The Land of 'Should'

I’m starting to hate the word ‘should.

Perhaps I’m overly sensitive to suggestion, or maybe I’m giving off the help-me vibe, but lately I’ve been finding that people are very enthusiastic in telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. And I don’t like it.

I think it started in childhood. I remember my mother Violet responding to my complaints about being bored by snapping, ‘You should do volunteer work’. I should? Why? My teenage mind did not find that an appropriate reaction to making it through a rainy afternoon. I was thinking more along the lines of having some chips – or playing checkers.

Fast forward to last weekend and a loved one told me that I should become a real estate agent so I could work with my sister. ‘You should be a Realtor!’ they said. I should? Why? While I may be considering changing careers but I don’t think I can do any that involve math. (Shouldn’t they know that)?

In between were about a million other ‘should’. You should join a book club. You should go on a diet. You should go off your diet. You should eat more vegetables. You should watch out for unopened mussels. You should invest your money. You should use a condom. You should use hand sanitizer. You should make more of an effort. You should be back to normal by now.

These are the  ‘should’ you hear when the person dishing out assumes that you haven’t already thought of it. As in, ‘Hey, your head is bleeding –you should get a band-aid’. (Really? A band-aid, and not an onion?)

At some point I stopped taking ‘should’ as a suggestion, and heard it more as a reprimand of my behaviour. I don’t want to hear all the ‘shoulds’ when its stuff I already know. Of course I know I ‘should use a Kleenex’. And I know I should be more patient.  And I know that I ‘should’ be relieved and grateful that my treatment and surgery are largely behind me, and I ‘should’ make a plan for the future.

But sometimes you don’t want someone telling your what you should feel. Rather, you want a road map of how to get there. There’s a lot of intimated effort that goes along with the word ‘should’ and when you’re tired, it’s hard to catch up.  I need solutions, not suggestions. And definitely not an admonishment.

Don’t tell me I ‘should’ relax. I know I should relax. Tell me how to relax. I hear the word ‘should’ about a thousand times a day. Mostly well-meaning and often in my own head, but still - a lot of pressure. Sometimes you want people just to stop talking, and guide you to the magic land of ‘Should’ that they keep talking about. I know where I ‘should be’ I just don’t’ always know how to get there. Or even if I’d want to go.

It’s a benevolent  voice that might say, ‘Hey, you should gets some sleep’. But it’s an even better one that will take your hand and say, ‘I’m putting you to bed’.

Back to Work in the Real World

Getting back to the working world is not easy. 

In my excitement of being ‘back to normal’ I forgot the real world and how fast it moves! Sure I can do everything I used to, but only as long as I do it at my own speed. I can walk the dog, do my lymphedema exercise, apply my creams, do a stomach massage, bathe, dress, and be out the door in about four hours.  This doesn’t necessarily make me the best man for any job, but right now it’s the best I can do. 

But that’s not even the problem. The bigger issue is that I’ve seem to have lost the chip in my brain that made me such a brilliant mutli-tasker. When I left my job four months ago, I could keep a dozen lists in my head, along with a mental Sharpie to cross things off. Now I walk into a room and completely forget why I’m there.

And I had conversations such as this:

Colleague – Okay, we need fabric for a curtain awning

Me – I like your shoes

Colleague – Thanks! This is a rush job, and we have to get it to the seamstress by noon.

Me – Did you know that Valerie Harper is on Dancing with the Stars?

So that was Week one, but things have picked up slightly from there. I’m slowly getting back into the real world.

I can now concentrate for slightly longer periods of time (though my mind frequently drifts off to thoughts of swimming, or nipples). And I speed through my morning exercises, taking more time to do them in the evening. I’ve also gotten used to wearing semi-professional clothing rather than my billowing wardrobe that got me through the summer. Still, there are many favorite shirts that I can’t wear, in fear that, if I reach up to get something, I’ll expose my stunning 17” scar. It’s never to far from my mind that beneath my clothing, I still look like a Raggedy Anne doll that had been bitten by a shark.

 

Last week for work I visited a fancy antique shop. The mission was to recreate a restaurant from 1902. The fellow in charge (Alex) was enjoying our task. We started talking about Downton Abbey and he swooned slightly and whispered, ‘Oh, yum. Antique porn!’

I laughed, and checked myself out in one of the antique mirrors on the counter. My shirt, I noticed, had come partially undone. Not only were my radiation tattoos visible, but also a good chunk of my pretty pink bra. (How am I supposed to monitor these things when my boobs are numb?) So I mumbled ‘Oooops’ and did up a couple of buttons.

Alex grinned slyly and said ‘Don’t worry honey, I’ve seen it all’. I raised my eyebrows, and he said, ‘I have four sisters – so I’ve seen everything.’

All I could think was, ‘Well you ain’t never seen anything like these!’ Seriously! He has no idea.

So standing there amidst the fine china, I realized that just when I think I’ve eased myself back into the normal world, I still have another foot that is firmly planted in another nearly normal world. A world in which it feel like there is only me.

Middle Aged Crazy

I can spot them a mile away. 

This time was at my local grocery store, and she was dressed in expensive yoga gear from head to toe.  Her mat was slung across her back, in it’s own Lululemon bag, and her hair was pulled up in a lop-sided bun. Regardless of her outfit I knew she was one of us; the middle-aged crazies are hard to hide.

When I first saw her I was standing in line. (Sadly, I had thirteen items, so I was standing in one of the slower lines). She came crashing through the front doors, picking up speed as she moved past the check out lines. She speed-walked through the produce section, past the frozen foods, and took a sharp turn down the cereal aisle.

For a moment I thought I’d lost her! I’d extended my neck as far as it could go and was spinning my head like an ostrich. I knew she wouldn’t be long.

Seven seconds later she remerged, frantic and glistening, her yoga mat swinging across her back like a sac of arrows. At the risk of mowing down a small Chinese man, she sprinted to the ‘Express’ lane. I was practically beside her now, and I recognized a kindred spirit - as I am intimately familiar with the glassy eyed mania of a peri-menopausal woman on an urgent quest. Beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip, neck veins were bulging, and in her hand was a single box of Frosted Cherry Pop-tarts. With sprinkles.

I’ve been in that situation before. Many times I’ve had to make a serious detour to satisfy a craving. Chocolate Brownies when I was a teenager, French fries when I was hung-over, and more recently, Hagen Daaz ice cream straight from the container. And the challenge is always the same – how fast after you have it in your hand can you get it to your mouth.

Yoga lady was thinking the same thing. Because of the way her leg was shaking I doubted that she’d even make it outside. I also doubted that she’d actually made it to a yoga class. I am familiar with that too. There been times where I’ve tried sitting still and enjoying the sounds of ‘Om shanti shanti shanti’, and the only thing I could think was, ‘Oh shut-up shut-up shutup'. And I’ve left.

Crazy yoga lady finally made it to the front of the line and flung a five-dollar bill at the cashier. As she raced toward the front of the store she started tugging at the top of the box. By the time she’d stepped through the doors, she had the interior pocket between her teeth, and was trying to rip it open. I paid for my groceries and ran out to the sidewalk.

She was about twenty feet ahead of me now walking leisurely down the road. She’s had her fix and was feeding herself slowly. I new from experience that she’d inhaled the first pop-tart, and maybe the second. Women know these kind of things for certain.

I also knew that from now on her day would just get better. She’d returned to her normal self and was now just another stylish yoga lady. Covered in sprinkles.

Numboobs

I can’t feel my boobs.

It’s a new sensation, so I feel there should be a word for it. Like ‘Numboobs’ or ‘Noobums’ or something that makes me feel like I’ve just been kicked out of an African tribe for not being cool enough. 

Cutlets

The first time I really noticed was last weekend. Jim and I were in a dark movie theatre and popcorn kept slipping from my greasy fingers – and down my shirt.  Normally I dig it out and pop it back into my mouth, but I couldn’t feel it! There was none of that popcorn itch that I normally associate with ‘date night’.  I tried in vain to dig it out but I felt like I was poking around in someone else’s chest.

That night in bed I tried to summon some sensation. None. When standing I can feel that there is some weight on my chest. And it’s not unpleasant. There’s just enough jiggling to feel like they’re actually attached to me - which is probably similar to a transvestite who pops ‘Natural Touch’ silicones implants into his bra. Which, incidentally, look like chicken cutlets.

6 lb Cat.

So I lay in bed trying to feel my Numboobs.  Apparently our tiny cat had the same idea. I felt a soft thump as she dove off the dresser and onto my chest.  She looked me in the eye, daring me to do something But I didn’t, so she settled down and tucked her tiny head under my chin.

(To be fair, she only weighs about 6 lbs, and I can’t feel her at the best of times. But I hoped that this wouldn’t set a precedent for our 19 lb cat, or for the 55 lb basset hound.)

Today I went to the hospital to check in with plastic surgery clinic. There’s a tiny bit of guck escaping from the incision on my right breast, and I wanted have it checked out.  Mostly, I wanted to know if it was okay to go swimming. (Girls weekend ahead!) The nurse took a look at the area in question. She started poking around, but I felt nothing but soft pat, as though I was wearing a ski jacket. ‘Does this hurt?’, she asked.

‘No!’ I said, ‘They’re numb!’

‘Oh’, she seemed delighted, ‘Then I can squeeze as hard as I want!’

After examining me, she decided that it’s best if I don’t swim. There’s s still the remote chance that the teensy tiny opening inhales some lake water and becomes affected. Hmpf.

She left the room, and I did up my shirt. Then I went down the elevator, and onto another floor for some blood tests.  As I rolled up my sleeve, the nurse motioned for me to do up my blouse.  Ooops. A few buttons had come undone and I was pulling a full Fabio.

That day not only had a tiny cat enjoyed my numoobs and cleavage, but several lucky patients as well.

Greatest Show on Earth

The Plane

The airplane that took us from Halifax to Charlottetown sat 18 people. And we were two of those people on the plane last weekend, as we flew to Prince Edward Island.

From the back row we could watch the open cockpit, clearly seeing the pilots hands as he manned the controls and adjusted his sunglasses. The day was gray and drizzly, and the size of the windshield wiper made us laugh. They looked like something you might buy ‘As Seen on TV’ for 12 dollars after a night of drinking. I crossed my fingers that they’d hold up during the half hour flight.

Within moments we were up in the air. As the little plane shook, sixteen passengers whipped out Ipads and Sodukos.  As we climbed higher the plane burst into blinding white sunlight, and levelled off over the puffy white clouds. It was glorious!

Bible Sky

I looked at the guy in front of me, who was lost in a game of solitaire. One the other side of the aisle, his wife was doing the crossword. Another man closed his eyes. A few ladies dug into their handbags, pulled out their paperbacks, and cracked them open.

‘What the f*ck is wrong with you?’ I wanted to scream. ‘This is the best show on earth!’ Truly, it was. Mere inches below us was a sea of white puffballs rolled by lit by giant beams of sunlight. If there was a way of actually feeling closer to heaven, I don’t know what is. I felt like I could actually wave at my father. (Not The Father - my actual dad)

Still nobody looked, but I was riveted. I’ve flown many times before but never felt this close to the universe, and never able to see out the front window. I waited for the moment we’d head through the clouds and see the gentle island below us. But for now, the sun and the sky were performing miracles for a small select audience of four; the pilot, co pilot, my co-pilot (Jim), and I.

Feeling the jolt of cement beneath the wheels, the readers put the bookmark back into their novels, and stood up to leave. As we hustled out into the sunlight and on the tarmac, a few people pulled out their smart phones and took picture of the plane.

Their electronics devices captured the aluminum flying machine, but they’d missed the best show on then planet.

Weiners in a Glove

Kissing it Better

The day after camping, (goodbye air mattress, hello bed!) I went straight to the Lymphedema Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital.  I was anxious to find out what caused my hand to flare up like a 5-pack of wieners, and my arm like a pork sausage.

The nurse measured me, took notes, then said that I needed a higher degree compression of flesh sleeve and gauntlet. I told her I was flying in a few days, and that I was very concerned about the health of my arm, as I was starting to look like a butcher shop.

She assured me I needn’t worry. For now, I was to keep wearing the garments that I have. Also, I should do my exercises, avoid sun and heat and salt, and keep my arm elevated whenever possible. No problem!

Fleshy Compression Glove

At home that night I started reading. There’s all sorts of information on the internet, as well as a bunch of chat forums. One lady wrote in to say that the gauntlet can actually hurt your hand because there's nothing to push the fluid out of your fingers, so it stays and swells. She highly recommended using a ‘glove’. By compressing fingers, the fluid would be squeezed up up up up up through my arm and back into my body where it belongs.

At the crack of 9 I was at the door of my favorite medical-garment boutique. They’d  sold me my original garments, and  were a pack of extremely knowledgeable ladies. Once again I’d turned away from the medical professionals and landed in the hands (not puffy) of people who actually know what they’re talking about.

‘Why would she recommend a gauntlet?’ said the saleslady. ‘Did the nurse SEE your hand?’ I said that she did. The saleslady tut-tutted and put my hand in hers,‘You need a glove, I will get you one.’ 

And she did, but not without a bit of effort. As there were none available in my size, she disappeared into the back room for twenty minutes where she tore through boxes. Finding none, she’d plucked one from an outgoing order, deciding I needed it more than the person on the other end.

Poorer by $140, I stepped out into the sunshine with my fleshy glove. And once again I was grateful for the wise and sympathetic ladies who work in the trenches; those hands-on gals who always manage make things better for gals like me.

Wiener Hand

Camping is something I wouldn’t normally do, were it not for a promise to my 12-year-old nephew.

So on a perfect Canadian summer’s day, I found myself driving up to lake Huron.  Because I was having slight swelling in my hand, I put on the flesh coloured compression sleeve to help control my lymphedema. There’s always the possibility that excessive heat or activity may cause my arm to swell into a puffy sausage, and get eaten by a bear.

My Hand.
(Not really)

I also wore a ‘gauntlet’,  that slips over my hand & thumb,  leaving my fingers exposed. For extra security, I steered the car with my left hand, and kept my right arm raised, resting it on the rear view mirror. The whole point is to keep the lymphatic fluid going in the other direction, instead of pooling in my hand. All this – because my system needed extra help after losing so man lymph nodes.

We pulled into the campground, and I ‘helped’ my sister set up. Mostly I just stood there and gave suggestions on tent placement, and how to decorate our site.  I was full of helpful ideas. ‘Carry the picnic table over here Sue!’ or ‘ Hang the tarp higher! You can climb a tree, can’t you Sue?’

My nephew – bless his tweeny heart – was equally unhelpful (‘Did we bring marshmallows?’). 

I sat down beside him and rested my hand up against a tree. He looked up at it. ‘What’s wrong with your fingers?’ I looked at my hand. The fingers were swollen and my knuckle flesh bulged out like little tiny shower caps. I whipped off the gauntlet and we examined the swelling.

‘It looks like a cartoon hand,’ he said.

Our lunch.
For real.

The next two days passed peacefully. There was a beautiful lake I couldn’t swim in, and radiant sunshine that I couldn’t go near. I stayed in the shade with my book, and enjoyed the brilliant hospitality of Mother Nature and my sister. Occasionally, in an attempt to get the fluid moving, I’d pump my fist.  Due to the open concept living of camping, many people passed by on the way to the beach. On more than one occasion they thought that I was waving. More often than not, they waved back.

In the evening, Sue, along with her friends and I, would have fabulous dinners. The kids would roast hotdogs over the fire. I’d look at the shiny pork wieners dangling over the flame, and then down at my own porky hand. No difference really, except that the hot dogs were longer by about two inches.

The next morning I was packed and ready to go, headed for the city, and an appointment at the Lymphedema Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. (Sad goodbyes to the family, but ‘see ya!’to the air mattresses and communal bathroom).  As I peeled out of the campground I gave a last wave – though by that time – campers were ignoring the lady holding a pack of wieners up in the air. 

Missing my Belly Button

On nights when I can’t sleep I try to find my belly button.

I kick off the sheets, raise my arm, and let my finger fall to where my belly button is supposed to be. I should be able to stab it in the dark, considering I’ve stuck my finger in it since I was a tot. But I always get it wrong.

During my surgery it was relocated, so now I have two belly buttons; the phantom belly button that once was, and the new belly button that isn’t where my belly button is supposed to be.

Where is it?

I wish I knew more about the procedure. During the consultations with my Plastic Surgeon there was so much information that I kind of ignored the stuff that was revolting.  Dr H. would say something along the lines of,  ‘blah blah new bellybutton.’  My brain would freeze but I’d nod with confidence, as though I knew exactly what he was talking about it – as though moving ones belly button happens every day.

The truth is I found the whole thing too horrible to think about. I was already dealing with new breasts, a huge abdominal scar, and the notion that they were messing around with my nipples. That I could deal with that. But not the bellybutton.

I’d had two very bad experiences with bellybuttons that pretty much scarred me for life. The first was my sisters’ high school math teacher. He had a big beer belly and a belly-button which was clearly visible through his super tight short-sleeved shirt. Sometimes he’d come to school loaded, and when he did, there’d be something leaking through his bb.

The second experience was with a small Cuban child.  Jim and I were touring a tobacco farm and were being taken to the farmers ‘house’ by our guide. As the only guests we were something of a novelty. The little naked boy ran over to us and it looked for the entire world like he had an uncooked cocktail sausage sticking out of his stomach.

‘le gustaria llevarlo¿ (Would you like to pick him up)’, asked our guide.

 ‘No!’

He was a lovely child, but I had to make sure to keep my eyes on his face. Jim and I tried to be mature about his minor deformity but our maturity only lasted until our second mojito when we said things such as ‘what the heck was that?’ and ‘ick’.

I truly believe that things come in threes and with the fat math teacher and the Cuban child, -  I guess I’m the third. Okay, it’s not that bad. Now that the scars are healing my button is sort of cute. And it’s only slightly higher than it used to be. Also, I have a vague idea of how it happened. When my fat was removed from my tummy the skin had to be stretched, and a hole had to be punched in the new skin to connect with the old belly button hole. Or something like that.

One of these days I’m going to find out exactly what happened in that operating room.

Until then, I’m still stabbing in the dark. And missing my bellybutton.

No Dying in Spanish

Several years ago, my wingman/stylist/partner and I went to Spanish school in Costa Rica. Home base was the complete opposite of a tourist town. Dusty roads, roaming cattle, cinder block houses. No English menus, not even a beach.

Rush Hour

The aim of our vacation was to immerse ourselves in a tropical climate while engaging in some mental stimulation. I wanted to shake up my brain. At the end of our stay we’d accomplished a lot. I could write a one-page essay in Spanish, and Jim, who had become the honorary mayor of the town, could go into the store and ask for a coat hanger.

But here’s what I really loved about being forced to speak a different language – it really makes you choose your words carefully. Each syllable is precious, and stringing together a tiny sentence involves a lot of focus. The point is to get the message across, rather then get lost in wordy drama.

This is experience came to mind while I was at the airport. The travellers were tired and thirsty , and nobody seemed to want to be there but me (I like airports). ‘I’m dying for a drink,’ I heard someone say. I looked over at this seemingly healthy man and he didn’t look remotely dehydrated, let alone dying. He just looked tired & crabby, with a little pee stain on his chinos.

Downtown

Moments later I heard it again. ‘I’m dying to get home’.  And again, ‘I’ll die if the flight is delayed’. In fact, this is something I hear many times during the day. People are ‘dying’ over very small things. ‘Dying to meet you’,   ‘Dying to see your new boobs’. In my Spanish school in Costa Rica we would have said this -  ‘We am eager to go home.’  Or, ‘I are wanting look the new chest.’

But in our world we confuse the word ‘dying’ with desire. And this couldn't be further from the truth. So the one place where I don’t want to hear this coming from is my own lips. I am not ‘dying’ to do anything! After being around hospitals for the last two years, I can’t confuse dying with being eager. Especially after hearing the word ‘dying’ in context, and seeing the face of the person who is speaking the word in fear. And even more especially, when you’re surrounded by people whose one single goal it is to live.

After three weeks in Coast Rica, Jim had only had a small arsenal of words. ‘Percha’ was one, 'Araña' was another. He had to ration his words carefully, and each one had to convey something great.  

So when Jim walked down the dusty streets as the unofficial honourary mayor of our little town he would raise his arm in greeting, and as is the Tico custom, pump is fist and call out  ‘Pura Vida!’

Translation - ‘Pure Life'.

There's living, rather than dying, going on there.

Dr No-Show. Part 3.

 I stood in the examining room looking at the table upon which I’d lain a million times. On it, a blue gown was folded into a perfect square. It was there for me to wear, but I couldn’t put it on. I couldn’t even touch it.

After five minutes I heard a knock on the door, and Dr Escargot entered with a young intern. She extended her hand but I asked the Doctor if he and could have some time alone. The intern looked at Escargot, who made a motion for her to leave, and she did.

Escargot sat at the small desk in the corner of the room. Beside it was a chair, which is where I often sat during our consultations. He leaned back and looked at me expectantly. In my head were a thousand sentences I’d been rehearsing since he stood me up for surgery, six weeks earlier.

All morning I’d told myself not to cry. But myself didn’t listen. I took a deep breath, and in deliberately conversational tones told him that I was very disappointed. He nodded, as though he’d been expecting this. Then I corrected myself and said that I was angry. He nodded again, and I could feel my bottom lip starting to quiver.

Once I’d seen a bumper sticker that said ‘Speak the Truth, even if your voice shakes.’ So I kept going. I told him that I wasn’t here for an examination; I would be seeing Dr L for that. After all, he was the one who’d done the surgery. Still, Escargot remained speechless. I told him that of all the uncertainties I’d had in cancerland, one of the things that I always felt good about were the people around me.

I continued by saying that he’d been with me on the path leading to this surgery, and when it came time for the big show, he was in a different country.  Afterwords, nobody told me why. No explanation. No follow-up.

‘I apologize,’ he said in his soft Spanish accent, ‘ I can’t make excuses, I can only apologize. There was a scheduling error. But you were lucky that there were surgeons available. That is the benefit of the team work in this hospital.’

I cut him off. ‘I didn’t have a team of surgeons. I had one. You. And you didn’t show up.’

His calmness was unreadable. Perhaps he was humbly taking it all in, but I don’t think so. I think he’d made the decision to allow me to speak my piece, because errors of this magnitude don’t happen often, and he didn’t want me sending angry letters all over the hospital.

‘I can forgive human error,’ I said, sniveling a bit, ‘But In return I expect human decency’ (I’d rehearsed that line a few times, as I felt that it had just the right balance of truth, and drama).  ‘I expected a phone-call.’

‘Well,’ he said, sounding a little like Ricardo Montalban, ‘I contacted Dr H to find out about the surgery. I knew you’d done well.’

I heard myself about to say ‘Why didn’t you contact ME?’ and I didn’t like the way it almost sounded. I was turning into a whiney 13 year-old girl asking the pimply guy why he was ignoring her. In retrospect, I should have picked up the phone the second I regained consciousness, and asked Escargot why the hell he hadn’t bothered to make an appearance. But I didn’t, and now we were having this horrible conversation.

Dr Escargot had listened to me talk for almost half an hour, and I had nothing left to say. After a pause he took a deep breath and said how he and I had enjoyed a good surgeon/patient relationship, and he was very concerned that my faith had been tested. I nodded and told him I had lost the trust. He looked kind of sad – but that could have been boredom.

It had been almost two years to the day when I’d met Dr Escargot in that room for the very first time.  We’d shaken hands, and I had sat terrified while he told me about my cancer. Two new boobs later, no longer scared, I again took his very small hand in mine.

SpongeBob NoPants

Business Casual
Ralph Lauren

There is a reason why you never see SpongeBob on a celebrity best-dressed list. Partly because he’s wearing brown shorts. Partly because he’s porous and yellow. And party because some organisms just don’t flatter their clothes.

Sadly, I am such an organism.

My 14” abdominal scar, which I can credit for my lovely flat belly, doesn’t work with the natural curve of my body. Rather than embrace my waist, the extremities stick out like corners of a pillowcase. Or, as my sister said, like SpongeBob SquarePants. Or, a box of Kleenex. The comparisons are endless but the result is clear. My torso is flat,  and looks like I’ve been run over by a steamroller.

During these leisurely days of house arrest fashion hasn’t mattered. My blousy shirts and stretchy sundresses are quite forgiving. But now that I’m starting to tire of the same three outfits, thoughts have turned to trousers. And here’s what I think. I can’t wear ‘em.

Not only is my circumference larger than before – but even if I could do them up (I can’t) the waistline falls painfully across my belly. I went through my whole pant drawer and nothing came up over my hips. So I went through my fat-pant drawer and I found one pair of linen pants with a side-zip that I could wear, as long as I left the zipper open.

Classic Draw-StringTrouser
Calvin Klein

This seemed like an excellent option, so I wore them undone with my pillowcase corners sticking out the side, hidden by a billowy blouse.

Because I’ve been watching a lot of TV (specifically What Not to Wear) I know that the most important rule of fashion is to dress for your shape. But I don’t want to invest in square blouses, or little brown shorts. I want to dress for my old shape – and Dr H, my plastic surgeon, assures me that with a little outpatient surgery, my curves will re-appear.

But SpongeBob has learned his fashion lesson, and dresses for his shape. So if there were a best-dressed list for quadrilateral organisms, Spongebob Squarepants would be near the top, and JanetNoPants - a few steps behind.

Fit for a King

Today I'm in Ottawa, hanging out with my mother Violet, and taking advantage of her giant bathroom.

It's so much bigger than the one I have at home, and I thought a change of scenery might make the dreaded shower & bandage combo a little bit more fun. Her bathroom is quite lavish. It was custom designed by my dad who, after his three daughters left, was finally able to design his dream room.

Not only does it have a huge Jacuzzi tub, but also a built in magazine rack, phone, marble soap dishes, and a warming light. It also has a huge switch panel, and not knowing what any of them actually do - I turn them all on whenever I enter the room. I should mention that my dad was a lovely Cape Bretonner, who apparently had some hidden 'Graceland’ tastes.

But showering in Elvis's bathroom wasn't any more fun than showering at home. In fact, the wall of mirrors made it difficult for me to avoid myself, so I kept my eyes squeezed shut when I exited the tub. Even through the steam I could make out the silhouette of a fleshy hunchback, and a whole pile of stitches. So I wrapped myself in a towel, groped around for the light switches, and shuffled down the hall.

I was just taping up my stomach behind closed doors when I heard my mother yelling. 'You forget the Horlick'. I strained to hear her. 'The Horlick,' she repeated, 'You always forget to turnip the horlick'. 
I opened my door to ask her what she could possibly be saying.

'The WHORE LIGHT!' she said, slightly exasperated.

'What on earth is a whore light?'

'You know,' she said, 'The red light that you always use in the bathroom. The one with the sticky switch'.

Turns out that the red light my 80 year old mother is referring to, is the warming light that I call the 'Kentucky Fried Chicken Light', as it's the same red one that they used to keep the greasy drumsticks warm, last time I went into a KFC, in the late 70's. But now it made sense. A washroom for a King and a light for a Madame.

I take back what I said. Showering at Violet's is much more fun than showering at home.

Dr. No-Show. Part 2.

The secretary acted like nothing had happened.

Four weeks after Dr Escargot stood me up for surgery, his secretary, Jenny, called to ask me when would be a convenient date for a follow up appointment. 'Follow up to what?' I asked her.

'Your surgery!' she chirped
'Jenny,' I said, 'Dr Escargot wasn't AT my surgery. He never showed up. You know that.'

There was a gurgling on the other end of the phone while Jenny started grasping at vowels and consonants to string her next sentence together. I could just picture her. Dark hair, little face, big glasses, gaudy blouse. What poured out of her little mouth next was, 'Oh my God, Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. I can't believe this happened, and I can't imagine how you must have felt. I'm so sorry.'

I asked her what had happened. Here's what she said. She and Dr H's secretary had to arrange for the surgery date between the two of them, as well as an OR for ten hours where they could safely cut me in half. The date had been set for July 4 (fireworks) and then pushed forward to the 13th of June. Somehow, while they were moving the days, my surgery date disappeared from Jenny's computer.

On surgery day, when Dr Escargot did not show up, everybody began frantically calling him. Eventually they started calling her, which would have been sometime when she arrived at her desk which is whenever she feels like it - also known as 9-9:30. She explained that he was in Germany (Reason unknown, though I suspect he was floating down the Rhine savouring a delightful Riesling). When she found out that he had a surgery scheduled that morning, she 'freaked'. According to Jenny, this had never happened in 15 years and she couldn't believe that there had been such a giant screw-up. Again, she re-iterated that she was so very sorry, and I think we both clearly understood that it was her fault.

'This is not okay,' I told her. I explained my reasons, which are obvious. I was abandoned by a doctor I trusted, and nobody called to give me an explanation, or offer an apology. I told her that my fucking life has been on hold for a year and that had I known that Escargot was replaceable, I would have had the surgery earlier so I could move forward. And that goes for my wingman, and my family, and Jed.

After snivelling a bit more she asked when I'd like to come in. She sounded slightly thrown when I told her that I would prefer to see the surgeon who actually did the work. There was an uncomfortable pause (for her, not me) and she said that the two Breast Surgeons had had a discussion, and Dr Escargot would like to continue with the follow ups.

'Why,' I asked. 'So he can look at someone else's work?'

In the end it was decided that I would meet with both surgeons, on the same day but not at the same time. Their clinics are down the hall from each other, and they share a nurse, so that should be sufficiently uncomfortable. I'm trying to go into this meeting with an open mind. I'm forgiving of human error, but in return I epect human decency. And the decent thing would have been to call me. Jenny had added that Escargot was currently in Columbia, due to an family emergency.

I'm trying to keep an open mind.

Ice-cream. You scream.

I never realized how perfectly my body functions as a whole, until it all started functioning in pieces.

On the day after my nine-hour surgery I realized I’d lost my appetite, lung capacity, range of motion, energy, ability to walk, memory, core-strength,  as well as any sensitivity in my new breasts.

When functions come back, they do so at their own time, in their own pace. At first I couldn’t move the little ball in my aspirator, but now I can hold big lung full’s of air! And I can stroll around the neighborhood on my own, rather than clinging to my mother.

Crack

My appetite is back too, and was announcing itself last night as I sat on the sofa with a smelly wet basset hound named Jed. More than anything, I needed ice cream. And it wasn’t a passing fancy, it was a hard-core crack-esque craving.

So regardless of the late hour, and in spite of the rain, I nudged the dog aside and hauled myself off into an upright position. I needed Häagen-Dazs. Moments later I was shuffling up the road in my rubber boots, umbrella in one hand - ten-dollar bill in the other.

Twenty minutes later I was back in the kitchen, soggy but triumphant. I plunked the ice-cream on the counter, eased the lid, and dug in.

Holy F*ck. It was like diving into an empty swimming pool – hard as rock. My outer ribs stung from the effort and I could feel my incisions burning right through my chest.  I gasped –as my formerly numb boobs screamed with pain. My appetite and energy may have been on board, but my upper body strength certainly was not! Spooning hard-as-rock ice-cream was out of the question.

So instead of digging in, I brought the container to my mouth and gave it a little lick.

There! My taste buds were happy, my tummy was happy, and everything in between will just take a while to catch up.

Karma. With a C.

I remember the day I first saw my math teacher,  Miss Bowmen. It was grade nine, and her class was the third period of the day. Up until that moment, all my teachers had been relatively young, with a youthful spark that comes from being happy and in charge.

But when Miss Bowen entered the room she wasn't happy. The energy went down, rather than up.  She wore a knee length brown tweed skirt, and her hair, blouse, skin, and teeth were all the same colour.  Buff yellow.  She was carrying a bag (brown) and she took out an envelope (manila) and put it on her desk.  I couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t have ankles. And while not fat, she had only soft fuzzy lines where edges should be. When she spoke, she gazed at us from droopy eyes,‘I’m Miss Bowmen.'

I was exhausted! Not only had she arrived without bringing energy into the room, but she was stealing ours.  Her chest seemed deflated and I wanted to run home and grab my bike pump. Liven up Miss Bowmen!

Miss Bowmen

When she turned to write her name on the board her profile resembled the letter C. Her shoulders were hunched, and the back of her neck between her beige collar and wheat coloured hair, was exposed to the ceiling. Her back was rounded, her broad beam was tucked under, and I don’t think she had any knees. I remember thinking that she looked like a banana.

Indeed, I often referred to her as Miss Banana. (Never to her face though – I just did it for my own amusement).  Sometimes I referred to her as Miss C. As a teacher she was dreary, but I was obsessed with her shape and never got tired of discussing it.  ‘She looks like a C’  & ‘What’s wrong with Miss Bowmen’ ‘Why is she yellow?’ Finally,  one day, ‘Has anyone noticed that Miss C is getting yellower?’

And then Miss Banana Bowen stopped coming to class. Instead of a Big C standing in front of us there was another woman, completely erect and full of equations.

Several decades later, and now I am Ms C!  I can’t help wondering if children giggle at me when I’m crossing a crosswalk at my top speed.  Or how flat and wide my ass looks now that it’s (temporarily) tucked under. I don’t mind -  my skin is thick. I agree that I look funny.

But what I also think about is this – what WAS wrong with Miss Bowmen. Jaundice? Crohns? Celliac disease? And I realize that the Miss Bowmen I met was probably not the Miss Bowmen she considered herself to be. And that maybe it took all her energy to make it up the stairs to class and that she was doing her absolute best not to keel over. And that maybe I should have said thank-you, at least once.

But I didn’t. So now it’s my turn to be shaped like the letter C.

That’s Carma. It will always get you in the end.

Scary Movie

I’m one of those people who watches  a scary movie through my hand. 

Can't wait for the sequel!

I’ll start with a closed hand covering my eyes, and once the screaming stops, I might separate a finger or two so I can see a sliver of the screen.  When I know for sure that the monster has left the room I will probably look at the full picture, but it will still be a few moments before I can relax my hand and start eating popcorn.

So it is with my scars.

When I took my first shower, I covered the mirror with my towel so I wouldn’t have to look.  Some would say that was unhealthy – and to that I would say - I agree! But it’s a lot healthier than being so shocked that buckle at the knees and slam your head into the wall. Which is what happened when I accidentally saw my belly scar.  Now I can sort of look at it, in short bursts, but sometimes I have to turn away.

The breasts are another matter. I only peeked at them once when I was high on morphine and numb to the world. And, if they weren’t attached to me, I would have barely recognised them as my own.  Scarred, bruised, stitched and misshapen, one looks like a hamburger patty, and the other, the end of a football.

However, I truly believe my body needs some loving, and that my little cells need to know that they are in a safe place to heal. They need to be washed, and touched.

So I’m going Helen Keller on this one. Before going into the shower I put a 4’ x 4’ patch of gauze over each work in progress, taped only at the top.  And I put another flap over my belly button which has it’s own scarring issues, as it had to be relocated. (It’s a long story – and not something I would recommend before bedtime). Then I dim the lights, cover the mirror with a towel, and hop in the shower with all the agility of a two-legged pork-chop. Once there I do everything that Helen would do. I gently wash myself, especially those parts of me that need a little tenderness. And I do it all without opening my eyes

Post shower  - in the gently lit bedroom - I peel of the gauze and apply some clean new patches. Same for the 14” belly scar, and button.  Once bandaged, I take a brief look in the mirror, enough to see a sliver. But it is only after I’ve stepped into a clean white cotton camisole that I allow myself to relax and have a full look.

  

Lovely! And for now, the little monster has gone away.