War

Something awoke me just before 4:00am this morning. I lay there listening. the listening turned to thinking –thinking’s not what I wanted, I craved  sleep.

Later, after the girls and C. rose to bicker over what cereal combo to break their fast with, I headed over to the beach with Lucy…to think.

The other day C contacted her colleague and now  “cancer twin”, SN: weirdly, she was diagnosed a few months before C. with the same form of breast cancer. From our perspective SN has been ahead of the curve, although much more waiting for diagnosis, treatments, surgery –she’s had to wait and wait all along the way. Anyway she’d gone in for a checkup with her onc after some coughing spells and visions problems –the onc ordered scans and met with her on Friday to discuss the results.

This morning as I prepared for the dog walk, C. received an e-mail from SN. The kids yelled as they gobbled down as much cereal as possible; I tried my as-usual unsuccessful bid to spread a sense of calm. I noticed C. shuddering, looking down, tear drops falling on the iPhone in her lap. I looked at the screen–the title of the e-mail: Bad News.

Hugs all around, the kids shuffling in for long sweet embraces. Lucy and I headed out.

The reality with cancer is it’s a fucking rat-bastard that drags us into a take no prisoners war. Sure we fight, win battles and the war rages on. We constantly have to be ready to rally the troops, fortify our defenses, and FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT.

Many thoughts skipped across my consciousness as I stared out to sea trying to catch sight of a much more elusive monster, Cadborosaurus. It started to rain, then I realized the sky was clear and I was crying. Crying for SN, who hoped, prayed and deserved to win this war. We know now she has more battles to fight. No truce, no quarter given, kill the fucking rat-bastard. Crying for SN, for C., for me, for S. and F., Nana, Popa. Crying for us all.

The tears are dry: we’re ready for what ever. Bring it on fucking rat-bastard.

Light

The last few years have been exhausting — nights of screaming, yelling, crying Childe F.. C. is usually the one to rise and deal with the ever demanding beast, I just lay awake, keeping her side of the bed warm while waiting for the wailing to die down before she stumbles back to bed. It’s not that I’m selfish, it’s just that my nighttime presence sends F. into an even uglier rage-fest. Ferberizing is the cure, and had worked before, unfortunately F. rallied with the strategy of puking while crying. This isn’t easily ignored and the clean ups are more involved. We know it’ll pass eventually, but it sure seems like it’s taking it’s sweet time.

This morning wasn’t much different with the except C. stayed a bit longer abed as it takes a while for her gut muscles take up the slack where normally she’d be using her arms –she can’t use them because the risk of damaging the two seams running up her chest where her boobs once resided. She’s healing well, and full of energy. I know the inability to drive and lack of freedom annoys her, but there is light at the end of that tunnel too. The drains come out early this coming week, the healing progressing quickly to the point of better mobility and all that brings.

As I prepared for the morning walk with the dog, F. announced she wanted to come. So while I was getting dog paraphernalia (bags, balls, leash, etc.) F. hustled to get her boots and jacket on –raring to go.

We made it as far as the end of our short cul-de-sac before she went ass-over-tea-kettle on the side of the road. She walked slower until we crossed the road and into Gyro Park. The sun was shining, the birds singing, a skein of ducks flew overhead and landed in a large puddle –Lucy took after them and F. charged to the playground. For the first time, in a long time, I had a moment to meditate and reflect of the beauty of where and how we live. At that moment, I knew that everything was going to be be OK. No voice of God or anything, just the sheer certainty that it was going to be alright. Guess I finally caught a glimpse of that long forgotten light.

Here

A blast of cold from the Arctic payed Victoria a visit last week. We noticed the usual symptoms: icy windshields and muttered mentions of the S-word. When the snow finally arrived, we woke to a beautiful white Wednesday morning. I felt sad the girls weren’t clamouring by the window to go play. Still, it was great to wake with my babe next to me.

Early Tuesday, I’d fetched C. home from Royal Jubilee Hospital where she finally had the much anticipated boob removal done the morning before. The girls were whisked away to spend a glorious few nights with Nana and Popa and their iconic cousin, Em. I felt grateful and lonely.

It’s strange seeing C. so whittled down –the cleansing diet of January, the embracing of a vegetarianism, the magic juice elixir, and now the pirate’s treasure chest, halves her physique to its essentials.

In anticipation of the surgery, we jetted off to Palm Springs for a week of R&R sans kids. I’ve never been there, but despite the high cost of everything, I’d return in a flash. Lovely heat with no humidity.

Once back to reality and work, I found the week-long wait too much for me.  Migraine headaches, spotty vision, gamey guts plagued me through the week. By Thursday I was walking a tightrope of anxiety; then I lost it. No excuse but I can try: major deadlines looming, a change for the worse in work portfolio, my boss avoiding my gaze, and the capper of a colleague nuking the better part of a day’s work sent me over the edge. I swore –loudly. I proclaimed I was done and done and done. I lurched over to the office manager, told her I was sick and left. No recall of the drive home, although on arrival I know that I was sad that C. wasn’t around –I needed a shoulder to bawl on. In the basement, I layed on the spare couch and stared at the ceiling.

I made my apologies the next day and put my head down to reclaim the time lost. All displacement activity; I admit I don’t have the best coping skills.

We had the weekend to get ourselves organized before the dreaded Monday morning surgery. Tuesday C. came home, Wednesday it snowed, Thursday again with the snow and the kids came home, Friday brought a whole new scene with the kids being sweet and understanding. A weekend to wind myself up for the impending return to work yet again; a few mindless work days trying to catch up on two weeks absence, then here we are, hump day.  Time flies eh?

C. is healing quickly and eager to renew her entire wardrobe. She dreams of clothes she never contemplated wearing with her now departed bazooms. I sense a shopping trip to Vancouver is in the works –for me there are many friends and family to catch up with. I think we’ll need a month. I look forward to it. See you soon.

Whoosh

Tempus fugit and all that.

The 2nd course of 4 treatments is complete –a short pause until radiation and surgery. It’s not been good, but it is better.

Now for something else… my inbred loathing of Christmas being at odds with with a gaggle of girls all cranked up and wobbly with the thrill of the big day. I know: the smell of the tree, the music, the baking, the, the, the ….stuff.

Now I find myself coming around to the season. So many reasons’ not to be bummed and low. We’re taking advantage of the opportunity to forget and live it up a bit in the eye of this stormy year.

I try to imagine being without all that this life has brought me. The paradoxes that are my girls astounds me. The gleam in my S.’s eyes as she plots how to not get a lump of coal, while suspecting she might be deserving. F.’s wide eyed innocence that hides a tenacity of will and spirit that will crush lesser beings that choose to resist.  C.’s pure beauty, a physical presence that still makes me gasp. Super cool and classy. Smart. She’s not a bad cook either.

So here I am, weirdly excited and frightened about Christmas and the coming year. I plan to enjoy the moment with love, patience and joy of being with family and friends.

I’m not a big one for quotes, as my writing tends to be cliched enough, but this one makes too much sense not to share:

A good holiday is one spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours. - John B. Priestly

I plan to do just that.

Cheers, PT

Stupid

Yesterday we met with the onc, Dr A..

C. will be starting the 2nd course of the phase 2 chemo this Friday. We meet with the onc a day or two before to review the last treatment, to address side effects, ask questions.

Our last session wasn’t with Dr A., but was possibly the worst doctor in Victoria: Dr S. I don’t know where he got his degree, but he should consider remedial studies. During the consultation (he was 1/2hr late) he spent most of his time hanging onto the door knob as he tried to bolt. He couldn’t answer the simplest of questions and his examination of C. amount to him waving his fingers in her general direction. What a fucking hamburger head.

Anyway, that a side, our experience has been pretty positive one from the treatment point of view.

Dr A. had the usual questions about how C. felt and reacted to the last treatment — numbness in toes and fingers, hair loss (what hair?), fatigue, nausea, etc.. We had questions about what next –radiation, then surgery or vice-versa, questions about why radiation if surgery gets it all, and so on.

C. piped up and said, “Look if I’m going to live to be a hundred, what the best course of action –double mastectomy, radiation, …what?”

Dr A. shifted uncomfortably in her seat and flipped thru her file folder. I started to feel a tad uneasy… C. stared at her. Silence….then:

“Ah, well there are numbers…. clinically there is a greater than 30% chance of the cancer reoccurring, after all the treatments including surgery, within 10 years. And around a 30% chance the dying from this cancer within 10 years.”

Sucker gut punch.

Really, after all this shit, how these numbers have somehow never made it to us in any straight-forward meaningful way? Pretty sure the double-digit percent chances of re-occurrence have never been stated before…kinda-woulda remembered that. I started adding 10 years onto our lives (48, 58, 13, 16). Not so hot considering those percentages are up to 10 years, not at the 10 year mark.

More questions. Dr A. emphasized that these were ballpark, clinical numbers –they could go up or down depending on the pathological results –based on the examination of the tissue removed during the mastectomy.
Other numbers: 1% chance of the cancer reoccurring in the other breast (if not removed) per year. So 10% in 10 years, 40% in 40 years, etc..

The thing about life, once you figure you’ve got a plan or even an inkling of how things will roll, it’ll smack you upside the head.

2nd

C. is passed out on the couch –a throw-blanket across her body, a wet facecloth over her bald head. She had round two of the chemotherapy today.

The hair loss was expected, but a shock anyway. When it started coming out in clumps, C. asked me to cut her hair very short. I got her to do me first so she could see how long her hair would be. We hauled out the pet clippers we bought for Lucy, but hadn’t used yet, and went at it.

After the initial shock, I thought it looked pretty sexy-cool on her, and just the usual dopey-ass look on me.

A few days later she asked me to shave it entirely, the hair was coming out like a tiny pin hair cloud. her pillow looked like a cat had been sleeping on it. We were shocked all over again as I buzzed the remainder closely to the scalp. C.’s got a beautiful head so she can rock the bald look, although she does now have a red wig to satisfy my lifelong lust of gingers… at least that’s the motivation she had, I tell myself.

We knew more of what to expect this time, which in a way, is worse because we both anticipated the crushing nausea and tiredness that hits a few hours after the poison hits her system. Yeah there are meds, and yeah we have ‘em, and she took ‘em, and I’m sure it’d be much worse but crap, she’s a sick gal.

Once again I’m feeling helpless, while trying to be helpful and useful without hovering. I caught myself hovering a few times, then bolted to the basement to hack my annoyingly “upgraded” iPhone OS back to it’s regular non-annoying state…. another story.

Changes

We’ve finally made the decision to embrace a change of diet, something we’ve been moving toward over the last few years by reducing the things that cause us to feel crappy;  like sugar, some dairy, red meat while eating more whole grains, fish, leafy greens, etc.. I’ve not been certain I could commit because of my constant desire for roast lamb,  osso bucco, a great burger and pulled pork sandwiches. One makes sacrifices I guess. Salt n’ Vinegar chips are really the only junk food I have a problem with –I’d eat them day and night if I could.

This time of year is a great time to make adjustments to diet anyway, because the green stuff is so readily available, cheap and local. Our own garden is verdant with broccoli, salad green, kale, cabbage, shell peas, raspberries, strawberries, and zucchini. We’ve got the makings of a decent dinner just by walking into the backyard. When we talked about making this change, we discussed if we might be closing the barn door after the cow got out, but realised even now we have an opportunity to fight the rat-bastard that lurks in all of us.

I hope.

Snaps

It was my birthday this week. It was pretty much the worst day of the week (so far). Mondays suck anyway, but this was a brutal day of trying to catch all the threads of the endless projects I’m responsible for…projects I had dumped on my lap with little or no input.

The fact I’ve been unfocused recently hasn’t made it any easier. The only redeeming thing was picking up my girls from daycare and summer school –they were darlin’s and super sweet to me. When I got home, an delicious dinner awaited along with a jaw dropping present –a Canon TI1 D500. This camera is often favourably compared to the Nikon D90. Super cool. I tried not to get too keyed up about it –I just wanted to go out and shoot, but the battery needed to be charged overnight and the English manual was missing from the packaging. I downloaded the manual and started to read up on how I could go about doing HDR –something I’ve been dying to do for several years.

The next day I told my work buds I was given a camera. Susan imemdiately told me that before I did anything I must get a sling bag for gear. She recommended a LowePro Slingbag 100AW . I check around and found them at MEC a tad cheaper than Kerrisdale. I kind of wanted to avoid Kerrisdale because I knew I’d walk out of there with a bunch of other stuff I’d like but not need.

I’ve been carrying the camera around while I garden and walk the dog….

Guts

I’ve been feeling that old familiar sick feeling in the guts for the past couple of months.

It feels like loss of confidence in my abilities. The guts were proven true when I set up, directed and shot a drama a few weeks ago. The premise, laid out by my now on-family-leave colleague, Eddy, was a big wig at “the corp” and a member of the corp plan are having a conversation in a coffee shop. Pretty simple back and forth conversation: a one shot, a two shot over the shoulder, one shot, wide shot, a cut away, a two shot, etc. Basic film making right?

The big wig (BW) was played by a real big wig –not my casting choice, and the member played by a colleague (T.). I asked if we could have a few extras –a casting call went out an we ended up with 17 people. About 14 too many, but it was decided we shouldn’t turn anyone away, then my big boss suggested we use her daughter and friend as extras too.

The shoot started off noisily with the extras, my crew (S.), my boss, my big boss, and the talent milling about in a tiny coffee shop. It was stinking hot. The refrigerators and freezers kept cycling on and off.

We started running thru the script with BW and T –it quickly became apparent BW hadn’t read the script, nevermind memorized it. He started re-writing it on the fly –the script that had been thru many many levels of approvals: our CEO, Legal, and BW himself all had signed off on it. My big boss reined him in a bit, but he kept on complaining he wouldn’t use certain words in everyday speech.

I calmly explained that we had to say things in a certain way to ensure legal and shareholders were happy. This is the biggest wig of the entire organization: not my idea, but Eddy’s…where’s Eddy? Taking the summer off with his wife and new born boy. Thanks Eddy, I owe ya one.

Meanwhile my big boss is starting to get antsy –she’s not noted for her calm demeanour at the best of times…right now there looks like a major meltdown a-comin’ our way.

Finally we start to shoot –one of the mics develops an incredibly loud buzz. Nothing I do, like jiggling of wires, replacing cables, batteries, nor sub-vocal swearing on my part fixes the problem. I call a break and swap out everything: it works. Start to shoot again, the noisiest refrigerator in the shop comes on full blast. I get S. to pull the plug (and remember to plug back in). My big boss storms out, followed by my boss.

Start to shoot again. BW has a hell of a time just having a normal conversation: “Hi BW, thanks for coming to talk with me.” T. chirps, “Oh, uh, uh, uh, yeah, uhhhhhh, my pleasure….” looks at camera and me on last “uhhhhh”  and  immediately follows with “Got it?” To see if I GOT THE SHOT!  “Awesome!” I say, “Maybe we could do it again, I wasn’t happy with the framing though–my bad.”

He grabs his script which he demands he have right in front of him so he can read it…. “Cool, as long as you don’t make eye contact with anyone you can pull this off without running away screaming,” I tell myself. I reset the shot so no script is visible and start again, all the while thinking what a goat rodeo; I’ll be lucky to get anything out of this shoot. I just wasted everybody’s time and effort including my own. This goes on and on for 3 hrs, all the while I’m playing calm and collected while the refrain in my brain is going, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, FU-UUUUUCK!”

The next day my boss asks to see a rough cut by end of day. I spend the better part of the day trying to figure out how to use this editing software that Eddy likes…ever heard of Song Vegas? No, not many people have…for many good reasons. It’s a total piece of crap. Once I figure out how to make simple j and l-cuts –not easy in Vegas (you have to force like it’s never heard of such a thing), I get a flow going, then the holes appear –they get bigger and bigger, I got nothing to fill the holes. What I have is a shoddy looking pile of garbage with the worst audio you’ve ever heard.

Eventually I get sidetracked trying to eliminate some of the aggressively overpowering noises. The most annoying is one of the extras: a loud talker with a shrill gay voice that cuts thru everything. During the shoot I pulled him aside a couple of times and asked him if he could just nod and mouth words. That lasted 5 secs before he was back at his loud shrill talking.

Anyway, while editing.  I step away to walk around the building to clear my head. I get back and get shit from the big boss for not signing myself out –she came to see the video and I wasn’t there. The thing I really hate about this edit suite, besides Vegas, is it’s set up in the hallway in the middle of our workpods. People love to stop by and offer their unsolicited comments. It’s fun.

Last Wednesday, just before I left to pickup C. to find out the news from the oncologist, I went to my boss and told him we needed to re-shoot. He agreed and said we’ll hire someone to edit. “No-ooooooooo, it’s not the editing,” I say, “it’s the shooting. Trying to shoot, do audio, direct non-actors, and keep an eye on the script is insanely difficult. I suck. I can’t do it.” My boss replies, “That’s OK, we’ll help out as needed. We’ll hire an editor.”

I suck. I am doomed.

Cliche

I just can’t help but think that this all some cliche movie of the week. A young woman in the prime of her career with many success behind and ahead of her, two small children, a dog and a dopey husband. Is there some fucking object lesson to be learned here? I’m sure I could think of a few but they’re lessons we don’t need to be taught. We get it, OK? Maybe this is for the excess of smugness we have for a lovely life in the best place to live in Canada; that is if you don’t find Gortex jackets, MEC fleece, and Tilley hats too offensive… did I mention the drivers?

Anyway it does seem all a little trite to me.

As I noted before for people who get cancer, 28% of those have breast cancer; it’s even lower for women in under 40 years old. Only 10-20% of those 28% have the aggressive  type C. has acquired.

1st

The first of eight cycles to be precise.

The last four are different from the starting four cycles, although both are spaced 3 weeks apart. The hour and a half of actual therapy was using a dose of three different drugs.  C. has been prescribed three different drugs to counteract the nausea, along with recommendations to take Gravol too “as needed.” For some reason that “as needed” pisses me off –I want to know exactly what that means and I have no way and probably will never know what it means.

We stopped on the way home so I could grab some stuff at the local veggie stand. Then stopped for regular  groceries at Peppers… I should have gone right home, but I was worried C. would be wallowing –no fear, but I could tell she was starting to feel off by the time we got home.

Right now she is pale faced and pretty much passed out on the couch. I’ve got beef bones on for stock –the reason why I wanted to stop for groceries was some fresh galagal and lemon grass. Nothing like a mild asian beef broth to pick you up when you feel like shite. C. might like it too.