Nail Polish & Champagne

The front doorbell isn’t working, so I had to rely on the mighty hound to announce the arrival my Russian nurse. I opened the door to see a  shiney gloved hand jabbing at the doorbell. “Why iz not working?” he demanded. Preoccupied with his gloves, I didn’t answer, merely ushered him in and gave him the once over. Fitted dark suit, knitted grey cable mock turtleneck, suede ankle boots, and black gloves that glistening like a pair of leather tap shoes. “Shiny gloves!” I said, but he ignored me and bent down to press his forehead against Jed’s.

In his glistening hand he clutched a stethoscope. In any other situation it would have looked like a medical tool, but surrounded my gleaming leather it looked like an instrument of torture. I’m torn between whether he looks more like James Bond’s evil double-agent doctor, or the skating coach for the Russian team at the World Championships.

Jed, Alexi, and I filed into the kitchen so he could wash his hands. Part of my treatment includes a large dose of steroids that makes me sleepless, talkative, and unable to sit still. So I apologized in advance as I hopped up on a bar stool babbling about nothing in particular. Now he gave me the once over, settling on my crimson toenails. “I much appreciate the colour of your pedicure.” I personally found the colour garish, but obviously our tastes run a bit differently, and I was scoring a 9/10 in the red department. I told him that, as my chemo nurses warn me away from nail salons with germy tools, I had to paint my own toes. He frowned, “Iz hardship for you?”

‘Damn right it’s a hardship!’ I almost screamed out loud. But then I thought that maybe he’d had a harder life than me. Uprooting his family, leaving his friends behind, moving to a new country with overpriced vodka, and driving around in a Jaguar tending to the wounded.  Perhaps he wouldn’t sympathize that I sacrificed a leg massage in a vibrating chair in lieu of perching my foot on the edge of the bathtub. So I kept quite, and offered him a cup of coffee.

He declined, and said that what he really wanted was something he’d provide for himself in a couple of hours. With the promise of an early afternoon, he was going to celebrate with a bottle of French champagne. ‘Tattinger,’ to be precise.  Then he jabbed me delicately with  $2,700 worth of white blood cells while I complimented him on his brilliant, painless technique. “I know,” he said, and almost smiled.

So later that day, as my nurse sipped his sparkly treat, I settled (sort of) in front of a decorating show to redo my whoreish nails. Iz hardship, of course. I'd rather swap bottles with Alexi. Polish for champagne. But in the grand scheme of things, with fresh cells soaring through my body, I can manage.

На здоровье, Alexi!

Lady Stardust

A person very close to me, who I’ll call ‘Jim’,  recently asked about something in our house that had been misplaced. As kindly as possible, he asked if I’d seen it. Both of us know that if something goes astray, it is likely because of me.

Due to my treatments, my memory isn’t as sharp as it ought to be. Occasionally I forget to put lids back on jars, lock the front door, or recall words with more than three syllables. According to my mother, I’m not that much different than her group of lady octogenarians. Although slightly amusing, I'm not quite ready for bifocals and bridge, though I do appreciate a comfortable shoes.

Me, in my painting clothes

Today I was doing a little painting around the house. My sound track was Ziggy Stardust, which I haven’t listened to since I wore it out on my turntable. As I turned the walls white, I sang along to the music, and here’s the thing. There are 11 songs on the album, and I know every syllable of  lyric. Even the long words  like 'suffragette' and 'trasnformation'. Not only that, but I can predict every nuance in David’s lovely voice, the length of each breath between words, and all the guitar riffs (I think they’re called ‘riffs’). I can also hum along to the sax solos, and join David on the exact millisecond that he hollers, ‘Wham Bam, thank you Ma’am!’

So I haven’t lost my memory. I’m just blowing off all the trivial stuff. And rather than being an 80-year old card player player, I am a secret glam rocker with some awesome dance moves.  Ziggy played guitar, and I know every beat on the album. I may not know where the hell I put my keys, but I can still sing along note for note with with the coolest guy on the planet.

Everyone Loves a Winner

Cutting through Yorkville recently, I happened upon a little store that was bursting with colour.  En route  to visit my pals at Continental Hair,  I was toying with the idea of experimenting with a headscarf, rather than a wig, one of these days. (Inspired of course, by Mary Richard’s funky neighbor Rhoda).

So I stopped into this little shop which was tastefully packed to the rafters with a rich rainbow of fabrics. Amidst this colour explosion was a little Indian woman wearing a sparkly pink sari. She was so small that I could easily look down upon her little white head, with hair that looked like cotton candy. She asked me if I was looking for anything special and I sputtered, “I’m looking for something, for a friend.”

I felt like an idiot. I hadn’t used the ‘friend’ line since I was a teenager trying to get my hands on some Kahlua. So I corrected myself, and confessed that the friend was me, that I like blue, and that I was temporarily hairless. Her deep brown eyes looked up at me and I felt compelled to say more. That I was going through chemo, that I was wearing a wig, and that I felt the need for colour.

She put her arm on mine said. “I had a mastectomy three years ago”. Then she broke into a grin and said, “My hair grew back so beautifully, and see how nice it is.”  I looked down on her whispy white hairs curled into a delicate bun, and it was indeed quite lovely.

Then she reached up and wrapped her delicate arms around my neck. She was so tiny that she hung off me like a shiny pink pendant. Muffled by my sweater, I heard her say. “You’re going to be fine. I just know it”.

The lesson here could be that when offer your authentic self, you will never be rejected. But that’s not the lesson she wanted to teach me. What she said was that her scarves were pure silk, expensive, and a little slippery.  She suggested I get a cotton scarf because it ties more securely, and they have a ton of them, at Winner’s.

Toddlers and Cartoons

I wear the same outfit every day.

Five (maybe six) days a week I put on the same skinny Levi’s, striped singlet, and fitted purple hoody. Not only is this ensemble comfy, but (with the right pair of boots) stylish as well. With just the right amount of stretchability, it goes easily from dog park, to sofa, to café. And for the record, my clothes are almost always clean, because I am a minimalist, and not a hobo.

It all happened organically. Being a serial purger, I rid myself of everything that I never planned to wear. Then I went through all my drawers, liberating every piece I hadn’t worn in under two years. And everything black. Since then, life is so much easier. I open my closet, and though the selection is sparse, I like everything I see. My drawers are uncluttered, so I needn’t dig deeply for something I enjoy. When I go out to an event requiring dressier clothes, I happily make an effort to wear something nice. But otherwise I save my energy for hats, pretty undergarments, and my wildly expensive hair.

This morning, as I was enjoying my alternate outfit of pajamas and the aforementioned sweatshirt, I pondered the type of people that wear the same clothes every day. Private school girls and the Pope were obvious subjects. Deciding to dig a little deeper I did some Googling and this is what I found.

Toddlers like to wear the same clothes every day. For these tots, somewhere near two, life is chaotic and having an outfit gives them a sense of stabilty. This also applies to people with autism. (I suppose I could also fall into this category, but for egotistical reason, I prefer to think that my fashion sense is ruled by choice, rather than chaos).

Cartoon characters never change their clothes. Look at Barney Rubble, Homer Simpson, and Pig-Pen. There are exceptions such as Veronica Lodge and Betty Boop, who were, to be honest, just a couples of teases. Otherwise the fellows, with their daily uniforms, are sloppy and depressing. And then there’s Gumby, who doesn’t wear anything at all. As I am not depressed, or surrounded by a cloud of dirt, I don’t like being classified with this group of non-people either.

Superheroes, on the other hand are fine role models. Wonderwomen, Robin, Superman, and Mr. Incredible, who is my personal fave. However, their outfits are all skintight (and devoid of male genitalia), so that counts as skin, more than clothing. Naked with a cape doesn’t work for me.

Surprisingly there are a lot of websites on this topic, and an astounding range of viewpoints. I selected those which have nothing to do with insanity. For instance, ‘Thinking less in the clothing area, encourages thinking in other areas’. This appeals to my creative side – but still leaves too much room for crazy.

Determined to find like-minded people, but with slightly more glamour, I googled some more. An actress, talking about life off the red coarpet said. "When I'm not doing this, I wear the same pants and same shirt every day. On occasion I wash them but I have a few of the same things. I don't change.”

Finally! Someone I can relate to. High Five, Angelina Jolie.

13 Again.

I am 13 again.

When I was little, and home with the flu, there used to be that one last day where I was practically recovered, but Violet didn’t bother sending me to school. She just let me enjoy being at home, pretending to be an only child.

No  Scurvy,  Chez Vi

Today is such a day. Apart from the snoring hound, it is just the two of us at home. She made me a half grapefruit and pre-cut all the little pieces.  I rummaged around for other food and she hovered over me (slightly annoying) offering up suggestions. I settled on brown bread with cheese, and shared it with Jed.

When the phone rings, it is never for me. I politely answer that my mother is busy, and write down the message on the blackboard. Usually it’s a friend of Vi's friend confirming a hiking date, or lunch at the Vietnamese Restaurant. They seem slightly surprised to hear someone else answering the phone, but on the other hand, these gals in the 70’s don’t surprise too easily.

Lazy Boys

When I got dressed this morning , I just wore the same thing that I wore yesterday. I did this when I was young because I didn’t have any sense of style, or very many clothes. Now I do it because it’s easy.

In fact my beauty regime is pretty much like it was when I was 13. Which is, nothing.  I use a lot more moisturizer, but I’ve cut back on mascara because I don’t have many eyelashes, and I don’t want to startle the few that I have left.  Truthfully, I’ve never had great eyelashes. They're short, stiff, and boyish. I have a friend who lost her luscious long eyelashes (chemo-itis) and they grew back like mine. I’m hoping that for me, it will work in reverse and that I get eyelashes like David Cassidy.

On sick (sort of) days, my mother let me watch whatever I wanted on TV. We were flipping around last night  while eating roast chicken, and (I’m embarrassed to say) settled on Two and a Half Men. I don’t know if it was her choice, or mine, but we blamed it on each other and laughed in unison when they used the word ‘penis’.

Because it is a sick day (but not really), I don’t normally have any playmates. Luckily my friend Kathy (who lives in Ottawa) has a foot injury, so we’ve made plans to get together. She doesn’t have to stay in bed either. So we might shop, or sit by the canal looking at University boys. And once again, we knew that if we were to touch a naked University boy, it would be considered very inappropriate, and Kathy would tell everyone, and I'd write about in in my journal.

My mom offers to drive me downtown, but naturally I say that get there on my own. (It used to be a good opportunity to smoke, though I don’t do that anymore) So I change my mind, and gratefully hop into the passenger seat of the zippy blue Honda.

The world is my oyster! I have my sunglasses, a day off, a playmate and a credit card. And a mother saying, “Call me when you’d’ like to come home.”

Violet Lite

Breakfast of Champions

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I said to my mom this morning as she poured skim milk into my coffee. She looked at me suspiciously, when I told her I don’t like cream. Then as I ate her leftover oatmeal,  and snatched away her orange, she was cautiously thinking, 'Who is this marvelous girl?'

Jed and I are in Ottawa, staying at my family home. My mother Violet, the healthiest women in all the land, has zipped off to an aquafit class in her new blue Honda, leaving me here with a treasure trove full of low fat foods.

Mecca

There was a time when my sisters and I would mock my mothers cooking. We arrogantly tossed around words like ‘bland’ and  ‘flavourless’, while secretly tossing more garlic on whatever bird was cooking in the oven.  We also teased mom about her drinking habits, or non-drinking I should say. Half a light beer and she’d be ready to dance on the table. Except for the dancing bit, she’s just one barn-raising away from being Amish.

Maybe it’s because I’ve got Sober-itis, or maybe it's my treatment, but lately all I’ve wanted is my mother’s food. I’m craving the low-sodium- heart- smart- stir-frys that used to make me cringe, and the giant pot fulls of steamed rapini. Inside the fridge, everything has a number on it. 2% this, 1% this, and 1/3 reduced fat gouda that could sometimes be confused with wax.

To be fair, mom’s a good sport when we visit. Not only does she stock up on red wine, but creamy cheeses, lovely breads, and (in honour of my dad) crab cakes or other treats from the sea. But this time I told her not to, as I now share her once ridiculed tastes. I told her that whatever she wants to cook is absolutely fine with me.

Unused to my easy going nature, she can’t believe that I’m so satisfied with everything that is here. Now I'm her dream daughter, as I sit patiently while she reads me the back of a cookie package, riveted by the information. The salmon that she made me last night was perfectly seasoned, and served with a mound of things colourful and delicious.  Tonight, instead of going to Big Daddy's for martinis, I will probably stay home, and like last night, be in bed by nine. 

Now my mom is bobbing in the water, probably baffled by her perfect daughter. To complete this rosy picture, she would probably like  me to have a game of Scrabble. But that would be taking advantage of my newly generous nature. So a game of Scrabble (which I still loathe) is highly unlikely.

Mexican Bribery. Light.

And if happens, it will take a heck lot more than the other half of her light Mexican beer.

Om, my God!

Sunday evening, and my friend Jo and I went to our fabulous ‘Restorative’ class at our favorite yoga studio. Normally we just lie on bolsters and let our inner light shine through, while the teacher chats about positivity and lower chakras.

Last night though, the emphasis was on inversion. “Oh f*ck”, was my first thought as I met Jo’s eyes in horror (mine, not hers).  Headstand, shoulder stand, or anything upside down was in no way good.  Physically ill equipped to stand on my head at the best of times, throw a wig in the mix and it’s the opposite of relaxing. I was relying on my blue beanie to keep everything together.

The teacher, Vicki, guided us to our starting position. Body in an upside down V, head cradled in hands, then move head around to find a comfortable resting position an inch or two below the hairline. That in itself is a problem.  I have two hairlines; the one my parents gave me, which is now a row of tiny bristles, and the $1,600 dollar one from ‘Continental Hair’.

From my upside down position, I could see Vicki’s feet padding towards me. Then her face, as she bent down to check my position. She said she couldn’t see if my head was in the right place because of my hat. I ignored her. Like a petulant five-year-old, I merely pretended she wasn’t there. 

Then I felt her fingers on the back of my neck. “Keep it curved,” she purred, as she walked her fingers slowly away from my shoulders and up towards my hair. Still I ignored her, even though her hand was just a fraction away from the band of my wig.

Positioned in my upside down ‘V’ I had to make a decision.  Did I warn her that she was about to finger-walk into a wig? Or, should I just let myself off the hook while she came to her own conclusions. Here’s what I knew for sure. Jo’s eyes were upon me, and she was half laughing, yet mentally holding my hand and saying a silent prayer for hair.

So with that support, I let myself off the hook so Vicki could experience her own little ‘wig journey’. Her gentle fingers walked up beneath my hair, nudged the elastic, and leisurely walked back to my shoulders. She knew. And in a moment she’d absorbed the idea, and already moved head.

Still upside down, I was tempted to say something, but the pendant from my necklace had fallen across my lips and I so I couldn't speak.  So providing I didn’t choke, I was taking away a few sweet lessons. Firstly there’s always someone in my corner. Secondly –

Life may turn you upside, and no explanation is required.

Normal-itis

Ed

There’s a touch of Normal-itis going on around here today.

The 19 lb cat, though he has a bald patch on his back, has stopped licking. Apparently he had fleas, and is on medication. For the first time in weeks, he’s back to purring like a giant engine, lying on top of bodies, and smothering us while we sleep.

Sunshine and a Latte

Jed’s stitches came out and he’s walking around as thought he owns the neighborhood. Still sporting an undershirt (‘cus he scratches) he prances along the sidewalk soaking up admiring glances. The local crossing guard waits for our arrival, and as a greeting, hoists his ‘Stop’ sign across his substantial belly and sings ‘You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Only in Leslieville does one get admired for wearing a wife-beater shirt out in public.

Jim is busy bringing home the bacon, but returns at night to a calmer home. When the back door opens, the pets run to greet him. Two clumsy bodies for the price of one - that is Jim’s Happy Hour.

I’ve finally calmed down, (now that’s it been a week since treatment), to a near-ish normal level of lunacy.  No more putting milk in the cupboard, or wondering if I’ve shrieked, rather than  spoken, into the phone. Also, I had a massage yesterday, and feel like I left some of the crazy on the table.

Last night Jed and I made a triumphant return to the dog park. Jed sprang thorough the gate as though he’d just spotted a meadow full of badgers.  I was wearing my wig and cap, and I sidled over to my one friend who knows about my Bald-itis. It had been a while since I’d been in, and most people associate me with short hair, rather than the chin length bob that I was sporting. I told my friend I was bracing myself for comments. She laughed and said not to worry, “Everyone here is too self-absorbed to notice.”

Basset Bum

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The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins

I have a lot of hats. Maybe not quite 500, like Bartholomew Cubbins, but it sure feels like it. But like young Mr Cubbins, I am rarely hatless. Often I wear two at once! Coming in from the outdoors I take off one ‘going out’ hat, to reveal my smaller ‘indoor’ hat. That way, my wig will stay covered, and I won’t have to do a self-conscious swap in public.

Our front hall is now festooned with hats. Open the closet, and it overflows with jaunty caps, eager for the right occasional. About 100 of these hats are the result of my own panic buying. Prior to baldness I over-anticipated the amount of head coverings I was going to need. What made it more seductive is the best hat store in the universe, tucked away on the 3^rd floor of princess Margaret Hospital. They have a fine selection! (And the hats, though appropriate for baldies, are not specifically for that purpose. Their splendid stock is selected for it’s considerable size, excellent head coverage, and top-notch quality).

The 500 Hats of Me

Another bunch of caps were ordered on-line at 3 am from a company in Utah. They specialize in head coverings for girls like me, and while not particularly stylish, are very cozy for bed.

The remaining 300 hats (I exaggerate, of course) were gifts from my favorite people, who correctly predicted that I’d relax under the comfort of something stylish and cozy. These ones are special (Thanks Caleb!), because of the sweet consideration that went into their selection, and the understanding that an egghead needs low coverage, a generous fit, as well as a certain je ne sais quoi.

Both Bart Cubbins and I can stack our hats quite high. As he takes off one hat, another appears that is more beautiful than the last, until he reveals the final hat, which is gilded, and covered with gems.

My hat stack is a little shorter. As all the hats are removed there is a wig named Julie, which though not gilded, has some nice reddish-brown highlights. Beneath that, there is my own gilded crown. 

In itself it is a gem, and my mother says it is perfect. 

Pink Flamingos

Many years ago, Jim and I went to visit his parents at their winter home near Lakeland Florida. He enticed me by misrepresenting it as a ‘Trailer Park,’ when in fact, it was something a lot more classy.  Where I was hoping to find plastic pink flamingoes and rusted hibachis, I found instead generous doublewide mobile homes with tasteful furniture.

Life there went on at it’s own cheerful step. There were card games, Mai-Tais, and a community swimming pool. (There was also a little stream with an alligator in it). And when the senoirs wanted to bust out, they could go in to town to shop, or to Hooters, for some wings!

Freedom 55!

Life was nice in that park. The big world seemed to stay outside, announcing its' presence  through newspapers, or TV. Residents set their own pace, and familiar faces walked, or rolled around (on giant tricycles), amidst laughing, euchre, and gin.

Week three of my treatment and my life is going at my own pace. Calm tasks fill the day. If so inclined (I’m not) I could learn to knit, or try a new recipe. There are books to read, friends to see, and plants that need my attention. In effect I’ve created my own little Lakeland.

Life in Little Lakeland is okay! Firstly, I rarely go downtown anymore. It really IS loud, and I’ve lost my ambition to run yellow lights and scream loudly into my cell phone. When I want to socialize I tend towards in-home rather than going out. Firstly, being out takes a lot of effort.  Secondly, there’s pressure to do my hair. And thirdly, why eat in a restuarant when I can buy a perfectly delicious (organic) chicken pie, and serve it on the sofa!

Exercise, now, is of slower variety. Yoga, which had escalated to become a Lulu Lemon fashion show, is simple. No more twisting into a pretzel while showing off one’s flair for Sanskrit. My new mat mates roll around gently in their worn Winner’s pants, contemplating how to get themselves upright and home, without fainting.

And as for the alarm clock – I don’t need it anymore! If I don’t sleep well, it’s perfectly acceptable to have a nap during day. And no job means no getting up early. No dealing with deadlines, or super-stressed ulcer-plagued colleagues with their masseuse on speed dial. In fact, I don’t often have to rush to be anywhere. And, on most days, my friends can find me close to home, should they need me.

My own little Lakeland isn’t perfect . The real Lakeland had more cocktails, and to be honest, I never once saw Russ or Jeannie (Jim’s parents)  get tired. (In fact, they often took happy hour at the ABC Liquor Lounge, then carried on merrily to the Branch Ranch). But my home is peaceful, and  pleasant retreat. Eventually my desires will be more enthusiastic, and I will to add a few thing to my needs. So, I'm planning on holding onto the serenity, while adding flamingos, and late night TV.

Smart Girls Don't Wear Chin Straps

Normally on Halloween I like to dress as something sexy. As per tradition, I head over to my sisters' house to hand out candy, so she’s free to wander the streets of High Park with her little goblin. But last night I wasn’t feeling remotely flirty, so it was Jane Goodall who headed across town, complete with a bag of monkeys and a sensible hat.

Although I would have preferred to lie under my duvet, I forced myself to find chinos, boots and a turtleneck. To complete my sexless look I had cheap blonde wig which I put in a ponytail. Wearing a wig is no problem, I’m used to it. But wearing an itchy nylon wig is something no world famous primatologist should ever have to endure. Nor should I. So I rifled through my closet to see if my own store-bought hair had come with any helpful accoutrements.  Lo and behold, there were two packages in my wig box that were waiting to be discovered. One was a ‘Fishnet Wig Cap,’  and the other, also from the ‘Hairess Corporation’, was an Adjustable Chin Strap.

Inappropriate Headgear

Who the f*ck wears a chinstrap? Fake hair is bad enough, so why advertise it by wearing a brown elastic under the chin. And this is no discreet strap. It’s as thick as an earthworm, with two gigantic clips on either end that could only be disguised by gigantic ears and an enormous head. The only human known to mankind to engage with this sort of contraption was Alice, (from the Brady Bunch), who wore a chin protector in private so that she wouldn’t get jowls. And as morose as I was feeling yesterday, I was nowhere near the point of being an architect’s maid, sequestered in a windowless room off the kitchen.

I must admit, it made me a cross. We bald ladies are vulnerable to the occasional hair crisis, but we work hard to be strong and subtle, and it cheapens all our efforts to have someone toss an ugly Adjustable Chin Strap our way, as though it’s going to save the day.  Neither Jane nor I were to be bothered with such nonsense.  We could keep our hair on just fine without the ‘Hairess Corporation’. We are resourcefull gals. And smart. All we need are brains and a Tilley hat.

Proper Jungle Attire

Fueled by something other than self-pity,  I stood proudly on my sister’s front porch, a monkey on my hip, and my hair in a sensible pony tail. Though I missed my kitten-ish outfits from previous years, I was warm, comfortable and dressed as someone brilliant.  However, none of the kids knew who I was, and many didn’t even bother looking up. They just grunted something primordial, and held open their giant pillowcases. To them I offered meagre rations. Then one beautiful princess with long blonde hair scrambled ups the stairs, guarded by her mother. “You’re Jane Goodall!” said the mom. The clever princess looked up at me, broke into a big smile,  and squealed. “ I LOVE Jane Goodall.”

Thank you pretty princess, I love you too. Have a bowl of candy.

Meltdown Monday

I have a close friend (kind, generous, very funny) who works hard to make her life happy.  Some of that work includes therapy, which is great for me, since she does all the grueling analysis, pays all lot of money, then passes her knowledge my way. She’s sort of like my personal ‘self-help’ shopper. And she usually offers exactly what I need.

One of my favorite pieces of advice comes from this lovely girl, and here it is.
“Just because you’re having a meltdown doesn’t mean you're not coping”.

Now I’m not saying today’s going to be a bad day. But it is Monday, the days are getting shorter, and soon the streets will be filled with kids dressed like sleazy housewives, and aliens. The 19 lb cat has to go to the vet because he’s licking himself bald, and I packed away all my summer sandals. Sadly, I need to run a bunch of errands, even though I’d be happier under a duvet. There's not enough hand sanitzer in the world to make me feel protected,  and by the time I’ll get to Loblaws, there's a chance they’ll have run out of candy.

So I’m carrying this pearl of wisdom in my back pocket,  just in case. Because according to my friend, it doesn't matter that I may need to shove aside a few strollers filled with germy dinosaurs. As long as I get out of the Bulk Barn without really hurting anyone, I'm still coping. In my own delightful way.

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.