Too Busy to Call

‘I’ve been meaning to call you,’ said an acquaintance, by way of greeting, when I ran into her on the street. ‘I’ve heard about what’s going on, and I meant to call.’ My brain, temporarily paralyzed, couldn’t come up with any big words. So I said, ‘Oh.’ But she wasn’t finished yet, ‘Yeah, I’m so sorry, but I’ve been really busy.’ And then, like a bad velvet painting, she opened her eyes, cocked her head to one said, and said, ‘How ARE you?’

Now this is a woman I quite like, and have socialized with on many occasions. We’re not besties or anything, but we’ve acknowledged each other’s birthdays, and shared several bottles of red wine.  Frankly, I was a little surprised that I never heard from her. Canceriitis is a big deal, and even people who I don’t like (and may not like me) have come out of the woodwork to offer their support. Nevertheless, I would never hold this against her. Nobody is obligated to call. The support I’ve received was more touching and incredible than I could ever have imagined, and everyone has their reasons for how they choose to connect.

So the fact that she didn’t call doesn’t bother me - I just thought her excuse was bullsh*t. If she truly wanted to call, she could probably have found one minute somewhere in the 365 days since I received my diagnosis. Had she said she’d been ‘meaning to climb Kilimanjaro’ but was ‘too busy’ I would be more understanding. I would sympathize with the intense physical training, the necessity of tracking down a reliable sherpa, and the search for some really cool snow pants. But a phone call only takes a minute, and assuming that she sleeps eight hours a night, she’s had a total of 350,400 minutes since my diagnosis to dial my number.

So the fact is, she probably didn’t want to call. And if that’s the case, it’s better not to say anything at all because a bad excuse is really insulting. She may have had an ultra busy year, but I know for a fact that she found time to watch Dancing with the Stars, and that means that in terms of importance, Chaz Bono rates higher than me.

So ‘too busy to call’ didn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy. It didn’t make me feel anything but insulted. 'Nice to see you!’ would have been a far superior greeting, and hopefully it would have been true. I also would also have been happy with, ‘How are you?’ or the more preferable, ‘You have hair!’

Eventually my acquaintance and I started a conversation, and she was starting to fill me in on all the details of her fabulous life when she was distracted by a jingling in her purse. ‘Shit,’ she said digging around in her gigantic handbag, ‘That’s me.’ Finding her phone, she checked the incoming number and said, ‘I’m so sorry, I have to take this, but I’ll just be a second. Please, don’t go away.’

Seriously?!  I was supposed to stand there while she displayed how easy it was to press the buttons on the phone? No can do, sister. Gotta go. I’m too busy to wait.

Ostrich Hair

When I was a baby my hair stood straight up on end. My mother enjoys this story, and lovingly tells about using Bryll Cream in an effort to tame my whispy locks.  It didn’t work though, because my hair refused to lie down. I’ve seen the pictures, and I was adorable!

Eventually my hair thickened into a rich, thick, glossy brown mane and, and became (next to my excellent ankles), one of my best features.  Then of course, I shaved it off, became a baldy, and spent the winter with stubbles and a wig. Now, I’m happy to report that I have full coverage. It came in quite gray, but is now a rich (bottle) not-so-natural chestnut.

It is however, quite whispy. After all, it is baby hair. And like the baby hair of my youth, it stands straight up on my head. No matter what I do, and no matter how hard I try, my hairs have no interest in reclining. They stand up straight up as though they’d been yelled at, and I look like Don King, or perhaps a baby ostrich.

‘Hey Alfalfa.’ said Jim, as he walked by me over the weekend.  I nodded glumly, and sat patiently as he patted down my hair, then watched it jump back to attention. He did it a couple of times, then wandered away whistling merrily, buoyed by all the fun he’d just had.

On Saturday night we went to a party and I knew I couldn’t go out wearing my hat. Firstly it’s filthy, and secondly it’s too tight. I think my head is getting fat, and I’m tired of having hat marks on my forehead at the end of the day. So I took great pains with my hair. I got the blow dryer out of hibernation and fired it up. Because my hair is so fine, it was dry in less then 4 seconds, and ready to party. It tried patting it dry – but to no avail. So I drove to the drugstore, loaded up on few styling gel, and poured it on my hairs.

With half a pound of gel, it did indeed stay down, but I looked like a 60’s mobster. Jim suggested it would be more stylish if I brushed my bangs down in front, rather than try to hide them. I had to break it to him that I  I don’t actually have any bangs, as the hair directly above my forehead is still on vacation.

Later that night I was sitting on my bar stool with a tumbler of wine while an acquaintance stared at my head. I have a pretty good-sized cranium, and without much hair, I feel like a giant light bulb ‘Your hair is short,’ she said. There was a small silence while I sipped my drink and she continued the examination, searching for the positive. Finally she brightened, ‘Hey, you have a dimple!’

I took out my old baby picture, and sure enough, there it was. God, I was adorable. And with my middle-aged eyesight, the baby in the picture didn’t look much different than the lady in the mirror. Giant head, horizontal hair, chubby arms, and the dimple. However the baby in the mirror didn’t look so self-conscious. And why should she? She was oblivious to hats and blow-dryers, and had yet to be slathered with Bryll Cream. Baby Janet didn't think about the way she looked at all, and cared about what was in front of her, rather than ostrich hairs on top.

So I’m trying to take a page from my own book and enjoy what’s ahead - without waiting for my feathers.

A Shrink in Shiny Shoes

The first thing I noticed about the new lady psychiatrist was that we were wearing the same sandals. I took this as a good sign and said cheerily, ‘We’re wearing the same shoes!’ She glanced briefly at my feet and said sternly, ‘Similar. Not the same.’ 

Tomato

As I don’t not like do be corrected so early on in the conversation, I took this as a bad sign. True, her shoes were Birkenstocks and mine are Mephisto’s but really…tomato, to-matto. My old shrink, with her homely black ankle socks would probably would have acknowledged the similarities. But unfortunately she’s not around anymore because I fired her.

There was nothing really wrong with my old shrink, apart from her socks, but I didn’t feel like we had a connection. And, she said a few things that I thought were more hurtful than helpful and I stopped enjoying her company. I wish I could say that I stood up and screamed ‘You’re Fired!’ but I politely called her secretary and hesitantly told her that we weren’t a good fit.

To-matto

But I was game to try someone else. Those who I trust say that the year following canceritis treatment is often more difficult than the treatment itself, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have some back up. And to be perfectly honest, I sort of enjoy talking about myself for fifty minutes. It’s like dredging a lake – if you do it long enough, something is going to come up.

But I couldn’t get past the shoes. Take any two women, anywhere in the world who have matching footwear and they are going to have a bond. (Even my radiation technologist wanted to talk about shoes. She almost peed herself when I showed up in a pair of Geox sport shoes).  But this gal was going to make it very clear that this was not an even playing field.  It was sort of like trying to break ground with the cool kids from high school. Wasn’t going to happen. She just sat in her chair cross-legged, notepad in her lap, one silver foot on the ground, and one silver foot swaying gently in the air.

The rest of the hour didn’t get much better.  I felt too uncomfortable to get to the nitty-gritty stuff, so she might have been a bored.  However I did tell her that I was having difficulty settling back into my real life, and I wasn’t feeling very joyful. At this she perked up, and asked if I ever had suicidal thought. I assured her that I didn’t, and she seemed somewhat disappointed.

No matter how hard I tried (not very) I couldn’t get to the heart of the matter. How can I explain what it’s like to be in my shoes, when she won’t really acknowledge my shoes at all. 

Tamoxi-fun

Well this is fun! I have to take 1,825 pills. Not all at one time of course - they’re taken over a period of five years.  After all the treamtent us cancerisits patients have been through - chemo, radiation, surgery, you’d think that a pill a day would be a cakewalk. But it’s not. Taking a pill a day is actually something that is quite difficult for me.

The act of taking the pill isn’t a big deal; it’s remembering to take it that’s hard. Halfway through yoga class, mid-downward dog, I’ll start wondering if I’ve taken my daily pill. Or yesterday’s daily pill for that matter.  Often I haven’t. Perhaps it’s because I don’t enjoy this little pill that has thrust me into menopause with hot flashes so severe that it feels like my insides are melting. But take it I must, as it interferes with the activity of the estrogen that canceritis cells need to grow.

In an effort to be more efficient I put the pill bottle in my underwear drawer thinking my daily pill could be paired with my daily undies. But I still forgot. So I went to the drugstore to if I could find a solution. I wandered over to the ‘accessories’ aisle and come across a revolving display stand that was garnering a bit of attention. A couple of whispy haired senior gals were spinning the stand slowly, plucking off packages and bringing them up close to their little faces to read the fine print. I realized that the thing in their wrinkly hands was the thing that I needed – a pill organizer.

Instead of making me happy, it made me really depressed. Did I really need a cheap plastic container with the days of the week on it to organize me medication? Sigh. Yes, I did. The seniors were fumbling around with the various models, tasting the lids for maneuverability, and testing how well it slipped into a handbag. Some containers were small, but others were as big as a paint set, with little compartments for morning, noon, and night. 

I reached over the little people’s heads and grabbed one, which was the size of a ‘Crunchie’ bar. It had seven compartments, one for each day of the week. The seniors looked at the case in my hand, then up at my face. ‘That one doesn’t close so good,’ said one of them. I tested it, and it seemed fine. With her eyes she motioned to one up higher. ‘You’ll be wanting that one.’  So I reached up and grabbed it, and it was pink! And, at half the size of a Crunchie bar it fits discreetly in my drawer, where it is surrounded by my panties (which do not have the days of the week).

I wondered if the seniors were curious about why someone so young and lovely as myself needed to take a pill every day. But they didn’t care. I was part of their club now, and didn’t have time to give it any more thought because there in the chilly air-conditioned store,  I was starting to sweat.

Tomoxafen. 30 Down. 1,795 to go. 

Cancer Hasn't Made Me Nice

There is a rumour swirling around that dealing with cancer makes one nicer. Because we’re confronted with life and death situations (mostly life) and an astounding array of possibilities, we are somewhat humbled by the power of life. The result of that I guess, is heightened consideration and a great depth of feeling.

‘There but the grace of God go I’ passes through my head when I see the homeless man sitting outside the hospital. The small things in life are so important, and it is no sacrifice for me to give him enough money to buy a large cup of coffee (but not quite a frappucino). Misfortune, at one time, was someone else’s problem, but now it has involved me. We are a big club, no matter how we’re dressed, and I feel more inclusive to those whose luck isn’t guaranteed.

So it would be nice to think that canceritis had changed me, and that it’s silver lining would be compassion and understanding. And I thought that was the case, until last Friday when I walked into a furniture store and was greeted by a man in a neck brace.In theory, there’s nothing funny about a neck brace. Some poor soul had obviously been through trauma and was in a lot of pain. But in reality, neck braces crack me up. So when them man came over and asked how I was doing, it was all I could not to giggle.

'Can I interest you in a loveseat?'

The brace covered his whole neck with elevated areas around his jaw. And because it was made of hard plastic, the man’s jowls were pushed in which accentuated his lips, making him look like a blow fish. To make things even better, his eyes bulged a bit, as they had to compensate for his inability to turn his neck.

Of course I thought of the Brady Bunch episode where the family’s car was in a collision. The other driver claimed whiplash. However, he was discredited when Mike (the architect) deliberately drops his briefcase on the floor and he turns to see it. So I had the urge to throw my car keys across the store. Not to see if this guy would turn is head, because his injury was legit, but to watch him turn 180 degrees all in one piece.

But he was very nice. I was interested in a bookcase that was at he back of the store, and I described it to him. ‘I know the one,’ he said, and started to pivot slowly like a plastic doll (circa 1960) with no moveable parts.  ‘Ah there it is,’ he said, his eyes doing all the work, ‘Let’s go an look at it.' So he walked slowly and purposefully across the store, occasionally bumping into low-lying furniture. And I followed behind, chuckling softly, and wondering what would happened if I tickled him.

I never asked him about his neck. That in itself doesn’t make me unkind. I just truly didn’t care about the events leading up to his present condition. I was more concerned with ‘living in the moment’ and enjoying the spectacle of his little blowfish mouth telling me about adjustable shelving.

Maybe that part doesn’t make me so nice. But when I’m back at the hospital on Wednesday, Homeless Guy gets a latte.

Faking It

The thing about going back to work, after spending eight months in Cancerland, is that you  don’t really give a sh*t. My job is not rocket science. I’m not saving lives. So it hardly matters to me if a set of curtains is ten inches too short.

These day, a big part of my job is faking concern. In the morning we go over all the stuff we need to find in order to make things look turn-of-the-century. At meetings I  nod and make all the proper gurgling noises that make it sound like I’m in agreement.  But I’m not really listening.  I don’t care about decorating a TV show. Instead, I’m thinking about the nutritional value of fiddleheads (excellent!) and if I’ve remembered to take my Tamoxafin (oops).

But last week I made my list of things to do and head out into the world. First stop was a shop that specializes in salvaged architectural items. I walk in the store and because my brain is so mushy, check my list to remember why I’m there.  Wall sconces! Yes! So I corral the owner and we head down to the basement.

The owner, Roy, is busily chatting sbout carriage lights, copper lining, and blabbity blah, blah blah blah. While I tune him out, I tune in to two little food bowls in the corner, as well as a small blanket. Roy’s now holding up a wrought iron lantern but I’ve stopped paying attention. ‘Hey Roy, what’s with the bowls?’

He explains to me that he took in a stray cat. The cat, which is apparently scared and scraggly, stays hidden in the dark basement.  Knowing that there is a frightened creature nearby, I try to send out some positive nurturing energy. The fact that I’m not really a cat person isn’t important. I just found a little breathing creature infinitely more interest that a pair of sconces. Especially since Roy's  lights were overpriced, not of the right time period, and need to be rewired.

Unable to make a decision, I leave the shop and go back to the office to discuss the set. ‘Are these lights the best options?’ asks the designer. Hardly. They’re totally cheesey, oversized, and my even be made of plastic (circa 1972). But I hear myself saying that, ‘Absolutely the best option in the entire city We must have them!’

The next day I got to pick up the lights. With a million things on my list, I should be rushing, but I head down to the basement and spend a little time walking around seeing if I can find mangey cat. Because I’m on my own I chat with the cat, and tell him that everything is going to be okay. On behalf of Belleruth, I try to summon up a few magical friends and secret protectors to send his way.  Roy comes downstairs and I ask him is he’s going to keep the cat forever. Roy nods solemnly, ‘Yeah. He’s my cat now. I’ll take care of him’.

I am glad there are people like Roy, and feeling like that my task is complete, I leave the store. Of course my task wasn't complete. There was no note saying, ‘Check on cat’. My note said ‘pick up the sconces’. Which I didn’t, because I forgot. 

So this morning I went back and picked up the sconces. I went to the cash on the main level where the scones were boxed, and waiting.  Roy was writing up the invoice when I hear a little mew. I looked around but saw nothing.  Then I heard it again. I turned around and under a roll top desk (circa 1911) was a scrawny black and white cat. He was hunched down on all fours and was staring at me. I felt a ball in my chest that in any other environment could have been a sob. ‘He came upstairs!’ I said to Roy, trying not to cry. Roy smiled, and said ‘Yeah, and he almost let me pet him.’

Back in my car, I looked down at my ‘to do list’ and there wasn’t a check mark in sight. I pondered quitting. Professionally, I'm probably in the wrong place. But at least a little cat was in the right one.

Meow.

An Alien in the Office

‘You’re glowing’, said the receptionist at work. I cringed. It’s not the first time that someone has said this to me. Even though I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my life, my skin is robust and glistening. Of course this isn’t remotely natural. The radiation is still working its way through my body and is turning me into a microwave oven. I am emitting something that has nothing to do with my DNA, and it has turned me into an alien.

Get Me Outa Here!

Of course, that’s exactly how I feel. Someone who has landed on earth but is not quite wired like the rest of them.  I’ve been plucked up from normalcy,  rebuilt (mentally and physically), and then put back down into my life.  Sort of like the Bionic Woman, but without the supersonic hearing and extra strong right arm. Rather than Lindsay Wagner in her high waisted jeans, I’m a little lost space person from a foreign land, wearing Janet's clothes,  and hiding under a smart little hat.

Only one man at work knows my true identity, and I only told him out of necessity. I couldn’t think of any other way to explain why I was going to be doing the least amount of work possible. He’s my direct boss, and I barely know him, but figured he had to know.  Anyway, he’s been very nice about things and incredibly un-demanding.  We’ve haven't chatted much, but I’ve already learned that he’s adopted. A detailed he volunteered, I think, because he thinks he thought he owed me something. It’s funny when you tell someone about your inner alien, they want to show you their inner alien too.

Most of my other colleagues just want to comment on my hair. Even though I always wear a hat, the drastic change is obvious. Everybody has an opinion, and like a good alien, I stand politely while people decide whether or not my hairdo meets their approval (reviews are mixed).

This is a far cry from my life at non-work, where everybody knows all about me. My friends, my family, my nurses, all take everything in stride. Nobody questions why I wear the same clothes everyday or go to bed at 9. Also, amongst my people my hair is never a big deal, and every itsy-bitsyy baby step is met with applause and approval. This is my planet; the cozy environment that is my home, and the loved ones that support me. But for now I am back at work. And everyone is friendly and seemingly happy to see me. But just as I feel like I might start to feel like I almost fit in, someone has something to say.

‘You look radiated!,’ was the last comment of the day from our accountant.  I stopped for a minute. Of course, what she was saying was ‘radiant.’ And I of course what she meant was that I am the medium for a bunch of energized particles. But I didn’t correct her.  Outside I may be glowing, but inside I just want to go home.

Sucky Baby

When I was six, my parents announced that my sister and I were going to spend a week at overnight camp. I was horrified. ‘Why?!?!’ I cried. ‘Why are you making me go?’

‘Because it’s fun’, they said. But I couldn’t imagine anything fun about sleeping in a bed that wasn’t mine, having ‘friends’ that were not mine, or having to eat a hotdog that wasn’t made in my kitchen.

But the decision had been made, and I found myself being driven up to a campground hours from home. Of course I cried all the way there. My parents, who were chatting happily under a cloud of cigarette smoke, said ‘You’ll love it!’  My sister Sue, who was thrilled to be busting out of the house, had her head out the window and was singing her heart out. She’d only pull her head in long enough to smooth her hair, look at me scornfully, and call me a ‘sucky baby.’

Hell

Once we arrived, my parents had to pry me out of my seat.  I begged to go home with them in their smokey car, but after seeing that there was another adult to take the reigns, they couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I watched them as they drove off, my mothers arm sticking out the window, a cigarette resting lightly in her fingers.

That first night we sat by the fire. Sue was having the time of her life. Leading a sing-song, clapping her hands, and pretending that she didn’t know me. Meanwhile, I was huddled under a blanket, silently trying to digest a burnt wiener. I caught my sisters’ eye for a split second, just long enough for her to mouth the words ‘sucky baby’.  I prayed that someone would come and get me. Which they did, the very next day.

As I was getting ready for work last night, I had the same feeling I did as when I was being sent off to camp.  Having been close to home for the last eight months, the thought of going back to work with a crowd of people I hadn’t seen in a while was not the least bit fun. I couldn’t imagine walking into the office with my inch of hair, my hat, my lopsided boobs, and eight months worth of emotions. Not my old self at all. And, I’d have to eat a sandwich that wasn’t made in my own kitchen.

But I did what I could to get ready. Gave myself a pedicure. Did four loads of laundry. Cried. Then my sister Sue called to ask how I was doing, and I cried some more. She asked what I was so worried about and I said that I don’t feel safe at work -  I only felt safe at home. There was a short pause.‘But honey,’ she said, ‘You were never safe at home this year. You had terrible things going on in your head.’

And she was right. If you don’t feel safe in your head it doesn’t matter where you are. So I got up the next morning an listened to my old friend Belleruth and her Guided Meditation. Together we conjured up some magical friends and special protectors to help me through my day.

And so I drove myself to work. Instead of my family by my side I had my magical buddies and some well loved ancestors who were ‘nodding their approval’. And instead of a cloud of smoke I had my soft air pillow full of love, which is much less ridiculous than it sound, and healthier than cigarettes.

And I got to the office, and pryed myself out of the car.

Under my Hat

‘You cut your hair off,’ my neighbour announced to me this morning. I was standing on the sidewalk, watching Jed pee, and he was on his way to the streetcar.

‘Yes I did,’ I said. As usual, I was wearing my hat to cover my very short hairdo. I’ve been wigless for about a month, and fully expect people to be curious when they see me again for the fist time.  I don’t enjoy these moments, and I brace myself for these the times when I run into someone who’s curiosity get the better of them. I actually like this guy, but he was a perfect specimen of the nosey acquaintance. He stopped in his tracks and stared. ‘Take your hat off.’ I said no. He persisted, ‘Come on. Take your hat off. I want to see your hair.’ I told him that I didn’t want to show him. ‘Come on!’ he laughed.

I had two thoughts. Firstly, I thought – how very f*cking rude. Secondly I thought that he would never be satisfied until I show him, and since I see him most days in the park, he wasn't going away. And I also know the routine.  After the big reveal, the nosey acquaintance take a second to digest the hair, and then coughs up a fake compliment. So even though I don’t like exposing myself, revealing seemed to be the path of least resistance.

So I took off my hat. And his eyes roamed around my scalp, and he waited a second too long and told me it was cute. I put my hat back on, and watched Jed roll around the sidewalk. My neighbour smiled, wished me a good day, and headed down the street. I hated moments like this. What I can never figure out is if I have a thin skin, or if people are just stupid.  And I think it’s probably a bit of both.

My neighbour was about three houses away when he called my name and said something I didn’t understand. It sounded like ‘ Janet. Same game in’.

‘What?!’ I yelled impatiently.

‘Gamine! Your hair! C’est trés gamine!’

Hmph. Well that was better, if only a little. I'm a sucker for anything French.  But still,  I kept my chapeau on for the rest of the day. 

A Silky Masterpiece, in 34C

‘If you’re going to do a good job, you need the right tools'

This was something I learned back in junior high when I, for some reason, found myself in a woodshop class. Since then, this sentiment has been reiterated by all those I love and trust. My father, Julia Childs, Mike Holmes, and the Make-Up ladies heading the workshop at Mount Sinai Hotel and Spa. Good tools, they all said, can turn something average into a masterpiece.

The project I’m currently working on is my body, especially my breasts. For the last eight months, everything has revolved around them. They’ve been squished, prodded,  and investigated by legions of experts and state-of-the-art machinery. Currently they’re red and rashy, and one of them is lopsided. My quest is to keep them healthy, and my job is to make them look good. Since they need a little help from the outside world, my tool of choice is the perfect bra, and my experts are the ladies at Sophia’s.

Mecca

 Sophia’s is a lingerie store in Greektown. I’d walked by it a million times before I ever went in and discovered that it catered to every occasion, from slut-wear to post-mastectomy. This is the second time I’d been there so they had already created a file. My previous purchases were two lovely underwire works-of-art with just the right about of support and a pleasing touch of lace. Unfortunately I can’t wear them anymore, cus underwire is a no-no.

Lookin' Good Ladies!

Sophia was sitting in the corner, quietly reading a book. Her associate came to greet me and asked what I wanted. I told her that I was tender and lopsided, and gave her the reason. She glanced over at Sophia, had a brief discussion, then ran around the store returning with twelve options in her hand. I told her that I didn’t want anything that resembled a bandage. She put down four bras. ‘And it’s got to be pretty,’ I said. Sophia mumbled something and the salesgirl put down all but two bras, which she handed to me.

I headed to the change room to try on my new tools. There was a soft knock on the door and it was Sophia, gently asking if she could take a look. Opening the door two inches, I told her I was embarrassed about my chest-al area and would prefer privacy. Undeterred, she swatted her hand in the air in a way only a European Mistress-of-Her-Empire can get away with; a universal signal to cut through all the bulls*it. ‘I’ve seen everything,’ she told me.

So I let her in and she spun me around gently. She murmured,nodded, adjusted the straps, and repositioned some flesh. The bra felt pretty good, and I was ready to make a purchase but Sophia cocked her head, and murmured, ‘No’.

Then she was off, reappearing moments later with a single bra in her hand. In stillness she watched as I put it on. It had soft straps, a front closure, cotton inset, and a delicate trim of slutty lace.

It was the perfect tool, and fit like soft glove. Another job well done. In fact, thanks to a wise Greek woman – a masterpiece.

Lighten up, Ken.

Today I dyed my hair.

As I drove to my salon this morning, I second-guessed my decision to go back to my preferred non-natural colour. It would have been brave, and kind of classy, to embrace my real hair. Some of my friends have resolved to grow out their roots, and I admire their commitment to authenticity. I could have followed their lead, and now that I’d ditched the wig, used this as an opportunity to forego the expensive salons and allow gray into my life. A fresh start, with the real me.

But the real me is quite shallow. And the real me doesn’t want to look like an extra from Cocoon, which is why the real me hides under hats. The real me wants brown hair! But - the real me also wants to avoid toxins, so I looked around until I found a stylist who uses the ‘greenest’ products; those that don’t burn your scalp and make your eyes water. (Her products come from Europe, where unlike Canada, they have banned certain chemicals found in colours, bleaches and tints).

Me

 But one of the challenges of a new stylist is they have to figure out how well your hair will ‘take’ to the color. Miranda, my new ‘green’ gal, slapped on a bunch of dye and wrapped my head in clear plastic for twenty minutes. I was concerned that my 4-month-old hair would resist the dye, but I needn’t have worried, as it absorbed every iota of the colour. In fact it was freakishly dark. After it was rinsed, and sculpted, I looked like a Ken Doll.

It struck me as rather unfair that my hair has been such an issue. First I looked like grandpa, and then I looked I had my hair painted on by one of the talented artists at the Mattel corporation in 1958.  My new stylist smiled down at me reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘It will lighten up’.

I think she was talking about my hair, but it’s possible she may have been talking about life.  So in the spirit of lightening & brightening, and with nothing on my head but a pair of sunglasses, the new real me into my Big Jim Sports Camper, and sped away.

Greta Garb Uh-Oh

I look like a movie star.

Me Greta

This is not glamorous. Due to the need to cover up my skin, I look like an old reclusive movie legend who is trying to disguise her looks from the public. The look I am rocking is that of Greta Garbo,  long after she had lost her sense of style and became a fashion disaster.

On my second last day of radiation, my technician told me that I had to keep my neck and chest away from the sun. Forever. She said that super strong suntan lotion would be helpful, but what I should really wear is a scarf.

And the hat…well, I still have lesbian hair. And as I’ve said many a time, I love lesbians, but I'm not crazy about the manly hair. And even though my cap has a visor to keep out the sun, I still wear giant round sunglasses, cus my friend Rosalie told me that I looked cool.

This look has been great in the spring, but now that it’s summer I look a like a mummy. And this weekend I intend to sit on a dock with some of my favorite friends and drink beer from Mexico.

And I'm pretty sure there's a hat for that.

To Burn, or not to Burn

I’m quite careful about what I put on my face. I don’t use a lot of stuff – but the stuff that I do use is good quality. My two can’t-live-without staples are Dove soap and Burts Bees lip gloss.  Dove was my grandma’s soap, and she had beautiful skin. Burts Bees is sold at the health food store, so I’m assuming that it’s not going to kill me.

Paraben Bad!

My third favorite thing is Keihls Marvelous Mineral Mascara. I like anything Keihls, and this is hypoallergenic, fragrance free and paraben free. Parabens, for those who don’t know, are a chemical widely found in cosmetics, that are also found in breast cancer tumours. Parabens have also displayed the ability to slightly mimic estrogen. Although the dosage found in tumours is very very low,  parabens have now become quite controversial and I prefer to avoid them.

But avoiding them may be more difficult than you’d think, as they are found in lipstick, suntan lotion, moisturizers and toothpaste. Although they are listed among the ingredients, the font size is so teensy tiny that it would require Steve Austin’s bionic eye to decipher the letters.

So, yesterday I was doing a little shopping at the excellent drug store at Mt Sinai Hotel and Spa. Specifically, I was looking for a non-toxic eye make-up remover that I could carry in my bag. I asked the young clerk if she had such a product. ‘Yes,’ she chirped, ‘Would you like the non-stinging kind?’

Really?! Did I hear correctly? I stared at her in disbelief. I couldn’t even believe that this was a real question, and I wondered how many people said, ‘No thanks, give me the kind that burns my eyes’.  So I just looked at her until I finally said, ‘Shouldn’t non-stinging be the standard?’ She laughed cheerfully, ‘I dunno!’

Olive good.

Sadly ‘I dunno’ seems to be the standard for what we put on our face. Most people – like me – are often more concerned with how yummy a product feels rather than what is actually is. So the result is, our teenage sun tanning years were spent under layers of dangerous chemicals and animal fat  (except for my delicious sister Sue who only uses olive oil and lemon for anything skin related, which are the same ingredients she uses for roast chicken).

My mother Violet, who also takes a healthful approach to cosmetics sent me a link to an excellent website which I’m posting here. Because the US government are allowed to use almost any chemical they wish, and  because they don’t review the safety of a product before it is sold, this website fills in where they negligently left off. 

On a lighter note – it’s fun, easy (and safe) to use.

http://www.ewg.org/skindeep/

Dressed for Success

Today I stole my hospital gown.

Radiation, anyone?

Every day when I go in to be sizzled, the nurse hands me a clean gown to wear for my treatment.  All the gowns are one-size-fits-all, so the armholes are often bigger than my head. And they’re not belted, so that mean crossing your arms to maintain a sense of modesty. 

Unfortunately, Princess Margaret First Class Lounge has no lockers in which to leave our clothes, so they must be bundled and carried into the treatment room. As this leaves no arms left to secure my gown, the whole thing is rather sloppy.

But today I was handed a gown with a pleasing blue and white stripe. I put it on, and it wasn’t made for giants. To my delight, it wrapped snugly around my waist and tied securely in place. Normally the gowns look like giant blue potato sacks with a little gray head poking out, but not today.  I looked in the puny changing room mirror and saw that the V-neck that was quite sophisticated.  Flattering, even. In fact, it is the Diane Von Furstenberg of hospital gowns.

With this garment – which accentuated my waist – my arms were free to hold my clothes over my arm, rather than clutching them tightly to my chest. I felt more secure, more controlled, and definitely more chic.

And as every fashionable French girl knows, it’s better to have one fabulous dress than a dozen mediocre ones. So I popped it in my bag and plan to wear it for the rest of my treatments. I may have man-hair, and droopy eyelids, but that’s no excuse to dress like a potato.

A girl must keep her looks up, and a good wrap dress is always in style.

Jet Lag is for Kids

Jesus I’m tired. Tired of being zapped every day, tired of wearing ugly bras, and tired of explaining my man-hair. But mostly I’m just tired of being tired. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a full tank of gas.

To the outside world I appear absolutely fine. My hair is making a slow lesbian-ish return. My eyelashes thankfully, reappeared overnight, and my eyebrows are exactly where they are supposed to be. Physically there is nothing I cannot do, as long as I have a lot of naps and am in bed by nine.

But I can’t complain. Everyday at the Princess Margaret First Class lounge I see many people who are in worse shape than me. Besides the tired looking baldies, there are also people with walkers or wheelchairs who are having a really bad time. And yet, they still manage to put on lipstick and a flashy scarf, and smile at the nurses even though it probably takes all the energy that they do not have.

In fact, there is a surprising lack of complaining in the various waiting rooms along University Ave. Nobody really wants to talk about canceritis anymore, so the conversations often turn to the weather, or Dancing with the Stars. Everyone is so used to running on empty that there’s no point in bringing it up. Treatment is boring, and people’s brains are reaching hopefully to brighter areas.

But in the outside world, people love to complain.  Granted, it’s often legitimate (getting run over by a car on the way to the dentist for an impacted molar) and sometimes it’s silly (pimple). And occasionally it’s just a cry for attention.

Last night I dragged myself to yoga, and lay down on my mat. A few people quietly lay down around me, mostly regulars. Then, as usual, one woman came in at the very last minute, head to toe in Lulu Lemon everything. ‘I’m SO tired,’ she said to the teacher as she entered the room. ‘I can barely keep my eyes open,’ she continued in a loud whisper as she sat down on a mat beside me. Most of the small class was ignoring her, but she was having none of that. ‘I am SO jet lagged’, she said, ‘I just got back from Italy and it was SUCH a long flight.'

Jet lag?! Jet lag is child’s play compared to radiation, and you don’t get to sit in a piazza at the end of the day. Just to prove her point, she yawned.  I yawned back, lifted my legs above my head and examined my feet. My toenails, temporary victims of chemo, were very unattractive, and two of them are covered with Band-Aids. ‘My skin is so dry,’ said the tired lady, to anyone who would listen. Even though I was almost too tired to move, I really didn’t want to hear anything else she had to say. There was one open spot at the back of the class, so I pulled up my mat, and moved.

Relieved, I lay down in my new spot and started my new meditation. ‘Om, om, fuck off. Om’

French Lessons

Creating the impression of coasting through life, especially in the face of adversity, can take a lot of effort. I find that the best way to get through the rough times is to fake it. And by faking it, I mean Pretending To Be French.

Firstly there is the walk. Purposeful, confident, erect. On my many treks to the hospital, I move as though I’m heading briskly down the Champs Elysée rather than down University Ave.

Heading down University Ave

Then there’s the style. No matter how low I’m feeling, I steadfastly refuse to cave in two things. Running shoes, and baseball caps. Athletic shoes are fine for athletics, but they’re too bulbous for downtown France and do nothing to enhance the saucy lines of my swingy summer trench coat. Baseball caps are equally unattractive and don’t belong on woman in any continent, period. (Except for Tiger Woods ex-wife Elin who manages to look quite tragic and lovely in a semi-sporty kind of way ).


My current go-to item is the summer scarf. Apparently sun and radiation don’t mix, as my doctor told me not to expose my chest and neck. So I’ve turned to scarves. Not only are they functional to protect me from harmful solar rays, but also they look so very French. In her book ‘French Woman for all seasons’, Mireille Guiliano says that scarves are the perfect accessory. She explains, for us Anglais, the secrets of creating an identity with scarves. A classic kerchief tie or daring scarf jacket for spring. A belt scarf for summer, and a necklace scarf or shoulder wrap for the fall. 

I will blindly do everything that Marielle says. Who would doubt a woman who says that, in winter, a slice of lemon or grapefruit clarifies the face. Or encourages us to eat real butter, not some low-cal chemical substitute. Or that, 'Gluttony is a desperate attempt to satisfy our head, not our stomach.'  In fact, who would dispute any of the advice written by a woman who was the spokesperson for Champagne Veuve Clicquot. After hearing what she'd have to say, you'd be a fool not to wear a 'belt scarf' in the summer. 


So, even though I can barely drag myself to Princess Margaret first class lounge every morning, I still put on lipstick and  ‘tie my scarf with flair’. And I still walk there with purpose, then purposefully home for a glass of champagne.

Hound with a Hairdo

My wig doesn’t get out much these days. And when it does, it’s often removed once I get indoors whether it’s my home, or someone else’s. As it lays there neglected, I ask those near and dear to me if they’d like to try it on for my amusement. I offered it to my nephew, and he shook his head with a hint of not-so-well-disguised disgust. Jim declined wearing a brown bob, as did my sister Sue.

So yesterday I was sitting on my bed sorting laundry when Jed came sniffing into the room. I looked at my sweet dog adoringly. He’s been my best friend during the last eight months. He doesn’t care that I’m was bald, or crabby, or tired. And he never complains when I have to cut short his walks, in favour of a nap.  And he lets me curl up in his bed, when I’m really really tired.

He came over for a little pat, and then got busy digging his snout into a pile of laundry. Buried in the pile was my $1600 wig. I don’t know how it got there, but it doesn’t surprise me much, since I’ve become quite careless. Jed pushed the wig around with his nose. 

He’s the first person being who has expressed any interest in my fake hair for a long time.  So taking advantage of his generous nature, and for my own amusement, I asked Jed if he’d like to wear my wig. And because he is by best friend,  he said yes.

Iron Poor Blood

When I was very little, my sister Sue and I used to play a really fun game, called ‘Iron Poor Blood’.

It was inspired by a commercial where a husband tried to slow dance with his wife. She wasn’t up to the challenge, and would hang like a rag doll in his arms. The reason? Iron poor blood. After taking Geritol however, she appeared with a zest for life, brand new hair-do, and some excellent dance moves.

Fun and Games

Sue and I preferred the pre-Geritol version.  Sue would usually play the husband (she was taller) and would order me to hang in her arms while she dragged me around the living room. ‘Limper!’ she’d hiss at me occasionally, ‘You have to go limper’.

On the occasion when I would be the man, she would sprawl over me, her arms draped over my sparrow-like shoulders, her head lolling to one side. I’d do my best to pull her across the floor (she was heavier) while she whispered orders at me. ‘Pretend you’re dancing’, ‘Pull me towards the window’ and ‘If you drop me I’ll punch you in the head’. It was such a good time! 


Now when I’m in the Princess Margaret lounge, waiting for my sizzling, I’m reminded of that Geritol commercial.  Most people have been at their treatment for some time, and it shows. Radiation is exhausting. Some patients sit with their head in their hand, some have their eyes closed, and much to my delight – some look like they’re gong to slide off their first class faux leather club chairs. 


There was actually one sleepy man with his legs splayed out in front of him, armpits resting on the armrests, whose arse was dangerously close to slipping off the seat.  It shouldn’t have been funny, but it was. I pictured him sliding onto the floor like a flat cartoon figure. It would have taken a large person to drag him around the dance floor. I watched him for a moment, as he wiggled slightly, jerking himself awake. One eye opened. It rolled in my direction and looked at me. I looked back and gave a small smile.

He might have misconstrued this as compassion from a fellow patient. Or a moment of understanding from a man/woman with grandpas hair.  He may have thought I was smiling at him, but I was actually smiling at the voice of my sister, saying,  ‘Limper! You’ve got to go Limper! Go limper, or I'll punch you in head!'

Vacuuming Naked

Radiation does funny things to the skin. And not ha-ha funny. It’s more like itchy, burning,  redness, rashy kind of funny.

In my quest to maintain some moisture and rebuild cells, I’ve been slathering myself liberally with aloe. Now that I’m on day ten, I have to up my game a little. Redness is creeping in, as well as some unwelcome sensitivity. My 12 yr-old Rad Tech said that aloe might actually by drying me out - so now I’m turning to Lubiderm as well.

Pre-Canceritis

My goo is apllied from my neck down to my ribcage, and order for all this stuff to be absorbed into my skin, I have to keep my top off for about 15 minutes.

So three times a day I draw the drapes (as the queen would say), get gooey, and wander around naked from the waist up. In an interesting development, the baby Rad Tech also said that I needed to moisturize my back , since the radiation also comes from underneath. So that means I can’t lie down. And I can’t really relax when I’m sitting up straight. And so I vacuum!

Post - Canceritis

Not only is it an efficient use of time, but also I really love vacuuming. The machine itself (Miele) is an excellent little friend, and I enjoy the satisfying clinking sound as the dirt from Jed’s paws gets sucked up the tube.  And while I love vacuuming, I don’t particularly like doing it without clothes, but apparently many people do.

I googled ‘Naked Vacuuming’ and up popped pages of info. People described it as ‘liberating’, ‘sexy’, & a ‘strategy for success’. The pictures were even better, including one poor fellow who ‘accidentally’ got his wiener sucked up the hose.

But, I don’t feel ‘liberated’. Instead I feel ‘self-conscious’, ‘cold’ &  'slimy’. But there are woman out there who swear by it, and they are the ones that take it all off for household chores.

Could it be that my pants are holding me back?  Are my demi-curve straight leg Levi’s coming between me and success? Maybe I should try harder. Today, when Jim’s at work and the pets are sleeping I’ll attempt to break out of my shell. Today I'll take my pants off too!

Hey Jude! Shut Up.

I don’t know why anybody bothers to get involved in a debate about whether the Stones are better than the Beatles.  Clearly the Rolling Stones are the better band. And it’s not even a close race. The Stones are a real rock n’ roll band, why the Beatles sing little ditties about wanting to hold your hand.

Don't Wanna Hold Your Hand

In fact, the Beatles are on my list of things that are annoying. Also on the list, in no particular order are CD’s that skip, waiting, radiation, medleys, and static. So I knew my day was off to a bad start when I got to the Princess Margaret Airport Lounge and discovered that my treatment room was not operating ‘On Time’. Slightly irked, I sat down in a first class chair and flipped through a cancer magazine, reading about beets and broccoli.

After 45 minutes I was called into the inner sanctum, where a youngster handed me my gown. I put it on, took off my necklace, and lay down. Oh-Oh.  Rather than the easy listening hits of yesterday came the sounds of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’, one of my least favorite songs by the Beatles. I was tempted to ask the young technicians to turn it off, but didn’t want to appear bitchy.

So I lay down with my arm over my head and closed my eyes, willing myself to relax. Not so easy to do when someone is holding a ruler to your breast, and Paul McCartney is humming from the CD player. The techies took their measurements, and fled from the room where they could be safe from radiation. With me as a captive audience, Paul started singing ‘Got to Get you into My Life’. I thought that the disc had skipped, but realized with horror, that it was the beginning of a medley.

As two thousand pounds of machinery hovered over my chest, and the green beam pierced my skin, I concentrated on staying immobile. But as the medley continued into an equally offensive song (Love Love me do) the disc did indeed started to skip. Jesus. Not only was it skipping, but also it was giving me short staccato sound bites of all the songs on the CD. 

I hated that Beatles at the moment. (except John, who is the most non-Beatle-y of the group).  I hated their stupid music and their Liverpudlian accents. This was worse than Chinese Water torture, because water doesn’t have floppy hair.  Then I heard a voice over the intercom. It was the Rad Techs, speaking from the safety of their control booth,‘ Is everything okay?’

Apparently I’d moved my head to look at the offending CD player. ‘The disc is skipping,’ I said, neglecting to comment on their shitty taste in music. ‘Oh…’ she said bewildered, as though that did not constitute an emergency. Moments later she was at my side. Dammit, if the beam had pierced my lung I had only the Beatles to blame . ‘Did I disrupt anything?’ I asked. But she said I was fine. ‘Can you please turn off the CD player?’ I asked. She did, then ran back into her booth for safety.

I relaxed somewhat, thinking that Mick would have never let me down like this.  Some bands can do no wrong.  Keef makes everything better. I know it’s only rock ‘n roll, but I like it.