grown to dread; ‘Caller Unknown’.

My stomach dropped.

There was no question in my mind that it was the hospital, but with sand still in my shoes, I was reluctant to be jolted out of my happy place. With a surgery date  I had finally made a plan. I took a trip, and I had my next contract all lined up. And I knew that if I once I checked the message, everything would change.

I put off listening to my messages until 6 am the next day, at which time I listened to the Unknown Caller.  ‘This is Dr H’s office’, they said. ‘We’ve moved you up to June 13. Have a great day!’

Damn.

Have to change my work schedule.

Will be in the hospital for Jim’s birthday

But most importantly,  no fireworks for me.

Fourth of July

BAM!

My surgery is scheduled for the fourth of July. Almost perfect! It feels right to know that while I’m having a long nap  – there are picnics & parades -  and fireworks filling up the sky.

However, the Fourth of July is four months away, and I’ve already waiting a long time, longer than the 6-12 months recommended by Dr Escargot. Last week I tried to reach his secretary to tell her that the wait was excessive, and I wasn’t being as ‘carefully monitored’, as I had expected to be. I spoke only to her answering machine. Monday morning I tried again, and realizing that she would never call me back, went down to the hospital and walked into her office.

BANG

‘Oh Hi!’ she said as though I’d just joined her lunch table in the school cafeteria. ‘Dr Escargot isn’t here right now. But he’ll be back in an hour. Want to wait?’ Damn right I wanted to wait, and I did.  I waited in the waiting room in order to tell him that I was tired of waiting.

KABOOM

We had a pretty good consultation, went over past treatment, and he agreed that we should try to speed things up. I told him that I needed to be more closely monitored, and he agreed it would be a good idea to get a mammogram. He filled out my thing-y I needed to bring to mammogram-land to book an appointment – and wrote in the bottom ‘ASAP’.

I walked over to mammo-land. They asked if June would work. I rolled my eyes. She scrolled through her appointment book and said ‘April 18?’ I told her I’d be out of town, but said, ‘I’m free tomorrow’. So she scrolled some more, made a little frowny face, and said, ‘8:30?’
Done! 

What followed yesterday morning was a mammo, then another mammo (they found something suspicious that turned out to be scar tissue) and finally an ultrasound that brought back so many bad memories that I nearly leapt off the table and ran down the hall topless, and covered in jelly. But I didn’t.

I went to straight to Escargot, who had already read the mammo online, and talked to the ultrasound doc, and said everything was absolutely clear. ‘But,’ said Dr Escargot in his soft Spanish accent, ‘We are steel going to try for an earlier date’.

Fine. Half of me just want to get this over with. But the other half wants to celebrate Independence Day by being independent of my old breast tissue. Psychologically, I also like the fact that there will be so much going on with our neighbours to the south that it makes my surgery seem smaller (And more manageable) in comparison.

But mostly I just want fireworks.

Waiting for DIEP

My oncologist told me that the further one gets from cancer treatment, the less enthusiastic they are about becoming a patient again. Well, no kidding.

I feel so nearly normal. Apart from the wild mood swings, night sweats, Buddah belly, deformed boob, and mild lymphedema, it’s like nothing every happened! According to Winona Judd, ‘Normal is just a cycle on a washing machine’. So I’m just as normal as I can be, and the thought of slipping into a hospital gown and walking into surgery seems like somebody else’s life. Not mine.

So I need to move forward. The wait for this surgery has gone on too long. It dangles in front of me like a carrot and as I move forward so does the date. Until recently, I’ve been happy to look at it from a distance; secretly hoping the day would never come. I’ve deliberately been running at medium speed but now it’s time to sprint ahead,  and put the damn carrot in the rear view mirror.

So I emailed my surgeon’s office and told them that it’s been almost a year since radiation, and I need to know what’s going on. Thirty seconds later, (Ping!) I received an email from Dr. Escargot saying  ‘I’ll work on it’.  Surprisingly, he didn’t say there’s ‘no rush’, nor did he say the usual stuff about scheduling being up to the other surgeon's office. Normally his secretary gives me a little speech about the difficulty of scheduling two surgeons and an OR room for an entire day. But Dr Escargot said none of that. The snail was taking action.

Twenty minutes later Dr Plastic Surgeon’s office called, and said they are making calls and would get back to me shortly.  So I sat in front of my computer, waiting for the Ping on my computer indicating that I had mail. But it never came.

But I needed an answer before the weekend.  Waiting isn’t working for me anymore. So I called the PS’s office, and his kind secretary gave me an update. She told me that they’d proposed two dates to Escargot, without any success. But, there was a third option she was proposing, and was waiting to hear back.

‘And what date might that be?’ I asked.

‘May 9’ she said.

Sounds perfect. I want that date. I should know by tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

Fit/Fat

It’s a tricky business trying to stay fit and fat at the same time. On one hand I need to preserve my expanding tummy. The middle fat is necessary so that it can be transferred to my upper middle, thereby reducing the risk of canceritis recurrence to almost zero. The fact that it requires a ten-hour operation makes me uncomfortable. And the fact that I haven’t yet been given a date for the aforementioned ten hour operation, has me completely on edge.

Then there is the other hand. I have to be in shape for this surgery. My surgeon, Dr Escargot, told me that I’m the ideal candidate for surgery. I’m a young (why thank you Doctor!),  healthy, non-smoker who is in fairly good shape.

But in order to grow my tummy, I’ve been avoiding all the exercises that strengthen  my stomach. I stopped doing sit ups, and I’ve taken a break from Pilates. I’ve been completely neglecting my core.

But my post surgery body needs to be strong. From what I understand, my recovery involves a strain on my back, since it will be overcompensating for my frontal realignment.  And I’ll have about 8 weeks when I can’t use my ab muscles at all. So I need to build up my strength. I’ve gone back to Pilates – sort of.  Rather than go back to class, I downloaded a video so I can do it my living room.

Self Portrait with Minor Exaggeration

So I came home tonight, and did my workout.  At the end I spent a few minutes doing a plank. (Diane Sawyer swears by this). Tonight I took my position and looked down at my body. I could see my little cleavage, and below that, my gut. BUT – my tummy was actually hanging lower than my boobs! No matter how alarming, this is also fantastic. I was working out, while watching my fat. And there is ample!

In a perfect world, they doctors could squeeze my middle and push my fat up higher – much like a tube of toothpaste. But my body is less like toothpaste and more like a Werther’s in a muffin. Soft on the outside, hard in the middle.  So I continue to work on the hard core, while my muffin gleefully spills over my pants.

And I am getting fitter. And fatter. And still waiting…

One secretary. Three heads.

For all the fantastic people I deal with at Princess Margaret first class hospital, there is always one dud. In this case it my oncologist’s secretary. Her name is Cerberus.

Because my oncologist (Dr E) is almost unreachable, we have to go through this secretary.  My other doctors are all reachable by phone or email, and seem genuinely concerned. Not Dr E. She doesn’t make things easy.

So, I had a question that has been puzzling me. I am on a drug called Tamoxafen that messes with the estrogen that contributes to the development of cancerous breast tumours. Because I’ll be replacing my breast tissue with the fat from my big round tummy, I’m wondering if my drug regime will remain the same. So when I was at the hospital having my arm checked, I thought I should stop Dr E’s office, and say hi.

‘Hi Evelyn,’ I chirped sweetly. She looked slowly up from her appointment book. 

‘Oh. She said. ‘Hi’

‘I’d like to talk to Dr. E.’

‘Ok. You can phone for an appointment.'

 I looked at the appointment book, which was at her fingertips. ‘ Can I make an appointment now?’

‘You should call.’

‘I’m standing right here.’

She looked up at me as though she’d just cracked open her Wendy’s salad, and discovered a piece of slimy lettuce.  Her face puckered in disdain.  Reluctantly, she opened her book.

‘July 4^th.’ She said.

Really?! Screw off!  ‘Can I please have something sooner? I have an important question.’

‘What kind of question?’

I explained about my continued Tomoxifen. She ooomphed. ‘You’ll have to ask Dr E about that.’

‘ I know.’ I said. ‘That is why I’d like to make an appointment.’

She leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. We had a little staring contest as I sized up her three heads. Then she dragged her finger lazily across the calendar as though the effort had exhausted her. ‘April 4.’

I nodded. ‘Fine.’

Janet-1. Cerberus -0. Time to find a new doctor.

Feeding Time in the OR

The problem with a long waiting time for surgery is that it gives me too much time to think. Rather than relaxing in downward dog, I think about scar tissue. Instead of counting sheep, I think about blood vessels. All this worry, and I don’t even have a surgery date.

Last week I was booked for a CT scan. No big deal. All I had to do was lie down on a table, and glide in and out of a giant donut.  But I forgot about the flimsy hospital gown, and how vulnerable they make me feel. And I forgot about the injection, and the search for the perfect vein, and the smell of whatever goes into the syringe.  Too much stuff to think about, for a gal who tries not to think about what happens in the OR.

So I was happy to get out of there, and after hurling my gown into the hamper, I ran down to the lobby for a peppermint tea. There, at Tim Horton’s, I stood in line. All around me there were doctors. In front of me were to surgeon-ish looking men ordering coffee and talking about sports. ‘Did you see the size of his head?’ said one to the other. So I started thinking– these guys must also chat to each other during procedures – but what is it they talk about?

Three Espressos Before Surgery

While I’m under anaesthetic, unable to defend myself, do the Doctor’s talk about me? My only point of reference is MASH, where there was some witty banter (with sexual undertones) over the wounded. But I’m going to be out for many hours, so those people have a lot of time to fill. Will they say that I too have a big head?  Or, will they comment on the colour of my toenails?

And what if the medical staff is hungry? It’s a long surgery and they’re going to have to be fed.  I’d hate to think of my surgeon with a rumbly tummy, thinking about two eggs sunny side up. Or, God forbid, an anaesthesiologist with a nervous tick, who drinks too much coffee.

34C

For me it’s a monumental day. One that I am dreading, and one that always plays out in my head. For doctors, it’s another day at the office. And that day will include chatting, eating, telling jokes, stretching, calling home, and going for a pee. And at the centre of it will be me; the quiet participant.

And then there’s the game that I seem to remember playing during my University drinking days. You take the hand of your comatose friend,  and make him slap himself. Could it be remotely possible that some of the interns will take advantage of my supple nature and start amusing themselves by rearranging my arms so it looks like I’m holding some forceps?

The possibilities are endless. 

So is my imagination.

This is a long wait.

Front Seat Driver

Jed and I were out in the neighborhood yesterday morning, walking at 1 mile per hour.  He was having a particularly sniffy day, and he was stopping to smell each fragrant shrub and every single snowflake.

Ahead of us was a threesome who was moving along at pretty much the same pace. I’d seen them come out of a house on my street, and we’d since caught up, which shows you the speed at which we all traveled. They were three men  - two older, and one younger, and they were inching towards a van. The eldest man was using a walker, while his friend was walking alongside. I assumed the younger man was the driver of the van, and he’d come to collect his passengers.

Jed stopped to pee on a discarded tricycle, and I watched the elderly gentleman shuffle along. He was slightly stooped, and was wearing the kind of shapeless chinos favoured by older men, the kind into which you can jam a few hankies and a wallet.  He seemed deep in concentration as he and his friend navigated the winter sidewalk. Inside my head I was chanting ‘Please don’t fall please don’t fall don’t fall’. For the millionth time that day I was grateful for my strength and mobility. I thank the universe every day that I can breath deeply, and get where I need to go. Who cares that I’ve got Frankenboobies  - that’s what French bras are for.

Jed

The van was only five feet ahead, but the walk was slow. Rather than pass them, Jed and I crossed the street, and watched them from the other side. They all were heading towards the drivers side of the vehicle. Apparently it would take two men to help him into the back seat. 

The young man opened the driver’s door and the passenger door. And the older man in the walker shuffled to the back door and then shuffled right on past it toward the younger man. The young man took the walker, set it aside, and with the help of the friend, picked up the older gentleman and plopped him behind the wheel.

I watched. And waited. And Jed licked a snow bank. And then I stepped back as the van jerked away from the sidewalk, and tore loudly up the street.

Control comes in all shapes and sizes, and in this case is was a 4000 pound container with rubber burning under it's feet.

Marching Into Spring

The days are getting longer.

Like most Canadians, I look up at the sky like a sunflower, impatient for the extra light and drinking in as many rays as possible. But this year I’ve also embraced the evenings, and have been using the outdoors to my advantage. The early nights allow a certain anonymity, so once the sun goes down, under the cloak of darkness, I march.

After being diagnosed with lymphedema last fall I learned that I had to do exercises to compensate for my loss of nodes. My lymph fluids need extra help circulating, especially through my right arm, so it doesn't swell up like a fleshy pork sausage.

Every few months I check in at the Lymphedema Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. The circumferences of both arms are measured to make sure they are under control (they are). While there, the therapist asks if I’d like to do a self-massage under her guidance (no), or if I’d rather she massage me (yes please!)

Then we go through the basic preventative exercises, two of which I do in the car. Keeping my arm elevated, and pumping my fist are easy to do when stuck in traffic. (Thanks to my dad I’m a one-armed driver, as my driving lessons consisted of driving to Baskin Robbins, and then a driving home holding a rocky road ice-cream cone).

Because there are also nodes in the groin area, the therapist suggested I stimulate them by marching.
‘Marching?’ I asked her, ‘Like a soldier?’
‘More like a marching band,’ she said. ‘Soldiers don’t always bend their knees.’

And so I march. But instead of carrying an intstrument, I’m pulling a basset hound. Or more likely, he’s pulling me as I march quickly behind. I’m keenly aware that I probably look like a clumsy wind up toy, and not like the elegant French lady I so long to be. Nobody ever marches down to the patisserie for a baguette, and certainly not while wearing a parka.

But my body has changed, and I’m constantly trying to compensate for it’s revisions. So I’m appreciate the dark night, when I can march through my neighborhood, without actually being seen.

Spring is coming, and soon my neighbors will be sitting on front porches. And I will march by them, with Jed disguised as a tuba.