Little Peas

Eighteen months ago I bought six big bags of frozen peas. They were on stand by in case I had to put them on my nails to prevent them from falling off, due to the side effects of chemotherapy.  But because the hospital provided me with ice packs, I never did have to bring my own vegetables.

So they sat in the fridge.

And tonight as I was leafing through recipes, I asked Jim if he’d prefer his smoked salmon farfalle with capers, or peas. He looked surprised. ‘We don’t have any peas,’ said he. I was even more surprised. I’d been looking at peas every day since Autumn 2011, when I went on a manic shopping spree. How could he have missed them?  They’ve been a fixture in the fridge, right alongside the ice, blueberries, and frozen shrimp. We had a friggin’ pea wall in our fridge and a bag usually fell on my toes every time I reached for the frozen vodka.

Medicine Cabinet

So  I started rooting around to see what else was hiding in the icebox. A year ago it looked like a chemo fridge, and was jammed with every manner of homemade soup, and frozen salmon fillets and loaves of banana bread. But now it was nearly back to normal.

So I grabbed a bag of peas and slammed it against the counter. I opened it and shook out a few chunks, and a few tiny green balls fell to the floor. Did they not want to be eaten?

Yum

Peas had been my backup for cancer care for so long, that they were as trustworthy and dependable as my aloe gel and my painkillers. I’ve done a major house cleaning of things that I don’t need. All my headgear is long gone, and the wig is tucked away until it can be put to good use. Aloe gel is in a pretty box, on hold for my next surgery, and the painkillers have all been dispensed of – they serve no purpose and I don’t like having them around.

And now I feel the same way about the peas. Right now, my life is the most normal it's been for a while. That will change soon, when I will again need the pills, and soups, and compresses, and pound cake, and Oprah, Phil, Ellen, Anderson, and Dr. Oz. But for today a pea is just a pea and it will be used in the way the Good Lord intended.

In farfalle with smoked salmon and cheese.

Jelly Belly

If I thought my reconstructive surgeon was young and soft spoken, his Visiting Fellow was even more so.  He may or may not have been over twenty-five, but his British accent made him sound like a genius.

I stood in front of him, holding open my robe, naked from the waist up.

‘Are you sure….’ I asked, glancing at my stomach ‘That I have enough fat for this surgery?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at my boobs, and then at my middle, which is now hanging over my pants. ‘You have enough.’

I guess I’ve been in denial. I know I’ve gained weight.  Out of necessity, I’ve changed the way I dress, and wear blouses rather than T-shirt, and sweaters with an empire waist. And though I still manage to squeeze into my demi-curve Levi’s stretch jeans, it’s getting harder and harder to cross my legs.

But I still find it hard to believe that I have enough fat to make a pair of perfect little breasts. I also find it odd that a doctor who specializes in microsurgery doesn’t use any tools to assess the fatness of my belly. ‘It doesn’t seem very scientific,’ I said to the young British Doc.

So he wheeled his chair over and started playing with my tummy. Squish squish squish. Then he fished around in the pocket of his lab coat and produced a cloth tape measure. He took a few measurement that didn’t make any sense, so I suspect he was just humouring me.

Before..............................And After

'Did Dr H tell you that you’re good to go?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Well, he’s one of the best, anywhere, so you have enough fat.’ He paused slightly. ‘Good work.'

I don’t know what I was expecting. I’d assumed a more fairy tail ending, as in Hansel and Gretel, where the wicked witch thinks Hansel is way to skinny. I imagined the doctor was going to tell me to ‘fatten up’, so that I was good enough to eat.

I was hoping he’d tell me to go back to my gingerbread house, and eat more candy.

DIEP 2013

Trusting my Gut

 For the last year I have been gaining weight.  I blame it on the Tamoxifen, but the truth is I’ve been eating with wild abandon for the last twelve months. As a result, I have a little tummy that is uncomfortable once it’s trapped in my pants. My new body is happier in sweats.

But I feel good about my weight gain. My upcoming surgery is called DIEP, and it requires that I have a little excess stomach fat in order that in can be used to replace the fat in my breasts. In a nutshell, it’s a boob job and a tummy tuck. At least that’s’ what sister Sue cheerfully blurted out to my reconstructive surgeon during one of our appointments. He smiled sweetly and said, ‘Um, yes. Essentially. But that’s not exactly how we promote it’

‘Can we use my fat?’ asked Sue.

‘Um…no.’

As yet, I don’t have a surgery date. I’d like to get it over with a soon as possible, since it’s the last step of my treatment and I’d like to put the whole canceritis kit and caboodle in the rear view mirror. (Plus – I want to fit back into my jeans). But I have to wait till the surgeon and his OR become available. Right now he’s fully booked, reconstructing people’s heads and such. Hopefully it will be this spring. And once my date is confirmed, I will have to get Belleruth Naparstek and her Guided Meditations back on board, along with all my ‘magical friends and allies’.

I’m really not to keen on going back into the hospital, or going back under the knife – but I’m thinking long term. They will use my newly acquired fat (thank you wine and cheese), after which I will likely have flattened abdomen. It’s a long surgery, with a long-ish recovery, but it’s got the best chance of drastically reducing the chance of recurrence for a bilateral gal like me.

Recently I was talking to Sue about a difficult decision I was trying to make.  She thought a minute. ‘Trust your gut,’ she told me. Than looking down at bulge beneath my sweater she added ‘I mean, trust your boobs.’  

Let the games begin!

Dressed for Battle

This week I’m going to meet my plastic surgeon. He’ll sit across from me and we’ll exchange pleasantries in his office. Softly, he will review my case. His bedside manner is impeccable and I am grateful for his quite attentiveness and gentle sense of humour.

Once again, I will look at him wondering how such an astounding biography comes from such a regular  looking man. As usual he will be wearing his white lab coat, and as usual I will be wearing my black knee high boots. He will be dressed for healing, and I will be dressed for battle.

I can’t afford to feel vulnerable. My black leather boots have a low heel, which allows me walk in long purposeful strides (More RCMP than dominatrix, but with a bit of elegant hardware around he ankle).  They zip over my jeans, and tightly hug my calves so the power shoots upward. I look relatively polished and ready to jump on a horse.

Neither stocking feet nor big clumsy winter boots are appropriate for my appointments. I need to be able to hop up on the table and cross my ankles with precision. The fact that I’ll be wearing a blue and white striped wrap round hospital gown, or, a bare-naked top isn’t important. From the knees down, I am invincible.

We have some very important matters to discuss. Namely, surgery. He’s got the upper hand here since he’s got degrees from a wide variety of highly acclaimed international medical institutions, and has the skill to reconnect tiny blood vessels under a microscope. I, on the other hand, can barely rip off my own band-aid.

But we will sit face to face and calmly discuss how to rebuild me. At some point he will look at my boobies, and probably even touch them. At some point I will look down and compare our footwear..  He will be wearing his casual brown Merrell multi sport hyperbolic slip on shoes with a rounded toe that look like curled up hampsters.

My gleaming GEOX riding boots could kick his little fuzzy Merrell ass. But there is no battle and there is no opponent.  Here we are all on the same team.

My Little Pony

I have big fears, so I’m trying to learn to do thinks in spite of being afraid. I can talk the talk, but I’m trying to walk the walk - or trot, as the case may be.

Not long ago I was Christmasing in Cuba with my mother Violet, sister Sue, and nephew Caleb. We took a break from being horizontal to do a jeep tour up a mountain. Our adventure included visiting a farm (easy), speed-boating (fun!), lunch (delicious) and horseback riding.

The horses were optional. Violet was one of the first to volunteer no to go, opting instead for a golf cart ride with the Cuban cowboys. Caleb was ready and willing. Sue and I however, were afraid. Years ago Sue had a bad experience on horseback and was really nervous about getting back in the saddle. I’m just a big fat hairy chicken, and don’t like to get into any situation where I may potentially lose control.

Fear

There were about 12 beginners in our group, with the exception of one gal from Alberta who was an experienced rider with nine horses of her own. Our cowboys assigned each of us to a horse. I requested (in bad Spanish) a small gentle ride, but I don’t think the boys understood, as they led me to ten-foot tall monster named ‘Jeri’, who was the biggest and most terrifying horse in the group. Horrified, I refused to climb up.

But assured that I would be just fine, I got up the horse. Feeling shaky, I looked at the ground. It was a million miles away! I looked over at my sister, who was sitting on a horse of her own, and she smiled nervously. If she could do it  so could I.

Hope

Meanwhile – Alberta gal was still on the ground demanding that she have a big strong fast horse that could ride like the wind. The ‘vaqueros’ gave her the once over, and matched her up with a small horse that was only lightly taller than my basset hound. ‘Oh – come on!’ I heard her mutter as she threw her leg over the horse.

So we started walking. We had a few instructions on how to drive our animals, but I was still really nervous that the horse would start running. In my imagination he’d take off through the woods, and I’d get smacked in the forehead by a low hanging branch,  tossed onto the ground, trampled by the rest of the stampede, and run over by the golf cart.

But things went quite well. There were a few tense moments when Jeri wondered off the beaten pack and onto the road, but I found that steering him was easier than I thought. Sue had a moment where her horse started to frolic in the grass, but within seconds a guide was coming to her rescue.

Reality (Jeri is on the left)

(Alberta, on the other hand, was miserable. She looked like a giant kid who was sitting on the horse at the mall, but didn’t have the 25 cents to make it actually move. To my delight her feet almost touched the ground, and I was relaxed enough to have a silent evil chuckle on her behalf)

A couple of great things happened on this walk. Firstly, being on a horse was Caleb’s favourite moment of the trip – and it’s always very cool to see someone fall in love with something for the very first time. Secondly, my sister and I both managed to do something that scared us.
I'd managed to control the giant stallion  - and not only did we have a  most enjoyable time, but we looked smashing in our riding hats!

But here’s the thing. When I got home, my mom sent me some photos she’d taken of us on horseback. My horse was no giant. Jeri was tiny!  My fear had made him into the Trojan horse, when he was just actually a tiny little creature. If he’d had a pink tail – he could have been in the toy store.

But fear makes things big. Bigger than they should be. So I'm trying to take a lesson from  Jeri. In my big fat chicken head, the idea of riding seemed insurmountable.  But in reality Jeri was just a nice horse and I was a little nervous. And in hindsight,  I rode with ease, and he was just little pony.

Sisters In Arms

I was standing in line at the dinner buffet at our fabulous all-inclusive resort in Cuba. More specifically, I was standing at the pasta bar.  The amount of food was overwhelming and a lot of it was porky pig, which I prefer not to eat. It was also a good chance to practice my Spanish. I could point to the various ingredients and request  peas, onions, and cheese. Or I may have actually asked for thumb tacks, an eraser, and teeth. I’m not really sure, but pointing goes a long long way.

Carefree in Cuba

The pasta bar was very popular and there was always a slow moving line-up. At one point I looked behind me to see how many people were waiting. I saw a few sun burnt faces and drunken Brits, and then I saw her. She was about my age and had two little kids hanging off her. Her hair, I knew immediately, was baby hair. Short in the front, a little mullet in the back, and an unnatural post - chemo curl. 

She was wearing some super cool glasses and to someone else she may have looked like any old lesbian with tattoos on one arm. But she wasn’t a lesbian (I don’t think) and she didn’t have tattoos. She had a rocking lymphediva compression sleeve in with black and white roses. It was beautiful!

My first instinct was to scream out ‘HEY! SISTER! I love your sleeve!’ Had I been wearing my fleshy suasage, I would have held it up in solidarity. As it was, my ugly compression garment was in my beach bag, where I’d left it that afternoon.

But I didn’t say anything. I was zapped back to the present, thinking about treatments and hair-do’s and puffy arms and future surgeries. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, thinking how some people are so cool. There are gals that make do with their situation, and there are gals that ‘Buckle the Fuck Up’ and elevate their situation to awesome.  She was obviously that latter, and I'm always grateful for inspiration. It's something to strive for. But before thoughts about canceritis could float into my head, I was interrupted by a much more urgent matter.

'Buenos Tardes lady! What you like in your pasta?’

Gordo

This year I’m going to Cuba for Christmas.  Joining me,  along with my bathing suit and sandals, will be my fleshy pork sleeve and matching gauntlet. So far it’s been easy to match my compression garments under a long sleeve shirt where they can be ignored, but now they’re going on vacation and it’s going to be hot.

But c’est la vie. It’s not as though I’m going to be lying on the beach, because I’m not allowed. My post-radiated body won’t do well in the sun, so I was already on planning on settling down under a palm tree. And if that didn’t work, I would be just as happy in the bar, with a mojito and a good book by my side.

So I had to make a return trip to Mansueta boutique, home of the unstylish medical garments. I’d called the Lymphedema Clinic because my thumb had become numb.  They suggested that my gauntlet might need refitting, which led me to Mansueta and my  tiny Filipino friend, Nanci.

I sat down on the stool while she fiddled with my hand. She was wearing heels that day, so we were eye to eye, and I was stuck by how large I felt in her presence – as though I was size of her buffalo.

‘Hm,’ she said stretching the fabric. ‘You hab no feeling in your thumb?’ I told her that I had pins and needles. I was worrying, in fact, that the lymphedema was spreading. I’d been doing my exercise, and the occasional self-massage, but as it’s Christmas, I’d been a bit lazy. Would I every feel my thumb again? Squeeze a lime, or open a tin of smoked oysters?

Gordo 

Nanci removed my gauntlet, pulled it a bit, and then put it back on my hand. Gently she rolled the fabric up my thumb, then folded the final 1/2 inch. ‘How is that?’ she asked. Wow! What a difference. ‘The babric was too tight and too high’ she told me. I looked at my thumb. 

‘So all you had to do was make a little turtleneck?'

She laughed. ‘Yes, a turtleneck’.

So now my thumb has an outfit. It’s not the fashion choice my thumb would have chosen for a Cuban vacation, as he prefers  to go the minimalist route, in the manner of a German tourist. But even though the colour's all wrong, at least it's better than a speedo.

(Just for fun, I looked up how to say ‘thumb’ in Spanish. The slang is ‘dedo gordo’. I don’t know that dedo means, but gordo means fat, and I think that Gord is a perfectly good name for my thumb.)

So us gals are off to Cuba, accompanied by my nephew Caleb (12), and Gordo in his turtleneck. And Gordon is now in charge of squeezing the lime.

Two Wishes

Last year I was visited by a fairy. And no – it wasn’t the steroids, or any other mélange of drugs – it was an actual fairy, for real.

It was last Halloween, and I was standing on my sisters' porch dressed as Jane Goodall, with a couple of monkeys strapped to my hip, and an itchy blonde wig on my bald head. All the kids came storming up the stairs with their big bags , saying trick or treat. The little kids were the best, because they were expecting magic, and on their best behavior. As the night got later, the kids got older, and sometimes they mumbled thank-you, and sometimes they said nothing at all. Some of them wore a mask, but there was little magic, and even fewer manners. I gave them all candy anyway, cus I’m a grown-up and it was Halloween.

Last night I was going through a drawer looking for some Christmas magic of my own - a sparkly hair clip. I only have a few inches of hair these days, but I love it, and thought it deserving of a clip covered in fake diamonds. In my search, I came across a little box where I keep a favorite necklace. I opened it, and found a small piece of paper. It was pink, and folded in half. I opened it, and on it said ‘ 3 Wishes.’

And then I remembered. I was standing on the front porch (as Jane) handing out the last of the candy to teenagers. On of the last girl up the stairs was about my height, and even though a little heavy, she walked like she was traveling on air. I can’t remember what she was wearing. But she came up the front steps announced she was a fairy, and said I had three wishes. She handed me the piece of pink paper and headed down the stairs.

I can’t remember what I was thinking at the time. I was completely crazed, so I don’t remember what happened between that Halloween and today. I probably wished for good health. I like to think I also wished for world peace, but because of the drugs, I might have just wished for another season of Downton Abbey, or some slippers.  Whatever.

Due to my delicate condition those last wishes didn’t count, so they are still valid today. And since there’s not lot for me to wish for,  I’ll consign my wishes to another who may need some fairy dust.

My true gift was finding this piece of pink paper. In this season, we’re always looking something more than parties and pie. Beyond the sequined sweaters and bulging credit cards, there’s something else out there,  just waiting to be found. And I found it unexpectedly, tucked away in a drawer while I was getting dressed for a party.

I never did find my hair hair clip with a bit of sparkle, but I did find a bit of magic instead.

Lymphediva

To protect my arm from further swelling, it was recommended to me that I get a ‘sleeve’ to wear. And lest I think that could waltz in to any old drugstore, and get something off the shelf, I was mistaken. I needed a note from my doctor, and then I had to go to ‘Mansueta’, which is a little boutique near Mount Sinai Hotel and Spa, that deals with all sort medical garments for breast canceritis people. Compression stockings, fake boobs, padded bathing suits, and such.

So I went down for my fitting, and had my arm measured yet again. It was decided that I would get a sleeve with the minimum amount of pressure, and a ‘gauntlet’, which is a fingerless compression glove for my hand. It would be a kind of cool accessory if I was a Goth kid (I’m not) or if it was the 80’s (it’s not) but as a flesh coloured fashion accessory, it leaves something to be desired.

Do I have a joke for you!

‘It’s kind of depressing,’ I said to Valentina, as she squeezed my arm into the sleeve, jamming my skin in as though she was making a giant pork sausage. She nodded. ‘You’ll be wanting this.' And she whipped out a pamphlet for Lymphe-Diva, a company which specializes in sleeves with decorative patterns. The brochure featured two stylish women at a café, one with a sleeve of roses, the other, snakeskin.  They seemed to be having a great time. Clearly lymphedema hasn’t slowed these girls down one bit!

I wanted to be just like them. Happy, confident, sitting on a terrace. ‘How much are they?’ I asked Valentina. ‘Oomph,’ she said, ‘quite expensive. About three times as much as these.' So I thought about it, and decided the simple fleshy $120 sausage option would suffice. It’s Christmas, after all, and there are other accessories that take priority.

So I put it out of my head until yesterday afternoon when I got a call from Valentina. ‘Your sleeve is ready,’ she said. I'd honestly forgot all about it, and it was at least five seconds of me with my mouth hanging open, trying to figure out why someone would call me about a sleeve, rather than entire outfit.

But sometime around the four second mark - before I processed the information - I remembered a joke that had been lying dormant in my brain for a long long time.  And even though I’m the only one who has ever found it funny I’m going to share. Here goes.

Q – Where does the General keep his army?

A – In his sleevey.

Ha! It cracks me up every time. 

And I'm picking up my sleevey next week.

Racing the Dragon

'What can I do?!’ Is the thought that raced through my mind, after being diagnosed with lymphedema. Dr. Escargot had given me a few pointers, but once I left the safety of Mount Sinai Hotel and Spa, I started to panic. My symptoms were mild, but who’s to say that my arm wouldn’t swell up overnight. My arm was at the mercy of my imagination, and at 4 in the morning I pictured it swelling up like a loaf of Swedish Limpu bread,  just in time for breakfast.

Swedish Limb-pu Bread

While I waited for my appointment to be made at the lymphedema clinic, I searched for advice. I called the clinic, my massage therapist, and my doctor. They all gave me versions of the same thing – mainly keeping your arm elevated and doing exercises that would keep the lymph fluids circulating in the affected area. I did as I was told, and then found that I would have to wait a month to get into the clinic for an official evaluation. I called Escargot’s office – and was told not to worry because I had a mild case, and early detection is the key.

So I called the clinic. ‘What is the point …’ I said,  ‘…of early detection, if you’re going to make me wait a month to get into the clinic.’  There was a small silence, and I requested be called if there were any cancellations. Lo and behold (whatever that means) I was called back within the hour, and given an appointment for the very next day.

As this was my first appointment, I was to be measured, and given a few little squeeze-y tests with a rubber ball and some high tech hand weights.  But before we could get to that, I had to go into a room with a few other ladies for the Lymphedema Power Point Presentation. I was pumped.

The first half hour was about the lymph and circulatory systems of the body. The nurse, who was reading the words off the screen, droned on as if she’d done it a thousand times before. Sadly it was a bit of a letdown. I read a lot, so it wasn't telling me anything I didn’t already know. To make matters worse, the diagrams where awful.

‘Personal Exercise Program’, was one of the headings, with a black and white man/woman sitting in a chair,  blurry arrows indicating the direction of arm movements, for shoulder lifts, ‘front crawl’, and wrists circles.

Honestly, I don’t know why they don’t liven up those images. With all the money they’re raising or cancer research, they could at least hire an artist to make the slide show a bit more entertaining.  By the time the nurse demonstrated how to ‘march in your seat’ I was discreetly texting my colleagues at the office. I guess was hoping for a magic secret. I really wanted to unearth the secret that would guarantee that the puffy arm wouldn’t get any worse. I would have done anything.

The next heading was ‘Aerobic Training’.  Same horrible eunuch  diagram. And under the headline were four suggestions.  And this is what was written:

Swimming

Brisk Walking

Jogging

Dragon Boat Racing

I scanned the screen and laughed out loud. There it was! The secret that would make my lymphedema go awat. I wondered why Escargot hadn’t mentioned it earlier, and perhaps written me a prescription for a boat and a couple of oars.

Lymphedema Prevention

As far as preventative measure it seemed a bit extreme. But at least it answered the question, ‘What can I be doing?’

My Right Arm

My mother Violet likes to torture me when I’m driving. I’m behind the wheel, and she sits in the passenger seat gazing calmly out the window. I think, just for a second, that everything is going to be fine. But then she shifts slightly, sighs deeply, and stretches out her left arm, her hand resting on my headrest.

“Why do you do that!?’ I squeal.

“Do what?’ she asks innocently.

My mother’s been doing this for so long that doesn’t even notice she’s doing it. So I have to tell her that I don’t like anyone tapping my head while I’m driving. She looks at me, and I can tell by her fake-neutral gaze that she thinks I’m a little high strung, which I am. And I prove it further by telling her to imagine that there is an invisible line down the middle of the car, and she has to stay on her side. And that includes her hand.

Now, over the last couple of weeks I’ve been starting to feel a strange tingling in my right arm. It feels as though there is a cord running down the centre of the arm, and someone is trying to tighten it. It’s not painful, but it’s weird.  But my body has been through so much  discomfort this year, that I didn’t give it much thought. Then a few days ago I noticed that my hand was puffy. I tried to ignore it, but when I went to put on my favorite Michael Jackson glove, it didn’t fit.

I lay in bed that night thinking the worse. Lymphedema. A condition common in canceritis patients who have had their nodes remove, and I lost 22. Lymphedema is swelling in the affected arm or hand caused by a buildup of lymph fluid. The swelling happens because lymph nodes, which normally act as filters, aren’t able to do their job as well because they’ve been removed by surgery, or damaged by radiation. In the most sever cases you look Popeye. In the minor cases, you get a puffy hand.

So I ran down to see Dr. Escargot. His tiny hands, (which seemed even tinier due to my puffiness) gave me the once over,  and he said that I do indeed have lymphedema,  and while chronic, it is manageable and no cause for concern. Having said that, he went on to say that I would need lymphatic massages (no problem!) and a compression sleeve (ugh).  But, in the meantime, there a few things I could do. Firstly, I must avoid heavy lifting, do a lot of stretches, and keep my arm elevated for at least 45 minutes a day.

I’ve tried sleeping with my arm up on a stack of pillows, but it quickly falls down by my side. I’ve tried propping it up while I watch TV, but either I get to restless, or I end up using my right arm to refill my wine.

So the only logical place where I can keep my arm elevated is in the car. I spend gigantic chunks of time on the Gardiner Expressway, and I’ve decided to use the time to my advantage. Sometimes I put my hand inside the visor, where it will stay still. Sometime I stretch it straight up  so my palm is flat on the roof of the car. 

But mostly, I shift slightly in my seat, sigh deeply, and stretch my arm over the passenger seat, resting it on the headrest. I’ve yet to have a passenger, but I’m look forward to the day when I can chauffeur my mom, and have an excuse to smack her lightly in back of her head.

P-you? P-me!

My nephew has started to get hair on his legs. I first noticed this last winter as we were lying on my sister’s couch watching ‘Dancing with the Stars’. I was bald from head to toe and was completely obsessed with hair. He was eleven, and completely obsessed with watching Karina Smirnoff performing the Paso Doble.

Soon after that, the hair on my legs started coming back, and over the next few months we sort of went through puberty together. Our leg hair got longer and other hairs came back as well. Arms, head, and a light shadow over the upper lip (me, not him). What didn’t come back was the hair under my arms. I checked in every few days to see if there was any growth but I was as smooth as a baby’s arse.

How delightful! Canceritis sometimes offered a silver lining and this was it -  and as an extra special super bonus, I was completely odour free. I surmised (unscientifically) that this was due to the fact that I’d had a bunch of nodes removed from both sides. It made sense that if the surgeon was digging around in there, under several layers of skin, there would be a few modifications. Some delicate tubing must have been cut, particularly the one that pumps out scent, for instance. And hair.

With confidence, I have been living without deodorant. Summer came, a few hairs burst through my radiated skin, but even on the hottest days I could go completely au natural in the armpit department.  Puberty was over!  Caleb may still have a few things to deal with (think Peter Brady) but I was clearly done.

Or so I hoped. Recently I was in the car with my sister. She was driving, I was passenging, and Caleb was in the back where children belong. It was an unseasonably hot day and we were all wearing too many layers, which I was removing as we drove. ‘Something smells funny,’ I said to my sister. ‘Open a window,’ she said. So I did, but the funny smell persisted. I looked back to see what Caleb was up to – as he is a prepubescent boy and I like to blame everything on him. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said.

So I took off my jacket, and ignored the musty odour. I repeated that something smelled really icky, and he piped up, ‘Maybe it’s you.’ Oh - From the mouth of babes. Disappointment seeped in as I realise that my puberty was not over. No silver lining for me; I was as smelly as a teenage boy.  It had been 14 months since I used deodorant and it seemed as foreign to me as a ponytail. Odour had returned, along with a very unwelcome chin hair.

So I have officially trumped my nephew at puberty. My legs are hairier, I’m kind of sweaty, and I smell as though I’d just done the foxtrot with Chaz Bono (just before we we were unceremoniously mocked by Bruno, and kicked off the show)

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

Sisters, Not Twins

My wingman and I went out on a date last night. In honour of Breast Cancer Awareness Month Year we attended a Breast Reconstruction Information Seminar that was being held downtown. It was a jolly event. There were lots of interesting displays (fake boobs) refreshments (non-alcoholic) and many delicious treats (sugary and fattening).

There was also a whole lot of laughter, which seems to be standard fare for these cancer-y get together's where a whole bunch of woman in one room are determined to plough ahead, no matter what kind of crazy obstacles try to stand in the way.  Everybody travelled in small packs, either with girlfriends, or husbands, who took it all in stride.

From the outside, all the entire audience looked healthy. There were a few baldies but they were dressed for an evening out with earrings and make-up and looked very stylish.  There were lots of short haircuts, and lot of long ones and as for the inevitable ladies in wigs  - nothing stood out. Also, all the ladies had two boobs – or more specifically – two breast mounds under their shirt. It was revealed later that there was all sorts of stuff going on under their bras that had nothing to do with Mother Nature.

Later, we (chicks only) would go into another room for a ‘show and tell’ where woman who had had reconstruction would share their stories. These women were easily identifiable by their tiaras, long silk scarves, and the fact they were topless. They were available for questions, and also the chance to cop a feel, or as we used to say back in grade seven, ‘get to first base’.

‘Touch them!’ one young woman said to me. I warned her that my hands were cold. ‘No problem’ she laughed in her breezy Spanish accent, ‘I have no sensitivity!’ So I did, and she cheerfully told me that they felt natural because the surgeon had used fat from her stomach to replace the fat in her breasts. No breast tissue, no chance of breast cancer!  And a tummy tuck thrown in for good measure.

All the ladies had different stories, and all of them glowed with success. The recurring theme through the night was rebuilding, moving forward, and gaining confidence. Or, as one of the reconstructive surgeons said in her speech, ‘We just want to give you boobs that make you so  friggn’ happy……'

Sistas!

And in a quest to ‘return to normal-ish’ that often requires a set of boobs that are the same. Or not! As I have briefly mentioned, mine are a bit of a mess – and trust me when I say that as a woman who has never given birth– mine were pretty prefect.

But according to another speaker, a renowned micro-surgeon (with 157 years of education under his belt) said no set of boobs is ever supposed to be perfect. ‘They’re not twins,’ he said, ‘They’re sisters.’

The entire audience giggled, then breathed a sigh of relief. Of course we don’t have to make them exactly the same. They are sistas! 

And though not always perfect, a sista is the always the very best of friends.

The Longest Month of the Year

It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month Year, and once again I find myself wishing I had a handbook of clever comebacks. Because once again I found myself in a situation with my mouth hanging open and the little voice inside my head quietly saying ‘Why don't you just f*ck off.’

I was standing in line at the grocery store, watching for a line-up of tired parents filling their environmentally correct bags with orange juice and cereal. Really mundane stuff.  I got to the cash, had my groceries rung through, and handed the young cashier some money.

‘Do you want to give a dollar?’ she said, without even looking up. Obviously she’s been instructed to ask this question, and obviously she had no emotional investment in the answer.  ‘What for?’ I asked her. ‘Cancer’ she yawned.

I paused for a second, and my mouth might have fallen open. A dollar? I get that it all adds up, and that money needs to be raised, but I don't know where the money actually goes. And is it appropriate to be asked by a party so far removed from the cause, that she can’t even look up from her cash machine. Usually when someone wants something they at least make eye contact. Is cancer so mundane that it becomes part of the grocery list?  So I stood there perhaps a few seconds too long staring at the bored cashier with her greasy ponytail. Then the person behind me leaned forward and gently said, ‘It’s breast cancer awareness month.’

‘Is it now?!’ I wanted to shout, ‘You don’t say?!’ That's why I see a pink ribbons every time I look at a newspaper or turn on the TV! That why every single woman’s magazine is devoted to stories about  'journeys' and ‘survivors!  Canceritis is always inside my head, and for this month it is always outside my head, too. But  I stayed quiet, my head muddled, wishing that I had my handbook of clever comebacks. 

A tired little cashier wanted me to give a dollar. I’d already given eight months of my life, my cute brown bob, and the shape of my formally perfect boobs for breast cancer. And I’m getting chubby.  Haven’t I given enough? The cashier cleared her throat. ‘Do you want to donate a dollar?'  I shook my short curly head. No thanks. Not today.

And with still 17 days left of official canceritis awareness, I’ve got to start working on my comebacks.

Shiny Butterfly

My stylist, Jim,  gave me a silver necklace for my birthday. It’s an old wax seal, and on it is the image of a butterfly.  It’s very beautiful, as is its' symbolism, which is the soul, transformation, metamorphosis, and rebirth.

Regardless of the fact that I was transformed against my will, the message behind the necklace is profound. My transformation is both physical and mental, and I still can’t quite figure it out. There are the obvious things like the hair and the scars, and there are the invisible things like the fact that I’ve had to dig deeper into my soul than I ever thought possible. And then there is the fact that I’ve had the chance to peer into the souls of others, and was both humbled and surprised.

But the transformation of a butterfly is much more abrupt. It goes from an ugly little larva into something so astonishingly beautiful that you forgive Mother Nature for having invented more unsightly things such as Ozzie Osborne and genital warts. And of course, there is the fact that the ugly larva turns into something that can fly. Flying is the ultimate transformation, and something to aspire to.  How amazing to go from a something so clumsy and slow to something so light and beautiful and surrounded by air.

I am anxious to get to the flying stage. It’s been over a year since my diagnosis and I live in a world filled with confusion, night sweats, and mood swings that are only a few personalities short of Sybil. Not that my life is bad – not by any stretch – it’s just a constant period of readjustment. Big emotions trying to fit into old routines often come with a bit of pain.

So in receiving this necklace, I decided to do a little research into butterflies. I read all he scientific stuff, and as fascinating as it was, I promptly forgot everything. Except this. ‘The caterpillar spends practically all their time in search of food’.

Well, that’s me! Constantly in search of something to eat I am a caterpillar! And though it’s not what I aspire to be there is comfort in knowing that I am at a stage where I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.

Which means that one day, I’ll get to where I’m meant to be.