Mid-life blaaaaahs

I know it sounds like a shamefully self-indulgent and utterly first-world kind of whinge, but I've been feeling quite bummed out lately. Ye olde familiar and nagging weight of the eternal 'what am I doing with my life?' question, compounded by the deafening crash of doors that I sense are slamming shut to me, on opportunities that I'm becoming too old to pursue. And it's not like new ones are really opening up. I guess it wouldn't bother me so much if I even had the remotest idea how to respond to, "Well, where do you see yourself in 5, 10 or even 15 years from now?' Crap, I don't even know where I'll be (or want to be) 6 months to a year away, never mind 5 or more. The only desire that's remained constant with me is that I'd like to live in Europe, and even that seems to be dwindling into nothing more than a pipe dream that may never actually materialize, especially the longer it's kept 'on hold'. I try not to be resentful about it since I chose to move to Canada, met and married Lorne here and have since stayed put. But, truth is, there is absolutely part of me that resents it - some days more than others. The more the months and years drift by, the more I struggle with the idea it really might never happen.

I do understand Lorne's hesitations - he doesn't speak a foreign language for a start and his job as an Editor/Colourist for TV/Film is very specialized, perhaps not so easily transferred to, or available in, another country. Besides, he's very good at what he does, he thoroughly enjoys his work and is well recognized for it here. Meanwhile, I spend every day here not doing what I love - i.e. speaking another language; french, german or even mastering new ones. When I'm in Europe I can physically and emotionally feel part of me comes back to life that simply remains otherwise dormant and ignored in my Canada life. A part that I can't - and don't want to - let go of. But what do I do with it? What do we do?

I've suggested Holland or Scandinavia as a possible option if we were to move to Europe (or even Germany for that matter) since they speak such good english anyway, but I'm not sure Lorne can do it. We held off while all of our cats were seniors and in various stages of decline, feeling it'd be too much to put them through. Well, that's no longer an issue - with our current brood all being so young.

We talked more seriously about it in 2008, even discussing whether we would move to Bristol in the UK (where I went to university) as a base for travelling more into Europe. But then came the worldwide economic crash, I was laid off from my job and we decided it best to wait and ride out the recession. And then, last year, breast cancer and all its associated uncertainties came along and the priority became getting that all sorted out and particularly here, where we have access to some of the world's best medical expertise.

So here we are, another 5 years on from our 2008 conversations, and I'm still in a nomadic flux workwise - contracting back at my old job (which is coming up for a year soon) with nothing in line for when this wraps up in a month or two. And what do I even look for after that? The struggle to get motivated about looking for work really wears on me, mentally and emotionally, and completely erodes my self-esteem. I'm not even sure if it's a Vancouver thing, with salaries here being the sh*ts - especially compared to the ridiculous cost of living - and they want a whole wack of high-level expertise and years of experience for even the most entry-level crap. Most job descriptions sound like the work of 10 people for the salary of 0.3.

As you can probably tell, I'm not in the most positive frame of mind these days. In fact this past week I've felt particularly blaaaah! It's coupled with that sense of being mid-forties too, I can't deny that. I just can't wrap me head around my age and feeling like I should surely be on a better career path of some sort by now and at least know just what the f*ck I want to do with my life. I struggle with trying to think what job would I like to do and what can I even expect to get, compared with 'well, it's just a job - use it to pay the bills and don't get so bent out ouf shape about it.' Only I don't have the mental tolerance for complete boredom at work just for the sake of a paycheque. I have to enjoy what I do and get some level of personal fulfillment out of it.

It hasn't helped that I choked down a whole bunch of pride at my present job recently and finally offered up my services on a more permanent level, should there be an opportunity within the Marketing team here. In other words (and if I'm honest with myself) I was offering to prostitute myself back to them and come back full-time if there's an opening. Because really, that's what it would be since I still personally and fundamentally disagree with a lot of what goes on there - their involvement in Alberta Tar/Oil Sands projects, their obsessive lust for developping on greenbelt land and vacuuming up environmentally sensitive areas and animal habitat only to replace it with featureless condos, strip malls and big box Home Depot outlets! Plus the company is SUPER-corporate. I mean nauseatingly, sole-crushingly, Big Brother-like corporate. Working there as a freelancer this past year has graciously spared me that obligation, but going back full time would bind me once more to the suffocating expectation of being 'one of us....one of us.....'. 

In my heart of hearts, I know the reason I even suggested being hired back full time was a) for job/financial security (pay's not bad), b) because I really do enjoy the writing, editing, graphic design and marketing I get to do there (even if the architectural/construction subject matter isn't quite my ideal choice)  but c) perhaps primarily, because it would be the easy way out and would save me the inevitable and horribly awkward job search.

So, having floated the idea out there to my boss (who's leaving in November to travel the world for three years with her husband....grrrr), I was advised that they hadn't yet decided on just how things/jobs would be moved and reshaped within the Marketing team just yet, but would keep it in mind. Next thing I know, I get not one, but TWO emails - direct to my work inbox no less - from CSMPS (Canadian Society for the Marketing of Professional Services) both are job postings.....for positions at this company.....in Marketing! And so I have my answer! God damn that chunk of pride I'm still choking on!

I guess one person is moving up and they're looking for a replacement Proposal Coordinator (which is the job I used to do when I worked there before and wouldn't particularly want to do again) and they're hiring another, much more junior level (read cheaper) person as Marketing Coordinator. Personally I would have appreciated my boss at least letting me know that, but hey - now that it's in my face, I've been honest with myself about how much of a cop-out it would have been for me anyway. In fact (and I'm really not just saying this), I'd been asking myself more recently if I wasn't just hoping to get hired back because it'd be the easiest option and I'm too lazy/daunted/intimidated and clueless to know what else I should be aiming for anyway. I do feel like I'd be selling myself somewhat short to go back as an employee, even if they did want me to, coupled with a demoralizing lack of faith in finding anything that personally interests, inspires, motivates or challenges me, ideally without destroying the environment, promoting consumerism or harming animals in some way. Is that asking too much?

Anyway, what with that and other stuff 'n' nonsense, I've been thoroughly beating up on myself this past week....or longer. Feeling old, redundant, superfluous, unattractive, indecisive, insecure and generally very mid-frikkin-forties! I should just let go of the whole age thing really, after all it's only gonna get worse. But I think it's not so much the number 45 (okay, maybe it is), but also/rather the fact I don't know where I fit or what to do or where to go. What's more, I resent this horribly unsettling feeling and the way it completely undermines any confidence or self-assuredness I might feel otherwise. Gawd it's like being an adolescent all over again!

I'm alive, I have my health, I have the love of a good man, I live a good life and, on the whole, that all makes me incredibly lucky. And yet, when I feel like this, that whole 'very lucky' shit just doesn't cut it!

Like I said at the beginning of this verbal diarrhea - it's all shamefully self-indulgent and utterly first-world kind of crap. And yes, I do feel guilty for it. Because seriously, what's the use in navel-gazing if you don't add a relentless dollop of guilt to boot?

Les Enfants Sauvages

It took me a while to notice the "Next Blog" link in the upper left corner of my homepage where you can click through to the next blog and the next etc. I've clicked through a few times before now, taking a peek into other people's worlds and learning a little more about the lives, loves, creativity, and daily trials and tribulations of people I've never even met.

Mostly I seem to fall upon blogs about diabetes, not sure why that is since I don't have diabetes (thank goodness) and have never written about it here. Often it's a blog with a distinctly religious slant which I, personally, have little interest in. Each to his own, I absolutely don't mind if someone wants to blog that kind of thing, but it's just not my cuppa tea, as I'm sure my own is of little interest to most people.

Many bloggers are new parents, recording every moment of their children's lives which, even as a non-kidlet person myself, can nevertheless be quite endearing to read (as long as it's not too schmaltzy). Some blogs are uplifting in spite of their content and one quite literally moved me to tears a few years ago. (The heart-wrenching journal of a young woman nursing her ailing 18-year old cat through its last days and struggling, for many months afterwards, to come to terms with her unrelenting sense of loss and emptiness - a familiar story that's a little too close to home. Pet-lovers among us all know that it's never 'just a cat', or dog, or gerbil....)

While it still feels a little voyeuristic at times, I enjoy these momentary, candid connections with complete strangers and often catch myself, even months later, wondering about the lives of those whose blogs I've stumbled upon. Their stories, thoughts and experiences told in words of wit, hope, love, desperation, anxiety, nostalgia, humour, compassion and charm. There's so much to share and learn from one another and so many people out there are doing such amazing - or delightfully mundane - things, or else fretting and over-analyzing the day-to-day (what a relief to know I'm not on my own).

But clearly not all blogs need words to tell a beautiful and charming story, which is certainly how I felt when I stumbled across this wonderful blog just recently: Alain Laboile Photographies. Quelles merveilleuses images d'une enfance sauvage et tellement fantastique!

It's a remarkable feeling to be captivated, enchanted and so wonderfully inspired by someone you've never even met, simply through their photographs and the stories they tell. Beautiful, funny, endearing, sensitive, delightfully candid and evocative images which, through lack of accompanying text, are every bit as au naturel as the children within them.

Bare, muddy, feral kids, running wild through sodden fields, clambering the banks of murky rivers and cannon-balling into their backyard, dug-out swimming pool. Just as spirited and carefree as kids should be.

I couldn't help but include a selection of Alain's pictures here but I encourage you to check out his site, Alain Laboile Photographies, to see for yourself just how beautiful these images really are. I am truly in awe of him - I can only aspire to ever have a single ounce of his incredible talent at portrait photography and his ability to capture so perfectly the raw essence of childhood; in such simple, naive, funny and truly natural moments of his family's daily life; kids simply being free to be kids. So wonderfully sauvage, discovering life on their own terms. Similarly, their delicate connections with each other - despite their varied ages - and with the rural landscape and nature that surrounds them; cats, kittens, birds, insects, snakes and even a fawn. 

What's more, this fabulous photographer shares the very same birth date as me and lives near Bordeaux - my favourite place in France, where I'd always intended to live. Ho-hum.

Sinking into Sóley

I like to think I have a varied taste in music. A quick spin through my Ipod will reveal anything from Arcade Fire, Brazilian Girls, Cat Stevens, Charlie Parker, DeVotchka, Doves, Elliott Smith, Fluke, Frightened Rabbit, Goldfrapp, the Heavy, Hey Rosetta, Interpol, Iron & Wine, Jagwar Ma, Jesca Hoop, Kate Bush, LCD Sound System, Lemon Jelly, Massive Attack, Marilyn Manson, The National and Nine Inch Nails to Oreanda Fink, Patrick Watson, Pickwick, Portishead, Queens of the Stone Age, Radiohead, Ray La Montagne, Stellastarr, Sufjan Stevens, Thelonious Monk, Tricky, TV on the Radio, Underworld, Unkle, Vivaldi, We are Augustines, Wilco, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and finally, Zero 7. Not to mention a lot of other great artists in-between.

Mainstream radio in Vancouver is utterly diabolical! You're unlikely to hear any of the above artists let alone be introduced to any new ones. Instead you'll find yourself brainwashed into total moronification by an endless, nauseating loop of absolute sh*te from a handful of dreadful bands, repeated over and over and over and over and over and........

Thankfully, since first dating Lorne in 2001, I was also introduced to KEXP.org - a fantastic non-commercial radio station out of Seattle and I have KEXP* (and their fabulous morning host, John Richards) to thank wholeheartedly for not only helping us to develop such a ridiculously bloated music library, but for the abundance of fantastic bands we've seen play live - bands we might never have heard of otherwise - of which I would highly recommend Arcade Fire and DeVotchka for putting on a truly oustanding live performance.

But, to get back to the original point of this post, while my music library is fairly diverse (and amen to iPod for saving me the weight of lugging a million cassettes/CDs around) I am nevertheless embarrassingly inept at venturing to describe musicians, music styles or anything musical really so, other than listing What's New On My Ipod I've never gone into detail here. However, since discovering a new singer-songwriter lately, one I'd never even heard of, I decided I might just give it a try.

T'would appear I'm arriving somewhat late to the party on this one, but I recently discovered the rather enchanting album, 'We Sink' (which actually came out in 2011) by the artist, Sóley.

Sóley is a young, icelandic singer-songwriter, normally associated with the band Seabear (who I'll also have to look up now) and We Sink is apparently her first full solo album, following on from the release of her 2010 debut EP, Theatre Island (also on my list). I can only hope I'm doing Sóley justice in describing her as a captivating and unique, poetic, indie-folk artist.

We Sink is a hypnotic dreamscape that glides gracefully between whimsy, melancholy, the supernatural and child-like bewilderment. Singing in little more than a delicate whisper, Sóley's intriguing lyrics seem to roam the desolate hallways of an abandoned house, sprinkled with eerie and nostalgic echoes of old toys, broken music-boxes, erratic wind chimes and simple piano notes. The overall quirkiness of this album is reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland meets Great Expectations.

I'll have to listen a little more to determine which song might be a favourite. For now I'm enjoying the wistful, ethereal undertones of the album's entirety as it wavers between dream, memory and nightmare. Kill the Clown is a particularly disturbing, yet strangely alluring song - not least because I've always hated clowns! Hmmm, perhaps not one for bedtime listening.


Well, that's my humble opinion anyway and hopefully I'm not completely off the mark with my first (somewhat minimalist) attempt at a review.

I'm already looking forward to the next journey with Sóley. I doubt she'll disappoint.

*Incidentally, if you tune into KEXP.org this week, please don't be put off by the fact they're doing one of their twice yearly membership drives, being a public-funded, non-commercial radio station 'n' all. (It finishes this Friday.) We've been appreciative members for more than 10 years - especially after all the amazing music and live acts we've been introduced to through them. Believe me, they really are worth supporting! 

Three Times the Charm

Wohooo! I've finally been given the all-clear after a third....and last (I hope).... ultrasound on my left boob and surrounding lymph nodes. The couple of areas they were keeping an eye on since July last year, and again in February, were checked once more last week and a follow-up visit with the insipid oncologist Dr. N confirmed the results that (thankfully) there really is nothing to worry about. He even added, "I suspect the only reason your lymph nodes are so easy to feel is because you're very slim".

Ordinarily I could have taken that 'very slim' thing as a compliment, except that he hadn't yet done that one last examination of my boobs, so I knew the ol' lumpy-bumpy comment would soon follow - again! And he didn't disappoint. In fact, with two trainees also there to check things out, Dr N surpassed himself this time by adding 'with no disrespect intended'...that my left boob is particularly lumpy-bumpy.....cobbley.....even a little gristly in places. What the f*ck! "Hello, I am still in the room you know!" (I wish I'd said.)

Bloody charming! Not satisfied with referring to them as lumpy-bumpy on my previous visits, he decided to outdo himself. Cobbley was certainly bad enough, but gristly??? Like some unpleasant, semi-masticated glob of meat spat out on the side of a plate? Are you kidding me? Jerk!

So, as you can imagine, any whaff of a compliment intended by the 'very slim' comment was soon beaten to a pulp by the descriptors that followed. At least the two female attendees had the diplomacy and discretion not to add anything further in that regard - perhaps sensitive to the unabashed ignorance of one's boobs being so mercilessly critiqued.

Needless to say, I finished off the appointment by shaking his hand and saying, 'No disrespect, but I hope never to see you again.' Which could be taken several ways.

That aside, I am obviously very relieved to have another lingering element of the past 15 months over with. No cancer to see here folks - yay!!!! And breathe.....

Apart from the follow-up pelvic ultrasound booked for next Thursday, I am thankfully DONE! I'm sure next week's will be just fine too, the bloating finally stopped weeks ago and I've been feeling really good lately. Heck, I didn't even gain weight on vacation, so there's a first. Quite a relief too since my weight seemed to be climbing upwards for a few weeks there.

Outside of Tamoxifen, all that remains of this ridiculous cancer ordeal is next week's appointment and the final verdict on the gene testing currently underway, for which the results may not be determined for a few months yet. Safe to say I will be very glad to close this chapter once and for all.

(Oh and, for the record, Lorne assures me he would never for one minute consider my boobs to be remotely 'cobbley' and definitely not 'gristly'. He has to say that but, believe me, I've kept a careful hand on my boobs these past 15 months, and can assure you those words have never come to mind for me either.)

A trip to Portland's Beervana!

To say I've missed our much-loved campervan this summer would be an understatement. I'm really quite sad that we sold it - not least because it's been fantastic camping weather for the past 4-6 weeks, sunny, hot and dry. I sure miss those easy, last-minute ventures out of town to relax and hang out amid the mountains, lakeside campsites and black bear territory just a couple of hours' drive from Vancouver. Sunbathing, kayaking, walking, picnicing, eating outdoors and chilling out by the campfire with a cigar, a beer and a sky chockablock with stars, satellites and galaxies far, far away.

That said, Lorne and I promised ourselves that, even without the van, we'd still make a few trips away and so this past weekend (and as a belated wedding anniversary gift to ourselves) we enjoyed our fourth visit to the fabulous city of Portland, Oregon. One of my favourite cities - laid back, funky, excellent low-key bars and restaurants, good atmosphere, great music scene, outstanding craft beers and a rich supply of well-maintained or rejuvenated heritage buildings and converted warehouses. Oh Vancouver, you could have learnt soooo much from Portland's urban planning and transit network before you went throwing up such an ugly abundance of generic, glass-walled, shoe-box-condo towers. Devouring every last trace of the city's history, character and skyline in your voracious appetite for wealth. Yup, given the opportunity, I'd happily move to Portland in a heartbeat!

Hard to believe then, that this was our first time back since 2009, when we drove down the Oregon coast in our trusty campervan (did I mention how much I misst the van?) and rounded off the trip with a night at the incredibly cool "Kennedy School" - a former elementary school creatively converted by McMenamins into a fabulous hotel and brewery. If you ever go to Portland, I highly recommend a stay or, at the very least a visit, to the Kennedy School.

We booked this latest trip a few months ago, having found a deal on Expedia.ca that gave us direct flights and 2 nights at a really nice hotel for about $500 each (incl. taxes), little more than a lower-rate hotel and a 10-hr journey each way by train. Bit of a no-brainer at that point really, even though our original plan was to travel down by train just for the adventure. Unfortunately the flights were with Alaska Airlines, apparently notorious for last-minute cancellations, which is exactly what they did this time. Our plans to fly out at 7am Friday morning and be in Portland by 8:15am for 3 full days were quickly scuppered by a text at 6pm the night before informing us the flight had been cancelled, "due to mechanical circumstances". After a frustrating 45mins on the phone and a lot of negotiating, Lorne managed to get us booked on an Air Canada flight - albeit leaving at 5:30pm Friday evening, i.e. a full 10.5 hours later than originally planned. To say we were disappointed & completely p'd off would be an understatement, hence pushing for further compensation which has been offered to us in the form of a $250 voucher each against our next Alaska Airlines reservation. Heck, at this rate we could keep booking trips with them and simply accumulating more vouchers for the next trip.

That aside, the travel plans went smoothly and our 2-night stay at Hotel deLuxe was wonderful, with its rich art-deco and golden era of Hollywood decor and beautifully maintained original features from 100 years ago. I'd happily stay there again. And ironically, in that 'small world' kinda way, the hotel's name was inspired in the 40's by the Deluxe film laboratories that brought colour to the silver screen. The same Deluxe I worked for here in Vancouver until they laid off at least 20 of us from Post Production in July 2008.
We got to the hotel around 7:45pm, after a 45min cab ride from the airport - Vancouver's airport seems so close and easily accessible by comparison. Our room was lovely, with modern but elegant art deco features right down to the bathroom taps.

We quickly got changed and then headed out to explore the delights of the nearby Pearl District in search of a drink and dinner. The Pearl District is very similar to Vancouver's Yaletown neighbourhood, with its converted warehouses, cobbled streets and a wide variety of shops, restaurants and bars with patios to enjoy good food and a drink. The main difference being that PD is fabulous and funky but doesn't feel nearly as pretentious and is not suffocated by a throng of monotonous 20 to 30-storey condo towers that stare in on one-another and devour any natural light.

I've always found Yaletown to be incredibly ostentatious, a place where Vancouver's wannabe-elite strutt around comparing their designer labels, fancy cars, bejewelled purse-dogs and over-priced nail salons. If you want to remind yourself of just how obnoxious yuppies can be, then look no further. (And for anyone too young to remember, here's a defnition.)

Thankfully this does not seem to be the case (at least no so much so) in Portland's Pearl District, where I enjoyed THE most orgasmic Mac & Cheese ever, courtesy of Brix Tavern. Wow, simply outstanding - I needed a flippin' cigarette afterwards! (And I don't even smoke.) Unfortunately the menu neglects to mention that it comes sprinkled with a topping of real bacon bits, so I had to send back the first plate, but it was well worth the little extra wait, I promise you. Heck, I'm already planning a return trip to Portland just for this delectable dish!

Another thing I love about Portland is Happy Hour at bars and restaurants, which is actually longer than an hour and happens twice a day, at most places from 3pm - 6pm and again from 9:30pm - 12:30am. (The Happy Hour concept of is long-since banned in Vancouver by the Fun Police who felt it simply encouraged binge drinking and, heavens forbid, the threat of people eating, laughing and generally having a good time.)

Another cool McMenamins hotel/restaurant
- as long as you escape the disgusting troll
clipping his nails at the next table! 

Have no fear, Lorne and I made a valiant commitment to partake of this rogue concept during our visit! In fact, after dinner, we got quite happy with a few delicious local beers, followed by a flight of Edgefield Whiskies in the downstairs 'Cellar' bar at another fine McMenamins establishment, Ringlers Annex - part of their Crystal Hotel (which we'd also considered for our stay but it was fully booked).

We actually had lunch here too - well, it was a late lunch during the afternoon Happy Hour at the upstair Zeus Cafe, before leaving on Sunday. A delicious portabello mushroom burger and tasty beer (of course) spoiled only by the repulsive troglodite at the neighbouring table who literally started clipping his nails at the table!!! I can't stand that awful sound at the best of times. Especially when it's in public and especially at the dining table!!! Seriously???? I was utterly disgusted and irate. Lorne had to hold me back from saying something (I wish he hadn't). I could not believe my cringeing ears, especially when I saw he was doing it right there - at the table!!! How bloody revolting - and yet the woman with him said nothing, even when I turned and gave her the look! (Unfortunately he had his back to me though he must've felt my eyes boring into him in horror and nauseated disbelief.) And I swear he had a hundred nails because he just kept on clipping...and clipping...and clipping, pinging shards of dirty nail across the restaurant, for close to 10 minutes! Who does that??!!! I very nearly threw up! Dirty, scuzzy, revolting freak!

(Daffodils and meadows.....daffodils and meadows....daffodils and meadows!)

Anyway, without further ado, let me try and wrap up this post since I´ll have plenty more to waffle on about once we´re back from our upcoming trip to Germany.

After a delicious breakfast at the hotel Saturday, we wandered around the city center and did a little shopping before finally giving in at 1pm to our desire to join the beer festival crowd  (Oregon Brewers Festival) - and WHAT a crowd there was too! Rumour has it, about 35,000 of us turned out on Saturday - it was a great party atmosphere, but still none of the lines were too long. We never waited more than 15mins to refill our 0.4l festival glass full of more delicious, hoppy goodness. The more beers we drank, the more they suited their rather creative names: Transgression.....Clusterf$ck.....

84 featured breweries and 85,000 visitors over 4 days!
So many outstanding beers, so little time :-(

This was only half the beers on offer but, as the
hoppier selection, they were our pick!

Just a portion of the 35,000 people that shared our
enthusiasm for fantastic brews - Saturday, July 27.

Lorne looking pretty 'chill' and ready to taste another beer.

Does this beer make my nose look fat?
(Yes, I'd have to say it does.)

We were somewhat blurred by the time we left there, about 4;30pm. I vaguely remember grabbing a bite to eat before we headed back to the hotel and took the essential afternoon-drinking nap. Bliss!

We headed out for dinner and just a single beer later but Lorne was particularly pooped, so we didn't make it a late one that night.

Next morning we wandered over to Lloyd Centre for a bit of shopping, but not much- then headed off to the fabulous Saturday Market by the bridge (yes, even when it's Sunday). So many talented craftspeople in Oregon, I marvel at their talents.

On the way to the market we passed this place, Voodoo Doughnuts - and could NOT believe the line of about 150 people. What makes a doughnut that good, I wonder....not being much of a doughnut-eater myself and especially not a fan of Canada´s freakishly renowned Tim Horton's dounuts at all!

Admittedly, it's a pretty funky sign...

...but I can't imagine what could possibly be sooo special about
Voodoo doughnuts that'd make me endure a 90-min wait in line! 

So, after a slow day meandering the market and around town, it was time to collect our bags from the hotel and head to the airport - thankfully our homeward flight wasn't cancelled!

All-in-all another wonderfully enjoyable stay in Portland - I love it there, really I do. And, with the $250 voucher we each got from Air Alaska, we're already planning on when to go back :-)

Various Updates on This 'n' That

I thought I'd do an update on a few things I've posted about over recent months, not that I've anything massive or particularly mind-blowing to report, just the usual blather, I guess:

Tamoxifen Update - 8 months on
I first started taking Tamoxifen mid-November last year and was quite panicked about potential side-effects; primarily, being pushed into early menopause and also possible weight gain. In January I was pleased to post a positive two-month update on just how the treatment was going. And suddenly here we are, last day of July, and I realize I meant to do a 6-month update....two months ago! So, for anyone interested, here's how it's going:

1. Overall: On the whole, still feeling pretty good and no strong or particularly adverse side-effects. Yay!
2. Eyesight: I do feel like my eyesight's deteriorated quite a lot, I'm struggling to read menus, labels, texts and other such small print, which I'm finding incredibly frustrating. Admittedly it might purely be age (having hit the mid-forties point in May - eeek), but I also know that it can definitely be a side-effect of the medication and I intend to mention it at my next appointment with the oncologist in September.
3. Hot flashes: Thankfully still no hot flashes to report, nothing really noticeable anyway, and even the night sweats are taking a welcome break at the moment, which is odd since the weather's been so hot and the nights very muggy lately.
4. Monthlies: My periods have stretched from being every 32 days to about 37 lately, but no noticeable difference otherwise.
5. Weight: I've gained weight lately. Well, it's more that I appear to have re-gained the 7 or so pounds that I lost in the first few months of this year and similarly the inches are creeping back up too. I'm still working out regularly and haven't changed my eating but I've certainly felt pudgier and generally bloated for the last several months which may/may not be down to being on Tamoxifen that bit longer. Bugger - because I was really enjoying looking and feeling much leaner, energetic and in great shape. I felt better in my clothes (although some were getting a bit too big on me). Even my ex-figure-skater bubble-bum is visibly making a comeback. I wasn't trying to get rid of it but, now that it's making a re-apperance, I'm not too happy about it. Besides, if I known I'd add back the 7lbs then I would have at least stuffed my face full of cakes, muffins & fish 'n' chips! Nothing more frustrating than inexplicable weight gain :-(
6. Skin/acne: I don't know if it's related to hormones or tamoxifen, since I always believed testosterone not estrogen to be the main hormonal culprit of acne breakouts, but I'm tentatively pleased to say my skin has been noticeably clearer the past 6 months or so - perhaps the longest I've gone without using some sort of prescription cream, tablets or stinky tea-tree oil. I've suffered breakouts to a lesser or much greater degree my whole life (so much for 'growing out of it when you're 18'!). Believe me, I've had some ugly and severe bouts of acne in my time (though thankfully bear very few physical scars) and wonder if this significant improvement is in any part due to the Tamoxifen or else the amazing natural product 'Pure Tamanu Oil' that I discovered early this year, which makes my skin feel great and is quite possibly delivering its well-reputed and very gentle acne-fighting properties. I don't know for sure but I'm certainly thrilled with my skin lately and it's a huge novelty to report that I very rarely have breakouts lately. I'd highly recommend pure Tamanu Oil (I've tried the Aura Cacia brand at approx CAD $17 to $30 for a 30ml bottle, which I find lasts 4-6 months even using it twice a day).

Other than that, no real change on Tamoxifen. Admittedly I'm disappointed about the weight thing, which might seem a little odd given that I've maintained the same weight (132 to 134lbs) for over 15 years but, being 7lbs lighter felt so good, that I'm now feeling uncomfortably chunky being back at my usual weight.

Oh well - so long as the meds are still doing their cancer-fighting job, that's really all I ask.

False Economy? - when thrift store shoes go bad
Back in February I confessed my clandestine penchant for popping tags at thrift stores - 'cos I loves me bargains along with recycling wherever possible. Now that we've moved back to Kits, I have not one, but two Salvation Army thrift stores within a short walk as well as several consignment stores and an SPCA thrift store that I've regularly donated to for years. I've had some great finds for summer clothes; shorts, a dress, jeans, t-shirts etc. despite the fact prices at the Sally Ann are getting ridiculous - name-brand jeans at more than $25 or shoes/boots averaging $20-$45. ("Hellooooo, you do realize you get this stuff donated, right?....as in FREE! And that you're a thrift store not a consignment store.").

Anyhooo, I recently got a bargain-buzz when I found a fabulous pair of brand new, incredibly comfortable, funky black sandals with a cute kitten heel for just $6 at the SPCA store! I got lots of compliments the first day I wore them and knew they'd look great with most everything in my wardrobe. Alas, much to my chagrin, by the end of that first day, a strap on each shoe had clearly started to come away, revealing the glue and elastic underneath. I was so disappointed but remained hopeful it wouldn't get any worse - besides, it's not like the shoes feel tight or pinch my foot anywhere. But.... they are in fact falling apart. Darn, you just can't get good quality for a whole $6 these days, eh?

Since they cost next to nothing and I really like them AND I want to take them on holiday with me next week, I decided to get them repaired....which apparently entailed all 4 thinning straps (2 on each shoe) to be re-stitched at $10/strap. I hesitated but then determined that, even totaling $46, they'd still be worth it...or so I thought. Let's just say it's all turning out to be a grand false economy on my part, the repair looked okay but in reality gave them little more than an hour's extra life. First wear post-repair (I'm a poet) and the exact same thing happened all over again, a design flaw and shoddy work in the shoes' original manufacture I'd say:

Broken straps and dollar-store nail tattoos.

But, not feeling ready to give up on them just yet (especially after spending the additional $40 hoping they'd be fixed), I decided on one last ditch attempt that wouldn't cost me a single penny. Et voilà, the high-tech tools of my latest and greatest shoe repair endeavours:

High-tech tools of the trade.

That's right, I stapled the straps back in place, then used a black permanent marker to colour over the silver staples so they wouldn't show....much. (Blue Peter eat your heart out!)

Staples? Are you kidding me? Like I'd seriously stick my
shoes together with staples! Haha. Whatever next?

And you know what? It worked! You can hardly see the staples at all, the straps have so far stayed put and naturally I'm kicking myself (with said shoes) that I didn't just try this before and save myself the $40 on a wasted repair. Hey, it could be worse, I could have used duct tape!  I don't expect they'll last long and, quite honestly, I don't need them to. I just hope to wear them at least a couple of evenings while we're on holiday, that's all. And if anyone's looking close enough to see I've actually stapled my shoes back together and covered this wardrobe malfunction with black marker pen, then chances are my foot's in their face and there's a whole bigger situation going on anyway, so who cares?

It's not even the first time I've done my own shoe repairs either - I recently discovered I had a pale pink nail-polish that matched an unfortunate scuff in a cute pair of shoes so perfectly that, when I put it on, the scuff simply disappeared from view, just like that! You would honestly never know!

Anyhow, so far it's working much better for me than the time I tried desperately to hold up my lace-top 'stay-up' stockings which simply refused to actually...stay up! Since I could hardly go jabbing staples into my thigh, I cleverly lined up a row of sticking plasters/band-aids around the otherwise sexy lace-top, to get them to stay stuck to my thigh and it did the trick....for all of about 15 minutes. Yes, definitely one of those days where the little voice in your head begs and pleads that you don't get run over for fear handsome paramedics discover the abstract mess you've got going on underneath that elegant dress.

So...moving right on to my next update:

Ella (aka Ella-Bella) - the latest addition to our feline family
Remember that terrible dilemma and crippling guilt I blubbed about back in May, when we welcomed little Ella (formerly known as Mudd) into our home? I'm pleased to say she's settled in wonderfully and is a truly adorable, easy-going and fearless little girl. She seems to love her new home and quickly took up residence in the top level of the kitty condo from where she likes to do that bizarre feline chirpy/clicky thing as she 'stalks' crows and other birds on the neighbouring rooftops. Our cats are strictly indoor cats so she doesn't get to test her claws and teeth - other than the way she's helped Mel shred the fabric off one corner of the couch and has started on a second. Not too impressed with that part.

Ella (left) sharing the top of the condo with Mel.

Mel's tried to join her in the condo a couple of times (as you can see - very cute) but mostly he likes to swing from it like a demented monkey and swat at Ella's tail to get her to play. He's sometimes a little too forthright for her but on the whole they play well together, especially when it's Tube-Time ie the cat tunnel - the best $20 spent on a cat toy ever!

While Mel and Louis definitely seem quite fond of Ella, we've recently had to install an extra Feliway plug around the house because Louis has not only taken to being a little too aggressive with Ella and stares her down/chases her just for fun and intimidation tactics, but he's also taken to overgrooming on one of his forelegs to the point of creating a bald patch. Ordinarily he's a friendly, lazy and pretty docile cat, though he's evidently in a bid to assert some level of being Alpha cat that wasn't necessary before Ella came along. Perhaps because they had immediately accepted Mishka as alpha-cat and matriarch without further question. (Oh Mishka, we still miss you!)

On the whole everything is really good, Lorne loves Ella just as much as me, the boys love playing with her (she and Mel play a lot together) but just sometimes they get a little rough and purposefully chase her into a corner or until she hides behind the TV (Louis moreso than Mel, although Mel's taken to doing it too lately), so we're having to keep an eye on them and use a water spritzer to dissuade the boys from picking on her.

She's such a sweetheart and very affectionate, it'd be awful to see her become timid and anxious because of her rowdy brothers but so far she's handling it well. (Men, eh?!!!)

And, like Mishka before her, 'twould appear Ella's also a sun-worshipper. Here she is thoroughly enjoying the sunny spot created by the skylight just above our bedroom door.

Meanwhile, in the ongoing state of flux that is my professional life.....

Drifting from contract to contract
I'm very pleased to wave goodbye to my current contract - which ended today - wohooo! Grateful to be moving from the bum-wiping life of an Executive Assistant (EA) back to the world of marketing, writing/editing, desktop publishing and more creativity. Hard to believe I've only been in this current position two months, it certainly feels l-o-n-g-e-r! But it's served as a true reminder that my days as an EA are (and should stay) far behind me. I've moved onto greater and more challenging things, where I have my own job rather than existing simply to make someone else look good. It took a while to break the type-cast of being an EA several years ago and these past 9 weeks have been a distinct reminder of just why that role is not for me (far too much temptation to verbalize inner thoughts of "book your own stupid flights, you know when/where you want to travel, not me!" or "Instead of telling me to tell her to call me to set up an appointment with you so I can tell her your schedule and get her calendar to book her to speak with you and confirm it works for you then invite you and her to the meeting of you both - just pick up the Goddamn phone and call her yourself!" Half an EA's day is spent as a gofer, the other half as a go-between. While the person I've worked for this time has actually been pleasant, appreciative and easy to reach, I've previously been an EA for complete pigs who seemed to have the attitude I should do EVERYTHING for them and stick a broom up my arse to sweep as I go along.

As of tomorrow I'll be back to my old haunt, Omicron - full time contract and better $ - at least until late October anyway, so that nicely buys me more time to get on that whole job-hunting thaaang.

Anyway, that's my not-so-short jibber-jabber update. Now that I have a wee dram of Cask Strength Bowmore at hand, it's time for me to sign off and savour the rather delectable taste of Islay before bed.

Nighty-Night.

It's all in the genes......or is it?

Last month I posted about my fears/concerns regarding ovarian cancer and the BRCA1 and BCRA2 genes - which, ordinarily, are tumour supressors and work to ensure the stability of a cell's DNA. A mutation of these genes has been linked to hereditary breast and ovarian cancer.

This time last year, my sister Victoria underwent surgery to remove a small piece of breast tissue which (thankfully!!!) turned out to be benign fibrous tissue. At that time her surgeon recommended that, since Vicky was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2009 and I too had just had surgery for it (also in my early 40's), we would qualify for genetic testing. Vicky received and submitted the forms several months later and actually had her first consultation just last week. From the conversation I had with her after the appointment, it would appear that neither of us is yet out of the woods from this whole breast cancer scenario nor potential ovarian and/or other cancers. 

It could be purely a random and unfortunate coincidence that two sisters, both in their early forties, get diagnosed with breast cancer just 18 months apart, despite having no previous family history that we know of regarding breast cancer. It could still be hereditary. And there's a small percentage risk that it is indeed related to a mutation of the BCRA1/2 genes. (As it turns out, the fact that my cancer was determined to be estrogen receptor positive (ER+) and Vicky's was negative actually has no bearing on whether or not our cancers are hereditary or have the mutated gene.) 

Since Vicky was the first of us both to be diagnosed and at a slightly younger age, they will concentrate the DNA/gene testing on her. During her appointment she was encouraged to provide a blood sample to be sent for a full DNA mapping - an intense laboratory process that can take up to 6 months. The outcome of her DNA testing will be pretty conclusive as to whether we both have more to worry about and whether I should also get tested, as well as indicating any potential implications for my niece, Brownyn.

I've only had a fairly brief phone conversation with Vicky thus far about her consultation and, from what I understand, there are many factors related to our family medical history - on both my mum and dad's side - that could have implications for us both. Of course it's always difficult to get anyone of an older generation to share that kind of information (and most of those we'd need to ask have already passed on). These things were always kept hush-hush and us Brits are renowned for being terribly evasive around matters related to health (be it physical, mental or emotional) and family history. So, while the lab does their DNA testing for various genetic markers, there is a certain amount of family history that we need to investigate to help piece together the big picture.

We both still find it awkwardly surreal and disconcerting to be in this position; involved in tests, conversations, medical jargon and related statistics that seem so third-person. It's definitely worrying, I won't deny that, yet we both share an odd feeling of detachment from it too, like an out-of-body experience. A sensation of drifting, somewhat dazed and removed, that we can't quite put our finger on. But what we do know is that we're in good hands, medically. We're talking with the right doctors and experts, who are proactively performing tests and further investigations into our genetic make-up and from there they will advise us on what to expect going forward and whether it might involve considering preventive surgery. A thought I'm not ready to entertain just yet, not until we know all the facts.

Just when you think you can breathe a sigh of relief and thank your lucky stars that your cancer was small, caught very early and removed by simple surgery. That's it n'that's all - right? Yeah - not so fast. We're now beginning to realize that, in our case, it's not always quite as simple as that and a little further investigation is needed before we can say we've kicked this thing to the curb.

Hence I cannot find words to express my gratitude for living where we do, for being fortunate enough to have Vicky here, and for access to such high-level medical expertise available to us. Living under different social and economic circumstances, or in a different part of the world, would almost certainly limit - or even deny us - any such help or insight.

Phew!

Well, that's a relief - nothing too much out of the ordinary in the report from last week's pelvic ultrasound - Yay!!! Although I did learn two new words today: subserosal and pedunculated. Pedunculated (from the word peduncle....which is actually not an uncle who's a pedo) means attached by a stem or stalk.

What I imagine a pedunculated 
fibroid to look like.

My ultrasound revealed a 'pedunculated mass' of about 1.5 x 1.3 x 1.8cm behind my uterine fundus which is almost certainly a fibroid, of the kind that has a stalk, the idea of which is pretty gross if you ask me and makes me think of an ugly, magic mushroom type fungus growing inside of me. Best I don't dwell on that idea.

Actually, referring to it as pedunculated or having a peduncle sounds better than fibroid on a stalk. Pedunculated sounds almost comical and makes me think of how the AT-ATs walk in Star Wars;  'pedunc...pedunc...pedunc...' i.e. she has a pedunculated gait when she walks.

Anyhow, back to the ultrasound. They also reported a 'linear echogenic structure measuring 1.4cm in diameter' within my right ovary but apparently, when trying to get a better look at it with the endovaginal scan (too much information?) they actually couldn't see the right ovary at all and basically suspect the 'structure' is probably just a dermoid. Nevertheless, my GP gave me a referral for a follow-up ultrasound in a couple of months to see if they can get a better look at the mysteriously disappearing right ovary.

Overall it certainly explains some of the bloatedness and discomfort but I'm also going to do an H. pylori breath test in case that's part of the problem (Lorne was diagnosed with H.pylori bacteria just a couple of months ago himself and says his symptoms were very similar to those I've been describing). I'm personally not convinced that's my problem, since I haven't really experienced the burning pain/ulcer like symptoms normally associated with it, but I'll still do the test regardless.

So, overall, the best part of today's results is, I don't have cancer - and any day without a Big-C diagnosis is a good one! While a fibroid might be/become uncomfortable, it's a helluva-lot less scary, thank you very much.

Waiting....and bloating.

So I had my pelvic ultrasound last Friday along with an internal ultrasound, 'just to get a better look'. Look at what??? Naturally the radiologist (or whatever it is you call the person carrying out said ultrasound) didn't give me any information, they never really do. At least she was warmer and more polite that the arrogant pig at BC Cancer Agency who's done a couple of the ultrasounds on my boobs before now - he can hardly bring his monosyllabic 'conversation' to anything more than a perturbed grunt.

The whole appointment lasted about 30-40 mins and at some points the discomfort of the exam was exactly the discomfort I've been having on and off for months, concentrated on the right side. I mentioned that both my mum and sister have previously had fibroids, in case that's what I have too. "Nope, I'm not seeing any fibroids," came the response. She was clearly focusing on the right side and asked me at least three times, "you say you haven't had any surgery on your right ovary?....Nothing at all? Not even during the laparoscopy in 2006?"
"No, certainly not that I am aware of," I answered. "The laparoscopy was purely exploratory and identified a small cyst but nothing more than that. There wasn't any surgery involved."

And with only that minimal exchange to go on, I have to wait for my follow-up appointment with my GP this Friday. At least my doctor's pragmatic - if there's anything to report she'll no doubt throw it right at me. I'm trying hard not to bite or pick at my nails in the interim but the ongoing bloating - which seems worse again today - is my football-sized niggling reminder of the wait...

Coming Clean About a Dirty Habit

Onychophagia! That's what they call it people - my dirty little habit. I am a self-confessed, chronic nail-biter and have been all my life! The stupid thing is, I've hated that fact all my life too. I think it's a dirty, ugly, unhygienic and generally revolting habit. I'm permanently embarrassed about my hands and their stubby, half-mangled fingertips, but I just can't seem to stop. I'm seriously considering hypnosis, I think it's going to be the only thing that will (hopefully) cure me once and for all. I've tried the yukky-tasting treatments, to no avail, and I've managed periods of abstinence where pride of having nice nails overwhelmed the subconscious obsession to gnaw them down to their usual torn-up mess.

I started biting them as a child at around 6 or 7 years old, probably due to emotional stress and anxiety - textbook psychological case study really. But here I am..... 30-ahem-something years later - still going hard at it! While I've definitely had periods in that time where I stopped completely, sometimes for months on end, I nevertheless seem to start up again eventually and, in the past 8 months or so it's been worse than ever. Not only do I chew my nails but I pick at the skin around the edges too, until my fingertips are sore and bleeding. It often hurts to get dressed, prepare food, scratch my skin (which is almost impossible when you have no nails), peeling an orange burns like hell and I've lost count of how many new stockings I've ruined simply trying to put them on. It takes me a while to undo knots and shoelaces, open envelopes, peel off price tags/labels, pick up a dropped coin (dimes and pennies are especially difficult). I'm always discreetly hiding my fingernails from view and I'm terribly embarrassed if I have to point to something on my computer screen - with my blobby, scabby finger and half-shredded nail remnants. Similarly, I'm horribly self-conscious holding a glass of wine, or pointing at something on the menu of a fancy restaurant. And, what's bugging me lately, is that I have a lot of jewellery, especially rings, that I like but am hesitant to wear for fear of drawing attention to my hands and their sad, beaten-up digits.

So without further ado, here are the offending items.

Not too bad here, you might think

But look! Urrgghhh - "you're a MONSTER!"

As a child my family teased me about my nail-biting, joking that they'd serve me up a pie baked full of finger and toe nails or that I could have nails on toast for dinner. (For the record, I have NEVER bitten or eaten my toe nails....even I have limits!) So I learnt to be discreet in my nail-biting so as not to get caught. Actually, when my younger brother, Graham, was a toddler I was determined to surreptitiously teach him to start biting his, that way I'd at least have a partner in crime and the onus would maybe even shift to him instead of me. Luckily for him though, he failed miserably.

With the exception of the past few years, I would never bite my nails if anyone else was around, I was just too mortified by how ugly it must (and does) look - especially as a grown woman, fingers halfway down my gob, chomping down with frenetic nervousness. Such as the woman in her 50s that I once witnessed devouring her fingers in the waiting room of the doctor's office. Admittedly she might have been anxiously anticipating test results or bad news, but witnessing that display, on a woman who seemed otherwise elegant and normal, shocked me - especially knowing that I must look just as ugly and repulsive when I do it. Not to mention that awful sound of someone literally crunching on their chewed naily bits. I personally hate that sound as much as I hate someone publicly clipping their nails (knowing they're pinging off all over the place...potentially landing in your food or hair etc.). But even that doesn't stop me, I just try not to do it within earshot of anyone else and hate it when Lorne sometimes catches me as I watch TV (when I do 80% of my chewing). I sometimes wonder if he's trying to discreetly turn away slightly so that (a) he can't hear me or (b) doesn't have to see me out the corner of his eye, contorting my fingers, hand and arm to get at every last remaining shred of nail that'll bug the hell out of me if I don't rip it out. (Now I see where the OCD element of the onychophagia definition comes in.)

On the whole, while my nails are pretty gross, especially at the moment, though they're still not quite as gnarly as some people's - such as this habitual nail-biter (and believe me, there are many, far uglier onychophagia photos where this one came from):

My nails often feel this sore, but
these are thankfully not mine.

This time last summer I actually had lovely, long nails - all beautifully shiny, healthy and painted. I was proud to show them off. For about 8 months I never touched them, not even to pick at or nibble. Quite possibly the longest I've ever gone without gnawing on them to some degree and that was despite the anxieties of losing my job and the whole breast cancer thing. Ironic, no?

The additional habit of picking the skin around my nails started quite a few years ago as a semi-subconscious attempt to avoid actually chewing my nails, only now I simply do both in hideous tandem until my fingers literally hurt - and bleed. It's not pretty, that's for sure.

I tried that nasty-tasting product, Stop 'n' Grow, years ago but the effect was minimal, it's bitter taste wasn't foul enough to deter me. But then, Buckley's cough medicine doesn't make me gag either, so maybe I just have tough taste buds. I've tried using clear nail polish but end up picking it off. I've made countless New Year's resolutions, promises to quit on my birthday or at lent or 'if I get that job offer' etc. etc. While I come across as confident, diligent and professional, I worry that revealing bitten nails at a job interview will give the impression of underlying nervousness, insecurity and lack of effectively handling stress.

It tastes bad......but just not bad enough.

I don't feel particularly stressed at the moment, though I also nibble/pick when I'm bored or deliberating and trying to put off doing something. Having to make a phonecall often has me picking at my nails beforehand, I'm not a huge fan of the phone, especially at work - a nervous disposition created perhaps from working at Intrawest when I first moved to Vancouver, where the Member Services position I was hired to do soon became much more of in-bound call centre job. Headset glued on 9-5 and enduring a relentless stream of phonecalls, often from extremely irate people calling too late to get the exact reservation they wanted. God I hated that job.

Of course it doesn't help any that I currently work with a young woman who has the most beautiful hands - and nails - that I have ever seen. No word of a lie, she literally could/should be a hand model. They're stunning, like a piece of art; long, slender, smooth, so incredibly feminine and elegant. Her nails are lovely - 100% real, flawlessly manicured and simply gorgeous, with or without nail polish - whereas mine look like I just tore down a brick wall with my bare hands. Being next to this colleague and her perfectly-porcelain hands is the nail-biter's equivalent of being the spotty, fat wallflower beside the glamorous Prom Queen. (Well, I suppose anyway, since we never actually did that whole Prom Queen thing back in England, but you get my point, right?)

And so, perhaps by admitting my shame somewhat, vaguely 'publicly' (if anyone actually reads this blog), I can push myself into giving up this yukky, ugly habit once again. Just 3 weeks to break a habit they say. And I'm seriously going to look into that hypnotherapy thing too, because if it cures me of my onychophagia, maybe it can do the same for my horrendous arachnophobia.