Bomb in My Belly

Half past noon, and i"m waiting for my roommate to wake so we can go for brunch.

Things to do this weekend:

• transcribe 30 minutes of interview and write a 500-word article based on said interview (cinch-y, but tedious)
• put away clean laundry
• find a book to read -- I've been enjoying French authors (in translation, my reading comprehension allows me to muddle through newspapers, not novels) and short novels (they match my short attention span)
• respond to emails
• listen to Fleetwood Mac, repeatedly

Last night a girl at the bar squatted over the toilet, missed the bowl entirely, and peed on the floor. I was in the stall beside and pee ricocheted off the floor and onto my foot.

Scrambled eggs and coffee sound like heaven right now.

Long weekend begins now.

Cue vodka sodas, dancing, gardening, homework, and barbeques.

Happy Victoria Day.

about time

I am still alive and quite healthy.

Mom is doing well (despite rather uncomfortable lymphodema) and had her double mastectomy and reconstruction las fall.

I was recently in New York where I met the lovely Jen.

Toronto is warm and sunny today, and I'll be putting more vegetables in my garden this weekend.

I'm not sure how to update this blog. The feelings I have about this whole experience now are in some ways more complicated than they were in the past when I was just so unhappy and angry about the whole thing. The grief is mostly gone, but the anger is still around and possibly worse then it was before. I find anger more personal and harder to write about than grief.

I've also never really gotten over the loss of anonymity on this blog. I'll try to work around it somehow.

Tomorrow my mom has her final chemo treatment. She then has eight weeks before the double mastectomy and reconstruction. She's doing well - great, even - and was planning on returning to work after the long weekend, at least until she had her surgery (at which point she would be off for another 6 weeks). Except she won't be going back, since the medical clinic she worked for decided that it would be cheaper for them to outsource the job she did. So they gave her two weeks notice.

Two weeks. As if they hadn't come to this decision weeks before. Instead, they waited until right before she was planning on returning to let her know that she had no job to return to. As a result, she missed an opportunity to take over the job of a retiring friend in a clinic she enjoys working in. And given the fact that she's about to face major surgery in two months time, and has just finished 4 months of chemo, she's not exactly in a position to be looking for more work.

You would think that an employer who deals with sick people all the time would have more compassion. What a bunch of fuckers.

Seriously.

Invaded

Apparently I haven't posted enough, so the spambots have taken over.

Things are find here, mom has one last treatment left before taking 8 weeks off before her double mastectomy.

I've been busy with magazine stuff -- we launched a couple days ago, and I have a post-launch story which is well worth telling, but another time when I'm not about to head to bed. It involves a park, a shooting, public urination, and drunken phone calls. Don't worry, no one died.

I wish I could figure out a way to write comfortably here now that I am somewhat easily googleable by my real name. I'll make that my project for the next month, perhaps. These long silences are kind of ridiculous.

All clear

After a three-hour wait to see my oncologist (or, rather, an oncologist -- I saw a resident today), I got the all-clear. CA-125 was two! Two! and the results from my CT scan last November showed everything to be normal or unremarkable, though I have a phrygian cap on my gallbladder and a circumaortic left renal vein (anatomic variant) which basically means nothing. Just interesting facts to note for future reference.

I have a bone density test next Monday.

Must go to bed, will write again tomorrow.

Oncologist appointment in 12 hours

While I tell myself it gets easier to go to these appointments as time passes, I imagine I still won't sleep much tonight. Of course, that will be in part to the copious amount of coffee I consumed today, but I can't blame it all on the caffeine.

Sigh.

Health care outcomes may be superior in patients cared for in Canada vs. the United States

The United States also spends far more on health care, i.e., approximately 15% of its gross domestic product versus about 10% in Canada. In 2003, Americans spent an estimated US$5,635 per capita on health care, while Canadians spent US$3,003.

via Metafilter.

I already knew survival rates for many illnesses were more favourable in Canada than the States (a major exception to made for cardiology -- if you need heart surgery, you're much better off in the States, provided you can afford the care you need). I researched survival rates in relation to wait lists for care, and learned that despite our (sometimes reprehensibly long) wait lists, Canadians are less likely to die than Americans. But I didn't realize the U.S. spent so much more on health care than the Canadian government -- and Americans don't even have the same ease of access (I know, I know . . . wait lists) that Canadians have.

And the Supreme Court upheld the federal ban on so-called "partial-birth abortions" without concessions for cases where the mother's life is endangered by continuing the pregnancy.

These things are wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

Nothing to see here

Despite lack of posting, all is well-ish in cancerland. Mom had her first treatment, goes for her second tomorrow, and so far is handling it all with relatively few side effects. Or at least she was the last time I spoke to her a week ago. Little sister has talked to her more recently and hasn't mentioned anything new, so I assume all is still fine.

My own 6-month check-up is coming up soon -- about three weeks from now. I would know the exact date had I not lost my cell phone on the plane, my cell phone where I foolishly stored every bit of importabt information. Without backup. What can I say, I had a brush with death, and now I live on the wild side. Anyway, if I can remember the name of my oncologist, I can probably call her office and ask exactly when I'm expected.

I am going to be 27 on Good Friday. It will be my 5th birthday since becoming a postmenopausal bitch. Prior to that, I was just a bitch. (But cute! Really cute!)

There are lots of funny little things I'd like to write about -- things which even relate to the Cancer Theme of This Blog, but these things are still not resolved, so I'll have to save the hilarity for the future. When things are resolved. Consider this a teaser.

In other news, the magazine is coming along like gangbusters, or almost gangbusters. One of us (I won't mention any names) is not writing as much as she should. Or editing as much as she should. Instead she peruses bulletin boards, reads other magazines, looks for pictures of blackbirds, or otherwise occupies her time in pleasurable, yet wasteful pursuits. I thought people who were 'touched by cancer' were supposed to live every day like it's their last -- so why am I such a procrastinator? I would not make a very good subject for a made-for-t.v. movie.

I'm beginning to bore myself, so I will leave you with a link to this cake which I am making for a potluck tomorrow, and which I will frost with this icing. There might even be strawberries involved. With any luck, there will be vegans present to appreciate my kindly and thoughtful consideration of their dietary restrictions. Because although I am kindly and thoughtful, I am not above wanting recognition for these qualities.

So this is the situation. Mom met with her oncologist the other day. Turns out she has not one, not two, but three different tumour types in her breast. One is a grade three ductal tumour, non-estrogenic. One is an estrogenic ductal tumour (not certain of the grade). And one is a borderline lobular tumour. She is stage two.

The details may be somewhat off, but what can you expect with three different tumour types? She meets with the oncologist again in two weeks to discuss the exact chemo regime she will undergo -- it will be aggressive, and the only reason it has been put off is because of an infection in one of her incisions.

This much we do know -- she will have a double mastectomy and bilateral oopherectomy five weeks after she finishes chemo (four months worth). She will not need radiation.

The treatment makes everything sound worse than it is, but I am fairly confident that everything will work out well. The treatment is aggressive to help ensure (as best anyone can) that Mom doesn't need to go through months and months and months of treatments. She will go on Tamoxifen. She will have reconstructive surgery.  As per Emma, she will insist on a minimum standard of life during treatment.

I don't really feel anything specific about this. It is happening and we have to deal with it, but that is about it. I go through my days, I am happy for the most part, and I know that my mom is about to undergo treatment that will likely devastate her. There is no way around that. As much as she will try to be strong, I know that there will be something lost in all this. It is inevitable. It isn't a bad or good thing, it's just a thing, and it sucks and I wish she didn't have to go through this. But she does, and there isn't much I can do or say to change the outcome.

*******

There is a woman who comes into my work. She is 35 and just finished treatment for breast cancer a few months ago. She has a baby son and we laugh darkly about everything surrounding our histories and present lives. We have to, she says, since there's not much else we can do.

I think this may be why there is an expectation of people dealing with life-threatening illnesses to be happy and positive and life-affirming. People see us laughing and think it is a sign of our embracing of the world and all it has to offer. The truth is much darker; there is a bitterness latched onto our laughter which others often mistake for happiness. "Margaret is such a happy person," my coworkers say, and I am confused because I don't interpret her that way. Yes, I see her joy and vivacity, but I also see her anger and sadness. She is too complicated to reduce to a single emotion. I am too complicated to reduce to a single emotion. I think most people are, but we try to reduce them anyway because it makes it easier to engage in what we think is understanding.

*******

Tonight I sat up with my roommates until almost 4 a.m. We didn't do much of anything but talk about shit and laugh at the shit we were talking about. We drank whisky and some of us smoked cigarettes. "The only time I ever get drunk in this house," one of them said, "is when I'm sitting in the kitchen with you two." That could mean something or nothing, but it doesn't really matter. It's just something I'll remember because I wrote it down.

I was talking about reading over submissions for the magazine I'm working on, and I mentioned that the most frequent comment I make is, "Who cares what you think?" I said I needed to find a better way of phrasing it. One of my roommates suggested that I tell the writers to be less obvious with the subjective bent of their articles. I think that might work.

*******

I'll try to write more often. I feel bad for not writing everyone back and thanking them for their thoughts and prayers and advice -- I do appreciate it, even if I don't always say it. I just want you to know that.