Hugging For Dummies

I never used to be a hugger. In fact, I never really liked being touched.

But it’s no reflection on my parents.  I got as much warmth and love as any little child could ask for. It’s just that I couldn’t give it back.  I found the moments of hellos and good-byes very awkward, and the looks of expectation made me unable to perform. Basically, I froze, with my arms at my sides like a Ken Doll.

However I got hugged a lot. Either the adults in my life were oblivious to my awkwardness, or I was irresistibly cute, because they would frequently wrap themselves around me, smothering me with the scent of perfume and cigarettes.

When I grew up, my boyfriends would complain that I wasn’t affectionate enough.  I tried to be touchier – but it didn’t come easily and I couldn’t pretend I was someone I was not.  Maybe I just didn’t like them enough. Or maybe I just didn’t want to touch them in the places they wanted to be touched.

But something changed after my diagnosis. I became more affectionate, and reached out to bring people closer to me. Not only was I good at receiving affection but I started to dish it as well. Suddenly I started hugging. And once I learned to give a hug I was like Helen Keller discovering her first word. I ran around with my arms wide open, and gleefully wrapped them around anyone who came my way. I was in danger of becoming one of those drunken aunty ‘c'mere you….’ - kind of huggers.

C' mere you.....

But just as I was enjoying the hugging I got my new boobs. For the first three months after surgery I couldn’t hug for obvious reasons. And when I was ready to resume, I found my boobs had very little sensation.  Though they are pert and firm, they are almost numb, and I can’t feel the person against me. Essentially, I feel as though I’m hugging through a snowsuit.

Recently I heard on the radio that the average hug should last about three second, no less. It takes that long to make a connection with another being. Three second is quite long time when you think about it – but I think I can safely safe that I can fully embrace it, because I am somewhat of a hugger.

But another study said that a real hug should last 20 seconds. That is the ‘magic’ length needed to release oxcytocin in the body. Often referred to as the 'love' molecule, oxytocin is associated with helping couples establish a greater sense of intimacy and attatchment. This 'happy hormone' is also linked to reducing blood pressure and the risk of heart diesease.  And 20 minute hug also reduces cortisol, the ‘stress’ hormone that does bad things too your body.

So really, there’s no argument against a 20 minutes hug. Except that it goes on for an eternity. A whole third of a minute wrapped around someone else. Without any concept of whether or not my boobs are pressed against them. And it’s just long enough to have to shift a bit, and feel just a tiny bit awkward. And I spent the first 20 years of my life feeling awkward. So unless I’m hugging my Wingman, or someone I really like, (or a tree) I’m only a 3 second hugger. So for now, it’s back to square one for me.

Quickly & Quietly

Sophia Loren says that the key to youth is to 'get up quickly and quietly'.

Me. (Not really)

And I'm not getting this from a discount source like People magazine or the Enquirer, either. It comes straight from my sister who once worked with Sophia, and got all her info from her hairdressers and make-up people who are Italian, devoted, and therefore totally reliable. (My sister also said that SL is as gracious and elegant as she appears.)

But the point to her theory is that you don't want to make any loud noises when you slowly get out of your seat. For instance, you don't want to be in a position where you have to grip the arms of your chair, and grunt, in order to stand up. Becoming erect shouldn't be a laborious process. Nor a long drawn out freak show where people quietly turn their heads and feign distraction while they're actually waiting for you to become upright.

What you need are good stomach muscles that will propel you out of your seat like a teenager.  I totally believe that the thing that separates us from our Granny is the ability to stand up at a moments notice. And for that you need a strong core.

This is on my mind a lot these days because it's been four months since I've crunched my tummy. And because I was on a belly-growing mission before that, I've barely done a sit-up since 2011. So even though I have a flat stomach, I am nowhere near tip-top shape. In fact, my abs are weak. In my private moments I allow myself to sink into our big cozy couch. When the phone rings, I roll slightly too my right, then make a grandpa noise, and push myself up with the arm that is not swollen like a big fleshy pork sausage. Then I lurch off the sofa and head of in the direction of the ringing, which has usually stopped.

But that won't do in public. Neither my freshly dyed hair nor my Levi demi-curve skinny jeans will make me look young on their own. In fact nothing will, when I'm huffing and puffing to get out of my seat. And so I perch. When I'm concerned about public approval I will sit on the edge of my seat (like an Italian movie star) with my knees together and my shins at a slight angle. When I need to stand up - I just float out of my chair as though a string is pulling up my head - and spring into action. No problemo!

I've watched Sophia Loren in interviews.  When sitting, her back is ramrod straight, and when standing, she owns the ground she walks on.  Here is a woman who will not allow her body to collapse, and would never ever wear sweatpants to the grocery store.

I don't know the secret to her magnificence. It could have something to do with Mediterranean genes, full lips, and bags of money - but I think not. The secret is inside of her, deep in her core. But without olive skin, lips,  and bundles of money to fall back on - I will do whatever she advises.  So I  try to get up rapido e silenziso, a la Sophia.

Bachelor # 2

I lied.

Apparently I do have a crush on my Surgeon. I almost convinced myself that I was giving myself a pedicure for my own satisfaction. But alas, I’m just a cliché.

Sitting in the waiting room waiting for my date with Dr. H, I was feeling pretty good.  I was standing straight, had a nice haircut, and my toes were touched up with ‘Forever Yummy’ red. The nurse led me into the waiting room, saying, ‘Here’s your gown, the Doctor will be right with you.’

‘Who am I seeing today?’ I asked jauntily, alluding to the fact that there’s a big team and in the past I’ve been stuck with an eager Fellow.

‘Well’, she said, ‘I’ve got you with Dr R today.'

My heart sank, ‘Not Dr H?’

‘No,' she said, ‘Dr H was called into surgery.’

Not my Surgeon

Fuck.  I stripped off my clothes, put on the gown, and sat down angrily with my arms crossed across me chest. This was just so un-fun! I guess I’d been looking forward to seeing Dr H after all, and maybe getting a compliment with a soft Dutch accent.   During my previous appointment he’d told me that I looked really good, and that was when I was still hunched over. Wait till he sees how good I look now that I’m fully erect!

I played with my iphone for a while until Dr R entered the room. He came in tentatively, as though recognizing his inferiority, and took his place on the little rolling stool. Before he even spoke, I stood before him and opened my robe. He smiled politely and I noticed that his teeth were too big for his face. (Like he’d borrowed his dad’s dentures that were a couple of sizes too big, so he had to jam them in at an angle) Because he was sitting, I also noticed that he’d carefully styled his last few precious hairs over his soon-to-be bald head. Soon the rest of the world would find out too. Bachelor # 2 was a big disappointment.

Dr R asked about my scars, and gently ran his fingers over everything that had been sliced and diced in the last couple of months. Then he motioned me to sit, and showed me how to give myself a massage, to break up all the scar tissue. Even though I was sad, I enjoyed his soft strong hands. He opened my file, and asked me what my plans were regarding my next surgery. I must have made a face because he said, ‘I read your file. You’ve been through a lot.  You probably don’t want anyone touching you.’

It’s true. I had been through a lot. I nodded demurely and crossed my legs at the ankle, admiring my toes. Poor me.

Maybe it’s because he had my secret file in his hands, or maybe it was because he had big brown eyes and was wearing scrubs, but all of a sudden Dr R had moved from funny looking to mildly attractive. By the time he asked if I had any questions, I had the stirrings of a crush.

I must admit to a bit of relief. I liked Dr H the moment I met him (googled him) and I don’t want to turn into the girl who falls in love with her Plastic Surgeon. Putting Dr H on a pedestal would just make my life complicated. But luckily for me – I’m way more shallow.  All it takes is a good bedside manner, soft hands, and a clean set of scrubs for me to want to show off my ‘Forever Yummy’ toes. (Dutch accent is optional).

My next date with Dr H is in December. Think I'll go for 'Festive Red', no matter who sees me.

Red Toes

Tomorrow I've got an appointment with my Plastic Surgeon, so I'm giving myself a pedicure.

Just a few months ago, preparation would have been a different story. Night sweats, nausea, long lists of questions, atavin, and deep calming breaths. After all, my life hung in the balance, and my health is a big concern to me. I'd usually bring someone to the hospital with me. A friend for emotional support, or Jim, for his shoulder.  But tomorrow I'm going alone. And it should be easy.   Just a simple follow up-appointment, and maybe a chat about my nipples with my handsome surgeon.

 I would be lying if I said that I didn't find Dr H attractive. Forgot the baby blue eyes and the soft Dutch accent. Ignore the fact the he plays hockey to raise money for charity, and only does surgery on burn victims and cancer patients and is capable of rebuilding breasts, heads, and necks. Not to mention his many degrees and super brilliant doctorate paper on tissue tension & oxygen. Or, the fact that he looks super hot in his scrubs. (Really hot, as if Ralph Lauren designed his scrubs and then airbrushed him so that he'd look totally relaxed albeit slightly tired). None of that really matter, because I paint my toenails for me. And tonight my colour of choice is Essie's 448 - Yummy Red.

For most of my appointments I am nearly naked. Sometimes I've had hair, and sometimes I've been bald. Other times I've been completely comatose. In my fantasy I was not drooling, but I think it's safe to say, that I not at most charming.  My toes were really the only thing that were always for certain. During the worst moments I had to sit alone in exam rooms for hours wearing my Amish blue cotton gown, and my pretty toes were something I could recognize when my surroundings seemed so foreign.   They were the last thing I saw when I lay down on the OR table, and the first thing I saw in the morning when I kicked off my hospital blanket. And they were the beacon that I followed when I took my first tentative post-op steps down the hospital corridor.

My red toes were not lost on my nurses. 'Nice colour!'  they'd say as they covered me with a blanket. 'Thank you!' I'd reply. More than the compliment itself I enjoyed the brief real-life moment, a reprieve from the sterility of hospital land. The tiny moment of shared girlishness that felt like home.  Surgeons never seemed to focus on my feet. But who knows - perhaps they glimpsed a flash of colour as I lay on the table. Or, perhaps they were too busy re-attaching arteries to notice.

But tomorrow I'll be bare-foot and topless in the exam room. Every single thing will be drab shades of celery, beige, and gray. Even Dr. H in his Ralph Lauren scrubs will almost blend in with the furniture. The brightest thing in the room will be my ten toes and I like to keep them well groomed. No matter what kind of crazy I've got going on up top - from the ankles down I can always hold it together.

So tonight I'm touching up my toes.  And I feel slightly joyous. This time I'm not doing it for security. A pedicure this evening is not part of a  'pre-battle' package that includes anxiety and bad dreams. It's just one simple fun task for a date with my handsome surgeon. But I'm truly not doing it for him. 

 A nice pair of lacey underpants has been set aside for tomorrow's meeting.  But the pedicure I do for me.

Bedtime Ballet

Ready for Bed!

For ten weeks I had to sleep on my back. Then one night I figured out that if I placed all my pillows strategically around my body, and moved in one solid motion (like an old-fashioned Ken doll with his legs stuck out straight), I could sleep on my side.

Bliss.

Then my arm swelled up like a fleshy pork sausage due to lymphedema. I was told that one of the most effective things I could do to prevent the swelling was to sleep with my arm elevated.  So besides propping up my body,  I built another stack of pillows so I could rest my arm. This worked wonderfully as long as I stayed still all night. But – as luck would have it - the required elevation coincided with my new ability to roll over. And I like sleeping on my side, so as soon as I fell asleep, I’d roll atop the sausage. This didn’t fare well for the arm, and I would wake up with a giant muppet hand. 

So I tried weighing myself down with some heavy pillows and resting the arm on top of that. It’s wildly uncomfortable, but so is lymphedema. And that position is just way to tempting for our tiny cat, who finds the highest point in the house, and sits on it. And currently the highest point would be me.

So here’s what I do. Recently I’ve been able to stretch my arms over my head - something that I’ve always taken for granted, and an ability which makes it much easier to put on clothes. And now nighttime has become a bit of a dance. I have to build a downy fence around my body so that I don’t twist too quickly. (My 200 stitches are still healing, so I pay for quick movements). Above me are some more pillows where I plop my Muppet hand. So when I turn, I keep my arm & hand immobile and just move my body. Ta-da!

After executing a perfect rollover I wake for a brief moment of triumph.  Since I watch Dancing the Stars, I can’t help picturing myself performing a flawless and elegant  ‘inside turn’ complete with satin ball gown and wild applause. In reality it’s just 145 pounds of sweaty flesh clumsily rolling to the side, and dislodging one angry cat and a man.

But it works - so I’m giving myself a perfect score My dance may not be Swan Lake, but I'm not really a ballerina, and our pillows aren't even real down. 

The Land of 'Should'

I’m starting to hate the word ‘should.

Perhaps I’m overly sensitive to suggestion, or maybe I’m giving off the help-me vibe, but lately I’ve been finding that people are very enthusiastic in telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. And I don’t like it.

I think it started in childhood. I remember my mother Violet responding to my complaints about being bored by snapping, ‘You should do volunteer work’. I should? Why? My teenage mind did not find that an appropriate reaction to making it through a rainy afternoon. I was thinking more along the lines of having some chips – or playing checkers.

Fast forward to last weekend and a loved one told me that I should become a real estate agent so I could work with my sister. ‘You should be a Realtor!’ they said. I should? Why? While I may be considering changing careers but I don’t think I can do any that involve math. (Shouldn’t they know that)?

In between were about a million other ‘should’. You should join a book club. You should go on a diet. You should go off your diet. You should eat more vegetables. You should watch out for unopened mussels. You should invest your money. You should use a condom. You should use hand sanitizer. You should make more of an effort. You should be back to normal by now.

These are the  ‘should’ you hear when the person dishing out assumes that you haven’t already thought of it. As in, ‘Hey, your head is bleeding –you should get a band-aid’. (Really? A band-aid, and not an onion?)

At some point I stopped taking ‘should’ as a suggestion, and heard it more as a reprimand of my behaviour. I don’t want to hear all the ‘shoulds’ when its stuff I already know. Of course I know I ‘should use a Kleenex’. And I know I should be more patient.  And I know that I ‘should’ be relieved and grateful that my treatment and surgery are largely behind me, and I ‘should’ make a plan for the future.

But sometimes you don’t want someone telling your what you should feel. Rather, you want a road map of how to get there. There’s a lot of intimated effort that goes along with the word ‘should’ and when you’re tired, it’s hard to catch up.  I need solutions, not suggestions. And definitely not an admonishment.

Don’t tell me I ‘should’ relax. I know I should relax. Tell me how to relax. I hear the word ‘should’ about a thousand times a day. Mostly well-meaning and often in my own head, but still - a lot of pressure. Sometimes you want people just to stop talking, and guide you to the magic land of ‘Should’ that they keep talking about. I know where I ‘should be’ I just don’t’ always know how to get there. Or even if I’d want to go.

It’s a benevolent  voice that might say, ‘Hey, you should gets some sleep’. But it’s an even better one that will take your hand and say, ‘I’m putting you to bed’.

Back to Work in the Real World

Getting back to the working world is not easy. 

In my excitement of being ‘back to normal’ I forgot the real world and how fast it moves! Sure I can do everything I used to, but only as long as I do it at my own speed. I can walk the dog, do my lymphedema exercise, apply my creams, do a stomach massage, bathe, dress, and be out the door in about four hours.  This doesn’t necessarily make me the best man for any job, but right now it’s the best I can do. 

But that’s not even the problem. The bigger issue is that I’ve seem to have lost the chip in my brain that made me such a brilliant mutli-tasker. When I left my job four months ago, I could keep a dozen lists in my head, along with a mental Sharpie to cross things off. Now I walk into a room and completely forget why I’m there.

And I had conversations such as this:

Colleague – Okay, we need fabric for a curtain awning

Me – I like your shoes

Colleague – Thanks! This is a rush job, and we have to get it to the seamstress by noon.

Me – Did you know that Valerie Harper is on Dancing with the Stars?

So that was Week one, but things have picked up slightly from there. I’m slowly getting back into the real world.

I can now concentrate for slightly longer periods of time (though my mind frequently drifts off to thoughts of swimming, or nipples). And I speed through my morning exercises, taking more time to do them in the evening. I’ve also gotten used to wearing semi-professional clothing rather than my billowing wardrobe that got me through the summer. Still, there are many favorite shirts that I can’t wear, in fear that, if I reach up to get something, I’ll expose my stunning 17” scar. It’s never to far from my mind that beneath my clothing, I still look like a Raggedy Anne doll that had been bitten by a shark.

 

Last week for work I visited a fancy antique shop. The mission was to recreate a restaurant from 1902. The fellow in charge (Alex) was enjoying our task. We started talking about Downton Abbey and he swooned slightly and whispered, ‘Oh, yum. Antique porn!’

I laughed, and checked myself out in one of the antique mirrors on the counter. My shirt, I noticed, had come partially undone. Not only were my radiation tattoos visible, but also a good chunk of my pretty pink bra. (How am I supposed to monitor these things when my boobs are numb?) So I mumbled ‘Oooops’ and did up a couple of buttons.

Alex grinned slyly and said ‘Don’t worry honey, I’ve seen it all’. I raised my eyebrows, and he said, ‘I have four sisters – so I’ve seen everything.’

All I could think was, ‘Well you ain’t never seen anything like these!’ Seriously! He has no idea.

So standing there amidst the fine china, I realized that just when I think I’ve eased myself back into the normal world, I still have another foot that is firmly planted in another nearly normal world. A world in which it feel like there is only me.

Middle Aged Crazy

I can spot them a mile away. 

This time was at my local grocery store, and she was dressed in expensive yoga gear from head to toe.  Her mat was slung across her back, in it’s own Lululemon bag, and her hair was pulled up in a lop-sided bun. Regardless of her outfit I knew she was one of us; the middle-aged crazies are hard to hide.

When I first saw her I was standing in line. (Sadly, I had thirteen items, so I was standing in one of the slower lines). She came crashing through the front doors, picking up speed as she moved past the check out lines. She speed-walked through the produce section, past the frozen foods, and took a sharp turn down the cereal aisle.

For a moment I thought I’d lost her! I’d extended my neck as far as it could go and was spinning my head like an ostrich. I knew she wouldn’t be long.

Seven seconds later she remerged, frantic and glistening, her yoga mat swinging across her back like a sac of arrows. At the risk of mowing down a small Chinese man, she sprinted to the ‘Express’ lane. I was practically beside her now, and I recognized a kindred spirit - as I am intimately familiar with the glassy eyed mania of a peri-menopausal woman on an urgent quest. Beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip, neck veins were bulging, and in her hand was a single box of Frosted Cherry Pop-tarts. With sprinkles.

I’ve been in that situation before. Many times I’ve had to make a serious detour to satisfy a craving. Chocolate Brownies when I was a teenager, French fries when I was hung-over, and more recently, Hagen Daaz ice cream straight from the container. And the challenge is always the same – how fast after you have it in your hand can you get it to your mouth.

Yoga lady was thinking the same thing. Because of the way her leg was shaking I doubted that she’d even make it outside. I also doubted that she’d actually made it to a yoga class. I am familiar with that too. There been times where I’ve tried sitting still and enjoying the sounds of ‘Om shanti shanti shanti’, and the only thing I could think was, ‘Oh shut-up shut-up shutup'. And I’ve left.

Crazy yoga lady finally made it to the front of the line and flung a five-dollar bill at the cashier. As she raced toward the front of the store she started tugging at the top of the box. By the time she’d stepped through the doors, she had the interior pocket between her teeth, and was trying to rip it open. I paid for my groceries and ran out to the sidewalk.

She was about twenty feet ahead of me now walking leisurely down the road. She’s had her fix and was feeding herself slowly. I new from experience that she’d inhaled the first pop-tart, and maybe the second. Women know these kind of things for certain.

I also knew that from now on her day would just get better. She’d returned to her normal self and was now just another stylish yoga lady. Covered in sprinkles.

Numboobs

I can’t feel my boobs.

It’s a new sensation, so I feel there should be a word for it. Like ‘Numboobs’ or ‘Noobums’ or something that makes me feel like I’ve just been kicked out of an African tribe for not being cool enough. 

Cutlets

The first time I really noticed was last weekend. Jim and I were in a dark movie theatre and popcorn kept slipping from my greasy fingers – and down my shirt.  Normally I dig it out and pop it back into my mouth, but I couldn’t feel it! There was none of that popcorn itch that I normally associate with ‘date night’.  I tried in vain to dig it out but I felt like I was poking around in someone else’s chest.

That night in bed I tried to summon some sensation. None. When standing I can feel that there is some weight on my chest. And it’s not unpleasant. There’s just enough jiggling to feel like they’re actually attached to me - which is probably similar to a transvestite who pops ‘Natural Touch’ silicones implants into his bra. Which, incidentally, look like chicken cutlets.

6 lb Cat.

So I lay in bed trying to feel my Numboobs.  Apparently our tiny cat had the same idea. I felt a soft thump as she dove off the dresser and onto my chest.  She looked me in the eye, daring me to do something But I didn’t, so she settled down and tucked her tiny head under my chin.

(To be fair, she only weighs about 6 lbs, and I can’t feel her at the best of times. But I hoped that this wouldn’t set a precedent for our 19 lb cat, or for the 55 lb basset hound.)

Today I went to the hospital to check in with plastic surgery clinic. There’s a tiny bit of guck escaping from the incision on my right breast, and I wanted have it checked out.  Mostly, I wanted to know if it was okay to go swimming. (Girls weekend ahead!) The nurse took a look at the area in question. She started poking around, but I felt nothing but soft pat, as though I was wearing a ski jacket. ‘Does this hurt?’, she asked.

‘No!’ I said, ‘They’re numb!’

‘Oh’, she seemed delighted, ‘Then I can squeeze as hard as I want!’

After examining me, she decided that it’s best if I don’t swim. There’s s still the remote chance that the teensy tiny opening inhales some lake water and becomes affected. Hmpf.

She left the room, and I did up my shirt. Then I went down the elevator, and onto another floor for some blood tests.  As I rolled up my sleeve, the nurse motioned for me to do up my blouse.  Ooops. A few buttons had come undone and I was pulling a full Fabio.

That day not only had a tiny cat enjoyed my numoobs and cleavage, but several lucky patients as well.

Greatest Show on Earth

The Plane

The airplane that took us from Halifax to Charlottetown sat 18 people. And we were two of those people on the plane last weekend, as we flew to Prince Edward Island.

From the back row we could watch the open cockpit, clearly seeing the pilots hands as he manned the controls and adjusted his sunglasses. The day was gray and drizzly, and the size of the windshield wiper made us laugh. They looked like something you might buy ‘As Seen on TV’ for 12 dollars after a night of drinking. I crossed my fingers that they’d hold up during the half hour flight.

Within moments we were up in the air. As the little plane shook, sixteen passengers whipped out Ipads and Sodukos.  As we climbed higher the plane burst into blinding white sunlight, and levelled off over the puffy white clouds. It was glorious!

Bible Sky

I looked at the guy in front of me, who was lost in a game of solitaire. One the other side of the aisle, his wife was doing the crossword. Another man closed his eyes. A few ladies dug into their handbags, pulled out their paperbacks, and cracked them open.

‘What the f*ck is wrong with you?’ I wanted to scream. ‘This is the best show on earth!’ Truly, it was. Mere inches below us was a sea of white puffballs rolled by lit by giant beams of sunlight. If there was a way of actually feeling closer to heaven, I don’t know what is. I felt like I could actually wave at my father. (Not The Father - my actual dad)

Still nobody looked, but I was riveted. I’ve flown many times before but never felt this close to the universe, and never able to see out the front window. I waited for the moment we’d head through the clouds and see the gentle island below us. But for now, the sun and the sky were performing miracles for a small select audience of four; the pilot, co pilot, my co-pilot (Jim), and I.

Feeling the jolt of cement beneath the wheels, the readers put the bookmark back into their novels, and stood up to leave. As we hustled out into the sunlight and on the tarmac, a few people pulled out their smart phones and took picture of the plane.

Their electronics devices captured the aluminum flying machine, but they’d missed the best show on then planet.

Weiners in a Glove

Kissing it Better

The day after camping, (goodbye air mattress, hello bed!) I went straight to the Lymphedema Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital.  I was anxious to find out what caused my hand to flare up like a 5-pack of wieners, and my arm like a pork sausage.

The nurse measured me, took notes, then said that I needed a higher degree compression of flesh sleeve and gauntlet. I told her I was flying in a few days, and that I was very concerned about the health of my arm, as I was starting to look like a butcher shop.

She assured me I needn’t worry. For now, I was to keep wearing the garments that I have. Also, I should do my exercises, avoid sun and heat and salt, and keep my arm elevated whenever possible. No problem!

Fleshy Compression Glove

At home that night I started reading. There’s all sorts of information on the internet, as well as a bunch of chat forums. One lady wrote in to say that the gauntlet can actually hurt your hand because there's nothing to push the fluid out of your fingers, so it stays and swells. She highly recommended using a ‘glove’. By compressing fingers, the fluid would be squeezed up up up up up through my arm and back into my body where it belongs.

At the crack of 9 I was at the door of my favorite medical-garment boutique. They’d  sold me my original garments, and  were a pack of extremely knowledgeable ladies. Once again I’d turned away from the medical professionals and landed in the hands (not puffy) of people who actually know what they’re talking about.

‘Why would she recommend a gauntlet?’ said the saleslady. ‘Did the nurse SEE your hand?’ I said that she did. The saleslady tut-tutted and put my hand in hers,‘You need a glove, I will get you one.’ 

And she did, but not without a bit of effort. As there were none available in my size, she disappeared into the back room for twenty minutes where she tore through boxes. Finding none, she’d plucked one from an outgoing order, deciding I needed it more than the person on the other end.

Poorer by $140, I stepped out into the sunshine with my fleshy glove. And once again I was grateful for the wise and sympathetic ladies who work in the trenches; those hands-on gals who always manage make things better for gals like me.

Wiener Hand

Camping is something I wouldn’t normally do, were it not for a promise to my 12-year-old nephew.

So on a perfect Canadian summer’s day, I found myself driving up to lake Huron.  Because I was having slight swelling in my hand, I put on the flesh coloured compression sleeve to help control my lymphedema. There’s always the possibility that excessive heat or activity may cause my arm to swell into a puffy sausage, and get eaten by a bear.

My Hand.
(Not really)

I also wore a ‘gauntlet’,  that slips over my hand & thumb,  leaving my fingers exposed. For extra security, I steered the car with my left hand, and kept my right arm raised, resting it on the rear view mirror. The whole point is to keep the lymphatic fluid going in the other direction, instead of pooling in my hand. All this – because my system needed extra help after losing so man lymph nodes.

We pulled into the campground, and I ‘helped’ my sister set up. Mostly I just stood there and gave suggestions on tent placement, and how to decorate our site.  I was full of helpful ideas. ‘Carry the picnic table over here Sue!’ or ‘ Hang the tarp higher! You can climb a tree, can’t you Sue?’

My nephew – bless his tweeny heart – was equally unhelpful (‘Did we bring marshmallows?’). 

I sat down beside him and rested my hand up against a tree. He looked up at it. ‘What’s wrong with your fingers?’ I looked at my hand. The fingers were swollen and my knuckle flesh bulged out like little tiny shower caps. I whipped off the gauntlet and we examined the swelling.

‘It looks like a cartoon hand,’ he said.

Our lunch.
For real.

The next two days passed peacefully. There was a beautiful lake I couldn’t swim in, and radiant sunshine that I couldn’t go near. I stayed in the shade with my book, and enjoyed the brilliant hospitality of Mother Nature and my sister. Occasionally, in an attempt to get the fluid moving, I’d pump my fist.  Due to the open concept living of camping, many people passed by on the way to the beach. On more than one occasion they thought that I was waving. More often than not, they waved back.

In the evening, Sue, along with her friends and I, would have fabulous dinners. The kids would roast hotdogs over the fire. I’d look at the shiny pork wieners dangling over the flame, and then down at my own porky hand. No difference really, except that the hot dogs were longer by about two inches.

The next morning I was packed and ready to go, headed for the city, and an appointment at the Lymphedema Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. (Sad goodbyes to the family, but ‘see ya!’to the air mattresses and communal bathroom).  As I peeled out of the campground I gave a last wave – though by that time – campers were ignoring the lady holding a pack of wieners up in the air. 

Missing my Belly Button

On nights when I can’t sleep I try to find my belly button.

I kick off the sheets, raise my arm, and let my finger fall to where my belly button is supposed to be. I should be able to stab it in the dark, considering I’ve stuck my finger in it since I was a tot. But I always get it wrong.

During my surgery it was relocated, so now I have two belly buttons; the phantom belly button that once was, and the new belly button that isn’t where my belly button is supposed to be.

Where is it?

I wish I knew more about the procedure. During the consultations with my Plastic Surgeon there was so much information that I kind of ignored the stuff that was revolting.  Dr H. would say something along the lines of,  ‘blah blah new bellybutton.’  My brain would freeze but I’d nod with confidence, as though I knew exactly what he was talking about it – as though moving ones belly button happens every day.

The truth is I found the whole thing too horrible to think about. I was already dealing with new breasts, a huge abdominal scar, and the notion that they were messing around with my nipples. That I could deal with that. But not the bellybutton.

I’d had two very bad experiences with bellybuttons that pretty much scarred me for life. The first was my sisters’ high school math teacher. He had a big beer belly and a belly-button which was clearly visible through his super tight short-sleeved shirt. Sometimes he’d come to school loaded, and when he did, there’d be something leaking through his bb.

The second experience was with a small Cuban child.  Jim and I were touring a tobacco farm and were being taken to the farmers ‘house’ by our guide. As the only guests we were something of a novelty. The little naked boy ran over to us and it looked for the entire world like he had an uncooked cocktail sausage sticking out of his stomach.

‘le gustaria llevarlo¿ (Would you like to pick him up)’, asked our guide.

 ‘No!’

He was a lovely child, but I had to make sure to keep my eyes on his face. Jim and I tried to be mature about his minor deformity but our maturity only lasted until our second mojito when we said things such as ‘what the heck was that?’ and ‘ick’.

I truly believe that things come in threes and with the fat math teacher and the Cuban child, -  I guess I’m the third. Okay, it’s not that bad. Now that the scars are healing my button is sort of cute. And it’s only slightly higher than it used to be. Also, I have a vague idea of how it happened. When my fat was removed from my tummy the skin had to be stretched, and a hole had to be punched in the new skin to connect with the old belly button hole. Or something like that.

One of these days I’m going to find out exactly what happened in that operating room.

Until then, I’m still stabbing in the dark. And missing my bellybutton.

No Dying in Spanish

Several years ago, my wingman/stylist/partner and I went to Spanish school in Costa Rica. Home base was the complete opposite of a tourist town. Dusty roads, roaming cattle, cinder block houses. No English menus, not even a beach.

Rush Hour

The aim of our vacation was to immerse ourselves in a tropical climate while engaging in some mental stimulation. I wanted to shake up my brain. At the end of our stay we’d accomplished a lot. I could write a one-page essay in Spanish, and Jim, who had become the honorary mayor of the town, could go into the store and ask for a coat hanger.

But here’s what I really loved about being forced to speak a different language – it really makes you choose your words carefully. Each syllable is precious, and stringing together a tiny sentence involves a lot of focus. The point is to get the message across, rather then get lost in wordy drama.

This is experience came to mind while I was at the airport. The travellers were tired and thirsty , and nobody seemed to want to be there but me (I like airports). ‘I’m dying for a drink,’ I heard someone say. I looked over at this seemingly healthy man and he didn’t look remotely dehydrated, let alone dying. He just looked tired & crabby, with a little pee stain on his chinos.

Downtown

Moments later I heard it again. ‘I’m dying to get home’.  And again, ‘I’ll die if the flight is delayed’. In fact, this is something I hear many times during the day. People are ‘dying’ over very small things. ‘Dying to meet you’,   ‘Dying to see your new boobs’. In my Spanish school in Costa Rica we would have said this -  ‘We am eager to go home.’  Or, ‘I are wanting look the new chest.’

But in our world we confuse the word ‘dying’ with desire. And this couldn't be further from the truth. So the one place where I don’t want to hear this coming from is my own lips. I am not ‘dying’ to do anything! After being around hospitals for the last two years, I can’t confuse dying with being eager. Especially after hearing the word ‘dying’ in context, and seeing the face of the person who is speaking the word in fear. And even more especially, when you’re surrounded by people whose one single goal it is to live.

After three weeks in Coast Rica, Jim had only had a small arsenal of words. ‘Percha’ was one, 'Araña' was another. He had to ration his words carefully, and each one had to convey something great.  

So when Jim walked down the dusty streets as the unofficial honourary mayor of our little town he would raise his arm in greeting, and as is the Tico custom, pump is fist and call out  ‘Pura Vida!’

Translation - ‘Pure Life'.

There's living, rather than dying, going on there.

Dr No-Show. Part 3.

 I stood in the examining room looking at the table upon which I’d lain a million times. On it, a blue gown was folded into a perfect square. It was there for me to wear, but I couldn’t put it on. I couldn’t even touch it.

After five minutes I heard a knock on the door, and Dr Escargot entered with a young intern. She extended her hand but I asked the Doctor if he and could have some time alone. The intern looked at Escargot, who made a motion for her to leave, and she did.

Escargot sat at the small desk in the corner of the room. Beside it was a chair, which is where I often sat during our consultations. He leaned back and looked at me expectantly. In my head were a thousand sentences I’d been rehearsing since he stood me up for surgery, six weeks earlier.

All morning I’d told myself not to cry. But myself didn’t listen. I took a deep breath, and in deliberately conversational tones told him that I was very disappointed. He nodded, as though he’d been expecting this. Then I corrected myself and said that I was angry. He nodded again, and I could feel my bottom lip starting to quiver.

Once I’d seen a bumper sticker that said ‘Speak the Truth, even if your voice shakes.’ So I kept going. I told him that I wasn’t here for an examination; I would be seeing Dr L for that. After all, he was the one who’d done the surgery. Still, Escargot remained speechless. I told him that of all the uncertainties I’d had in cancerland, one of the things that I always felt good about were the people around me.

I continued by saying that he’d been with me on the path leading to this surgery, and when it came time for the big show, he was in a different country.  Afterwords, nobody told me why. No explanation. No follow-up.

‘I apologize,’ he said in his soft Spanish accent, ‘ I can’t make excuses, I can only apologize. There was a scheduling error. But you were lucky that there were surgeons available. That is the benefit of the team work in this hospital.’

I cut him off. ‘I didn’t have a team of surgeons. I had one. You. And you didn’t show up.’

His calmness was unreadable. Perhaps he was humbly taking it all in, but I don’t think so. I think he’d made the decision to allow me to speak my piece, because errors of this magnitude don’t happen often, and he didn’t want me sending angry letters all over the hospital.

‘I can forgive human error,’ I said, sniveling a bit, ‘But In return I expect human decency’ (I’d rehearsed that line a few times, as I felt that it had just the right balance of truth, and drama).  ‘I expected a phone-call.’

‘Well,’ he said, sounding a little like Ricardo Montalban, ‘I contacted Dr H to find out about the surgery. I knew you’d done well.’

I heard myself about to say ‘Why didn’t you contact ME?’ and I didn’t like the way it almost sounded. I was turning into a whiney 13 year-old girl asking the pimply guy why he was ignoring her. In retrospect, I should have picked up the phone the second I regained consciousness, and asked Escargot why the hell he hadn’t bothered to make an appearance. But I didn’t, and now we were having this horrible conversation.

Dr Escargot had listened to me talk for almost half an hour, and I had nothing left to say. After a pause he took a deep breath and said how he and I had enjoyed a good surgeon/patient relationship, and he was very concerned that my faith had been tested. I nodded and told him I had lost the trust. He looked kind of sad – but that could have been boredom.

It had been almost two years to the day when I’d met Dr Escargot in that room for the very first time.  We’d shaken hands, and I had sat terrified while he told me about my cancer. Two new boobs later, no longer scared, I again took his very small hand in mine.