Bomb in My Belly

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.

Overdue

Considering the almost-several dozen emails and comments I've received asking for an update, I guess it's time to break the silence. I'm sorry I haven't updated or responded to emails or peeped to say Hi! I'm alive! but honestly, I've been pinching myself pretty hard these last few weeks to convince myself of this fact. I have bruises to prove it.

I think I've reached the end of what I can plausibly say is a normal amount of loss in, say, a six-month span of time. And it's kind of fucking with my head. Or that part we refer to as the heart, I don't know. All I know is that I'm tired, so very very tired.

I lost someone dear to me in November.  My mom announced her cancer diagnosis January 1st.  Somewhere between those dates a friend decided we weren't actually friends which made me sad momentarily but was ultimately pushed aside by Sadder and more Serious issues. It's a loss, certainly, but one I can't do much about. I wish I could, and it would have been nice to have her on my team right now, but she's not and I kind of understand why even if I don't agree with with it. Anyway, that's that. My mom had surgery, a couple weeks went by before the results came back, and when they did we found out she has invasive lobular carcinoma, grade three. She was told it was stage three but that there was no lymph node involvement, which confuses me. I would have pressed to find out more, but then two days after we found out her diagnosis, our friend passed away unexpectedly.

Gail was a friend of my mom's and her daughter, Jessica, is one of my best and probably oldest friends. She was only a couple years older than my mom. I saw her when I went back for my mom's surgery. Jessica dropped by her mom's house when they were supposed to go out one night, Gail didn't feel well so decided to stay in, and when Jessica dropped by a couple hours later her mom was dead.

Gail was my other mom, the other woman in my life who was always there. She took us to the beach, and introduced me to Havarti and lentil soup, and spent two hours with me on the phone while I sat in a closet to get away from my roommate. She was loving and funny and vivacious and caring. And now she is gone.

This is the thing -- my mom's diagnosis was worse than we expected. My surrogate mother died leaving one of my best friends completely bereft. And I haven't been able to cry about either situation. Fuck, I haven't even been able to feel sad.

I don't feel anything right now. A bit angry, I guess. But otherwise . . . nothing. I literally haven't had anything more than slightly damp eyes for Gail. Intellectually I feel terrible for Jessica and everything she is bound to go through, I feel bad for myself, but I can't actually feel the loss. My mom starts chemo in a few weeks for a cancer which is rather aggressive and likely to show up in the other breast, but I don't even think about what that might mean. And when I do, I'm detached.

When my friend was killed in November, I spiralled into such a depression, I scared myself. When I found out my mom had cancer, I was devastated. But I think I've reached my capacity. I can't process any more bad news. And it worries me. I think it's keeping me from experiencing emotions I should probably be experiencing. I can't even imagine what it must look like to other people. I can't even imagine how it might play out in the future.

Sometimes when I find myself talking to people about what's been happening in my life lately, I wonder if they think I make it all up. Because it just seems like too much.

Bringing into play

If there's one thing I've gained from dealing with my own cancer diagnosis and fallout, it's talking about cancer without crying too often. It took awhile, but I'm pretty good at it now. It involves a weird swallowing exercise and a little rolling back of the eyes into the head, but I can usually get my emotions under control pretty quickly. Tears are generally brief and I often move past them with aplomb (or so I like to think). This is especially useful for all those times spent explaining related situations to people (i.e.. I need time off work). I've been able to carry this over (somewhat) when telling people about my mom. This isn't to say I don't cry -- I cried on the phone last night and when I came downstairs I cried a bit with my sister. I hate this, I said. Let's drink. And we did.

It's a lot harder watching my sister go through this. She doesn't have the same skin I do, the one you eventually grow because the alternative is constant dehydration and red eyes and the inability to talk about anything without snot running down your face. It isn't a bad thing to not have this skin -- I'd rather no one ever have to grow it, that grief could be felt and expressed wherever and whenever, but when you're dealing with days, weeks, months, and years of grief, you have to figure out a way to feel it and still function.

But it's hard to see her lying on the bed watching Oprah and crying. I know that, touching as it is, it isn't the Oprah she's crying about. And it's hard to see her come home from work crying and talking about her panic attack and how she was almost sent home. She's my baby sister and this is probably harder for her than it is for anyone else. I want to make it better for her.

I talked to my mom last night about technical stuff -- what they'll do in surgery (frozen section, removal of lump and lymph nodes, double mastectomy if the grade is high), reconstruction options, adjunct treatments. And I started crying at one point and when mom asked what was wrong (why do we feel the need to ask questions to which the answer is obvious?) I told her I was scared. And I am, but more than that I'm sad that she has to go through this. Sad that we have to go through this, and sad that I know how this fucks with you, and sad that I can't do anything to take it away. She told me not to be scared, that she wasn't, that she would be fine. Later she sent me this email:

My dearest Alicia

I am sorry I didn't let you finish what you had to say tonight. How unfair! I ask you to talk to me and then I shut down. I know you are scared. I just want you to know that it is okay. I can't be so self-absorbed to think you are just scared for me. I want you to know that I realize this is a very frightening thing for yourself too and I understand how lonely you must feel with everything that has happened to you. No one can stand in your shoes. I can't take away your fear, either for me or for yourself. But one thing I have learned is that the mind is a great thing. What you dwell on is too often what happens. At least that seems to be the way my life has turned out. So I am going to be only positive in everything I do and think from now on. And I want you to do the same. I love you so much. I love all you girls so much.

So... the next time I ask you to talk, or you just want to talk, I promise to listen. And I will try real hard not to try to make everything better. Cause I know I can't. That is just a nervous thing I do. Sorry! Lifetime of habits to unlearn.

I also want you to know how much I appreciate the research you are doing for me. I find it a bit overwhelming to find what info I need from the net. Especially the good info - not just the hype.

So, remember I love you and that I am a long ways from perfect.

Love Mom.

That's my mom. She's pretty great.

 

 

And now for something completely different

Christmas pictures in the sidebar. Enjoy.

Update about Mom

Mom's surgery is planned for January 16. I'm flying into Kelowna the evening of the 14th (from Montreal, since that's the weekend I have to be there). I'm taking the week off work to be there, and I fly back to Toronto January 21.

Thank you to everyone who has offered their support and condolences. You people of the internet are absolutely amazing -- I can't thank you enough.

For those of you who have experience with breast cancer (such as you Jeannette), I would appreciate it if you could give me a list of questions for my mom's doctors. Also, any advice you can give about treatments/screenings/etc. is also requested. All I know at this point is that they think they found it early, so I assume it is limited to just the one breast. I don't know what screening or tests she has had yet, I will update later when I know more.

In the meantime, I am going to continue fighting with the Air Canada website which doesn't seem to want to let me book a flight.

Fuck you 2006 and Fuck you 2007

This fucking year seems unlikely to be any fucking better than last fucking year. My mom called today to tell me and my sister that she has breast cancer. She's only 54.

THIS IS SO FUCKING UNFAIR.

I don't want my mom to be sick.

Last post of 2006

Jane and I went through some personal stats last night and determined that yes, 2006 WAS a much shittier year than 2005. Ho hum.

Add to the list of Crappy Things About the Past Year the loss of a friendship, in (small) part related to This Blog. It sucks, and I'm sorry about it, but unfortunately I can't change the way other people feel. I can change my own actions, yes, I can apologize, yes, but that's about it. I've never been completely cut out of someone's life before. The feeling is a little odd.

2007 will be a much better year. It will start with a weekend trip to Montreal (less than two weeks away!), a series of fund-raisers/parties for the magazine I'm launching with friends, plenty of scrambling to meet self-imposed deadlines for said-magazine, ponies and kittens and rainbows, a series of raises at work, instant notoriety (the good kind) for my skills of a writer, and several torrid love affairs. Round this off with a trip to Vancouver, lots of dancing, and a potential reintroduction to vegetarianism, and I think we've got ourselves a Pretty Good Year™.

I'm off to decide what to wear tonight. Jane made me a dress for Christmas -- it's a cream-coloured knit with a cowboy and Indian pattern in red. It might be the only contender for tonight.

Happy New Year everyone. See you in 2007.