Date with the Russian Nurse

 “What time would you like to receive me?” my Russian nurse asked over the phone, in order to arrange my post-chemo shot. “Anytime before noon,” I managed to say, without adding ‘your Royal Highness’.  Then, as is befitting nurse royalty, I got to the task of straightening up. Dusting, shaking out dog blankets, and programming some CD’s. Sounds crazy, I know. But here’s why.

Possible Nurse Ancestor

Over the summer the Russian Nurse was my one structured moment of the day. Because I was convalescing, I liked to have a certain amount of order. And that meant that our normally tidy house would be super-duper clean. So, pre-visit, I’d vacuum (with one arm) all the dog hair, do the dishes, and put on some soothing CDs. Lhasa, Cesaria Evora, Norah Jones, girls like that. One day, after our bandage changing, the Russian nurse declared, “I truly appreciade your eggsalent taste in music.”

I thanked him, and for each subsequent visit made sure that I programmed something that might meet his approval. Even if I were in the mood for a Blue Rodeo marathon, (which I am today) I would switch it to Glenn Gould, Edith Piaf, or some other ‘bandage changing music’.  One day Jim came home while I was programming the CD player, “What is this, a date?” He asked. And it pretty much was. Here was the routine. Alexi (for that is his name) would arrive at my door in an angora cardigan, pressed trousers, and stylish shoes. He’d come in, greet the dog,  I’d turn up the music, and we’d all head up to the bedroom. I asked if he minded having Jed staring at him, and he said “Absoludely not. Dogs are much smarter then beeple.”  Jed would hop on the bed, I’d take my top off, and Alexi would check my incisions. “Beauty-ful!” he’d declare.

Today when Alexi came he told me I looked great. I told him he looked great (he was all Hugo Boss) to which he matter-of-factly replied, “ I know.”  Because it was just a quick shot in my behind, he did his work in the dining room to the strains of Leonard Cohen. And really I must admit that he can almost justify his arrogance, because he does flawless bandaging and painless needles. The tiny shot, incidentally, costs a whopping $2,750.

So as far as dates go, this ones not so bad. A dashing man pulls up in his Jaguar, gives you a three thousand dollar treat, and hands you a compliment. 

There are worse ways to start the day.

Spa day

There are three good things about chemo day. (Actually four, if you include the life-saving aspect) Firstly, I’m amongst my people. Most scenarios,  I’m the only person wearing a wig, and the only one with a secret. Yesterday I invited an acquaintance in for coffee, and once we got in my house, I realized I couldn’t take  my hat off  (my hair sometimes comes with it). But at Mt Sinai Hotel  & Spa, my brethren surround me.

Today, in the waiting room, I was the only one with hair.  Three women wore kerchiefs, two were wearing hats, and one had a glorious purple scarf wrapped around her head, a sparkling diamond clasp at the nape of her neck. Another woman, the most beautiful in the room, was completely bald, and glowing. I’d seen her a week early, with full dark Mediterranean curls. Now she was even more gorgeous, fully accessorized, laughing, and acting as though hair had been an inconvenience her entire life, so she’d decided to get rid of it. Like a bad marriage. Or a futon.

The second good thing are the egg sandwiches. A cheerful Scottish volunteer rolls around a trolley full of food. Today she was wearing pearls.  Amongst her wee snacks are juice, cookies, cheese & crackers, and egg  sandwiches.  She hands them out to everybody, patients and companions alike.  As far as egg sandwiches goes, these are the really good ones only found at senior’s bridge games, and funerals. 

Squishy white bread, a thin layer of egg (with a droplet of mayonnaise), thoughtfully cut on the diagonal. When she saw us walking down the hall (en route for a blood taste) she was genuinely concerned that we might miss our treats and drove her trolley at top speed to load us up with cookies. Later, when we were settled, she came by and offered Jim a sandwich. “Egg or Tuna dear?” His eyes lit up “ Egg Sandwich, Please!’’

Thirdly are the nurses, and  particularly mine, Nurse Marion. She moves around the room as though she’s hosting a cocktail party, handing out blankets, sharing tips on shoes, and checking my IV bag. “Oh look dear, we’re almost done with this one, let’s have another!” she says merrily, as though it just occurred to her that one more Mai-Tai might just be in order. Her mood, like the other health care people in the room, is decidedly upbeat.

As we left yesterday, loaded up with cookies and juice (something for the road) I said goodbye- to Marion. In the corner of the room was a fragile looking lady, sleeping under a blue blanket. She was in a vinyl lazy-boy like mine, and her little bald head was resting on a pillow. As the trolley went on it’s final round, her head jerked straight up and she said, “Dammit! Did I miss the sandwiches?”

Just another day at the spa.

Kale, Glorious Kale

I knew I was in trouble when I saw the Pie Chart.  Having failed miserably at group therapy, I signed on for a nutrition class. Arriving a few minutes late, the speaker was  mid-PowerPoint presentation when I crossed the screen to get to a seat. He wasn’t amused. As is often the case with health food people, he looked undernourished and slightly anemic. Certainly the last guy I ‘d pick for a baseball team. (And if he made the cut, I’d put him way out in the field). 

Even though he was the only one without cancer, he was the grouchiest person in the room.  When one tiny Asian woman struggled with English to ask about cooking oils, he said, “I think we’ll just stick to our presentation, if you don’t mind." Dink.

By the end of his horrifically dull presentation I hadn’t learned a thing – clearly I’d underestimated my own level of knowledge, which, thanks to my support team, is constantly improving.  My diet has always included a lot of salads, salmon, blueberries, red wine, and nuts. So I’ve had a good start. My marvelous masseuse (who has a vast knowledge of alternative medicine) sang the praises of barley, and shitake mushroom, so I promptly whipped up a cauldron of barley/mushroom soup. Delicious!

This is not Jim

High on my list are the cruciferous vegetables such as broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower and kale. The greener the better, and kale is everywhere this time of year. Because my next treatment is tomorrow (#3. Halfway!) I’ve been jamming my body full of fruits and vegetables, regardless of my appetite. Besides my ten thousand gallons of water, I’m including freshly squeezed oranges, coconut water (boring, needs rum), and pomegranate juice.

But Kale, to me, is king. Right now it’s so grand & and leafy, and wilts so stubbornly, that it’s got to be working miracles. (It also takes up most of the fridge). I’ve tried it in many different ways, but here’s my new favorite.  Rip the leaves into bite size pieces, drizzle with olive oil, and bake. Sprinkle some sea salt on the finished product and, Ta-Da! Delicious nutritious chips.

I think it’s time that a certain nutritionaist   re-drew his  Pie Chart  to include a little 1% slice for something more fun than steamed fish.  Who cares if it disrupts the power point presentation? Life’s too short not to have chips.

A Fine Whine

I’ve slimmed down lately. For the first few months following my diagnoisis I was on the 'stress diet', which is as equally effective as my teenage ‘first boyfriend break-up diet.’ Ten pounds came off just like that!

Then came chemo, and the never before attempted ‘no wine’ diet. The weight comes off slowly, and miserably. Most boring diet ever.  Friends with kids say that it’s just like being pregnant, which just a big fat fib. My understanding is that pregnant woman lose their craving for alcohol. I, on the other hand, have not lost my craving one bit. I crave wine all the time.  Yesterday I went to the liquor store to buy some cooking wine (for wild mushroom risotto), and as I walked through the aisles with tears in my eyes an Argentinean Cabernet called my name. “¿Donde esta usted?”, it asked.

I miss everything. Selecting a wine that goes nicely with the meal, easing the cork out of the bottle, and the deep glug from the depths, as the wine leaves the bottle and splashes into my glass. And I truly miss a luxurious cambozola on crusty bread, washed down by something red, deep, and delicious.

The irony is, that I often wake up feeling a slightly hung-over. Chemo dehydrates, in much the same fashion of a 1980’s university hangover where you had so many Black Russians that you thought you can do the splits. Not fair to wake up wake up with a headache without a drop to drink. So to counteract, I drink gallons of liquids a day. Water is crucial to help flush out the toxins, so I’m dedicated to pouring as much as possible through my system. (My skin, which should be dry, is actually feeling pretty great).

Come the New Year, my treatment will be complete. By then I will have saved thousands of dollars on alcohol, and fit into my favorite old jeans. I’ll also have salvaged hundreds of hours by avoiding bars, and making drunken late night calls to Kathy Morgan, my oldest friend.  There’s a lot to being said for being sober – its kind of fun to be alert every moment of every day. And I enjoy watching my friends get hammered, or pouring Jim into the passenger seat. So there’s a part of me that thinks I could give up drinking forever, but then from the distance, I hear the sweet pop of a cork.  Jolted back to reality I remember what happened at the liquor store as I walked through the aisles gazing at my old friends.

When the Argentinean wine called to me, I called back softly.  “Amigo, me espera, I will soon return.”

Best story, ever

I hate group therapy. My group leader, Anne, just called to tell me that they’ve missed me for the last few weeks. As I only attended one class, her understatement sounded a little sarcastic. We were a small group sitting on cheap motel lobby furniture, surrounded by boxes of Kleenex. I spent the first half of the session being bored by people's stories (Seriously? You call that a problem!) and the second half being really, really scared.

The list of things that can go wrong following a diagnosis is about a mile long. The list of chemo side effects is even longer. (I prefer the Imperial system. It sounds more regal). However,  the list of side effects that might actually affect one individual might only measure two inches.

Throughout my session, participants brought up the whole long mile, bringing to light things I never wanted to know. Needless to say, it goes much  further than loss of hair. So, just when I was thinking I could cope, I started to think I couldn’t. So the reason I never went back to therapy was one part boredom, and two parts terror.

But (here comes the positive) one lovely woman told a story that felt like Christmas morning. She is completely bald, and bravely walks around without covering her head. She was also wearing a tracksuit, and without hair and street clothes, it’s harder to tell about about lifestyle or age. No matter. She had a twinkle in her eye, a charming manner, and a contagious sense of peace. 

As always with ladies, the conversation turned to men, and I asked her about her relationship. She told me that she’d just met someone prior to her diagnosis, but not knowing if he was a keeper, she didn’t divulge her situation. Then she decided she liked him.  As the chemo date approached (in her case, surgery would follow) she knew that she would have to let him in on her secret.

So on the eve of her first treatment she invited him for dinner, and told him they needed to talk. He arrived, nervously, and she poured him a glass of wine. Then she told him about her tumor, her upcoming chemo, and how she might, be sick, tired, and bald.  Slightly shaken, he leaned on the table and put his head in his hands. “ Oh Thank God”, he said, “I thought you were going dump me.”

Enjoy your weekend.

Sharing the Spotlight

My hair was not the first thing I thought about first thing today. Rather, when I woke up this morning on the sofa, snout to nose with my weary little hound, I thought about his breathing. I checked his nose to make sure it wet (it was) and that his heart was strongly beating.

Most days, I wake up and think about my hair. Firstly, I check to see that my sleep cap is still on. Despite Jim’s pleas, "Take it all off!," I like that it’s soft and cozy. Then I feel around for bristles (still there), and sometimes I run my finger across my moustache. Some days hair loss can affect my mood, and I tend towards melancholy. Today however, there wasn’t time to worry about looking like Telly Savalas, or  even Tom Selleck, there were more important things than me.

Olivia Newton-Jed

On our morning walk Jed is wearing a T-shirt that is knotted at the waist. He looks like he’s off to aerobics. For his protection, I make sure to walk on the outside of the sidewalk, ready to push over any skateboarder, or doublewide stroller heading our way. Regardless of my meager upper body strength, I’m capable of tossing an 8-year old head first into a rose bush, should he dare to touch my dog without asking.

Thorny rosebush, for kids

Since July, everything has been all about me. My family has rescheduled everything to be at me side when I needed them. Meals have reolved around my palate, events have been scheduled around my availability, many sacrifices have been made.  Recently my little niece was banned from from the table beacause of her cough, but she didn't mind. Grinning, she stood in the hallway and shoveled handfuls of 'love air' in my direction.

And then there's Jim. As a partner to an me, he gets pushed so far onto the back burner that his tiny arse is constantly aflame. Not only has he had to relinquish control of the thermostat (“I’m hot. Turn it off”) but the fridge has been invaded by mountains of frozen foods, and acres of leafy greens. But today is not about me. I’ll continue to make efforts for my overall health, but the hair is a fait accompli. It’ gone (almost) and I’ve got a replacement, so it’s high time I find a new way to kick start the morning.  For now Jed has pushed me out of the spotlight, and that push will lead to a better day.

Lumpectomy, Doggy Style

Cone Head

Jed is lying in his bed, fully dressed.  Jed, being a basset hound, doesn’t normally wear clothes, but this morning he is wearing a green crew neck T-shirt, and plaid boxer shorts. The shorts are too big, so I made him a belt out of 3” green paper tape. As far as dog outfits go – this one is smashing. 


Yesterday Jed had several lumps (benign cysts) removed, as well as a complete dental cleaning. When we picked him up at the vet, he had four large shaved patches, with incisions held together by garish staples. Wobbling on his stubby legs, he looks like a hairy horizontal Frankenstein. 

Guarding the troops. Avec vin.

Tenderly, we loaded Jed on a pillow, and raised him into the back of the jeep. I crawled in with him so that I could wrap my arms around his body and keep him still. Jim, who was driving, looked at us curled up in his rear view mirror. I knew what he was thinking.  On a warm sunny day ten weeks ago, he’d picked up another loved one who was freshly de-lumped, and wobbly. For the second time he’d navigated his truck gently over potholes and speed bumps, determined to get his precious cargo home in one piece.

Later we put a thousand pillows on the floor surrounding the dog bed, and curled up in the style of a 1960’s hippy commune, minus the Mary Jane. Last night we were a fragile lot, with our combined total of six incisions, though the expectation is that we’ll both heal wholly, and completely.


Meanwhile, the focus is on the dog recovery and since I can stay home, I’m fully committed to Jed. He’s been given his medications (I don’t take anything this week) had some cottage cheese (me too), and gone back to sleep. I am dressed in sporty loungewear (blue) as is he (green). The only real difference (besides the length of our pants) is that Jed’s entirely hairy while I’m almost entirely hairless, and Jim is somewhere in between.

Me, post surgery. Jed, pre-surgery

Diamonds & Macaroni

When I was a little girl my mother used to request that our gifts to her were homemade. I thought she was kidding. Why would any 37-year-old woman want a spray painted macaroni pencil holder, when they could have a wonderful brooch from the Bay!

But now I get it. I’ve received a lot of gifts over the last four months, and some favorites have been handmade. Not only are they all beautiful, but also in them I feel love, time, and the hands of people who made them.

Here are but three.

Charlotte, a girl whom I’ve never met (but I love anyway, because she’s my friends’ daughter) made me a worry doll. She has a yellow skirt and white hair, so I think she might be an Albino Rastafarian. Regardless, she is a constant presence in my bedroom, and her name is Althea. Though she often lies happily under a pillow, (where she kindly absorbs my fretting) she sometimes sits on the dresser, and she once rode in my handbag when I needed her smiling comfort. The cat likes her too.

The world’s best nurse, who also happens to be my oldest friend, and an honourary member of my family, made me a pair of sealskin mittens.  She crafted them with her own little hands, and they’re gorgeous. If one knew this nurse, they’d know that sewing is not high on her list of hobbies, so that makes them even more special. In my fantasy she sewed them sitting on her sofa with some 80’s music, her reading glasses, and a giant bottle of red wine – cursing like a trucker every time she pricked her hand. This fantasy may or may not be true. I have learned to never underestimate her. She may have hiked across the Arctic to get her supplies. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

1,000 origami cranes came from a favorite friend and her family. More accurately, my friend made 950 (‘cus she’s lazy) and deligated the rest to her children.  In Japanese culture, a thousand cranes grants one big wish. My father once told me that the more magnificent a piece of art, the less there is to say. So I’ll just say this. The cranes are incredibly moving, wonderfully joyous, and I’m privileged to wake up to them every day.

Christmas is coming and I have a lot of time on my hands, and a cupboard full of fusilli. So for those whom I don’t like there’ll be something sparkly and impersonal, but for those I love, brace yourself for macaroni. 

Ms Jones Heads Uptown

Samantha Jones channeled herself into me for a few glorious hours this weekend. When this happens, I feel like I can conquer the world, so I put on a smart sweater and rode the Sam Jones wave as far as I could take her.

First order of business was getting my bangs trimmed, which meant a trip to Richard at Continental Hair, in Yorkville . Though an area I avoid on normal day, it's bearable when I  strut through as Sam. (Last time I was there I saw an Olsen twin. She is the exact size of a giant latte).

I’ve waited a month to get my bangs trimmed, because it’s taken me that long to understand my wig. Not that it’s uncomfortable. When I first visited, I asked Richard how I could prevent my head from itching. He looked like I’d slapped him across the face. “My wigs don’t itch,” he gasped, hugging ‘Julie’ tight to his chest. And in fact, they're quite comfortable. (Mine has a silk inset). However it takes time to feel confident with its' exact placement on the big bald head. The top should line up with the hairline, and a tab at either temple ensures the hair is on straight. Placement is absolutely crucial, as one is always just a step away from looking like a mannequin in a Greek dress shop.

So, I waited till I could adjust the wig without the help of a mirror before tackling the bangs - but tackle the bangs we did. Unapologetically I Ms Jones’d Richard into submission, demanding that he slowly trim each hair millimeter by millimeter, in a quest to make them perfect. Poor Richard. Though he gamely snipped away, I suspect that at he preferred the woman he met a few months earlier; the version of me who slumped in the chair and started sobbing.

After leaving a giant tip, I continued on my way, sashaying down Avenue Road to look for eyeglasses. Their use is purely cosmetic, as I want to distract from eyes that are potentially lashless. Entering the shop, I knew my time was limited. My steely confidence only lasts for so long, and then Samantha leaves me. So I grabbed he first salesperson (age 12) that I found, and told her exactly what I was looking for. Things went well for about four minutes. I found a pair that I liked, and asked her opinion. “Let’s see how they fit,” she squeaked. And then, without hesitation, she lifted her tiny hand to see how the arm fit, over my ear. Jesus!  “Watch the hair,” I warned, slightly impatient. Her little face clouded over. “I’m wearing a wig,” I explained. She looked as though she was about to cry. But not me. Feeling wildly unsympathetic, my inside voice said, “ Oh, buckle the f*ck up kid. It’s just hair.”

That was moment I’d realized that I’d peaked.  I’d ridden the Samantha Jones wave for one magnificent afternoon, but now it was time to go home. I’d crested on a giant rogue, and I could feel myself heading back to shore. Soon, I would cease to order salespeople around, followed by random acts of compassion. Samantha Jones took me uptown, but on the sandy shore another Miss Jones is ready to be channeled by me. Sprawled on a chair with a bottle of vodka, her name is Bridget, and she awaits.

So, with a last bit of determination, I flung the door open onto Bloor St, and whistled for a taxi.

White Sheets, Silver Lining

A wise (sexy, splendid) friend offered me advice during the early stages of my diagnosis. She said, “Whenever you have a negative, you’ve got to think of a positive"  And up ‘till today I’ve been pretty good at being able to find a silver lining.

For instance, instead of the day surgery I was planning on, I had to spend the night at the hospital. But, because I stayed at Mount Sinai Hotel and Spa, I had the opportunity to watch the sun come up over the city. Luck put me in private room, the doctor put me on morphine, and I got to see the city turn from black, to blue, to gold. Euphoric with relief, and stoned out of my mind, it was a joy to behold.

Also, during my recovery I lost my independence, but I had a week alone with my mom. Those seven days turned out to be the sweetest summer visit, where I did nothing more complicated than be a daughter. We had the chance to lie in bed and chat, sharing tiny precious details that we’d never learn over the phone.

And I managed to find the positive in having no upper body strength (never really a strong point), and letting the basset hound take the lead, where I was literally forced to stop and smell the roses.

Then today I took a shower, and I was having very negative thoughts about my big bald head. So I dug around for my positive, and unable to come with anything, I resorted to stealing the positive from the experience of my same wise friend. When I complained to her about hairlessness, she said cheerfully, “A naked head feels really good against clean white sheets.” As I normally wear a fleecy cap to bed, I’d never tried it. But after my shower I lay down on the bed and let my egghead sink into the fresh white linen. Delicious! Who knew that fabric has such personality; it feels like springtime under your head! So, it may not be profound, but I had my positive.  And since silver lining comes in a variety of colours, white will do quite nicely.

Movin' & Groovin'. October 13

In order to distract attention from introducing a wig into a semi-familiar social situation there is a certain logical sequence of steps. My loved ones know about my head. And as I’m not taking on any work projects, only of few of my trusted colleagues are any the wiser. My neighbors pay little attention to me, which is kind of a blessing. So that leaves the dog park. It is there where I’m forced into socialization, where the same faces gather night after night to engage in small talk about property taxes and poo.

Since I’m a familiar presence in the park, but with only one actual friend, the consistency of my hair-do was of a major concern. So back in the summer, this is what I planned.  Purchase a wig that mirrors my own hairstyle, or a similar one that I like. Cut my hair shorter, but wear the wig out in public.

This is what I did. Bought a wig that looked like my own brown bob. Cut my hair. Loved my new hair so much! ($100, by Cosmo). Was told by my friends that I should have done it years ago. Wore my short hair everywhere. Accepted compliments at the dog park. Cut my hair a bit shorter.  Went out with just a hat. Went to the dog park where people commented on my changing style. Not too many compliments. Shaved my hair right off. Had to wear the wig. Wig is long.

So I found myself in the dog park last night, with the back of the wig tucked under a knit cap, and my long bangs sticking out.  I tried to stand alone, but that’s not the way things happen.  Trapped in the confines of the fence, one is prey for other dog people who are desperate for after dinner conversation. So I got a few confused glances, but nobody said anything out loud. And I didn’t have any clever answers tucked away in case I needed to explain how I went from sporty to soft, overnight.

Then I remembered Crissy. Crissy was the doll I was never allowed to have, the 18” glamour girl (Circa 1971) with auburn hair, which could be adjusted to various lengths, at will!  According to Wikipeida, this is how it happens. “With the Crissy doll’s hair fully or partially extended, turning a knob located on the doll’s back retracts the hair into the torso to be wound on an internal rod or spindle. Pushing and holding in a button on the doll's abdomen disengages the locking ratchet to allow the hair to be pulled back out of the Doll's Head.” This is the doll’s main appeal. What isn’t appealing is that she actually had a stomach full of hair. And that you could yank her by the ponytail. But what is good is that someone with my hair issues has already existed, and I’m banking on the subconscious memories of the gals in the park to realize that the concept of immediate hair growth really isn’t that strange.

My case is further strengthened by the possibility that some people remember Crissy’s more advanced cousins. Years later they introduced  ’Movin’ Groovin’ Crissy', her slutty ’Cousin Velvet’, and a talking version of the girls who could say things such as, “Make my hair long,” and, “I don’t think so.”

So for most people in the dog park I’m the lady in hat and with a very loud basset. But for those lucky few born in the 60’s, I’m Movin’ Groovin’ Crissy, glamorous auburn haired party girl, with a ratchet in my back, a belly full of hair, and the ability to change my style, at will.

Thanksgiving in High - Def. October 11

There was something about the day. I don’t know if it was post-chemo light sensitivity, my saturated thoughts, or global warming, but everything was intensely beautiful. My sisters blue eyes, the glass of rosé, and the purple wild flowers in mason jars that dotted the long outdoor table where we ate. The world was lit with colour, and it was luminous.

But nothing of this glorious October day compared to the glistening beauty of the giant turkey legs sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. Shining magnificently amongst its’ inferior white brethren, it dazzled with it’s shellacked brown skin. Alone in the kitchen I gazed at it in awe. For weeks I’d been eating salmon, blueberries and other antioxidant rich foods. But these giant legs were so inviting, and so intoxicating, that I was soon moving in. And while my loved ones ate under the afternoon sun, I pulled off a little dark meat, put it in my mouth, and swooned.

Outside there was a rare moment of quiet, followed by a ripple of concern, and I could hear an apple fall out of the tree and land in the grass with a happy sigh. Then my mothers voice. “What’s she doing? Is she okay?” More silence, then my other sister’s voice, slightly muffled by her glass of chardonnay. “She’s fine, she just needs to eat.” Inside I was in heaven. Rarely had anything ever tasted so good. So with a heaping plate I returned to the festive table, and took my seat.  My family, who are concerned that I keep my strength up, were delighted to see me dive in with the abandon of Barney Rubble after a good night of bowling.

Our Dining Room

Mom, Me, Big Sister

Hours later, after easy conversation, pumpkin pie, and some trampolining, we all said our goodbyes. As my cousin hugged me she handed me a package which contained the other giant turkey leg, carefully wrapped in foil. Greedily I took it, and placed it in the back of the Jeep.

Driving home with Jim my mind drifted to all the things for which I am grateful. And the list is lengthy. And hopeful. And full of love. Then an arsehole in a Lexus cut us off, and I started thinking about my day, and how I wasn’t going to let angry dickhead  drivers run over all my memories of such a spectacular afternoon. So I decided, in the event of a fender bender, this is what I would do.  I would pull Jim safely out of the car, then rescue my shiny leftovers and take them to the back of the police cruiser. With the windows wide open, we would eat the turkey together while the sky was still pink, the air was still warm, and the big brown turkey leg still glistened.

Math at 4 a.m. October 9

There are nights where I wake up at four in the morning and I feel like I have a huge weight sitting on my chest. (Specifically  a portable L.G Smith Corona Standard, circa 1940 in a black case). The intensity of the last four months often surfaces and startles me back into wakefulness. But last night was not one of those nights. Last night is was a slightly lighter weight sitting on me, in the form of a black cat named Eddie, but he still woke me up.

So while I lay in bed stroking the 19 lb cat, I did a bit of math. My wig cost me $1,600 dollars. That’s a lot of money. Haircuts, and bit of my fake natural colour, cost me $180 every six weeks. (Also a lot of money, but I love Cosmo). Considering I won’t be going to a salon till early spring, I’m saving about $1,000 in salon fees. That still leaves $600. Since my operation on August 3rd, I’ve had to drastically reduce my wine consumption. At the moment, I’m reduced to about 3 oz of wine a week. Compared to the amount I prefer to enjoy, that’s really very paltry. So I’ve probably already saved hundreds of dollars in wine.  Our blue box seems neglected. When I walk by it,  empty-handed yet again, it looks at me as if to say, “How long do you intend to keep this up?”

So that’s a good question, blue box. Am I allowed to drink? When I asked my oncologist, she made a little face and said “Mmm, probably not a good idea”. To me that isn’t a no.  It was more like a possibility. So perhaps I should ask my Russian Nurse. While high on Percocet, I asked him if I could have an occasional glass of wine, and he glared at me, and said ‘Abzoloodley”.

By 4:45 a.m. I felt happy with my equations. In fact, without booze and salons, I may even be coming out ahead. But I still have to get some more opinions about drinking. With dreams of finding an Italian oncologist, I let the sweet cat on my chest purr me back to sleep.

Return of the Russian Nurse. October 7

My Russian Nurse came by today to give me my post-chemo shot. He'd been my daily visitor for three weeks following my lumpectomy,  so we’d already got to know each other a little bit. And I mean a bit. He got to see me droopy and half naked, while I barely got to see him crack a smile. He’s very good looking, in a tall blond tennis player kind of way. But he’s got the steely glare, and the Russian accent, which makes him the kind of villainous tennis player in a James Bond Film who’d lob a 300 mph tennis ball at Bond's head, in order to temporarily stun him so he could be taken, live, onto the Russian yacht for questioning.

"Why you wear wig?” The nurse demands.  I tell him that I have no hair. He nods impatiently, then asks why I’m wearing it at home. I mutter something, and he says he’d like to see my head. Since he’s already seen so much of me, I take off my wig and beanie. “Much better. More stylish,” says he. As a compromise, I leave off the wig, but replace the beanie. Firstly, my head is cold. And secondly, I’m reluctant to take fashion advise from a man whose country has rarely produced a figure skating outfit that isn’t covered in fake diamonds and fur.

Jim Does Not Fit in my Handbag. October 6

I no longer travel lightly. Round two of chemo so I had to cram my bag for my day at the hospital. Here’s what I took today

• Pink filefolder, jam packed with drug info, a giant appointment book, receipts. • Ipad with Sex and the City, cus I need Samantha Jones (though not so keen on Carrie) • Orange juice, water, & coconut juice cus it’s super duper for rehydrating • Sunglasses.( For style, and light sensitivity) • Paperback • Journal (Just because)  • Anti nausea pills (Just in case it is all about  Carrie) • Secret make-up bag • Wallet • Lip gloss • (Burts Bees. Highly recommended, by me) • Sea salt. (To repel bad energy, Seriously) • Hat • Phone

• Jim. (Does not fit in bag. Walked alongside)

The day went well though. And by 'well' I mean that the nurse asked if  I still had my my own hair. I smiled coyly. "Why no! It's a wig."

Om! October 5.

My Toes

Feeling feisty this morning so I thought I’d go to a yoga class.  Slapped on the wig, and did a few experimental forward bends at home. It flopped around a bit, but stayed on fairly well. For extra security I put on a little beanie. The guy at the wig shop (Wig Guy) said that beanie’s are de rigueur for bald people.  Unfortunately, today was warm and sunny, and the yoga studio had the heat cranked up to one thousand degrees. I noticed a few woman sweating and gulping their water, and I worried that I might be in danger of over –heating from my excessive headgear, and pass out mid downward dog, sans cheveux,  with my wig landing at the end of my mat. But I made it through intact. 

Another tiny hurdle. Om!

The Exodus. October 4.

Here’s what they don’t tell you in chemo-school. Once your hair is ready to fall out, it falls our ALL AT ONCE. I entered the shower with my GI Joe hair, and left with only a few bristles standing. I’m not exaggerating. Perhaps my hat had been holding everything in place, but there was a sudden, well-executed, mass exodus of the bristles. The remaining few I shaved off.

In a cruel twist of fate, and after fully examining my big egghead in the mirror, I discovered a new black chin hair. Interestingly, my moustache also remains fully intact.

The Debut. October 2

Time to debut my wig. Her official name is Julie (according to her tag at the store), and I’ve haven’t thought of anything better. She is a brown bob, of course. She’s been freshly washed and blow dried, and is making her debut at a gallery opening.

With my girl posse forming a protective shield, the evening went very well. There was just one delicate moment when my bangs slid dangerously low over my eyes, but the ladies tore themselves away from the cheese table just long enough to slide it back into position. The art, by the way, was stunning.

The Buzz. October 1.

With a glass of Moet in one hand, and an electric razor in the other, Jim shaved off my hair. After months of anticipation, it wasn’t as traumatic as I thought. Granted, I’m not completely bald. My hair is about quarter inch, or whatever is the equivalent to the length of hair on a GI Joe doll, or a hamster.

In my secret fantasies, my almost bald head would look like Natalie Portman in ‘V is for Vendetta’.  I was somewhat astonished to find out that, without hair, my head looks like an upside down egg.