One Small Step

Back in October I took a ‘Look Good Feel Good’ class at Mount Sinai Hotel & Spa. Two pieces of advise stood out. 

Firstly, if you’re wearing a cheap wig, don’t stick your head in the oven. Secondly, be persistent with mascara. Even without eyelashes, there may be some tiny baby hairs to which the mascara could stick.

So I’ve kept it up, and have worn mascara all winter. Usually it ends up smudged on my eyelid, with more little bits on my face, making me look as though I’d just rolled out of bed with a hangover. But I liked putting it on 'cus it made me feel like a girl.

Well this morning I brandished the magic wand, and lo and behold. I have an eyelash, and the mascara stuck to it!

One small step for a lady, one giant step for an egghead!

Dr. Tiny Hands

Dr Escargot and I met last week to follow up my recent surgery. I thought it was all about me, but judging by the look on his face, I think he likes to admire his handy-work. He smiled and nodded, and the glint in his eye said, ‘Job well done, everybody.’

Dr Escargot (Left), Me (Right)

He’s a lovely man and I trust him completely. While I slept (with the aid of Bellaruth and my anesthesiologist) he has twice looked around and cleaned me up. I couldn’t imagine not trusting my surgeon. It has occurred to me many times that this man, literally, has my life in his hands. But what I didn’t realize until last week was that his hands are so teeny!

After my examination, he asked if there was anything else I’d like to talk about. Since he asked, I mentioned a purple finger that had recently been concerning me. My middle finger had been quite swollen, and a startling shade of purple. It had since returned (almost) to normal, but I’d thought I’d bring it up.  He wasn’t terribly worried. But he did say that he had a purple finger as well.

‘Look,’ he said, putting his hand beside mine. My first reaction was to say, ‘My God you’re hands are small!’ though I knew that wasn’t the point of this show ‘n tell. But I was less concerned with his tiny purple fingernail than I was with the fact that he had the hands of an eight-year-old girl. They were certainly smaller than mine. ‘How did that happen,’ I asked. And what I really meant was, ‘How did a grown man get hands that little?’

After he left the room I discussed this with Jim. He said that Escargot was blessed with delicate digits, so he could maneuver his way around veins and arteries. But what else could he do? I doubt he could lift a hammer, hand brakes on bicycles would be a challenge, and he may or may not be able to grip the steering wheel of a car. A pencil would be fine.

His hands were also very soft, and looked a little squishy. Characters from Sesame Street popped in my head, and I pictured the muppets and their soft, clumsy mitts.  Bert, I think, had the smallest hands of all – which explained why it was Ernie who got to hold the rubber ducky.

But Jim was right. The tiny hands are an advantage for a surgeon in need of fine motor skills. And it made him more cuddly, and less intimidating. And I do have to hand it to him. He did one heck of a good job.

A Letter, Overdue

Mount Sinai Hotel and Spa usually contacts me by phone. Sometimes the news is good. Sometimes it’s not so good.  Either way, whenever they call, my screen says ‘Private Number’.

At first I took all my calls without checking the display.  The friendly voice on the other end might say ‘We’re returning your call’ or ‘We’d like to schedule an appointment.’  Then there was the chilling ‘Can you come in to see us.’ That usually meant that they had to deliver the news in person. And since the appointment wouldn’t be immediate, there was plenty of time to feel as though you’d swallowed a hot bowling ball that was exploding into a million pieces.

The worst ‘Private Number’ call was from my family doctor who called one sunny afternoon as I was driving down Queen St. I knew it was bad when she started the conversation by saying ‘Where are you?’ I told her that I was driving and she suggested I pull over. At that point I was a week past my mammogram, and three days past my ultrasound. I had told her that if the results came in on a Friday I didn’t want to know, as I was heading off to Cape Breton for the long weekend. And her call came on a Friday. ‘The test results are in,’ she said.’ And it’s worse than we thought.’

I remember nothing else during that conversation. Nor do I remember going back to work, or going home to pack for my trip. However I do remember being In Orangedale and managing to have a good time. (I’ve got the pictures to prove it).

Almost as bad as ‘private number’ is the manila folder. When test results delivered in person, it is from a doctor who is holding my future in their hands. And I’ve learned from experience that Dr Escargot has the same manner regardless of the outcome. If it’s difficult for him he doesn’t show it. But it’s terrible for me. From the time he says ‘hello’, an eternity will pass until he finally says ‘everything looks ok’. 

So last night I was enjoying a peaceful evening in the kitchen, with glass of red wine from France. Jim came in holding an envelope. ‘This is for you,’ he said. I read the return address. ‘University Health Network/ Mt Sinai Hospital’. We both stared at it.  Knowing that the wrong information could be the first step another battle, I could barely breath. ‘Open it,’ said Jim pretending that nothing could be wrong. But I didn’t want to because I wanted to preserve my peaceful evening as long as I could.  Avoidance was my only tactic. But the letter, which was sitting in front of me wouldn’t go away. So I braced myself, ripped open the envelope, and unfolded the paper. And this is what it said.

‘We’d like to inform you that the book that you borrowed form the Mount Sinai Library is overdue. Please return it at your convenience. Thank you.’

No thank you! And the peaceful evening continued.

Almost Letting Myself Go

My stylist took me aside today, and told me that I was letting myself go. He (Jim) confessed that there have been several recent occasions where people have been looking quizzically at my hair. ‘Do tell!’ I said encouragingly, proving that I was open to criticism.

Over the last six months I have made it clear to my friends that I am relying on them for hair alerts. If the wig were to slip, blow off, or display telltale elastic, I would really like to know. So far nobody has said anything, so I’ve stopped asking. In my mind,  I have perfected the art of wig wearing and am confident in my smart brown bob. So, even though I was slightly taken aback by Jim’s observation, I had to remind myself that I had demanded this feedback.

‘Maybe you’re getting to used to it,’ he said kindly, ‘ 'cus you used to make sure it was on straight.' I smiled my fake smile, and forced myself to laugh. When I first wore a wig, I would always make sure that it was symmetrical, and I would spend time in front of the mirror, readying myself for the public scrutiny. At home, I’d delicately remove my hat, ready for private scrutiny. Now, I often remove my hat and hair together. Rather than place the wig carefully on its' foam head, I’ll toss it on any old flat surface. When go out, I slap it on like a baseball cap.

Valerie Bertinelli

‘Sometimes,’ said Jim, ‘You let it slip down over your forehead.’ I feigned amusement, even though I was not amused. In fact, I pictured Valerie Bertinelli from her years on ‘One Day at a Time’ with her  low hairline and strangely small forehead. This was not good news, but I forced a hearty chuckle.

Buoyed by my good nature, Jim felt free to carry on. ‘You should also give it a wash.’ Jesus! What else could go wrong? I let my mind go back to the last time I’d given it a good bath, but I couldn’t remember the date. But even though it’s real hair, it’s not exactly attached to my scalp, so it stays pretty clean. Doesn’t it?

‘Anything else (fucker)?’ I said to my soon to be ex-stylist.  He’d already said that it was a crooked old mop in need of a good brushing. Short of a bad haircut, there wasn’t much he could add. Beside, I keep it covered with a hat, so how bad can it be?

‘Since you asked,’ he said tentatively, ‘And please don’t take this the wrong way, cus you’re still cute. But you should probably stop wearing the knit hats. They’re starting to look kind of weird.’

‘No, you’re starting to look kind of weird,’ I snapped.

How much criticism can one gal take?  But then I looked in the mirror, and realized that he was right. Kind, even. Because the head staring back at me was starting to resemble a dirty Zeller's mannequin from 1973.   So I tossed my rats nest into the sink,  gave it a good cleaning and a blow dry. When I re-emerged with my silky bob, Jim nodded his approval. His position was intact. There was a moment where I'd thought about letting him go, but I couldn't let that happen to both of us.

Life Lessons at Starbucks

I went for a head-clearing walk yesterday, because it’s time to think about my future. The cozy days of being holed up in the house are coming to a close. Radiation might knock me on my arse, but since that hasn’t started, I’ve got to start making plans.

Nothing major, of course. But I do need to go back to work. My job, which often involves long days and traffic doesn’t seem very attractive anymore. I’m also wondering how and when (if ever) to debut my short gray hairs. And I do need to keep on top of little life chores. For example, how do I tell my accountant that she’s been replaced? Do I make the dreaded phone call or write a polite (passive/aggressive) email? Or, do I forget it all and go on a road trip with my cousin. Overwhelmed by decision-making, I choose to do nothing and go for a walk instead. Somehow I end up at a Starbucks on the Danforth, standing behind a dad and his daughter.

Planning for the Future

The daughter is looking into other pastry case and going over all the options. She’s about three feet tall, and is taking her time. Dad is coaching her on the pros and cons of each option. She likes the little cupcakes and dad tells her that’s a ‘great choice!’ But, she also finds them a bit too small, and is curious about the giant chocolate chip cookie. He says that’s also a ‘fantastic choice’ and asks her the pros and cons of her cookie. 'It’s big.' Dad says it’s big enough to share, and she scowls slightly.

Normally I prefer not to be stuck behind this kind of parental life coaching. Or be at Starbucks at all, but this was kind of interesting. Dad was getting impatient. ‘Make your choice,’ he said. She looked up at him. ‘Just make your choice,’ he continued, ‘And commit.' He slapped his fist into an open palm,  like Tony Robbins, and continued, ‘Just choose what you want, and stand behind it!’

The kid looked like she was going to cry, but I was soaking it all up. Yes kid, commit! Dad was shifting into high gear, as I suspect that was his nature. ‘If you don’t make a choice, Sophie, you will end up with nothing’. Yes! That’s exactly what will happen, I thought. Which is why I ended up wandering up to Starbucks  (which I loathe) rather than tackling life at home. ‘Doing nothing gets you nowhere,’ I was tempted to chime in.  So I resolved to go home immediately to make my own coffee, write my accountant, and get in touch with my cousin.

I wanted to bring the dad home with me, and hire him as my life coach. But his daughter needed him more. Just as dad thought he’d was in the home stretch, little Sophie wanted to discuss the merits of a brownie.

Recovery Road Trip

I was prepared as I could ever be. For two weeks, I’d been listening to my Guided Meditations at least twice a day. All my free mental moments were spent conjuring up images of  the happy places I’d been, and filling my belly with sunlight.

Plan A

Knowing that I couldn’t wear a wig or lipstick in the operating room, I’d painted my toe nails bright red so that I would still look like a lady. The night before, I’d gone to a yoga class, followed by a massage, and a last blast of guided meditation. My two brilliant wing men (wing people) Jim and Joanne were there to escort me to the hospital. And when I was finally changed into my cap and gown, it was Deborah, my all-time favorite surgical nurse on the planet, who was there to greet me.

It was only 8 am as she walked me into the operating room. We chatted a bit about her upcoming trip to Arizona where she has a time-share. I know she was doing this to keep my mind busy, and I appreciated her efforts. She also introduced me to the bodies in the room, none of who were recognisable behind their masks. Over in the corner Dr Escargot was texting on his iphone. (At least I hope he was texting – he might have been playing video games). But we’d spoken earlier that morning, and had already said our hellos.

Plan B

So I jumped up on the operating table, my mind filled with all my favorite places. Quickly, I tried to summon all my ‘magical friends and allies’ who were ‘proud of my courage’, and who were going to watch over my spirit. I also tried to think of what I would have for lunch, after I woke up and ‘calmly and comfortably’.  Then settling down, I tried to evoke images of all the places I love to be. My favorite rocks, deck chairs, birds, and lovely people.

‘Hey!’ said Deborah, ‘Have you ever been to Arizona? That’s a place you and Jim should go’. I told her that we had been there and liked it very much. She said that there’s nothing like the dessert to make the soul feel alive. Being wildly susceptible to suggestion I agreed. Although it did interfere slightly with the delicate tableau that I was trying to establish in my mind, I could picture the red sand and the rich blue sky.

Last Minute Plan

Deborah's cheerful face loomed over me. ‘You should think about the dessert while you fall asleep. You and Jim in a convertible going down the highway’.  Dammit! The whole idea was to stay in the country. It was all I could do not to go to France, and now someone was dangling the Arizona highway in front of me like a big dusty carrot. Also, the drugs from my IV were starting to kick in. The open road was looking pretty good.  ‘Will you come with us?' I asked Deborah sleepily. ‘There’s room in the back seat with Jed.’  She grinned. ‘Sure thing! I’m a dog person too. I’m definitely coming along.’

So there I was, off to Arizona. I didn’t think it would take too much to convince my magical band of allies about the change in plans, because apart from picky eating habits, they seemed up for pretty much anything. So much for careful planning. I was all set for a day with cocktails, lobster, and bird sounds, and I ended up in the front of a Cadillac.

Those who know me well can attest to the fact that I’m a terrible planner. But I make up for it (sort of) by surrounding myself with good people and beautiful places. And though this road wasn’t one I’d planned on, it must have been good, ‘cus I woke up feeling calm, and comfortable, and almost ready to stop for a Corona. Though I settled on an apple juice,  instead.

Favorite Place

Cape Breton.
Most beautiful place on earth.

My surgery is tomorrow, and I’ve been getting prepared. Belleruth Naparstek, my new best friend, has been guiding me through some meditation. Her voice, which comes through my ipod, tells me that my body (intelligent & vital) and the doctors (caring, confident) will work together to make me strong and whole. In soothing tones she reminds me that bright new cells are lining up to do exactly what they’re supposed to do, and I am completely, and utterly safe. She neglects to mention if any of the doctors are incredibly handsome.

Then Belleruth encourages me to go to a place that I love. It is of my choosing, and can be real, or imagined. Once there, she invites me to look around, feel the sun on my face, enjoy the comfort of a warm breeze, or a cozy fire. The feel of a soft blanket,  the smell of the ocean, a pine forest,  the sounds of laughter, or birds.

This part of the meditation drives me a bit nuts because there are too many choices. At first, I settle down with Earl and Kathleen on the back deck of their house in Cape Breton, and listen to the crickets. The sun is indeed on my face. From the kitchen I hear fiddle music on the radio, and off in the distance, the sound of tires crunching on a gravel road. Earl is telling a story, and is chuckling. I am breathing deeply and with contentment. But wait!  There’s an empty muskoka chair on a dock in Honey Harbour. Dammit! I’m on the move.

I'll be back!

In a split second I go from Cape Breton to my cousin’s dock, where she is laying out lunch for four of our girlfriends, which we will eat while gazing out over the water. Belleruth tells me to breath more deeply, but I’m not even settled into my chair! Would I like a glass of  Proseco? Yes please, that would be lovely. Quickly I try to catch up to Belleruth. I experience the sun on my face, a bird, and the sounds of the popping cork. I await contentment.

At this point I’m supposed to be deep in my favorite place. I try to concentrate on the soft air, and the gentle breeze that blows around me. Is my hair blowing?  (Belleruth doesn’t mention whether or not my hair has grown back, or if I’ve been able to dye it, or if even Cosmo has been available for an an appointment). Perhaps I am barefoot, says Belleruth, and can feel the warm floor beneath my feet. Wait! Warm feet are a great idea, but why not go for warm rocks – the kind that slope gently from Kathy Morgan’s cottage in Go Home Bay. And just as I’m supposed to be going into deeper relaxation I’m zipping off again, where I quickly place myself down on the warm rock between my friends Kathy and Katie, and a delicious plate of cambazola.

Kathleen, Jim, Lobster

By now Belleruth is way ahead of me and is introducing my ‘magical friends and protectors’. Huh? I’m barely settled and have to start all over with the warm breeze on my face. I look for a bird. I haven’t even decided if I’m lying on a towel or directly on the rock, and Katie still hasn’t opened the wine cus she can’t figure out the corkscrew. I lean back and try to inhale sunlight into my belly. (Why didn’t I bring a screwtop?) I should be relaxed, but I’m curious about what Kathleen was making for dinner, and end up back in her kitchen just as Earl and Jim are about to crack into a perfectly chilled lobster claw.

I am not relaxed. Not at all. I have too many favorite places, and my ‘magical friends’ are getting hungry, and one of them is a vegetarian.  But I am happy and grateful that I have so many places I like to be. So I send the vegetarian back to Marilyn’s, and tell Katie to call me when she figures out the corkscrew. In the meantime, I stay in Cape Breton for a lobster dinner, and listen to the rest of Earl's story.

Oo - Oo Itchy Woman

When I was in high school, I had a friend with a swimming pool in her back yard. She wasn’t my friend just because of the pool, though being associated with such luxury was a major coup.

On sunny summer afternoons, when we should have been working, we’d watch ‘Another World’ followed by a leisurely swim. Both her parents worked, so we pretty much had the house to ourselves. On hot days the phone would start ringing, and other friends would drop by. It was all very relaxed unless we received a phone call from ‘the guys’.

Me

‘Okay Jan,’ she said, hanging up the phone one afternoon, ‘The guys are coming over. Get up, we’ve got to shave.' We were only sixteen, and didn’t know anything about getting our bikini lines waxed, so we took care of things with any available razor. I’d like to think it was her mom’s, but who knows? It all happened with such urgency than I used any tool that was placed in my hand.

By the time our gentleman callers had arrived we were hairless, and reclining prettily on the chaise lounges. They didn’t care. They thought of us like sisters and wouldn’t have noticed moss growing out of our bathing suits. Water was the only thing that interested them. Followed closely by their DuMaurier cigarettes, six-pack of Export Ale, and a Burger King Whopper, with fries.

Them

Hair grows very quickly when shaved. And in sensitive areas, it comes back itchy. So following our afternoons with the guys came a whole lot of scratching. Multiply that feeling by a few decades, and here I go again. The return of my hair is not nearly as subtle as it’s departure. It’s like springtime all over my body (yes, I'm bald everywhere), and in the more delicate areas I’m keenly aware of its return (scratch scratch). It’s barely visible, but I can feel a million tiny follicles bursting with life. As exciting as this may be, I’ve enjoyed my silky smoothness, and having legs that were pool-ready, all the time.

Tomorrow is spa day (my first in a long time) with some favorite friends. Tonight four gorgeous gals will be drinking Chardonnay and wrestling with wax, hiding in their bathroom and contorting into painful pretzels, trying to rip out every stubborn hair. And moi? I’m still almost as smooth as a baby’s arse, and as long as I can keep from scratching myself, pool-ready one more time.

Foxy Lady

I was wrestling with my wig recently, trying to make it pretty. It was sitting in my lap, and I was attacking it with a brush, when Jim poked his head in the room. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. To which I replied, ‘Trying to fix my hair.’ He looked at the tangled mess in my hands and told me,‘That is not your hair.’ Then he pointed to my head, ‘That’s your hair.'

The funny thing is, the wig has become my hair. It took me about two months to get used to wearing it, but since it sat right next to my skin, it became my official 'do. Because it was comfortable, I made it a habit to keep it on all the time, taking it off only in the evening.  In my mind, I am a girl with a smart brown bob.

But underneath the wig, I am a Silver Haired Fox-ette. The little bristles have gotten longer, and are not so bristley anymore. In fact, I can grab my soft hairs between my thumbs and forefinger and give them a little tug. (The area that was formerly a Friar Tuck bald spot has started to fill in, though it is in no way fit for public viewing, as the hairs are only slightly longer than a hamster.)

Foxy Lady!

So now, instead of having Head & Hair, I have Head & Hair & Hair. It feels wrong to have two layers of hair! Particularly since both of them are mine, and I still need to wear them together. My $1,600 investment is no longer disguising the fact that I am bald, it is now disguising my unwelcome shade of silver.

Due to popular demand (not really) I am attaching a photo. But don’t expect to see it in person, because the moment it gets long enough, I’m going to add some colour.  This Fox-ette, as soon as possible,  is going back to brown.

Second Best Story, Ever

I don’t like hospitals. But then Jim reminds me that Mt Sinai Hotel & Spa is a place of healing, rather than a place of torture. It’s always a welcome reminder, and a few days ago I had the chance to experience a stranger's success story in person.

I was standing in the lobby, waiting for my friend. It was a busy afternoon, and people were rushing around everywhere. On all sides of me patients were pouring out of elevators, as revolving doors spat out one puffy parka after another. Medical personnel, surgical masks hanging around their necks, whizzed by clutching midday caffeine. 

Amongst the throngs, I noticed one man standing still. I’d happened to glance over at an elevator just as it unloaded it contents; a Shriners’ busload of passengers.  As they flew off in different directions, this man stayed where he was, standing just outside the elevator doors. He was short fellow with a thatch of thick white hair and wore a retirees uniform of beige windbreaker, button down shirt, and baggy chinos that were clean and ironed. His hands were in his pockets. I guessed he was Irish, and if he hadn’t look so tired he could have been an elf. But he was slightly stooped over and appeared a little lost. His large eyes, which were clear and blue, scanned the crowd slowly.

Following his gaze, I noticed a tall woman rushing across the floor. Her smart green hat perfectly matched her coat, and she carried a handbag.  She looked worried, as though she may be late, and I took her to be his wife. It was she who he was waiting for, and when he saw the green hat move through the sea of plainer hats his face softened, and he stood up a little taller. They were about twenty feet apart when their eyes finally locked, and as she worked her way through the crowd he started to smile. Unable to contain himself, his smile broadened, and as his face split wide open a thousand laugh lines formed around his eyes and he took his hands out of his pockets, extended both arms, and held up his thumbs with such vigour that I thought that lightning would fly across the room.

The lady in the green hat paused and cupped her hands over her mouth. With one more step she threw her arms around the little man and pulled him close. Laughing, he gazed up at her, sharing happy details. She looked down at him adoringly, pulling him even closer, and buried her face in his hair. He leaned into her chest, his arms around her waist, hands clasped tightly behind her back.

My friend kissed me on the cheek and I turned to greet her. When I looked for the couple they'd left, and the spot where they’d clung together had already been taken over. But at that moment I knew two things. Firstly, the couple, wherever they went, were heading towards something splendid. I knew that for certain. Secondly, (and more selfishly), their memory is mine to summon forever. There will be bad days at Mount Sinai, and I have many more appointments ahead. But for days that are less than perfect, there will always be a small blue-eyed man standing by the elevator, waiting to share some good news, with lightening flying out of his fingers.

Preparing for a Second Date

My surgeon and I had a date last Friday. He’s got a glamorous South American name, but because my sister Sue can't remember it, he is known amongst us as Dr. Escargot.

Because of an upcoming procedure (which is very small) I’ve been practising some relaxation techniques. I don’t actually enjoy surgery, and this was evident to everyone involved in the first operation.  I was anxious going to sleep, anxious waking up, and didn’t calm down until the Percocet kicked in, a few hours later.

Preparing for Surgery

But this time is going to be different. Recently I’ve discovered Guided Meditation, and it’s going to help me stay calm through surgery. They promised! According to the CD, it will make me feel relaxed, happy, and confident about my surgical team. We will all work together to make it a stressless situation.

There are a few steps to total relaxation. (Previously my preferred method of relaxation was a one-step wonder known as Atavin). According to my CD, you picture yourself in a nice place, as well as a few other scenarios, eventually picturing yourself in your hospital bed saying, ‘Oh, I’m so comfortable’. In between are a couple of other awkward steps, one of which is meeting with the anaesthetist.

The meditation lady suggests calling him/her and requesting that they say positive things during the surgery about how the success of the operation. She believes these positive affirmations from the medical team will make me feel that we are all participating in the same adventure. I like this idea, if only because it’s a better option than having your surgeons make fun of you while you slumber.

As I was sitting with Escargot, my CD fell out of my bag and onto the floor. He picked it up and examined it closely. I told him that I was going to be the most relaxed patient he’d ever seen.  He looked slightly skeptical, but I told him about my wake-up goal, and thinking, ‘I’m so fu*king comfortable’.  I explained how this is psychologically superior to thinking, ‘I’m so glad it’s over’, since that suggests that surgery is not your friend. And, I am endeavouring to be pals with my surgery.

Dr. Escargot leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. ‘I like that,’ he said in his soft Colombian accent, sounding slightly like Marlon Brando playing a drug lord. ‘Surgery as a friend. That’s good. I’ve never thought about that.’

Never?! In forty years of medicine he never thought of surgery as being slightly disagreeable to the patient ?!   Escargot's scientific brain, or his ego, has been guiding him for far too long. Meanwhile I'm being guided my a soothing stranger on a CD. 


And thank God for that. Our next date is in two weeks. 

The Customer is Always Wrong

Next to Doctors, my Sales Ladies are the smartest people on the planet, and much better at giving advise. Today I headed to the wig salon at Princess Margaret Shopping Mall to see what I could find in the way of spa gear. When oncologist gave me the all-clear to return to public areas, my first thought was that I wanted to go to a steam room. My second thought was that I needed something to cover my hair.

'Which Way to the Pool?'

The wig shop offered two options. One was a saucy pink bathing cap with white polka dots and a little bow on the back.  I was ready to wear it home, but the bossy wig lady shook her head. ‘It’s just for pools,’ she said, ‘You’ll melt in the sauna.’ The other option was a turban.  I thought it was fabulous until she snatched it off my head and told me I looked too old.  Then she ordered me to go to a bathing suit store, which was just down the street. I don’t argue with the salespeople in the canceritis world anymore. Whether its wigs, hats, or vitamins, they all know better than I.

I arrived at the store just as it was closing, but the small Asian lady in black trousers kindly allowed me to enter.  Immediately, I was drawn to a plastic torso wearing a lacey brown bra, the most exquisite undergarment I’d ever seen. ‘You like?’ the saleslady asked. Oh yes, I thought, fondling it dreamy. I floated over to the bathing suit rack, admiring a beautiful one-piece belted suit with a stylish clasp. So lovely I gasped. ‘You like my store?’ the lady asked. I nodded. ‘You having mastectomy?’  I looked at her quizzically. She smiled and showed me the flip side of the bra. Each cup was fitted with interior pockets. In fact, everything in her store was designed  so it could be outfitted with pretend boobs.

 

I checked the brown lacey bra. It too had interior pockets. The saleslady smiled happily while steering me towards a stack of pretty pink miniature hat boxes. Inside each was a set of silicone breast forms. She took one out of the box and placed it in the palm of my hand, where it sat pertly, gazing up to me. I was silent. ‘Nice, ay?’ the saleslady said. She plopped another, much lighter, breast form in my other hand, ‘For summer,’ she explained.

I was speechless. Not only had I learnt that bathing caps are adorable, but that lingerie for the boobless is quite fun. I examined the bathing suits more closely and found that not only were they outfitted with fake breasts, but were more stylish than anything I’d seen in regular stores.

The saleslady showed me some camisoles and pointed out the feel of the fabric. She said that she wore them herself, (in spite of her real breasts), because they felt so nice. And sometimes she wore the bras, just because she liked them. Her eyes darted around the room as she hastily unbuttoned her white blouse and held it open, exposing a scrumptious raspberry brassiere. She beamed, and quickly re-buttoned her shirt.

Before I left I asked if she had any stylish headgear for baldies. I pointed to my head, ‘It’s a wig'. She reached up to touch it, ‘Nice!’ Before saying good-bye she said she didn’t have what I wanted, but gave me a quick hug, instead.

I’m still short one turban, but after experiencing such exquisite customer service, I’ll never go to a shopping mall again.

Clown Hair

This weekend Jim suggested we play a little game. ‘Hey,’ he said. 'Let’s take a photo of the top of our heads and see if anybody can tell who's who!’ I wasn’t very enthusiastic about his game. I was even less enthusiastic about the fact the my hair is short and grey. But what really irks me these days is that I have a bald spot on the top of my head, which is the size of a fried egg.

There was a time, long ago, where I thought it was cute that people saw a resemblance between Jim and me. The first time it happened we were sitting at the bar of a divey saloon in Illinois, enjoying a couple of ice cold beers.  I leaned over and kissed Jim’s neck. As two more Michelob’s were slammed down in front of us, the bartender said, ‘Are you guys brother & sister?’

He wasn’t the first person that has said that we looked alike. My mother was once asked if we were both her kids. And work colleagues have told us the same thing. I don’t really see it, but apparently we both have little noses, round eyes, and a winning smile. Also, we both like Levi’s. When someone remarks on our resemblance, we both take it as a compliment, and consider the other person to be extremely lucky.

Moi

But that was before I started to look like Friar Tuck. The hair on the sides is coming in just fine, and is beginning to create a gauzy halo around the sides of my head. On top, the hair is short, sparse, and the scalp is clearly visible. The sideburns, oddly, are a little bit darker. (And since they are more obvious, give me a bit of the cool factor, like Arthur Fonzarelli). But on the crown of my head I am almost completely bald. Call it what you want. Cue ball. Male patterned baldness. Clown hair. It really is quite worrisome.

However, all the books I’ve read say that the hair will ‘most definitely’ come back. They promised. It may not be what I wanted – and so far it’s a little disappointing - but I’ve got hope. And just in case my wig is stunting my follicle growth, I try to spend a little more time au natural. In private I ditch the wig, and behind closed curtains sit on the couch with a bald head and a Corona.

Sometimes Jim joins me and we’ll sit side by side. Just two brothers wearing Levi’s, enjoying an ice cold beer.

What’s Wrong with this Picture?

I don’t play the cancer card very often. It’s a conscious decision not to be viewed as less than healthy. Mostly, I save it for when I want my friend Jess to pick me up in her BMW with the passenger seat pre-heated.

But just because I’m not complaining doesn’t mean I want to listen to someone else’s problem, unless its from a very close friend. So yesterday, I was dragging the basset hound down the street, when I ran into a woman with whom I’ve had several conversations. She also has a dog, is my age, but apart from that, we have little else in common.

Sherman

Often, I listen to people more than I’d like to, because Jed will plant himself in the middle of the sidewalk, for long periods of time.  Moving him is like pulling a Sherman tank and I’m a sitting duck for grumblers.

So she asks me how I am. ‘Super Fantastic,’ I lie.  In fact I wasn’t fine at all, having had a wildly frustrating day dealing with hospital politics and absent doctors. But thinking that I was on top of the world, she launched into her own woes. One of which was having thinning hair. She’d had a high fever and some of her hair had fallen out. I didn’t care. ‘Look,’ she said, taking off her hat to prove how bad it really was.

‘Shut the f*ck up,’ Inner Voice said. But my outer voice, without thinking, blurted out , ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m bald.’ Her face fell, slightly confused, but with a spark of understanding. I threw her a bone. ‘I just finished chemo. And I’m fine. But this is a wig.’ She put her hand on my arm and said in hushed tones, ‘Oh no...do you have c..?’

‘Had,’ I cut her off. And then I turned the conversation around, saying that her hair, which was a thousand times more abundant than mine, would grow back. She was busy scanning my face. ‘Oh yeah,’ she said, ‘I can tell by your eyelashes. They’re thinner.’

No kidding. And this is exactly why I don’t talk about myself, because people look at you like a science experiment, or one of those puzzles at the back of People magazines, called, ‘What is Wrong With This Picture?’

Then she suggested that we have lunch some time. (I don’t think so). Thankfully Jed chose that moment to howl at a daschund, and the Sherman Tank turned into a Ferrari, and dragged me down the street.

5-Star Hair in a 3-Star Hotel

Celebrations were in order following the excellent results from my CT scan, so Jim and I headed for an overnighter in Niagara Falls USA. Not the prettiest town in the world, by any stretch of the imagination, but full of good shopping and some above average food. Also, the falls are pretty impressive.

After a day of shopping, and an early bird dinner, we headed back to the hotel to enjoy our luxury mattress and flat screen TV. For us, there’s nothing more delightful than climbing between crispy white sheets in a bed that someone else has made. For full relaxation, I decided to ditch the hair. The problem was, that I had nowhere to put it.

According to my friends at Continental Hair, a wig must be stored properly when not in use, to maintain its' $1,600 quality. Normally, after a long day of making me look good, the wig is placed over a styrofoam head in my closet. But since the head doesn’t have a passport, it had to stay at home.

A Fine Bob

So I looked around our 3-star room, and the only logical solution seemed to be the ice bucket. It was slightly tapered, so I flipped it over and placed my wig over its base. Still, the base was a bit too big and I didn’t want to overstretch the elastic. So that left the coffee machine. And since we had no intention of ever drinking weak American coffee, it was in need of a purpose. (Why drink motel coffee when Jim was perfectly capable of walking to Starbuck’s at 9 am in the middle of a snowstorm!)

So we lay in bed, (me in my sleep cap), looking at the hairy coffee machine across the room. ‘Did you know,' said Jim, ‘That I counted three ladies wearing wigs in the restaurant tonight?’  Really?! I did not know that, and I usually have a highly sensitive hair radar. But he was certain, having a stylish mother who dabbled with acrylic hair in the 70’s. 

‘It makes perfect sense,’ he said, ‘Saturday night. Niagara Falls. Early Bird. Seniors. Wigs.' Of course was right. And surely he was describing them, and not us. I thought of the ladies across town, who were probably at home, ripping off their fake hair, and storing it properly. So I sipped my red wine, thinking that the only thing separating me from those gals was about 35 years, a man in my bed, and a well coiffed Mr Coffee.

Live 'er

A tiny little spot has been bothering me for months. It turned up on my CT scan last October, and was on my liver.

‘I’m not concerned,' snapped my crabby oncologist, dismissing it as though I’d just announced that we were running low on paper clips. My surgeon agreed I needn’t worry, but said so more kindly. He said we have spots all over the place, and I really needn’t fret. So I turned to his Nurse and said ‘What if it is something?!’ She said that if it was something, which was quite unlikely, we’d deal with it later.

So for the last few months I’ve been thinking about this spot on my liver and praying (to various entities) that it was indeed nothing. But not-so-deep down, I was quite scared. Breast cancer is a bitch, but liver cancer would be a motherfu*ker. And this spot has been in the back of my mind every day as I covered my food in flax, while cutting out my beloved red wine, and sugar.

My secret plan was, that if the spot should turn out to be something, I would go directly to Brazil and take a pilgrammage to see ‘John of God’.  We’d line up for three days in order to be operated on with a rusty knife. (It works. My Russian Nurse told me) And Jim would go with me because every man needs the opportunity to run down a beach in Rio, wearing nothing but a thong.

Tuscan Soup & a Basset Hounf

Last Monday I had another CT scan, and since then I’ve been waiting impatiently for the results. I’ve been a wreck. I’ve slept very little and have forced myself to keep busy, resulting in an excessively clean house and a six gallons of Tuscan bean soup in the freezer.

Last Tuesday I went to see my psychiatrist, who asked about my current state of mind. When I told her I was afraid of dying from liver cancer she said, ‘That’s what we’re here for – to help you through.' Of course, I assumed this to mean she was privy to some top-secret information, and was preparing me for the worst. I related this conversation to Sue who said,  ‘She’s an asshole, don’t see her anymore.'

But what if the spot was something after all. That would only give me a few years to write my memoirs, eat escargot in France, learn to paint, build a house in Cape Breton, spend more time with my nieces an nephews, go hand gliding, take Jed on a road trip to Alaska in a Winnebago, and marry Jon Bon Jovi.

Lucky Frog

This morning I had an appointment with my mean oncologist. Not only did I want my test results, but I had chemo questions as well. I pictured Dr C coming in the room wearing high heels, opening her manila folder, and telling me she had some bad news.  In preparation I’d filled my pockets with some of my little talismans. A little frog (for longevity), a bag of sea salt (to ward off bad energy), and a picture of my father. I also took ½ an Adavin. After sitting in the exam room for an hour, we were told that doctor crabby pants would be late, but her intern was available. Desperate for someone to talk to, I said I’d talk to the intern until Dr C arrived to give me my test results.

Moments later the door opened and in breezed the intern. All white teeth and long hair, and so young she couldn't legally rent a vehicle.  I sat nervously in my chair, my list of questions perched on my lap, ready to fire away. ‘Hi Janet,’ she chirped,  hopping up on to the counter, ‘Nice to see you. By the way, your test results are fine.’

And that was it. No manila folder. No high heels. No sympathetic looks. No talking about how much time I had left. No problem with my liver. In six short seconds she’d just given me back my whole life. Downstairs in the lobby I shed a few tears of relief, and Jim’s ears let go of his shoulders. He opened a pocket and took out a green crane.

My liver is fine. We’re back to nearly normal. The road trip in the Winnebago will surely happen. And tonight we’re going out for wine.

Scarface

My hair normally parts on the right. I have no choice in the matter, as a scar on my upper forehead dictates the style. This 25-year-old scar starts just below my hairline and is barely visible. Most of it is covered by hair, and the remainder is covered by bangs. I rarely think about it, until someone points out, ‘Hey! You have a scar on your forehead!’ And I’ll quickly offer a Coles Notes version of the story.

In a nutshell, I hit my head on a rock when I was on vacation in the Dominican Republic. And yes, I was sober. I was knee deep in water with my back to the ocean, and a large wave knocked me down. I went to a local doctor and got stitches.

Place Scar Here

‘Holy shit,’ Jim said, the first time he examined my big bald head, ‘that scar really is big.' I took a look in the mirror, and sans hair, could clearly see the line where the skin had been split open. Surprising! It was much bigger than I remembered. While only one inch is obvious, it’s actually three inches long.  But since only a Coles Notes version of my scar was visible, I’d subconsciously adjusted the size my story. Now that it was totally exposed, the story came back to me in its entirety.

After hitting my head on the rock, I ended up horizontal on the beach. Two people helped me sit up and tried to stop the bleeding. The friend who I was travelling with recalls looking up from her sunbathing to see me with two strangers, and assumed that I’d made some new friends. Shortly a little crowd gathered and someone ran to find a doctor. I knew my name, but I didn’t know much else. Then a gorgeous brown woman in a bikini came bursting through the crowd, carrying a ‘Julio Iglesias’ lunchbox. She quickly took control, opening the box and taking out bandages, gauze, and an antibiotic. Unfortunately her Julio Iglesias First Aid kit offered only temporary relief -  it was clear I needed to go to the hospital.

Some time later (I had no track of time), a pick-up truck came roaring down the beach. I was put on a lounge chair, which was hoisted onto the back of the truck. My friend (and kind strangers) took me to the closest medic, a gynecologist who operated a one-room clinic in town.

I remember looking up and seeing the doctor (I assumed he was a doctor) threading a needle with thick, black thread. I remember my friend, in her skimpy bathing suit, singing me a song in an attempt to jog my memory. And I remember the sound of the scissors as my hair was cut away from the wound. Once back in Toronto, my own doctor examined the stitches and said how lucky I was to have found a gynecologist, as he was probably the most capable with stitches.

But as I told Jim this story there were other things I would like to know. For instance, I would like to know who the people were that helped me, and especially the man was who drove me to the hospital. It must have taken four people to lift me into the truck I don’t know who any of them were.

The soft hairs are slowly coming in will soon cover my scar once again. I’m glad I had the chance to see it bare and unprotected. It’s easy to dismiss something when it’s invisible.

Monkey Arms

When I was in grade five, during the heat of early summer,  I would wear a cardigan to school.  Some kids would ask if I was hot, to which I’d answer, ‘I’m fine.’ Truthfully, I was boiling. But sweating like a pig was a better option than exposing my hairy arms and being teased by my classmates.  ‘Monkey arms,’ is what the mean girls would call me, revealing their limited exposure to other cultures, and our hairy Mediterranean sisters. 

Later, I was delighted to find that my best friend Kathy Morgan also had hairy arms. She wasn’t shy about showing them off, and would twist the hairs between moistened fingers, to see if she could twirl them into a tiny stand-up ponytail. Eventually, even she got tired of the hair, and one afternoon before the high school prom, she shaved them.

Many years later, I was standing on a bus in Korea. Not only was I the tallest person, but also the hairiest. My arm was extended upwards, holding on to a strap. Dark eyes were discreetly looking up at my pale hirsute skin. Once again, I was flooded with that old self-conscience feeling.  I thought about the offending hairs, and wished them away.

But oh how things have changed! Recently I was going through my post bath ritual of dousing myself in moisturizing cream. I noticed, not for the first time, how I hairless I really am. Every place that hair should be on a regular gal is silky smooth on me. Except for my 14 eyelashes, I am as smooth as a baby’s arse.

Hairy Arm (foreground) &  Hairy Dog (background)

That is, except for my arms. I have seen them everyday since I was born, and examining them pretty closely since grade five. But only in the last few days did it occur to me that the arms on my hair is still mostly there. True-  it's thinned a little,  and the hairs are fine and blonde, but at a time where my body has sometimes let me down, my loyal limbs have stubbornly refused to desert me.

This morning (while watching Coronation Street) I did something I haven’t done since high school. I licked my fingers, (a la Kathy Morgan)  grasped the hairs, and twisted them into delicate spirals, and they stood in triumph  on my dry, sun-deprived skin. Childhood shame had been replaced with grown-up pride. I couldn’t stop looking at my arms, which looked so alive, and wonderfully familiar. My monkey arms. Loyal friends.

So, many years ago, in a classroom kept at a toasty 90 degrees, I covered my arms with a sweater. In these chilly days of winter, when I meet friends for coffee, I am going to wear a short sleeved shirt. 

‘You must be cold,’ they’ll say.

‘I’m fine,’ I’ll reply, ‘But look at my arms, and check out the hairs! My hairs are standing on end.’

A Tale of Two Chickens

Yesterday I went to my hospital for a small procedure; one which required that I deprive myself of food for a number of hours. At about 1 pm, I was sitting in the waiting room, hungry, thirsty, and tired. Having just finished my book, I had little to do except stare around the room at my fellow fasting testees who were almost all focused on the TV, gazing longingly at the food commercials.

Several people were with their companions. The buddies are there for moral support, and don’t have the same restrictions we do. Of course, nobody is telling those folks not to eat, but common courtesy would dictate that you don’t bring your lunch to the 5^th floor waiting room of Mt Sinai Hotel & Spa.

So I was slightly alarmed when one fellow, who was waiting for his wife, quietly slid his hand into his man-purse and pulled out a lunch bag. He was sitting at the end of the row, and seemed to think he was invisible. Without looking up, he unrolled the bag and pulled out a saran wrapped sandwich the size of an oven mitt. He slowly and lovingly pulled back the saran wrap and leaned forward to take a big bite. I was staring at him, disbelieving, the whole time. From where I sat I could make out what appeared be a sliced meat extravaganza featuring mortadella, salami, tomatoes, red onion, and ham.

Because of my current lack of ability to self-censor, I’m afraid to think nasty thoughts lest I say them out loud. ‘Put it away Dagwood’ ran through my head. As did, ‘Arsehole’. But I said nothing, as it wasn’t the worst waiting room breach of etiquette that I’ve ever seen.

The worst was back in August when I was waiting for my lumpectomy. At that point I’d been fasting for over twelve hours, and was sitting in a fluorescent room wearing a blue gown, paper slippers, and a hair net (I wasn’t bald, yet). I’d been up since 5 am and hadn’t had a coffee. I was thirsty, and I was scared. Around me patients like myself shuffled around nervously, trying to get comfortable in their hard plastic chairs. The room was barren of entertainment, and all personal items had been stowed away.

Then there was a familiar smell. The kind of smell that dances on your tongue and clouds your better judgment. One associated with Christmas, Festive Specials, and a Chalets in the Alps. There, amongst a dozen people awaiting surgery, in a room smelling of medicine, some giant ass was tucking into his half chicken dinner from Swiss Chalet!

I remember turning to Sue and watching her eyes widen, and my mother thought it was kind of funny. But neither of them were as starving as me, or the other hungry inmates. I found it such an act of such inconsideration that I wanted the Mt Sinai Politeness Police to toss the offending party back to the outside world where he belongs.

But such a force doesn’t exist. So the Eater remained, working his way through his fries with gravy, as the rest of us waited for surgery. And even though it was annoying and thoughtless, one must accept that there are idiots everywhere, and the least they can do is provide a distraction.

So while we rolled our eyes in disgust I stopped thinking about surgery and forgot to be scared. And in the end, wanting a chicken from Switzerland was better than being a chicken at Mount Sinai, in paper slippers and a blue cotton gown.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Steroids are a funny drug. Not funny ‘ha-ha’. Funny in the way that my nerve endings sizzle, and the humming deep in my core is poised to erupt into a full scream. At any given moment, should anyone touch me inappropriately, or ask me a stupid question, I will change from mild mannered bald lady into the giant green monster known as the Incredible Hulk. Last week I was full of steroids, with the puffy face to prove it. Normal-ish on the outside,  I was spring-loaded on the inside. Bright lights hurt my eyes, harsh sounds hurt my ears, and pointless conversation hurt my brain.

During steroid week, I can end almost all conversations with, ‘I don’t give a sh*t’ and ‘Why are you still talking?’  The people in the dog park, normally inoffensive, seem as though they’ve been put on this earth specifically to annoy me. One lady with a faux leopard hat said that she’d taken the day off work to go to the dentist. “So?” I may or may not have said out loud. Seconds later, I’d wandered away, blinded by the sun, overcome with hostility.

I know now that there are things I should avoid during steroid days, which is pretty much everything. In the outside world, I don’t want to put myself in a position where someone might invade my personal space. God help the person who bumps my arm while I’m pouring milk into my take-out coffee, or nudges me off the sidewalk as they roll through Leslieville with their double wide jogging stroller, and a Labradoodle.

Things aren’t that much better at home. I avoid Jim’s tough lines of questioning, such as ‘What can I make you for dinner?’ or ‘Would you like an extra blanket?’ (And I've apologized to him for throwing box of Shreddies at his head). I especially avoid anyone who may leave extra long messages on their answering machines. I don’t want to sit through another Buddhist prayer, or listen to an entire family explain in rhyme, why they’re not home. I don’t care. Why are they still talking?

Unfortunately for my Psychiatrist, I was steroid crazy when I went to see her for our last session. She was 15 minutes late for the appointment so I was already jumpy when we finally got started. I’d barely sat down before launching into a brisk monologue regarding my lack of patience and crawling skin.  She nodded in that way that people nod when they’ve been to medical school for fifteen years. (I noticed that she was wearing ugly men’s black ankle socks). I glared at her, willing her to respond, my right knee bouncing uncontrollably. “I understand,” she said finally (finally!), “People are dealing with issues that have solutions, while your situation is life or death.”

I sizzled. My knee stopped jiggling. The hum in my stomach started vibrating wildly. “I need to correct you,” I said in someone else's voice, which sounded to me like Kathleen Turner, but was probably more like Lou Ferrigno. “I am not dealing with life or death,” I said, “ I’m dealing with life or life. Death is no longer an option.” I glared at her through blood shot eyes, ready to squish her like a bug with my enormous green hands.

The Hulk was angry. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath while Dr L.  crossed her legs, and apologized for her careless wording. The Hulk thought she should also apologize for her socks. But he accepted the apology, and I watched as my hands turn back to their regular size and colour. 

I sat up and smiled, “Okay Doctor, let's move ahead.”

Let Me Eat Cake

My darling big sister confessed that she is relieved that I've looked healthy throughout my treatment. She was afraid that I’d become one of those skinny cancer people, and to be honest, so was I.

The first time we sat in the waiting room awaiting my first IV, there was a woman sitting across from us who weighed less than 100 pounds. Her oxygen tank was on wheels, and she had a friend to help her pull it along. Her gold rimmed glasses slipped down her nose, and it took all her energy to slowly push them back up. At that time, we looked around the room, scared and confused, and wondered who I was going to become.

My biggest fear was that I’d be frail. Other fears, in no particular order, were weakness, nausea, mouth sores, brain fog, leg pain, and loss of nails. Baldness was down at the bottom of the list. With one round of drugs coursing through my veins, I don’t want to take anything for granted, but so far, it’s all been manageable and there’ve been no horrible surprises. Except this. I’m getting pudgy.

At first it was just the pie face, which I chalked up to those nasty steroids. That I could deal with, even though I didn’t look pleasing in the Christmas photos. I told nurse Marion that I was feeling chunky, and she cheerfully told me that one of her chemo patients had gained 25lbs!

Smugly, I considered myself exempt, since having cut out wine, I’d shaved off a substantial portion of my diet. However there has been a great deal of baking kicking around this Christmas, and I haven’t been shy of partaking. I’m eating everything, and between meals, I’ve had an insatiable appetite for cake. I don’t need it to be fancy either. Any old stale pound cake will do, including the ones from Loblaws, that are old, and celebrating someone else’s birthday.

The jeans, that hung off me in the summer, are now completely full. And then I remember that I haven’t done Pilates in four months, and the dog walking, which keeps me outdoors for three hours a day, doesn’t take me very far. Jed’s legs are only six inches long, and he spends a lot of time standing still.

Dieting really isn’t a consideration. (The most I will do is think twice about eating the icing). Somewhere over the last four months I’ve started thinking of my body as a vessel that has to be pumped with fuel, so I give it what it demands.  Often it requires orange juice and kale, but since it sometimes demands cake,  I give it that as well.

I do not want to gain 25 pounds. But nor can I hold tightly to the notion of my ideal body at this point in time. Luckily Jim doesn’t mind bald, and is oblivious to my expanding tummy. He's just happy for the days I'm feeling healthy and often volunteers to run (drive) out for treats.  So far I've yet to send him to the 'day old' section at the supermarket for an unclaimed birthday cake, but I feel that day is coming. 

So as far as ‘What I was going to become’,  I think I have my answer. Bald, still, and a little bit fatter, with no obvious sign of cheekbones. But I'm grateful I can breath my own oxygen, and I'm glad there's more of me, rather than less.

Eventually I'd like to be comfortable in my favorite jeans, or at least, my second favorite. And there are  longer walks in the future, and hopefully hiking. Eventually I intend to get back to Pilates. One day I'll do it without a wig. And then I have to think about going back to work. And giving up daytime TV. And being more productive. And making the most out of my life. But all that is all very ambitious.

So for now, there's cake.