Chickens Don't Have Nipples

Not me

Had I been more of a risk taker, I would be a proud new owner of a pair of bright pink nipples right now.

However, I am not risky, which is why I’m destined to have my Barbie breasts for a little while longer. But this summer things will change. This summer I’m going to sit down with Dr H and his nurse, and he’ll give me my finishing touches.

But it could have been so different. Yesterday, Wingman and I were sitting in the waiting room at the Breast Lounge at Princess Margaret Hotel and Spa. I’d scheduled an appointment to reassess my ‘aggressive’ scars. At my previous appointment, I’d been told that I had to do a bit more healing before I got my nips.

So we were in the waiting room when a nurse called my name. ‘Are you ready for your procedure?’ She asked. My face must have been as expressive as a potato.  ‘Procedure?’ I squeaked. She nodded and said it would only take about a few hours. Was I ready?

My first thought was that anything that took over one hour would cost me a $35 parking ticket. My second thought was that nobody was going anywhere near me with any knives – and what is it with these receptionists and their inability to schedule things correctly? I was still smarting from being stood up by my breast surgeon, and had lost a bit of faith in the system. Dr H however, was still golden. He’d done nothing to disappoint, and I would be lying if I said I hadn’t put a little thought into the underpants I’d chosen for that day’s get-together.

‘So,’ he said ‘when I saw him a few minutes later. ‘I hear you’re not ready?’ I shook my head and he smiled, ‘Okay, we’ll do it another time.’ He rolled over on his little doctor stool and fixed his baby blue eyes on my nippleless breasts. He put one finger in the centre of each and said ‘We’ll do one right here, and one right here’. He explained that it’s a quick and simple procedure where they do a bit of building from existing materials – sort of like origami.

Because I couldn’t absorb what he was saying, I went directly to my favorite coping mechanism; the shutdown.  While he talked medicine, my mind wandered to his right ear, ‘Hey. Do you have a piercing?’ I blurted. He nodded as thought that was a perfectly normal segue. ‘Yes,’ he said. He’d had it pierced when he was sixteen, and it angered his father.

I had a few more personal questions in my arsenal but I came back down to earth. I asked about my Spong-bob waist. He pulled out a Sharpie and drew a sloppy ellipsis on my side where he would make an incision and do a bit of lipo. This would all happen under a local anesthetic, in the very room we were in. Behind Dr H, was the bed on which I’d lie.  I looked at it, and he followed my gaze, ‘We could do it right now. If you want to.’

For a split second I faltered. I could spend the afternoon with the handsome doctor and walk out a few hours later with an hourglass figure and headlights before I even had time to get scared! It would be that simple!

But I chickened out. I didn’t have time for a guided meditation or an Atavin. Plus, I have plans this week that don’t involve nipple protectors. (Gross fact; they’re pretty huge to start, and eventually shrink down to normal). Yuck.

So we shook hands and I closed my robe. Or maybe it was the other way around – I can’t remember. And as soon as I was dressed I was already regretting being such a big chicken. So as soon as I was in the lobby I called Dr H’s secretary and told her I was ready to make an appointment for my procedure.

So she gave me one. And I only have to wait sixty-eight days!

Drunken Sofa

Four years ago, Wingman and I made a decision to get rid of our sofa. I’d bought it 2002, and it was easily the ugliest piece of furniture I’d ever seen. It was also one of the biggest, with ungainly proportions that dwarfed everything in the room. (Including me, which I liked). Not to mention that it was poorly made, it’s sprawling cushions covered in a cheap beige upholstery fabric that looked like a giant trough of porridge.

When we moved into our current home, we had to remove the legs and jam it through the door frame, resulting in several tears across the top. What wasn’t torn in our various moves was punctured by three sets of front claws. So - every inch of the giant sofa boasts either holes, tears, breads crumbs, red wine, dog hair, cat hair, or fleas (mostly dead). It’s a mess. And, we still have it.

‘Don’t you think it’s time…?’ suggests wingman timidly, from time to time.  I turn paralytic with indecision and change the subject. ‘Do you recall what Tonya Harding threw at her boyfriend that caused her to go to jail?’ (Answer: Hubcap)

Man's Best Friend

Wingman even went so far as to get us another couch. It’s a beauty. Grey, down filled, with a handsome tuxedo arm and metal legs.  I tested it out in the showroom and enjoyed having it under me. But there just wasn’t enough of it. It’s only 28” deep as opposed to the 38” depth of our oatmeal monster. Our ugly sofa is so big that I can lie flat on my back with a bowl of popcorn beside me and a 60 lb basset hound sprawled out perpendicularly at my feet.

The sofa dominates our small living room, and I should hate it, but I don’t. It’s my pal. Better yet, it’s family. It’s as though your favorite Eastern European uncle came over to your house, in a light brown sweater and matching pants. After a few too many beers, he slumps against the wall and lands happily on the floor with his arms wide open. Over the next twelve years his sweater is covered with food, and the dog pees on his leg, and he gets fat, but he’s still smiling and his arms are still wide open. That is my sofa.

And because I’ve spent so much time being horizontal over the last 2 ½ years, I’ve come to love the drunken sofa even more. It means I could lie in it like a bed, rather than go to my room. It means that someone could spend the night, very comfortably, if they choose. It means that all the pets could lie with us, and have room to stretch. And it mans that I could curl up into its filthy embrace and feel like I was five years old again.

The handsome gray sofa sits under its plastic wrapper in storage. It is a classic design that will never go out of style. Meanwhile, the big sloppy sofa doesn’t have too much time left. The seats are already covered in blankets to cover the holes. And it’s gained at least 30 pounds thanks to all the dust mites and dog hair. But I love it. And I have one more little surgery left after which I’ll need a big oatmeal hug.

So for now, it stays. 

The Art Of Nothing

This weekend I was in bed with the flu, giving me that opportunity to do something that I really love – which is, nothing.

I love doing nothing. And I never get the chance to enjoy doing nothing unless I'm on vacation, or in some state of unwellness or repair.  There are times where I can choose to do nothing, but that not nearly as fun because I am wracked with guilt. Inside I hear my mothers voice saying, ‘It’s a beautiful day, you should be outside!’

But this time I was wracked not with guilt, but with fever. And after spending a whole day throwing up like a hung-over teenager, Jim broke out the ginger ale, and I started enjoying myself. Day two was even better. I feasted on Saltines and lay back on our six pillows, staring at the ceiling. With a cat under each arm and a dirty basset hound at my feet, I was too feeble to be concerned about hair. Blissful.

Ed, Jed, Bed

Day three was the best. My eyes had stopped throbbing and I could finally watch guilt free TV! So I staggered to the sofa, ate half a banana and switched from the Olympics, to chick movies, to reality TV. Who knew that bobsledding was so fascinating? And that male sledders sometimes have little bellies under their shiney onesies? (Although the commentators didn’t seem to find it as fascinating as me.)

But the best thing about day three was that my big puffy hand with its four pork sausages was almost back to normal. I held it in front of me in disbelief as though displaying an engagement ring. But so much more precious. I could finally make out the tendons of extensor digitorum on the back of my hand. It was so beautiful. And so achingly familiar that I realized how much I’d missed it.

I also realized that my hand had deflated because of doing nothing. No driving, dog walking, typing, lifting, showering, lymphedema exercises, cleaning, opening doors, putting on pants. I didn’t even have to open my own ginger ale. Wingman did it all. I’d even given my fleshy compression garment a break for a few days and left them in a drawer. And still, my hand almost returned to normal.

So doing nothing is good for me. And it is good for my hand. When I hear my mothers voice talking about the weather, I have mine own voice with a valid excuse. (‘But mom, it's very theraputic to stay in bed. Inside.’) So now, doing nothing is part of my recovery plan, and I never have to feel guilty for doing nothing again.

Unbending

Oh how soon we forget. What ever happened to just being happy to be alive? I thought I’d finally learned to live in the moment and enjoy my ‘journey’, but apparently that was just a phase. All it took was one missed yoga class to turn me into a snarly old b*tch.

Last weekend I had plans. Lots of plans. First on my list was to pick up my friend Jo and go to my favorite yoga class. Even if it was -17 degrees outside. The ride over to Jo’s had been a bit bumpy, but I assumed it was a pothole, or snow bank, or a small child, so I wasn’t too worried. Turned out I had a flat tire. I’m usually pretty good at changing tires, but it’s a new car, and I couldn’t even figure out how to release the spare from its hiding place. I went into Jo’s little bungalow, called my pals at CAA and waited for them to come save me.

Turns out that the whole city was calling CAA. It was a miserable weekend  (Screw you, Polar  Vortex) and everybody was having car trouble. They told me to expect a two-hour wait. ‘Oh come ON!’ I said into the phone, ‘I can’t stay here all morning.’

Jo looked at me from over her reading glasses ‘Yes you can.’

‘Can what?’ I snapped

‘You can stay here all morning.’

Even though she was wearing her yoga clothes, Jo didn’t seem bothered by the sudden change of plans. She’d already looked up a recipe, and cleared a place on her couch for me, amidst her cats. ‘I’m going to make us breakfast’ she announced, ‘You can watch movie.’

Effortlessly, she switched gears. She’d let go of the idea of stretching, and was fully embracing being in the kitchen. But not me. Even though I was starving, and in the company of a dear friend, I couldn’t switch gears. I was stuck on  the idea of a good stretch. And without my good stretch I couldn’t be flexible.

There was a time, about a year ago, when I vowed to appreciate the feeling of being alive. Over the last two years I’ve found delight in feeling the wind blow through my (new) hair, being able to sleep on my stomach, wearing an under wire bra, stand up straight. These events have been thrilling. So shouldn’t I have developed gratitude about accepting the wonderful events that fall in my lap? Poached eggs, coffee and excellent company were being handed on a silver platter, and I wanted to be somewhere else! Clearly there was something wrong with me. 

I realized that I’d spent the whole week knowing that I’d get to this class – and that I was relying on it to propel me through the weekend. In my head, my schedule was written in ink, and I hadn’t allowed for the possibility of change. I was so determined to stretch my body, that I hadn’t allowed any bendability in my mind.

I tried to let go of the fact that I was depending on a stupid yoga class to get me through the weekend. And I tried to mentally erase the schedule that was in my head, and rewrite it in pencil. Of course things were going to go wrong. Exhausted from my mental white board, I  curled up on the couch with some cats. Jack, who is blind, sat on the back of the couch and was nibbling my hair. Another cat was staring at me from her bed, and I could feel her disapproval. Two other cats wandered by, contently living in the moment. One was orange, and the other had three legs and may have noticed that I was crabby, though they didn’t seem to mind.

Jo announced that breakfast was ready and we took our seats at the counter. I crossed my legs, which took an awful lot of effort, and smiled at my friend. My body was as stiff as Malibu Barbie,  but my mind that was formerly unbending, finally started to unwind.

Dr Fizz

Every so often, there is a word  I can't wrap my head around. I can’t think of any recent examples, so I’ll use my big sister's instead. Sue can’t say the word anecdote. So when attempting to tell a story she’ll say she’s got a funny 'antidote', and then there’s a pause, and then a look of confusion, followed by another look that says ‘I got it wrong again, didn’t I?’

For me, the current word is pyhsiatrist. Because I have pain in my shoulder, Nurse Linda thought I needed to see someone in rehab, and she referred me to a Physiatrist. ‘What’s that!?’ I asked. She explained that it is an MD who is also trained in rehab medicine. I thought that sounded like a great idea, and agreed to be set up with an appointment.

The problem was, when I tried to talk about it, I couldn’t remember what he was called. I remembered his name was Dr Patrick Chan, but couldn’t remember his official title. And when I tried to put it in a sentence all I could see in my head was that section of the dictionary where everything begins with phi, phy, ps .

‘I’m going to rehab,’ I declared proudly. ‘With Dr Patrick Chan. He’s a psyiologith….’ Then a pause, and I’d close my eyes  while long latin words would do somersaults in my head, ‘… he’s a rehab doctor’.

So the only way I could remember what he was called was to change the spelling. I had to do it phonetically. So I slammed shut my mental dictionary of the pages that had a ‘ph’. Instead, I started with a clean slate, and mentally wrote fizz-iatry. The suffix ‘iatry’ stems from the Greek 'iatrei' meaning healing, cure, or doctor. So to remember who he was, I had to think of Dr Patrick Chang as the Doctor of Fizz.

So on Wednesday afternoon I showed up at the clinic. ‘ I have an appointment with Dr Patrick Chan,’ I announced to the receptionist.

‘We don’t have a Dr. Patrick Chan here.’

‘Are you sure?’ I asked, ‘He’s a Fizziatrist.’

‘Oh, you mean Dr Eugene Chang. He’s the only physiatrist here.’

Dammit! How did I get Eugene out of Patrick? And who names a child Eugene anymore?  'Are your sure?'  She looked up at me with zero interest. 'Yes, I'm sure.'

I sat down and opened my mental address book. You! Jean Chang. Fizzatrist. 

That might make a funny antidote, someday. 

The Gloves Come Off

Each month I go to the ‘Survivorship’ Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. There I meet Nurse Linda,  who checks up on my fleshy sausage arm, puffy muppet hand, and my four wiener fingers.

(For the record – I loathe the term ‘Survivourship’. It’s almost as bad as ‘battle’ and ‘journey’)

This process is painless, and frankly, not very scientific, but I like nurse Linda. She’s a tiny dynamo, who is also a grandmother, and when something strikes her as funny she bark-laughs. I like people who do that. It’s as though she’s too busy to laugh, so she has one good bark and gets on with it.

Her tools consist of a blue Bic pen and retraceable tape measure that is available for purchase at the counter of Fabricland for under a dollar. I lean back in my comfy chair, my arm on a small side table,  while she records a set of measurements from the affected areas.

Let's be friends

While she takes her measurements I read over her shoulder. I can see the measurements from my last visit and there appears to be a slight variation. She tells me that my swelling seems to be up in my right arm by about 2%. I look down at my arm with little strokes of blue ink, and the flimsy tape measure.

‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ I ask Linda, ‘how reliable is this method?’

She rocks back on her chair and cocks her head. I ask her if measurements could be off, due to the tension of the cloth measuring tool. Or perhaps the measuring techniques among the different nurses I've visited.  

She purses her lips, and picks up my compression glove form where it had been lying on the table. I’d gotten used to it but in someone else’s hand it looked mangled, and dirty. ‘Do you ever wash this thing?’ she asked

‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’ I said, sitting up straight. ‘And yes, I wash my glove.’

‘I’m not offended.’ She said,

‘And I wasn’t insinuating your glove was filthy. It needs to be washed to maintain it’s compression.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Ha,’ barked she.

And we both settled back in our chairs.

Numb Boob & a Hot Drink

I’m always on the lookout for the silver lining that comes with having reconstructed boobs. And if that’s not available, I’ll settle for a party trick.

As luck would have it, I was lying in bed last night drinking Neo-Citran (that’s not the lucky part). Thanks to the polar vortex, everyone I know is feeling quite poorly. And those that aren’t actually feeling sick, still look pretty awful. So I decided to have a super early night and do a little reading in bed.

Jed in Bed

I took my hot beverage, my MacLean’s magazine (the Silken Laumen issue) and climbed into bed with Jed. I set my drink on the bedside table and settle down to read about Silken’s 'shocking secret'  and her road to Olympic bronze. 

The problem was – once my cup was on the table, I couldn’t really pick it up. I don’t have that sideways arm movement that allows me to do such things! Once I reach sideways, and back, with my right arm I get kind of stuck and have to make a big circle to bring it back alongside me. Not only does this make it difficult for getting into a parka, but also drinking in bed.

So I tried to keep my scalding hot cup with me, and settled it on my stomach. Within second the heat was too much. I tried resting it on the bed – but it was too tippy. I tried just holding it up  - but the cup was too hot. So I rested it on my right breast. Bingo! I couldn’t feel a thing. I could feel where the cup was supposed to be, but it was as though I was wearing a space suit. I was totally protected from any sensation. I am a human coaster.

Once the thrill died down, it occurred to me that I could be causing some serious damage. I peeked under my top, but nothing was amiss (And still no nipple). Just two miraculously perfect mounds and an enviable cleavage. No signs of damage.

I’m not sure what made me more tired. My evening beverage, or the story of Silken Laumen’s family.  You have to pull out a few stops to impress me anymore, and a crazy German mother just doesn’t impress.

However, a numb boob serving as a coaster impressed me quite a bit.

Green Goddess

The Road to Hell....

By 1 pm on New Years Day I had broken almost all my New Years resolutions.

Even the things that I hadn’t officially resolved to do – but should do on a regular basis – I hadn’t done. I hadn’t started my day with a glass of water, I hadn’t done my lymphedema exercises, hadn’t put dog boots on Jed, had forgotten to take my Tamoxifen, and I had Maple Whiskey with breakfast.

In my defense, the Whiskey was splashed into my coffee by my spectacular hostess at brunch and was considered medicinal due to the weather. And, once I’d had that little pick-me-up, it would have been rude to turn down the pink champagne for the New Years Day toast.

One of my resolutions is to set new goals and follow through with them. I’ve I had an excellent excuse for the last few years to stay still, but 2014 is different. This year we’re just down to nipples and liposuction. How long can that possibly take?

So when my yoga studio offered an evening with a Life Coach, I signed on. Her talk was about setting goals & setting intentions, and it seemed like the perfect way to start the year. But by the time Friday night rolled around, I was thinking of ways to get out of it. Firstly it was freezing and I didn’t feel like going out. Secondly, I really hate group activities, especially those involving shared feelings or vegetarian food. This would include both.

And thirdly, my friend, who had planned on coming with me, cancelled at the last minute. So I figured it would be pretty easy to unset my goals to go to my ‘setting goals’ seminar. I could also reset my intention, thereby creating a new intention to spend a cozy evening on the couch.

But I got up and put on my coat.  How, so early in the year, could I avoid an evening where the only requirement was to show up?  So I went.  And I pretended to enjoy the hummus (yuck) and I shared a little about myself. And I learned a little about fear, and regret, and what holds us back.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. (Personally I think it’s paved with hummus – but that’s just me). If indeed it is paved with intentions I’ve paved many a road. But luckily I've broken all my resolutions so the pressure is off. This year I'm going to concentrate on goals, cus I aints paving no more roads in 2014.

At least not this week. 

Best Breakfast, Ever.

This year was the most delicious Christmas dinner ever. It was the same menu, of course, but the combination of Vi’s moist turkey, and the sisters seasoning skills, made it super duper delicious.

But the contender for best Christmas Meal Ever was following the ice storm -  and it had nothing to do with a super-hot fireman (okay, it did).

Every year Jim does a toy drive. He and his colleagues collect money, and buy toys which they take it to the local fire hall, where volunteers distribute gifts for kids on Christmas morning. This year went according to plan, and they had dozens of bags of toys to give to the children. There was also a bit of money left over, so I volunteered to come with him for another shopping spree. The plan was that we’d buy the toys, drop them off, and go out for breakfast.

So we bought the toys, and headed to the local fire-hall. Driving was a slow because of the recent ice storm, and people were walking tentatively on the sidewalks. (But the trees were so beautiful!) We drove up to the fire station, and rang the doorbell. I envisioned a super hunk sliding down the pole – but nothing. We waited for a few minutes and looked through the window and realized there were no trucks. Everybody was out.

So we went to another fire hall. Same thing. Rang the bell, waited for a super hunk, and wriggled our toes to keep warm.

Let me grab the hot sauce

We drove on. The streets were pretty slippery, and some branches had started to fall. The streets, due to massive snow banks, were narrower than usual and cars had to inhale when passing.

I assumed that when you do a good deed it would be easy. I assumed that the effort comes with the providing, not the delivering. But I assumed wrongly. Firstly, things rarely go according to plan. Secondly, we are not that important. No matter what we are trying to do, there is always something bigger going on in the world. And this time it was Mother Nature. And due to Mother, there were a lot of domestic emergencies.

Later than morning we arrived at another Fire Hall and rang the bell. Jim peered through the window and saw a fire truck. A good sign. Seconds later the door was opened by a super hunk in a short-sleeved shirt with 22’ biceps. The smell of bacon came wafting from upstairs.  He smiled, 'Just got in, it's been a busy morning. We’re making breakfast.'

I would like to say that we were invited in for eggs, and that Mr. March and Mr. November were kneading bread in nothing but their boots. But that didn’t happen. What did happen is that we exchanged ‘Merry Christmas’s’ and went out for breakfast on our own. Amidst the storm and the bad coffee we felt small and humble in a city where so many people were working so hard to make things right.

And it was the best breakfast, ever.   

No Nipples for Christmas

Sigh.

No nipples for Christmas.

Not that I was expecting any in my stocking, but it would at least be nice to have a surgery date so I could plan for their arrival. And that was the point of my visit when I visited the Plastic Surgery Clinic last week.

As usual, I’d gone into the examining room and stripped down to my underpants. I was just slipping into the familiar blue and white striped robe when there was a knock on the door. ‘Are you decent?’ came a soft Dutch accent. I started laughing, ‘Does it matter?’ I opened the door, and there stood Dr H, the man who had seen, touched, cut and sewed parts of my body that even I will never see. I considered my new boobs mine as much as his.

'Get your sister away from me!'

I showed him my scars. ‘They’re very red, aren’t they?’ Dr H nodded, and said that they were indeed very red. I told him I’d seen the scars of woman who had the same surgery, and they weren’t nearly this red. ‘Yours are aggressive,’ he said, in the least aggressive tone possible. I asked if that was bad, and he said no, it was just the way I was healing.

‘You’re surgery was October?’ he asked. I told him that it was June. I find it funny that the best doctors are always getting the smallest of facts wrong, especially since all the facts are on the clipboard in their hand. But I couldn’t hold it against him. Firstly, he’s been wonderful. And secondly he looked very tired. I’d heard he’d just recently returned from a trip away, where he’d been volunteering his services in a war torn country. Not that he went to do breast augmentation or anything like that. He’s more into microsurgery, tissue engineering, and the rebuilding of the face, head and neck.

‘So, nipples?’ I asked him. He shook his head, ‘Not yet’. He explained that my slow healing body needs more time to settle. A few more months, most likely.  However, he did say that I’m good to go for the final touches on my waist. Currently I look like Spongebob Squarepants, but after a little contouring, I expect to look like Barbie. (She doesn’t have nipples either). And I will go from a 17” scar to a possible 24”!

I got back into my clothes. Jeans, T-shirt, and light cardigan. I walked down the hall carrying my coat and felt a blast of cold air. Instinctively I pulled my cardigan closed; an instinctive chick reaction to cover the headlights. But my boobs are numb and I don’t have anything I need to protect.  No nips. At least not this Christmas.

But I did start thinking about a Christmas many years ago. My sister Susan, who at age eight, did not approve of dolls that are not anatomically correct. So she took my brand new Barbie, stripped her naked, and drew on a couple of nipples.  I was devastated, because I, at age seven, liked things to be exactly as they were in the package.

Times sure have changed though. My package is different. But once again I am spending Christmas with my family, including my sister. There will be liquor, and there will be magic Markers.

So maybe it won’t be a nippleless Christmas after all. 

The Universal Language of Wine

Recently I visited Princess Margaret Hotel & Spa for my monthly lymphedema appointment.  I was sitting in the first class lounge enjoying my complimentary coffee when my name was called, and was surprised to find out that I was not there for a private session, but for a  ‘refresher class’ of lymphedema exercises.

Had I known it was a group activity, I would have cancelled.  I’ve yet to benefit from any group hospital activity, and I will only show up if I am the centre of attention. Also, treatment for canceritis takes up an awful lot of time, so I like to pare it down to essentials. But since I was there, and since my big fat puffy muppet hand was giving me trouble, I decided to stay.  I obediently filed into the small boardroom and took my seat at the table.

There were six of us, and nobody looked  fun. At least two of the woman looked like Miss Jane Hathaway, and one was a clone of my grade nine math teacher, Miss Bowmen. The nurse handed out diagrams of our lymphedema exercises and suggested we all do this together. This is not complicated stuff.  Head rolls, deep breathing, hand squeezes – I can do it in my sleep.  Not knowing how to make a gracious exit, I went along with it.

Ideally, we’re supposed to do these exercises twice daily. 15 minutes in the morning and 15 minutes at night. Then there’s my 15 minutes of scar massage. Plus my regular yoga routine, and dog walks – and oh yes – a job. 

Excercise # 11.  (Optional)

Exercise # 11

So we went around the table rolling our heads, and shrugging our shoulders, and marching in our chairs. My inner self was counting down the moments till we were done, but the other ladies were all having a fabulous time. They were rolling and squeezing with enthusiasm.

After 45 minutes the nurse asked if anyone had any questions. I had but one. ‘How do we speed this up?’ She looked at me quizzically. I explained that sometimes I did not have time to do two 15 minutes exercise routines. The other ladies  furrowed their brows and murmured softly to each other. But what I really wanted to know was, if time was scarce, what are the essential exercises.

‘Say I’m tired…’ I said, and watched as eyebrows were raised and judgement wafted around the room. One of the Jane Hathaways cocked her head at me, silently questioning my priorities. And I get it. The treatment of side-effects is a job, and must be treated as such. Excuses not permitted.

‘Or say … I’ve having too many glasses of wine?’

The frowns turned to gentle smiles of understanding. ‘Ahhh’ said the ladies, nodding in unison.  Even the nurse smiled with understanding. ‘Well then, if you only have a few minutes,  just pay attention to the area that’s being affected.’

I’m not sure whether the ‘area being affected’ was my drinking hand or my lymphedema hand, but they happen to be tone and the same. So in the morning I’ll do my my full routine. And in the evening, another routine, if time permits. 

I Don't Have Fleas!

That was the good news delivered to me by my dermatologist today.

On Friday my family Doctor told me that I was certainly a victim of some kind of bites. I’d spent the weekend, along with my three pets, itching and scratching, and knew there was something very wrong. While the doctor’s office was closed for the weekend, I had plenty of time to let my imagination run wild. My rash was also running wild. All over my back,  under my armpits, and a little on my tummy. 

 In my mind, we had a huge infestation of microscopic bloodsuckers that were slowly torturing us into frenzy.  Jim remained unscathed, for which I credited his swarthy Irish skin (Plus, I’m hairier). So I showed my doctor my rash, and she confirmed that I had bites. She asked if anyone else in the house was itchy and I confirmed that they were. Her diagnosis was fleas, or dust mites, or bed bugs.  I asked if my rash was actually a bunch of bites and she said that they were.

This flea has no good reason to be so happy

My Doctor (if she really is a Doctor) is very confident in her opinions. She told me that I should call public health, and they’d tell me how to check for bed bugs.  I started imagining our house without furniture, throwing away all my clothes, and shaving the dog and two cats. It would be the worst Christmas, ever. The doctor interrupted my yuletide thoughts, ‘Here’s a prescription for a cream.’

Today I visited a Dermatologist. She took one look at me and gave me her diagnosis. 

'You’ve got Contact Dermatitis, ‘ she said.
‘I think I’ve got bites’
‘It’s not bites. It’s a rash’
‘My pets are itchy. I think I have fleas. Or bed bugs’
‘They might have fleas. You don’t. You have a rash. Your shirts are probably too tight’
‘I don’t wear tight shirts. I think I have bedbugs'
‘You don’t have bites. You have a rash.’

Then she burst out laughing, and told me that the worst part of her job is trying to convince someone that they DO have bedbugs, and this is the first time she had to convince someone that they don’t.  I showed her the cream that my family doctor had prescribed. She snorted, and shoved it out of the way, ‘That’s for babies. Use this.’ And she wrote out a prescription for something way stronger.

I waked out onto Bloor St feeling like a million dollars. We wouldn’t have to shave the pets or toss out the sofa. And even though I was surrounded by people on a busy sidewalk, I didn’t care who heard me. I took out my cell phone and dialed Jim’s number.

‘Hey guess what ? I don’t have fleas!!’

The One That Got Away

Recently I was sitting at my friend’s kitchen table. There were three of us girls, and as the conversation started to wander (kids, money) I turned it back to me.

It’s been a while since the world revolved around my surgery, and people rarely bring it up. I can’t go too long without thinking about it though, because he reminders are always there.

Firstly, there’s the 17” scar that affects the way I dress, and the way I move. I wear low riding pants and tuck in my T-shirts in to protect myself from the back of the metal button on the waistband. Also, anything more than a brisk walk and I can feel the tightness. Short bursts of running are okay, but I still feel like someone hit me in the stomach with a pie plate (I like pie). And then there are the weird Barbie boobs, that are starting to look less weird by the day. Still, I’d be an oddity in a woman’s changing room, and you can forget about a nude beach.

So friend # 1 was talking about something that was not about me. I broke in and said, ‘Does anyone want to see my scar?’ They both looked at me. ‘Sure?’ said #1 tentatively. Friend # 2 was more enthusiastic, ‘Yeah! I kinda do.' So I hiked my shirt and watched their faces.

I told ya so

‘Holy shit!’ they said in unison. With my belly exposed I watched their eyes widen and their mouths fall open. ‘It’s HUGE’, they said, ‘It looks like you were bitten by a shark!’ Their reaction was immensely satisfying.

But I was also curious about what they’d expected. Hadn’t I said it looked like I was sawed in half by a bad magician? I could have sworn I said it went from hip to hip and looked like jagged red teeth. 

So I asked, ‘What did you think it would look like?’

Friend #2 looked up at me over her glasses, ‘Well…not like this. I thought it was one of your exaggerations. You know.’

No! I did not know. ‘You thought I was exaggerating about all this?’
My friend cocked her head, ‘Well…yeah.’

Hmph. I wasn’t aware that I was an exaggerator. Interestingly, I thought that I toned things down in an attempt to make everything sound normal. Could it be that I pepper my adventures with anecdotes that are somewhat embellished? And could this be a desperate cry for attention because of my upbringing as a middle child? Perhaps I should lift up my shirt more often  - though it will be a while before I display my breasts.

So for the record, my scar really is a mother. No word of a lie.  And in the world of bites it looks like I was half eaten by a hungry Tiger Shark that was at least 12’ in length  And you should have seen the one that got away.

.

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.