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.

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.

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.

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

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.