Natural Highs, Liquid Lows

I walked miles and miles last week. One day, I walked from the cancer agency, across Cambie Bridge, along the seawall where all the Concord Pacific condos are, all the way to English Bay. I sat there for a while, waiting for Henry to come join me. About two hours as a matter of fact, but he got caught up in the office. It wasn't exactly warm outside, but there were moments of sunshine here and there, and I watched people fly kites and do tricks. I watched people walk their dogs. I watched leaves flying around. Here's the view I had:






And here's the bench I sat on. There's something magical about memorial benches.





I want to do more physical activity, but I find myself getting tired more quickly, especially on one of my long walks. I feel the need to nap more. And yeah, I shouldn't be drinking alcohol like I'm accustomed to. I did that on Saturday night with Henry, his sister and her husband at Parkside restaurant, and I was paying for it all night long. You know how these prescriptions say not to drink alcohol while taking the drugs: I forgot to pay attention to that. I had a really awful, painful pukefest all night. I hate not being normal.

Today, we're meeting with the oncology surgeon again. Hopefully, this time around, she has our info and will have a more informative meeting with us. I actually got a copy of my chart on Friday just so there are no excuses. I remembered that H's brother had to get his chart to make sure about the situation because when you have to deal with so many doctors and specialists and their staff, something is always bound to get lost in the cracks. So it was a good idea to get the chart.

This week I also have an ECG, an ultrasound and a core biopsy. Next week I start the new chemo. Fun.

In Need of Support...?

Even with all the people supporting me and sending me good vibes, cancer can be lonely sometimes. But in order to get out of the lowest low, cancer also needs to be liberating.

I'm trying to understand the whole concept of "support person." You don't have a support person in your life, until you get cancer. But shouldn't a partner, parent, friend, etc. always be a support person, no matter if you're sick or not? What needs to change about a person to elevate them to the status of support person, or to place that extra weight on them?

H has been defined as my support person, as one would naturally think he should be. My parents and in-laws also provide a huge amount of support by taking care of the kids. But really, I'm not sure how this scenario is different than it was six months ago, before I was diagnosed with cancer.

I think I've gotten used to the idea of H being the support person in the definition of him being here more, that he's with me and the kids more, spending time with us. But H is a busy person: breakfast meetings, lunch meetings, dinner meetings, press conferences, 8 PM coffee meetings, academic conferences, radio interviews, newspaper interviews, office hours. And when he's home, there are urgent emails and phone calls that he must attend to. This week he's in Philly for a conference. In December, he's in DC. I have to admit--it doesn't sit well with me. My immediate reaction is anger, bitterness, and feelings of abandonment. He gets to live his life, as usual. I have to stay home with my cancer.

I have to have my moment: I cry, think of all the ways he's betraying me by living his life, going about his business, paying more attention to the community and the university than to me. I think of the counselling sessions at the cancer agency, and for someone as brilliant as H is--why doesn't he get it?

But what's there to get? In the bathtub, I have my pity party. When I'm done, I see all the strands of snot flotting among flakes of skin and eye lashes. I allowed myself to shed the negative energy.

The day H left for Philly, I had a really great day. I made myself get out of the house, exercise and do a lot of walking, write some poetry, and enjoy the sunshine. Yesterday was pretty good too. The weather has taken pity on me. It's not so bad to stay behind. It's actually pretty good.

But I still don't know what I'm supposed to think about this "support person" title. I'm not sure I like it. H is my husband, and when he really needs to be there, like when I'm getting chemo, he is. When he's not there in an everyday scenario, I do feel a little bad, like at night, when I'm sitting in bed and it's half empty. Or when I'm eating by myself at dinner. Or when I'm putting the kids to bed by myself, first Mylo, then Chloe, who asks where Daddy is. In addition to the word "meeting," they know the word for "conference" now.

I'm back to why this is different from life before cancer. It's not. Should it be any different? What needs to change? That's what I'm struggling with.

H and I are similar--that's why we're together, is it not? We both find it hard to say "no" because we believe in the greater good. So when I'm not feeling so pathetically lonely and abandoned, I'm really proud of all that he does, that he's so committed and passionate. But yeah, sometimes, cancer is a party of one--and the challenge then is to see the greater good, in anything. The upside is the feeling that comes from re-learning how to be independent in the hardest of times.

Hm, how do I end on an uplifting note? I'm taking applications for substitute support people to come read bedtime stories to my kids, sit in bed and rub my back until I fall asleep, and cook me dinner in your underwear. Any takers?

Spa

At the moment, I'm kinda anti-computer. But I like showing pictures. Maybe that makes me a narcissistic bitch. Maybe not. But here's why I'm anti-computer: because you can't take the computer in the bathtub without the risk of electrocuting yourself. So until they make water-resistant laptops. . .

Here's where I spend a lot of my time nowadays:


{my home spa}




{. . .with new washcloths. . .}




{. . .and a glass of chardonnay, a pitcher of lemon water. . .}



[By the way, funny thing I discovered: lemons float, limes sink.]




{yesterday, my hair started falling out. Or rather, it started coming out easily when tugged on. I sat in the tub for an hour, massaging my head, rubbing vigorously, tugging with my forefingers and thumbs, pulling out little black clumps. Kinda like weeding, only taking much longer. Guess I have a lot of hair. Now my head just looks like a poorly clipped shrub.}

The Night Before...

It's the night before tomorrow. Wow, that sounds so zen, doesn't it? Seriously though, tomorrow is my second appointment with the oncologist. Henry and I will meet with Dr. B to go over all the test results from the past week and a bit. Yesterday and today, I had scans and xrays, blood tests and agony and questions and long, hot baths and sleepless nights. Tomorrow, a bunch of questions will be answered and a bunch more will pop up, but hopefully in the next couple of days, my chemo treatment will start and all the alien nastiness invading Planet Brandy will begin to be wiped out. Vive la revolution!


{the view from our hotel room in waikiki}

My time with the zen master dude was interesting. After four hours of zenness, my head hurt. The first hour, Henry demonstrated his zen knowledge with zen master dude. The next two hours, zen master dude grilled me on my existence. Picture a circle. Now picture a squiggly circle around the other circle. The inner circle is me. The squiggly circle is the stuff around me, the stuff I'm attached to. Do I want to find out what's in the inner circle? . . . Now think of this: 0=∞. . . . Then zen master dude asked me "Why purple hair?" My thought bubble, "Because I like purple, Roshi." But I think I gave some fumbling lame reason which made Roshi just stare at me.

So then zen master dude wanted me to play a shakuhachi, which he told me is a flute. People from my Mifflintown years will bust a gut because they know how much I sucked at playing the flute. BUT despite my suckiness at being a flautist, I did it for, let me see, oh, five years. Anyway, the shakuhachi isn't the kind of flute you're thinking of. It looks more like a recorder, and it's used for meditation. It's fucking hard as fuck to play. I tried for an hour. My cheeks hurt. But another zen master dude said that I had a rare quality for a beginner to play such clear, strong notes with such purpose. Rock on! So there I was, in the training room, with zen master flute player, and this other dude who was practicing martial arts and was chanting sutras which sounded like a bullfrog and me blowing away, and Henry just sitting there. I totally felt like I was in an anime movie, and that we were all going to transform into forest creatures or earthly structures.


{me and H in leis made by our friends Hoku and Kaipo}

As funny as that all sounds, the zen master meeting has stuck with me. Of course, I think it's probably pretty common to think of existence questions when faced with life / death situations, but zen master dude number one kept asking me, what's stopping me from finding out about the now? Am I really that attached to my suffering and my past? These are questions as unanswerable as others right now.

Honestly though, today sucked ass. I feel so freakin' lame. For an hour, I shopped online for cool fabric so I could sew myself some head coverings. Then I decided that I didn't want to buy any fabric and sew head coverings, so then I was down on myself for wasting all this time.

But I can't help but notice the things that people have done. It makes me want to get out of my rut that I've dug myself in. For instance, Russell writing a poem for me today; Vicki sending me a bear and a bag from PA Dutch country (and frisbees for Chloe and Mylo); Hilary callling to ask when she could bring over frozen turkey soup she made; Betty bringing me head coverings from the cancer centre, and a lavendar eye pillow she made for me; Candace bringing over costumes for the kids and smoked salmon her husband caught and Chinese bbq pork; friends of friends who have offered their advice, help, and resources; my in-laws for helping with the kids; my parents for making plans to come out here to help; the lady from the Canadian Cancer Society who called today to help set me up with someone who's gone through a similar experience; CCHS for bringing me flowers; people who've emailed me on Myspace, 43things, Facebook, and here; Chris for watching the kids yesterday morning; Heidy and Greg for watching the kids last night; other people who have emailed to offer their help and company; my green towel for keeping purple dye off my pillow and for catching those random tears; Henry and the kids for bearing with me; and Victoria for organizing a team, "Brandy's Babes," for the Race for the Cure (http://ocraceforthecure.kintera.org/brandysbabes).

Yesterday, Henry and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary at Le Crocodile. We had a South African wine called Graceland (2004). The only reason I'm writing that here is so I'll remember what that wine was, cuz it was good!


{rowr! le crocodile}

So anyway, when I figure out what 0=∞ means, I'll be laughing (as my fiction prof Maureen would say), but until then, I'm just scratching my head.

me me me

this blog is about me. i was going to edit out that not-so-hot picture of me, but then again, why? after all, much about this particular type of cancer has to do with vanity/identity issues. my breasts--do they make me? no. but they got me my husband; they fed my kids; they almost got me arrested when i jumped in a lake in wisconsin after the beerfest in my skivvies; they got me ridiculed in junior high for not being there; they've been the recipient of push-up bras and fancy lingerie. they've been through so much. and now, if i don't deal with them, they could kill me.

so as unattractive and unartsy as my b/w pic is, it stays. especially since the privacy of my breasts has been stripped anyway, with all those strange hands touching them lately.

i feel meek and i feel bold; embarrassed yet unapologetic.

My pity party

Today was a downer. Not for any good reason. Today could have been like yesterday or the day before, but for some reason, I didn't seem to want to do anything but burrow in my bed.

I got an Air Cast today. When I had my bone scan done yesterday, the technician saw a stress fracture in my leg and asked me if I was a runner. I guess so, I said. So now I have this moon boot thing. I kind of hate it.

I really kind of hated the bone scan technician. Because it's like I'm lying there, completely still, while this huge photocopier-like thing very very slowly went over my body to take pictures of the radioactive material to see where it's gone and stuff. So I'm lying there--(there's an itch in my ankle--ignore it--there's an itch on my back--stay still). And then the technician started laughing to herself, presumably over some email she was reading, and she kept doing that. I'm like, Can she see the murderous rage in my brain right now? Is my brain fucking glowing like a goddamn strobe light? Cuz I want to kill her.

I also got sleeping pills today because the sleep isn't that great lately. Talked to my parents on the phone. I feel bad when they have that tone in their voice, like they're worried about me because they usually aren't.