Cat Toys & Nipple Protectors

Bring me toys

I had this strange fantasy that once my stitches were out, my nipples would fall off and roll across the floor like marbles. Once on the ground, the cats would start swatting them and they’d end up under the bed covered in dust like the rest of the cat toys. But luckily that wasn’t quite the case.

The stitches came out pretty smoothly with the help of a tall strapping nurse named Kevin. He told me that he’d just been transferred to plastics, which became obvious when I opened my gown. ‘Wow!’ he said enthusiastically, ‘Those are beautiful!’  Apparently, for both of us, nipples were still a novelty. ‘Who made these?’ he asked, as though admiring a rare diamond. 'These are MARVELOUS.'

After the stitches came out, Kevin rebandaged me. As usual it was gauze, nipple protectors, more gauze, all held on with cloth tape. The ‘protectors’ themselves were nothing fancy. Dr. H had created them by cutting off the bottoms of a small plastic pill cup. Frankly – I expected more sophisticated technology from Toronto’s finest hospital, but they did the trick, and were Dr H’s parting gift to me.

Nipple Protectors. Mistmatched.

That night it was a relief at night when I could take off all my bandages and take my boobs bed. Luckily I’m a back sleeper, so I was confident that no harm would come to my fabulous nips. I took off my plastic protectors and set them on the dresser.  

At about three in the morning I heard a little scratching. I turned on the light.  Eddie, our 20 lb cat, was sprawled lazily across the dresser, his giant paw resting atop my nipple protector. I got up to grab him, but he jumped down from the dresser, apparently taking his new toy with him. I was too tired to look for it, and fell asleep with the sound of happily playing under the bed. 

The next morning I could only find one nipple protector. So I put it on. Then I went to the kitchen and took the lid off a bottle of Perrier, put that on the other side, and covered it with tape. I figured the missing item was probably down a vent, or in a shoe somewhere.

But luckily it was the only thing gone missing, and my new nipples were still safely stuck on me.

Perky in More Ways Than One

In anticipation of my recovery from nipple reconstruction, I cleared my whole week. But after three excellent Sandra Bullock movie, and a bunch of naps, I was feeling pretty good. In fact I was starting to feel downright perky. So on day two, I got up, had coffee, and prepared to take a shower.

I’d been told that I was free to take off the breast bandages, and allow for a gentle cleansing. So I peeled them off and stepped into the shower. In typical fashion, I avoided looking at my newly remodelled body parts of, concentrating instead on the shower head. But exiting the shower I made the mistake of looking down.  Holy Moly! I wasn’t the only thing that was perky! My nipples were enormous!

Dr H had warned me that they’d start off quite large, and then get smaller over time. But since I hadn’t really listened, I was shocked to see that my nipples looked like someone had taken a cocktail sausage, cut it into pieces, and sewed them on to my chest. They were nothing like the cute little nipples I’d lost to cancer. These were tubular, flat, gigantic, and fleshy. And, horrifyingly they were attached to me! It was disgusting!

I forced to look at myself in the mirror. Sometimes I still hoped to see my perfect 17 yr old body staring back at me but this body was far from perfect. My new headlights were turned on full blast, but rather than stare straight ahead, they stared off in opposite directions like a goldfish.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the black Sharpie doodles when I had a chance. Or, perhaps my little cocktail wieners had been created in haste. Who knows? Perhaps, over time, my original boobs would even have been this imperfect

Though I was shocked, I wasn’t discouraged.  Amidst my revulsion, I felt a twinge of something resembling delight. I may not have been able to look at them, and they may be too porny for my liking, but I'll take Perky over Barbie any day.

Nips and Tucks

I would be lying if I said I didn’t put some thought into my underpants on the day of my procedure. After all, it’s not everyday a girl gets new nipples. And, it’s not everyday a girl gets to spend and couple of hours with her favorite Dutch Surgeon.

Also, since I was in an exam room rather than an operating theatre, I didn’t have to wear an unflattering cap, nor did I have to take off my earrings. So, relative to every other surgery or exam, I was quite dressed up. Dr H had also dressed up for the occasion (or so I like to think) wearing an extremely flattering pair of blue J Crew scrubs that perfectly matched his eyes.

I stood before him as he examined me. My gown was open and he was sitting on his little doctor stool, examine his handiwork and planning his strategy. Then began surgical foreplay, or what might also be called ‘drawing on me with a Sharpie’.

First he drew a nipple on my left side. Then he took out his little tape measure and drew a nipple on my right side. Then he suggested I look in the mirror. These are the nipples I would have for the second half of my life and I could choose exactly where they would go. What control! But about that time the Ativin started to kick in and I was feeling as though I would say yes to anything.

‘Great!’ I blurted, ‘Make them pretty!’

Next he examined my ‘dog ears’. Those annoying little pillow case corners that have been bookending my 17’ abdominal scar since my surgery. I’ve hated them. When other ladies complain about a muffin tops I was envious. I would have killed for a muffin, rather than a horizontal box of kleenex. Dr H drew an oval the size of an egg around each ‘dog ear’ and explained that they’d just cut out the skin, some extra fat, and sew it into a nice smooth line. Yippee!

Then it was time to jump on the table. A surgical assistant explained that she’d be doing the freezing at that it would be the worst part. After that I’d feel slight tugging, or pulling, but no pain. She wasn’t kidding about the freezing. F*cking uncomfortable. Even the Ativin wasn’t working and though I tried to take deep healing Belleruth breaths and surround myself with my band of allies and magical friends, I still yelped out loud. Dr. H gazed down at me, ‘Here, squeeze me hand’, he said.

When I finally released his hand (after way longer than absolutely necessary) Dr H and his assistant surgeon got down to work. They each took a side. Had it not been for the occasional glance at a scalpel, or the sight of string and a needle, I would have been fairly relaxed. There was no pain. And as is my habit when I’m nervous, I babble a fair bit, and ask far too many questions. At the end of ninety minutes I knew all about Dr H’s family, his relationship with his father, his hobbies, and where he lived. (I asked his surgical assistant exactly one question, even though I didn’t care about the answer. I was just doing it to be polite).

Way too soon I was being bandaged up. Four bandages in total with some plastic nipple protectors for my new accoutrements. Dr H helped me off the table and told me I’d done really well. I like to think he meant I’d made smart style choices with my underwear and earrings, but what I think he meant was that I hadn’t passed out, nor had I ripped his hand of his arm, even though I wanted to. Good for me!

Alone the room I looked at myself in the mirror. Bandages covered the new nips. My original belly scar looked back at me - still red and jagged but settling more every day. And now, new bandages covered the areas over my hips where the scar had been extended to a whopping 22 inches. But even with the bandages, and the blood, and the tape, I could see the curve in my body that I had dreamed about so often, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I strolled out into the waiting room where, as usual, my sweet Wingman was waiting, and I felt more like myself than I had in a long time.

Bye-Bye Spongebob. Hello me!

'Twas the night before Nipples...

By this time tomorrow I’ll have a pair of brand new nipples. Rather than think about the procedure itself, I’ve engaged in my old pre-surgery ritual. After I ferociously cleaned our little house, and made enough kale salad to last me a week, I touched up my pedicure.

May Contain Nipples

I don’t know what it is about surgery that makes me want to take care of my feet, but toenail polish is an absolute prerequisite for going under the knife. And, it has to be red.

Next is an Epsom salt bath – my last for about eight weeks. After which I put on a white t-shirt and look at myself in the mirror. My boobs look kind of pretty. Do I really need nipples? My rack has never looked this good! Is it too late to cancel? I examine my dog-ear. It too is looking less bulgy that in has in a long time, and I’ve kind of gotten used to looking like Spongebob squarepants. Is this procedure on my waist a waste?

Luckily I’m distracted by the bottle of ativin on my dresser. I put it there so I wouldn’t forget to put it in my bag tomorrow. Last week I called the clinic and asked if I could take one. The nurse said yes. Ten minutes later I called back and asked if I could take two. The nurse said no.

Then it’s half an hour with Belleruth; my savior. She takes me through a guided meditation and reintroduces me to my magical friends and band of allies, those invisible little beings of my imagination who will sit with me  as I’m reconstruced into a closer version of my old self. I listen to Belleruth through my headphones so it feels like she’s in my head. She reminds me that I am safe. Two cats and a basset hound lie at my (perfectly manicured) feet.

Now I’m having a celebratory glass of wine. I’ve been thinking about this day for a long time but it still doesn’t seem real. In a weird (but not really) way I’m looking forward to seeing my pals at the hospital and being told how great I look. Basically ‘great’ is hospital-speak for ‘alive’ but I’ll take it. And, I’ll have a few days of forced relaxation – my books and chick flicks are already lined up. 

The Wingman just asked what time I’d like to be picked up. And he’s planning to wait with me, then greet me, post-surgery smoothie in hand. 

This feels a bit like Christmas. I sort of know what I'm getting, but I don't know exactly how they will looks, or how I will be wrapped. But - I'm getting excited. 

One more sleep.

            

Cherries on Top

Starting today, I begin the six day countdown for my nipple reconstruction; a procedure for which I will be awake.

I’ve known about this for a very long time and I’m supposed to be excited. After all these tests, surgeries, and appointments, it’s supposed to be the ‘finishing touch’, the ‘ icing on the cake’, or more appropriately, ‘ the cherries on top of that icing’.

The problem is, I’m not excited (There’s got to be a joke in there somewhere). In fact, I’ve picked up the phone at least a dozen times, to reschedule my appointment, and hung up every time thinking that I would be wise to just go through with it. I believe in the women who have gone before me, women who I love and trust, who have reported feeling complete after their procedures.

And who wouldn’t!  Having Barbie boobs is very strange. I never really look at them for any length of time unless I happen to glance at myself in the mirror. Sometimes it catches me off guard and I‘m slightly shocked. Other times, when I’m feeling more solid, I think about the miracles of plastic surgery. But still, it’s my own little miracle, and apart from a few doctors and my wingman, nobody has ever seen ‘em. I’ve been keeping them hidden for a while.

So it puzzles me that I’m not more excited. By the end of this year out all be as fully restored to normal as possible. But the concept of having headlights is overshadowed by the fact that I’m going to have more surgery, and have to wear ‘nipple protectors’ for a few weeks. Also, I will be having my ‘dog ear’ removed so I will be extending my 17” scar a couple of inches, which should eventually give me back my waist.

Tucked in my wallet I have a gift card for one of the best bra shops in the city, and occasionally I pull it out to try to summon the excitement of bra shopping for the finished product. In my closet I have a party bag full of bandages and ointment, and I imagine how gleeful I’ll be when they are no longer under my roof.  But – I feel nothing. My brain is as numb as m boobs.

I’ve been sort of in denial about being poked and diced and prodded, while under a general anesthetic. Obviously I’ll need something to relax me. (Hellooooooo, Atavin!). I’m shamelessly in love with anything that relaxes me – just as I’m shamelessly crushing on my handsome surgeon. Possibly this is a bad combination, as I will likely say something embarrassing. Worse, I will try to kiss his neck, or if my arms aren’t too numb, I will reach up and stroke his hair.

Second worse case scenario is that he’s called off on an emergency, and I’m stuck with a Fellow who I’ll be meeting for the very first time. The result will be tears, and instant regret about having chosen my best outfit. Then I’ll be sent home with my swollen cherries and a bandage where my waist is supposed to be.Hmm. It’s no wonder I’m not excited. But I’ve still got a few days to get pumped up.

The countdown continues.  

Hiking Sucks

Recently I was telling a friend about trekking in Thailand. Or more appropriately, I managed to work ‘trekking’ into a conversation. As I did so I thought of two things. Firstly, it sounded really impressive. I came across as someone brave and outdoorsy, and willing to forsake comfort for adventure. (As if)

Caution: Not fun

Secondly, I don’t know if I’m that person anymore. There was a time where I was so low-maintenance that I didn’t bother packing shampoo, or think about how long I’d be away.  Then my extended adventures became something that would fit between visits to a hair salon, to something I can do in a week.

Now I’d have serious concerns about hiking through villages and setting up camp. For instance, how long could I go without peeing my pants? (Answer, about half an hour)  I remember a picture of myself standing on a mountain with a sunburn and greasy hair – and that chick was a camel! And that chick could go all day without thinking about her bladder. Now it’s foremost on my mind.

That girl in standing on that mountain in Thailand was smiling from ear to ear. She was happy in the sunshine, surrounded by other trekkers, who, like me, were young and strong and seemingly carefree. And it made total sense that these people didn’t have to worry. They didn’t carry a days-of-the-week pill container, and they didn’t worry about wearing summer scarves to protect their necks, or grey roots, or a fleshy compression sleeve.

Back in my trekking days I could rides elephants without having to worry about finding a washroom. Now things are different. Beside the lack of bladder control (hello adult diaper!), there is sun that I can’t sit under because of radiation, and the stress I can’t put on my arm lest the lymphedema swells up like a fleshy pork sausage, and the heat, and risk of infection. I take all the necessary precautions yet there is a constant concern that something could go awry. To me these feel like ‘old people’ problems, yet I am not old and the problems are mine.

The whole thought that my carefree days are behind me is depressing. Especially since all the trekkers in the picture were so young. I thought about all the older people at home with their inhalers, and walkers, and oxygen tanks, who didn’t have the chance to get blistering sunburns, or sleep on hard cold floors in a village hut surrounded by potbelly pigs.

Then it hit me. Older people don’t stay home from adventures because of their pill containers and swollen fingers – they just don’t want to waste any more time have crummy sleeps. They aren’t staying home because hiking is too gruelling – they are staying home because they want to!

I think of another picture of me on the mountain. This time I’m with my friend Katie and we’re lagging behind the rest of the group. That was the day we’d both reached the decision that the trek was too long. Also, we’d both slept badly in the hut and were tired of carrying stuff on our sweaty backs. Even back in those days I was probably dreaming about a Best Western and crisp clean sheets.

So, in fact, I am still the girl in the picture! The only thing different was how much I’d romanticised about those long steep walks through the hill. I was hot and tired then, and I’m hot and tired today. Different decade, different problems. Still smiling, but still slightly uncomfortable.

Polka Dot Tankini

Me. (not really)

My perfect bathing suit is starting to deteriorate. It looks fine from the front, but is pretty threadbare from behind. ‘Ick, gross’, is what my sister said to be as we exited a lake recently (though I found out later is was less about the suit and more about my hairy legs).

Since it was my only bathing suit, it was time to get a new one.  I’ve only ever had one bathing suit at a time, and when it starts to wear out, I replace it.  That’s sort of been my method of operation for a

ll my hard-to-find items. This is reflected by my closet, which is one of the most highly curated (meager) selections of clothing known to womankind.

I never thought it would be like this. When I was a little tomboy, I assumed that the desire to shop and wear perfume would decent upon me like puberty, and molars.  I pictured a future rich with high heels, manhattans, and a perfume bottle with an atomizer for me to squeeze.

Little did I know that I would grow up clumsy (but adorable) with minimal make-up and mostly flat shoes. Still, I like pretty things. Which makes shopping even harder, since whatever I buy has to be perfect, and last for a long time.

‘Good luck in there!’ said the sales lady as she closed the door to my changing room. I’d come to a department store and had grabbed three swimsuits – a practical blue one piece, a polka dot tankini, and a saucy nautical number.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked her.

She explained that trying on bathing suits was super stressful, and most people have a rough time. Some even leave in tears. But I wasn’t feeling stressed, in fact I was pretty excited. Perhaps it’s because I don’t really feel like ‘most people’.  For instance, most people don’t have Barbie breasts with no nipples. And most people my age don’t have a delightful little cleavage or  a perfectly flat stomach which gives the illusion of abs of steel.

I must have done something marvelous in a past life, because all three bathing suits fit perfectly. Even the tankini, which I didn’t think I could wear. The nautical number was good too, even if  I did resemble a Russian figure skater performing their free dance to the theme of ‘Gilligans Island’.

When I emerged form the changing room the saleslady was waiting for me. ‘How’d you do in there?’ she asked. I tossed everything triumphantly on the counter. She smiled, ‘So you’ll take all three?’

The question mark hung in the air. Would I? My intention was to buy just one – because that’s what I always did.  But the practical me was silenced by another voice chatting in my head.

‘Oh lighten up!’ said the voice, fresh from a sip of her cocktail. ‘Have a bit of fun!’ Ignoring the voice, I checked the price tags and prepared to choose the one I like best. ‘Everyone loves a gal in polka dots,’ the voice continued, ‘Let’s buy them all!’

I was leaning towards the one piece, because it made the most sense.  But the voice was having none of it, ‘No one ever got laid in a one-piece. Don’t be a dud. Take all three!’

I handed the salesgirl my credit card and smiled as though shopping was something I did all the time. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll take all three.’

And just like that I’d become the lady I always thought I should be – with a Visa bill and a bag of not-entirely practical clothes. One small step for womankind. One giant step for me.

Happy Birthday Noobs!

My new boobs are one!

Me and my girls. 

Not bad, considering that two years ago I almost collapsed in the examining room in front of my Breast Surgeon, Dr Escargot. He’d softly suggested softly that I might want to consider a double mastectomy. The very word was like a punch in the kneecaps.  Even with his soft Colombian accent the word ‘mastectomy’ sounded harsh and barbaric.   I remember wrapping my arms across my chest, and glaring at him as though he was trying to steal my Halloween candy.

Months later, in an effort to ‘gather information’ I met with my Plastic Surgeon. I cried in front of him too. Dutch accent this time, which made the word ‘mastectomy’ sound a little more playful, like something you might want to do while you’re on vacation. But I had a little meltdown anyway, and he gently assured me that I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do.

‘Wanting’ to have a mastectomy wasn’t something that really entered the equation when it came to making the most difficult decision of my life. What I wanted was to live a long and healthy life. Achieving that goal meant doing everything in my power to reduce the risk of recurrence. Thus the decision was made for me, and it had nothing to do with the fact that my Plastic Surgeon was a hottie.

It wasn’t till two weeks after my surgery that I found the courage to look at my new breasts. The thought of boobs without nipples was just too weird for me. In my strong moments I thought of them as Barbie Boobs, but the fact is that Barbie doesn’t have scars the size of a peppermint patty where the nipple-age used to be.

For three months there was no bra. Just two big soft spongy marshmallows supported by a camisole. They did their own thing, and I did mine. It’s’ as though we co-existed in the same shirt, without really having any connection. They were just like having a new pet. I washed them, massaged them, and took them to the vet doctor. They were the fist thing I thought about in the morning, and the last thing I thought about before I went to sleep.

For six months I couldn’t wear bras with under wire. In fact I couldn’t wear any of my old bras at all. Although my noobs were created by using my original skin envelopes, the shape is only almost sort of the same. Lefty is close to perfect, but right is a little bit squishy – as though it spend some time in a George Foreman Grill. But a good bra makes everything better, and I’ve found some soft ones that work just fine.

Twelve months later and they feel like mine, even though they’re not completely finished. They jiggle in all the right places, and fit comfortably into my familiar 36 C’s. Apart from a few radiation tattoos and a shark bite across my tummy, as well as the scars on my boobs, you’d never even guess I’d had cancer. Clothed, anyway.

But here’s something I do that I never got to do with my old girls. Stare at them. Sometimes in disbelief and sometimes in amazement. How is this even possible? How do they rebuild a pair of breasts?  Then without realizing it, I’m running my hand over one of the small mounds, just making sure it is there.

In private – it’s totally different. Alone they get the full massage treatment, with oils and other yummy things. Soon they may have acupuncture, because a woman I know promises that in doing so, the heat will be released and the scars will heal even further.

Occasionally I miss my old body. Some woman say they don’t miss their old breasts, reasoning that ‘they tried to kill me’. But I feel that my old boobs were innocent victims, and I loved them till the end.

But the new are more than welcome, and sometimes the thought of how fresh they are makes me positively gleeful.  And they’ve just turned one.

Happy birthday to us!

Own It Like Grandma

Last week I started thinking about Oprah.  I was standing in a locked changing room at the YMCA, and I was thinking about her, because I was the only person who was actually in a changing room. Everyone else was happily changing at their lockers.  So I started thinking about Oprah, and how she talks about ‘owning it'.

My mother Violet and I were getting ready for an aqua fit class. She was stripping down to her birthday suit,  and I was grabbing my suit and heading to a private room. She reassured me that there were all shapes and sizes at the Y, but I wasn't quite ready to reveal myself in public. So I locked the door and slid into the tight black bathing suit that covers my jagged scar and gives me the illusion of a flat stomach.

If it was just my stomach I could have exposed myself, but I wasn’t mentally prepared to reveal my Barbie boobs, and see the horrified confusion people’s faces. So instead I hid behind a locked door and thought about Oprah. She may have coined the term ‘Owning It', but before she came along there were other people in my life who taught me the same lesson.

Before Oprah there was my grandmother. She was a sweet gently lady from Lithuania with soft skin and kind eyes. She loved us all madly, and would sit patiently in her big green chair while my sisters and I scrambled over her like a pack of kittens.  While she watched her ‘boyfriend’ Liberace we'd  stroke the crinkly skin under her chin, and playing with the jiggly flesh by her armpit. For this we were rewarded with a hug and a chuckle, and later with a giant plate of perogies and a five-dollar bill.

When I was about six I had sleepover over at my Grandma’s house. It didn’t happen often and I was very excited. At night she put me to bed, and covered me with blankets.  I remember her wearing a flowered dress and her soft hand stroking my hair. As she leaned in to kiss me I inhaled deeply taking in the smell of cabbage rolls, and Dove soap. She turned off my light, and told me I was pretty.

A few hours later I had to pee. I crawled out from my pile of blankets.down the dim hallway toward the bathroom. I was just about to turn a corner when I stopped dead in my tracks. Standing in front of me was a creature, with long flowing hair and a long gown. I was too scared to scream. I just remember looking up and seeing a face that was a cross between my grandmother and a baby - the creature didn't have any teeth! Not to mention the fact that the creature had the biggest bosom had ever seen and instead of standing straight out, it hung downward, towards her waist. And the hair! It was wild! Without bobby pins holding it back it stuck out all over the place.

My grandmother started shaking. She put her hand over her mouth and I realised that she was giggling. 'I don't have my teeth in!’ she managed to say between gasps of breath. 'I left them in my bedroom.' She must have been enjoying the look on my face because she rocked with laughter. She was back lit by the light in the washroom and her nightgown was transparent. Not only had a seen her without her apron, but I'd certainly never seen her naked.

But here's what I remember thinking in my pious little six-year-old head. I was thinking 'Why are you still standing there? Shouldn't you be running away in embarrassment and getting your dentures?' But she had no intention of running away - she was having too much fun watching my eyes bulge out of my head. She was toothless and braless and see-through and scary, and she was having a blast. She stood her ground, and she Owned It.

Eventually I made my way back to bed and trembled under the covers. I had never seen someone nearly naked and toothless! The image burned my eyes and gave me nightmares for weeks. Today however, that same image is  precious. The page it holds in my mental photo album is alive and joyous, and real. 

The Mighty O encourages all to be our authentic self. I don’t think my grandmother ever used the word ‘authentic’.  In fact, her English wasn’t all that good. But her lesson was as clear as the glint in her eye.

I’m still a chicken and I’m not ready to get naked in a changing room just yet. But that time is coming, I know it for certain. So when I’m ready to get naked in public, I’ll own it. 

Like my Grandma.  

No More Pruning For You

Here’s my question. When do ‘cute little quirks’ stop being cute, and turn into full-blown middle-aged madness.

Yesterday I saw it in my Wingman’s eyes as he watched me prune a bush. There was neither judgement nor amusement, just the look of someone who had realised I probably shouldn’t be allowed to use a pair of pruning sheers.

My cute little quirk (problem) is that I hate stuff. I don’t think that there’s a name for people like me, but I consider myself to be an anti-hoarder, or the opposite of a packrat. I’m not nearly interesting enough to have my own reality sho, but it’s becoming a bit of an issue.

I can’t bear to have any non-essentials getting in my way. That goes for furniture, clothes, house wares, files, guests, make-up, words, and body hair. The only thing I like in excess is food and wine, and that’s because it’s temporary. Vacuuming? I can’t get enough of it. Same goes for weeding, getting unused contacts off my phone, and clipping my nails. If I can make it dissappear - I will!

It was sort of quirky and adorable when I had my first apartment. My friends would laugh about my minimalist approach to furnishing and the boxes of books I used as side table for almost a decade. Fast forward twenty years, and  my closet only has 36’ of hanging clothes. I can’t stand having clothing that hangs there for absolutely no reason. When I stop loving something, it has to go.  I also have a permanent donation bag on the go for the moment when something suddenly becomes loathsome. Every day is potential purge-o-rama.

I am particularly intolerant of anything that looks medical-y or bandage-y, and recently tore the house apart like a lunatic determined to get rid of reminders of illness. (This is slightly illogical since I have nipples coming up – but I’m anticipating a low maintenance recovery).

Buddha, and formerly round bush

At any point poor Jim might come home with a new something-or-other and place it timidly in front of me.  We both look at it. ‘Can you stand having it here?’ he asks. We look at each other and I counter with, ‘Do we need it?’ There is an uncomfortable silence as we each explore our levels of agitation.  And 8/10 times it goes back out the door. To me, the most beautiful sight in the world is a bare table, though flowers are okay.

This weekend I was enjoying cleaning up the small front garden. We have a jolly round yellow bush the size of a five year old, which had taken a beating over the winter. It was bulgy and misshapen and was leaning on my little Buddha. So I began my first foray into topiary. I cut of a few branches. And I cut of a few more. Delighted by the debulging,  I turned into Edward Scissorhands and began attacking the little bush in frenzy of blurred blades.  Every snip was wildly satisfying! I was so happy I could barely breath.

I was diving in for a final cut when a shadow fell over the bush and I looked up to see Jim standing over me. He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips. He looked at the once chubby bush, and I knew that what I had done no longer adorable. I’d crossed into madness territory, feeling thrilled and guilty all at the same time.  Jim looked at me as one might look at a child who’d just rubbed a bottle of ketchup into their hair.

‘Uh oh,’ he said, gently wrestling the sheers from my hands, ‘No more pruning for you.’

Postponing my Nipples

Two Nipples Please!

I work in an open concept office. Of the dozen people in the room, two are my friends. The other ten are almost strangers, yet I know WAY too much about their lives. Such is joy of working without walls.

I’ve heard phone conversations about finances, children, adultery (suspected), dog walkers, cold sores and diets (mostly unsuccessful). I try not to listen, but I can’t help it. And I certainly don’t want anyone listening to me.

Last week my cell phone was acting up, so I was forced to use a land line. Early  morning almost everyone was out of the office or hooked up to earphones. I rolled my chair to a quiet corner, picked up the phone, and dialed my Plastic Surgoen’s office.

My aim was to leave a message requesting a postponement of my nipple surgery. My previously scheduled appointment (May 27) interferes with my upcoming job, so I’m opting for a delay. Besides, they’re just nipples. I’ve been living without them for almost a year and it hasn’t made much difference to my life. Nipples, shnipples.

Suprisingly, the secretary answered the phone after the first ring. ‘Hello.’ I said, ‘I’d like to postpone my procedure.’

‘What procedure is that?’ she asked

‘Two new nipples, and removal of one dog ear.’

I provided my information and she put me on hold, ostensibly to check her calendar. Though after last years’ scheduling fuck-up, I suspect she may have just kicked back and eaten a tin of diet pudding. A few minutes later she came back on the line and suggested July 15. Perfect!

Just then John the graphics guy entered the room. I caught his eye and he waved at me. I congratulated myself on my excellent timing. Had it been 15 seconds sooner…….oh no!

‘What procedure was that again?’ came the voice on the phone. 

‘Nipples.’ I hissed into the phone. John was smiling and walking towards me.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the secretary, ‘I didn’t hear you.’

John was nearing my desk. ‘Nipples’ I said as quietly as possible. 'Two, please.’

‘Right’ she said ‘Got it. And what was the other thing?'

I held up my finger in the universal sign of ‘I’ll just be a minute’, but John may have been the only person on this planet who didn’t know what that meant. He stood patiently beside me.

‘Dog ear’ I said quietly into the receiver.

‘See you in July!’ she chirped.

I hung up the phone and started chatting with John before he had a chance to ask questions.  Next phone call will require more privacy. We haven’t even begun to talk about my tattoos. 

Souvenirs from Cancerland

Memories of Italy

My souvenirs from foreign lands come in many different tastes and sizes. From Havana I have a piece of art, from France I have a sweater, and from Cancerland I have Chocolate Chile Black Bean Soup.

It sits in our freezer in the Tupperware container in which it was delivered, almost two years ago. It is vegan, organic, and comes with directions (orders) to serve with sour cream, green onions, and avocado. It is homemade, and hand delivered by my good friend E.

Normally this is the kind of food that I would have dived into. At the time though, I was going through chemo and my taste buds had gone topsy-turvy. I was passing over savoury treats in favour of blander items like pound cake (a whole one), and potato leek soup.

Memories of Cuba

I am most grateful to be able to say that I received a lot of food at the time. Baked goods were showing up on our doorstep and there were stacks of individual pasta dishes in the freezer. The kindness of friends and family kept us well fed over the winter. If I were to rate them in order of deliciousness it would be an impossible task. Gratitude trumped flavour, so I ate with my heart, and everything was exquisite.

The Chocolate Chile soup fascinated me. Wonderful exotic yet a bit confusing in it’s pairing of chocolate and beans. I reached for it a few times, and then chose to save it for when I was a bit more adventurous. I even ran out to get the green onions and avocado with the intention of making it for dinner, then realized I forgot the sour cream, and decided to wait a little bit longer.

Memories of Cancerland

‘Are we ever going to eat this?’ Asked Wingman recently. (He‘d been eyeing it hopefully for quite some time). I assured him that we were, but secretly I wasn’t in a rush to do so. If we were to eat it, I would no longer be able to look at it in the freezer, and I’d grown to love its presence.

It took me a while to come to this realization – but I didn’t like the thought of not having it there. The chocolate chili black bean soup was the very last of our lovingly delivered meals, and I like to see it looking up at me. I never thought a green plastic lid would mean so much. I thought that my standout memory of treatment would be my baldness, but it turns out I’m not that shallow (who knew?). It turns out my standout memory is the kindness of other’s, and the efforts they made on our behalf. It is the memory of community, and friendship. And it has nothing to do with me being the centre of the universe (Okay, it does).

So in our little house we have many reminders of all the great people and places in our life. The cards,  the cranes, the fridge magnets, the photos. The soup is amongst them but it is meant to be eaten. To be enjoyed, And to nourish. 

So this spring I will get the sour cream, avocado and green onion (and whatever wine goes with beans) and I will crack it open. And will serve it up in style…

… just as soon as I have my next surgery. 

Top Ten Quotes

We made it!

There have been so many days over the last few months where I have hid in bed under a duvet. There has never been a winter this bad!  I've tried to be brave, but it's a mighty task, and sometimes the world is best looked at  from under a giant  bag of feathers.

But the birds are singing, and I'm crawling out from my cocoon. There's so much to look forward to - specifically Vitamin D and nipples. And now that my shoulders aren't bunched up around my ears I can look back at the last season with clarity, and see what a monster it really was. Here are the top ten quotes that kept me from going crazy.

1. Feel the fear and add some courage.

2. Sometimes when things are falling apart, they may actually be falling into place.

3. You don’t have to be brave. You just have to show up.

4. Just because you’re having a meltdown doesn’t mean you’re not coping.

5. Don’t wear your wishbone where your backbone out to be.

6. Man plans. God laughs.

7. You can’t start a new chapter in your life, if you keep reading the last one.

8. Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.

9. When you’re walking through hell, keep walking.

Chaz's mom

10. Normal is just a cycle on washing machine.

And  in honour of springtime and endless possibilities, my new favourite quote comes from (of course) Cher - 

11. Don't take your toys inside just because it's raining.

Le Yoga

'Why are your eyebrows red?’ asked Wingman one morning, a few days before I was scheduled to leave for my trip to France. I ran to the mirror and looked at my reflection. Sure enough they looked like two red caterpillars, and itched like f*ck.

Clearly I had a reaction to the brow dye. In preparation for my trip I’d had my eyebrows shaped. The ‘stylist’ suggested the extra colour, as the brows never returned to their full luster after chemo. I’ve played around with eyebrow powder, but my mother Violet told me that I had to dial it back a bit. (She didn’t exactly say that I looked like Frida Kahlo - but it was implied). So the brow lady came to my rescue.

All this is part of my attempt to look French, and looking French does not happen without some effort. Instead of looking curious, I have to look confident. Rather than slouch, I have to stand ramrod straight. And then there’s the scarf, les souliers, the lipstick, and the attitude. But it’s all worth it – because nothing makes me happier than being mistaken for a local in Paris. 

BONJOUR!

On a previous visit, several years ago, I went to a local yoga studio where the class was taught entirely in French. Because I'm familiar with yoga, I was able to ooze my way into the class and respond to the teacher with a 'oui' or a nod of the head. It was only after he tried to engage me in a dialogue about knee joints that my cover was busted. ‘Un peut plus lentement?’ I asked weakly. His face fell with disappointment. ‘Oh,’ he said sadly,’ I thought you were French.'

This time I was determined not to let that happen. Currently I am in Paris and I’m off to a very good start. On my first day a young man asked me for directions. (I shrugged and told him I didn’t live there). I made it to the wine store and found a lovely rosé. And I was even able to go to the Patisserie and order a baguette.

So on the second day I thought I’d venture out to a yoga class. I’m staying with my friend Clare, and she’s instructed me to the way of the locals. As she left for work she gave me a coffee, a street map, and tickets for the subway.

What I forgot to ask for were yoga pants, as I hadn’t thought to bring some. I called her at work, and with her permission, rummaged around in her drawers to find some. Triumphantly, I grabbed the first pair I saw and ran out the door to the metro. Barely making it on time, I managed to pay for my class, whip into the changing room and land on my mat within minutes. (Nothing makes a girl more French than being in a hurry).

The teacher came into the room and greeted us politely. I felt like he was smiling mostly at me and to be honest, I wasn’t surprised. After all, I was wearing the regulation striped T-shirt, my toes were freshly manicured, and (thanks to Dr H's magic scalpel) I have a flat tummy. All that was missing was a poodle and a beret.

As the class commenced I felt other Parisian eyes upon me. Could it be that I was the best in the class? On the side wall there was a mirror, and as I worked my way though downward dog glanced at my reflection. My goodness my shirt was cute. But oh-oh. My underwear was visible through my pants. And they were white, and they were squishing my bum so that it looked like I was in a rock-climbing harness. There were buldges everywhere! I hoped that if I stood up straight it wouldn’t be so obvious.

The next pose was a standing one, which was slightly better. My yoga pants, (which I found out later which actually just leggings) weren’t quite as see-through when I was erect. My top was still adorable, but there was something wrong with my face. In my hurry I hadn’t brushed on my eyebrows, and two red itchy stripes stared back at me. Mon Dieu! I didn’t look French at all. I barely looked human!  The thing I mostly resembled was a clown, which explains why people were smiling. The French love clowns almost as much as mimes, and in my outfit, I was a combination of both.

But being French comes from within, so with fake confidence I finished the class. After changing into some non see-through pants, I put on my giant sunglasses, went down to the subway, and elbowed some tourists out of my way.