Counting Blessings

As we barrel towards the final 24 hours of 2012, I realize it's one of the few years that I will not be sorry to see the back of. It seems that - for myself, my sister and for various friends, family members and even friends-of-friends - the year 2012 has not been a very kind one. As one who usually feels somewhat daunted by the prospect of a whole new and unwritten year unfolding in front of me, it's quite refreshing to feel at least a little positive anticipation about moving towards the as yet blank pages of chapter 2013.

But even though 2012 was, by and large, a bit of a blur and has not been one of my better years - thanks to losing my job, going through breast cancer, being unemployed for the better part of 8 months and watching my sister's marriage come to an end - I am nevertheless able to count up a series of blessings that have accumulated around me, some of them even in spite of their circumstances. There have been times of stress, uncertainty, fear, rejection and worry however, while it might have been a more trying year, I still couldn't say it was absolutely horrendous and for that I am grateful, because things really could have been a lot worse.

Rather than go into too much detail (since much has been written in my posts previous to this), I thought I'd make a quick list because - even in the tough times - it helps to stop, take a breather and really count your blessings:

1. I am blessed with a wonderful husband, Lorne, who never ceases to amaze me with his unwavering love, support, compassion, concern and just being there for me in every way. I couldn't ask for a better life partner and, especially this year, he has outdone himself in being all that and so much more. Thank you!
2. I've enjoyed a renewed closeness with friends and family, even friends I haven't spoken to in years and those I don't even know so well. I have felt very loved and appreciated this year, that's for sure.
3. Being laid off was upsetting and felt so unfair, but I was given a decent severance that allowed me to enjoy a fairly relaxing couple of months off, until we left for our 3-week trip to the UK in June, and subsequently the time and freedom to deal with the breast cancer diagnosis, surgery and radiation treatments without that added pressure of feeling like I should be making up the time at work. Admittedly, being unemployed so long often left me to ponder a little too much inside my own head with the 'what ifs' and 'maybes', but if ever I needed space to wrap my head around something, then not working these past months has certainly been a blessing.
4. I'm eternally grateful that my cancer was small, low-grade and found very early. Furthermore I have received prompt, high-tech treatment and am so lucky to be living among the world's top breast cancer researchers, scientists and doctors. I didn't have to lose a breast, I didn't need chemo, I never lost my hair and there is a 5-year course of medication available to me to further minimize the chances of this cancer coming back. Were I living in the US, the treatment alone would have soaked up all our savings and then some. In many other countries it might not even be available to me at all.
5. The timing of our UK trip - planned before I lost my job or learned about the breast cancer - was impeccable, a very welcome distraction between diagnosis and surgery and a chance to reconnect with my family on a deeper level perhaps than other visits.
6. Talking of our England trip, I also count my blessings that my mum, who's taken to falling asleep while smoking in bed or in her armchair, has thus far failed to burn down the house and that I was there to stub out the lit cigarette that fell from her hand and merrily smouldered away on the living room carpet. Admittedly I was furious at the time - I've always hated that she smokes so much anyway - and when that happened, on the last night of our stay with her in June, I felt sick with a mix of anger, frustration and overwhelming worry that she might just die in a house fire one day - and likely sooner rather than later - self inflicted! (Lorne's best friend lost both parents that way not too long ago.) It's a horrible thought but a possibility that I am personally powerless (and too far away) to change. 
7. I am grateful that having so much time off this year has enabled me to be a much greater support to my sister, Victoria - spending time with her and the kids, especially in the midst of her separation from Mark and then the lengthy up-heavel of moving house. I am forever in awe of her stamina, strength, sheer determination and incredible strength of spirit as she pushes herself through what sometimes seems to be an endless uphill battle. 2012 has been a very tough year for her too, so let's hope 2013 brings better times!
8. In return, Vicky has been an incredible support to me in navigating breast cancer, thanks largely to her own experiences just a couple of years ago. While it's been a pathway we never expected to share, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have by my side who has already been through it. I swear that it even helped lessen some of the initial shock and fear of my own diagnosis back in May, since it was no longer the first time I'd heard those unwanted words spoken so close to home. And when Vicky had a further scare this summer - with what thankfully really was a benign cyst - I was able to be there with her - in fact we sat together at the hospital, chatting our heads off (as always), right up to the moment they wheeled her bed into the OR.
9. I've also been lucky to have the time to get back into a regular workout routine - both during and since the radiation treatments - keeping active and topping up those endorphins. Aside from the Christmas junk food (ahem!) I currently feel fitter and more energetic than I have in a long time.
10. I am also blessed with a good friend and ex-boss, Bev, who has been supportive in both a personal and professional capacity. Having lost her own best friend to a 10-year battle with breast cancer last year, Bev was someone I could talk to when my sister was diagnosed and has since befriended me in the same way, especially by offering me freelance work shortly before Christmas. Basically I'm back doing the job I left in 2011, only on a freelance basis and it helps me (and Bev) in so many ways. It's just a temporary gig but is pretty flexible, the extra money has certainly helped, just in time for Christmas and the work might even run through January. The extra cash and freedom from my own personal procrastination is very handy and perfect timing. While I'm back in the saddle work-wise, you could also say I'm riding the gift horse they call Hypocrite (or sleeping with the enemy), since I originally left the company because of (among other reasons) their voracious desire to focus on projects in/around the Alberta oil sands, to which I am absolutely environmentally opposed. However, they've offered me a decent hourly rate, it gets me out and around people again and it means I can use the writing, editing, proof-reading and desktop publishing skills that I didn't get as much opportunity to use in my last job but would definitely like still to use in the future. Besides, I'm still good friends with a couple of my immediate co-workers, so it's been a seamless transition and has spared me the patronizing and nauseating happy-clappy Sparkle-Barbies at the local temping agencies! 

Well, that's ten things right off the top of my head in a year that's certainly had its moments. And if it hadn't all happened this year, I might not be writing this post, so what else can I say? Take solace even in the small things and hold onto those moments of grace, compassion and gratitude - no matter how fleeting.

Three years

My dearest Lucy,

Three years already and I still miss you every day. Thank You for all those amazing cuddles and the unique gift of sharing 11 precious and wonderful years of your life.

Such an incredibly adorable sweetheart, Lucy, your loving spirit lives within me every day and for that I am truly blessed.

Love you with all my heart, my little Lucy Button.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s beginning to look a lot like.....déjà-vu!

And so, the tree is up. It's been a little over a week and it's survived thus far....mostly....although some of the decorations aren't faring quite so well.

Since Mel and Louis unceremoniously demolished our tree last Christmas (as you'll see from the pictures below), we had no choice but to buy a new one this year and ended up with one that appears to be a 7.5 footer - way larger than the display model in the store - that is now virtually devouring the whole living room. We actually bought it early November and I confess, we even set it up that same day. NOT because we're those people, I might add (who get everything Christmassey well underway 6-8 weeks in advance) although Christmas ads began popping up on TV even before Hallowe'en and many stores wasted no time in cranking out the old seasonal faves as of 12:01 am on Nov. 1st.

Noooo. We put the tree up right away as an experiment with our kitties - namely Mel and Louis - since those two rambunctious goofballs celebrated their first Christmas last year by systematically destroying the tree, branch-by-branch and at least 8-10 decorations at a time.  

One of their first victims was Rudolph (left). Let's just say poor Rudolph is now an amputee misfit toy perhaps better known as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Lame Deer, who had, just like the tree, merrily survived unscathed for 11 years and 5 cats! The Curious Incident of Rudolph in the Night simply started the bauble rolling, so to speak, and was quickly followed by almost all of the decorations, at one time or another, mysteriously vanishing overnight, only to be stumbled upon (quite literally) in various corners of the house for the next 11 months -  maimed, slobbered on, defaced with teeth marks and generally looking like mini ruins of their former selves. Mel, it turns out, is rather partial to anything shiny, silver, sparkley or covered in glitter - quickly earning himself the nickname Magpie Mel. I lost count of how many times we had to chase him as he dashed off upstairs with something in his mouth ready to hide it under the bed. Louis was less obvious but just as guilty. On more than one occasion we caught them diving from their favourite hangout on the window-seat straight into the middle branches of the tree! The whole thing shook, decorations fell and whichever cat wasn't the tree-diver was waiting down below, ready swipe any decorations that fell off in the kerfuffle.

Another of their favourite 'Reindeer games....haha, get it? Was "Let's see how far we can bend the Rudolph at the top". As you can see, we came downstairs one morning to find he'd been dragged southwards a full 90 degrees, exactly to kitten-in-the-window height, dishevelled yet remarkably still intact.

I’m amazed it hadn’t flipped right back up again, catapulting the culprit feline(s)

at 90mph right through to the dining room!

Reindeer down under - literally!

Not satisfied with amputations, theft, destruction and generally wreaking mayhem,

they proceeded to climb the branches till virtually all of them broke in their holders,

leaving the tree crippled and looking more like a massive glob of spinach

slumped in the corner of the living room.

Alas there really was nothing we could do to save it.

Within 3 weeks it had pretty much ceased to be.

One old, beaten and forlorn tree
- gone to meet it's maker.

Mel, totally enamoured with a 'real' fire.

So this time, while Lorne was away for a week with his friends getting their eardrums blasted on their long-awaited heavy metal cruise, The Barge to Hell, I put on a Christmas movie, treated myself to some festive 'spirits', put a duraflame log in the fireplace, much to Mel's endless enjoyment, and began the long task of untangling lights (despite the fact I always put them away so carefully each year), pulling said string of lights away from grabby, clawing cat paws and, in my usual meticulous (verging on OCD) manner, dressed it up in our 100 or more decorations - which took me about the next two days!

 



Tadaaa. Behold - new tree in all its glory!

Not to sound boastful, but I was really quite pleased with the result. Just as well, since it was short-lived after that.

For the first week the tree stayed safe and intact despite the fact 2-3 decorations are regularly being pulled off during the day shift and 3 more during the night. And then it became 3-4. And now it's about 5-6 each time. Rocking horses have lost their rockers. Stars have been stripped of their golden trim. Angels have bent wings. Bells are sneakily being jingled at all hours of the night and ol' Rudolph at the top seems to lean in a new direction each morning.

Our living room furniture now looks more like a pile of dodgem cars since we’ve had to squish things close together so as to keep a ‘safe’ perimeter of clearance around the tree, because Mel and Louis soon decided to launch themselves straight from the armchair, couch, window-seat or Lorne's cigar humidor, right into the lower and middle branches of the tree.

Ah bless, courtesy of those sneaky little critters, it’s certainly beginning to look a lot like déjà-vu as the once-sturdy branches are starting to collapse, one on top of the other, throughout the bottom half of the tree. In fact the mid-left looks just like a cannon ball blew right through it.

For now I’ve used long screws to try and wedge the broken branches back up to (almost) their correct position but we’ll see how long it lasts. Looks like another new tree or else no tree at all for next year.

A brief photo catch-up

I don't want this blog to become all about breast cancer, so I thought I'd do a quick post of some of my favourite photographs taken during my long absence. Okay, even I can't deny that I've had a distinct lack of....not so much enthusiasm but rather....the right creative headspace these past few months (with trying to wrap my head around the whole cancer thing) but I'm back, Baby. I've sorely missed that feeling of wanting to get out there with my camera and I desperately want (and need) to get back into it.

Anyway, here are a few shots - not least because I know my Mum's been hoping to see some more of my pictures (and Vicky's so good at regularly posting great photos on her blog). I've been a bit more diligent lately about posting pics to Facebook than I have on this blog or on my Flickr account - need to change that.

CUBA (January 2012)
Having previously been twice to the same part of Cuba, it was great to explore a different part of the country this last time which included an excellent 2-day trip across country to the city of Trinidad. Wonderful for photographic opportunities but especially to really get a feel for the country and its incredible people as a whole. I'm never quite comfortable with seeming like a wealthy, fancy-pants tourist, which is surely how we must be perceived by the locals since they live such a basic, antiquated and impoverished third world lifestyle, but I love their strong sense of community. They live an incredibly tough life with so little of the everyday foods, services and 'stuff' that we take for granted. I (personally) enjoyed the break from everything hi-tech, rushed and consumerist - but of course, that's easy for me to say since I have a choice about that. They don't.



City of Trinidad, Cuba



Where sleeping dogs lie - Trinidad, Cuba

English homework - Trinidad, Cuba

Trinidad, Cuba

SPRING FLOWERS (around Vancouver April/May 2012)

The cherry blossoms around Vancouver were stunning this Spring - though it always means allergy-hell for poor Lorne :-(

Beautiful cherry blossoms line many streets across Vancouver.

Magenta magnolia.

Bronwyn with a dog that looked like he could eat her whole.
Luckily he's a gentle giant, apparently, called Caesar.

ENGLAND (June 2012)

There are still LOTS more pictures I need to add from our trip this summer, especially from our travels around Scotland too - but here are a couple of England pics for starters:

 

These beautiful, vivid red poppies were in a field across opposite
my brother's house in High Ackworth, Pontefract (UK).



More poppies from the same field in
High Ackworth, Pontefract (UK).



Donkey rides at Cleethorpes Beach, England (my home town).
Still going strong after all these years.

The Furry Free-Loaders (aka. Mishka, Mel and Louis)

When we first adopted Mel and Louis in Oct. 2011 through VOKRA (Vancouver's Orphan Kitten Rescue Association) they were just 5 months old, their names were Aldo and Stirling respectively and it was hard to tell them apart. Naturally we changed their names and have finally learnt to identify one from the other. It's fun to watch their personalities evolve while they remain so incredibly close and affectionate with each other - and they're great with Mishka. In all her 15 years and the 4 previous cats that have passed through her life, Mishka is really quite content with these bafoons and they are constantly seeking her affection. Having these past few months off and spending so much time with these guys has been an absolute gift, especially to be able to look after Mishka's every need now that she's elderly, needs careful dietary support and is on a regular regime of medicines. I swear the energy of being around the boys has even slowed down her aging.

A couple of these pics aren't great because they're taken with my Iphone (more for expediency before the cats changed position) but I've managed to catch a few with my Nikon too. I would love to do more pet photography so these guys are giving me lots of practise.

Louis curled around a sleeping Mel.

Mirror Image. (Mel left, Louis right)

Bond...Mel Bond. Handsome devil.

Louis & Mel - when they could both still fit in the kitty condo.

It's tough being this good-looking but even a super model
like Mishka still finds time to relax, especially in the sun.

Mishka's favourite spot all summer, basking in the shaft of
sunlight at the back door. Alas the change in seasons has
seriously eaten into her sun-worshipping schedule.

The 3 amigos

Look who stowed away in Lorne's luggage!

Dear Tamoxifen

As previously discussed, you are hereby contracted for a term not expected to exceed 5 years, wherein your principal focus is to be devoted to one task and one task only:

• To unreservedly kick the absolute CRAP out of this cancer malarky and ensure its toxic and insidious ass is kept the hell away from me!

And in so doing, you are respectfully commanded to honour your host, thus committing your equal and undivided care and attention in avoiding (or, at the very least, limiting to a bare and tolerable minimum) all of the following:

• Mood swings
• Hot flashes
• Weight gain
• Nausea
• Tiredness
• Memory loss
• Depression
• Insomnia
• Swelling of hands/feet
• Other menopause-type 'joys' not listed above
• Muscle/joint pain
• Endometrial cancer
• Risk of stroke
• Risk of blood clots
• Cataracts

In other words, make sure you do your job.....do it well!....and please be kind to me in the process.

And so, without further ado, let us seal both obligatory and honourary terms of this agreement, for the period of one thousand eight hundred and twenty six days (inclusive of the 2016 leap year and taking into account any additional/exclusive time-period as deemed appropriate by qualified oncologists).

I hereby raise this glass of water and.....3....2....1......

Dose #1 is down the hatch!!!

Radiation Routine

Hard to believe that 22 daily sessions of radiation could go by so fast. That 4.5 weeks could sprint right on past in the blink of an eye. But they have and I'm all done.

On Nov. 2nd Bag #2673 was proudly retired to the paper recycling bin, the navy hospital gown dropped into the changing room laundry hamper and my cute candy-cane hanger - disarmed and relieved of its current duties - left to hang once more on the Unit #6 coat rail. While I certainly felt a sense of freedom, an acute pang of empathy quickly followed, since I strongly suspect that little hanger won't be unemployed for too long.

Having been given the choice between morning or afternoon appointments for my radiation sessions, I'd opted for mornings figuring it would be good to get it out of the way first thing. Besides it got me up, dressed and out of the house. For the most part my appointments started somewhere between 8:15 and 9:00am and the brisk morning walk was a refreshing start to my day, especially since I love breathing in the smells and damp morning mists of Autumn.

When Vicky was going through her own radiation (early 2010) I remember being surprised that she seemed to be so at ease with it, simply taking it in her stride, no whining, no complaining, just getting on with it as if it were as routine as brushing her teeth. Going through it myself, I now understand first-hand how quickly it becomes something you just do every day, rain or shine. It's quick, painless (mostly) and it ain't chemo, for which I am eternally grateful.

(Ironically enough, BC Cancer Agency is just a half block down the street from where I worked at the Canadian Cancer Society, so my daily jaunt would take me right past the windows of my ex-boss and colleagues - twice. Without even looking across at that building, I simply walked right on by, head held high.)

The first 16 sessions saw me in and out of BCCA within 15 minutes (including getting undressed/dressed), however the 6 booster treatments took a little while longer in set-up, though still no more than 25mins in all - lots more measuring, extra marking and repeatedly moving the bed up, down, left and right, while fitting an extra piece of equipment to the machine to further narrow down its field of radiation.

Almost all of the 12 or so radiation technicians I've met in these past few weeks have been cheerful and quite entertaining by all accounts. Admittedly, when I'm in a strange situation or feeling awkward, I sometimes switch into comedian mode - an old class-clown defence mechanism from my self-conscious school days. Similarly I'm energized by people who have a dry sense of humour so some of the sessions quickly turned into 10-minute stand-up routines (well, horizontal for me obviously). We often found ourselves laughing so much that all the giggling created havoc while trying to mark out the correct lines and dots for the more serious task at hand.

Part way through my treatments I noticed a small Vancouver Canucks sticker on the machine, where it hovered just above my face at the start of each session. And on my 3rd-last treatment I discovered spiderman's face had appeared alongside it. 'Was that Spidey-sticker always there?', I wondered. 'From the beginning? I swear I didn't notice it before. And who stuck it there anyway? A patient? Technician? The cleaner?' Regardless who put it there, I liked it and found it oddly amusing.

In an effort to keep my energies up and hopefully fight off any of the fatigue that they warn you can be a side-effect of the treatments, I made a point, every other day, to head straight from the Cancer Agency down to the gym. It's been quite some time since I worked out this regularly and so efficiently at the gym. I certainly feel better for it - mentally as much as physically. I'm sure it's contributed to my general sense of well-being and has apparently counteracted the accumulative fatigue that, for some people, can begin as early as two weeks into treatment or as late as two weeks after it's finished. Other than 3 days or so during the final week of my radiation, I've hardly noticed any overwhelming tiredness. Mind you, maybe I should have milked that chronic fatigue thing all the same, as an excuse to lay around on the couch and have Lorne cook dinner, feed me grapes and generally wait on me hand and foot.  :-)

I have to say the radiation treatments were actually pretty straight forward - neither bothersome nor inconvenient - but even I can't deny that's probably because a) I live just a 10 minute walk away from the Cancer Agency, b) unemployment has spared me both the inconvenience and awkwardness of trying to discreetly squeeze in the sessions around a busy work schedule and c) I haven't had to juggle them amid the morning mayhem of herding kids to the breakfast table, throwing clothes on them and hurtling them off to school. (Luckily cats are self-sufficient in that regard.)

I count myself lucky that any adverse side-effects have really been pretty minimal, with only the swelling, tenderness and blotchy redness of my pink-blancmange-boob being the most noticeable. It's certainly no fun when you can't tolerate wearing a bra or t-shirt because it sets your nipple off itching like crazy but your skin's too tender to even have a good scratch (ideally in private, hehe.) But even that was largely kept under control by regularly applying betamethasone cream, a prescription steroid cream to combat the itching and soreness.

And so another stage of this journey is done and out of the way. The staff wished me well as I left Unit #6 for the last time. "Thanks for everything," I replied, cheerily. "And please don't take it personally if I hope never to see you again." ;-)

Now that we've zapped the sh*t out of any remaining cancer cells, all I'm left with is a bizarre-shaped tan across my right boob and into my armpit. The skin's still sensitive and has started to peel slightly where the redness and blotching was previously more prominent so I'll continue applying the cream for a couple more weeks, but overall I have to say I've been feeling pretty good.

Moreover, I am profoundly thankful for an early diagnosis and the amazing medical care and hi-tech equipment that are readily available to me - suddenly my bitching about paying through the nose to live in Vancouver seems unreasonably skewed.

Repeat ultrasound - côté gauche

Don't ask me why I felt I should say 'left side' in french, it just seemed to feel right.....or rather, left.

So I'm really not quite sure what took so long but today, being my weekly check-in with an oncologist, I finally got the report from the October 10th ultrasound done on my left breast, which was a follow-up to the one they did just before our UK trip back in June. The results, while thankfully not indicating cancer at this stage, are nevertheless still somewhat vague and they've suggested another repeat in 4 months.

Admittedly I had felt at the time, that the technician doing the exam was really very thorough. She could feel/see the same lumpy areas that I had indicated and confirmed at least a couple of those appear to be just small cysts, which is actually quite common and nothing to worry about. I was even relieved when she showed me on the monitor that the couple of areas previously identified as perhaps a lump, are in fact spots where two adjacent ducts run parallel/criss-cross, which is what makes them palpable and only when the ultrasound wand is moved in a certain way do you actually see where the ducts separate as opposed to seeing them as a single, enlarged unit. That said, they do appear to be a little dilated - but hopefully not because of any cancer developing in there.

Basically the final report indicates an "atypical cyst" in the 3 o'clock position which seems unchanged from the previous exam (potentially a good sign) but they also add that it's hard to determine for sure "in view of the difficulty in comparing ultrasounds done on 2 different machines by two different operators". Great.

They also note a couple of other areas that look to be cysts (per above) that seem largely unchanged in size, as well as the two adjacent (palpable) focally dilated ducts.

All-in-all my left 'lumpy-bumpy' breast has a few areas to monitor but at least nothing too scary is showing at this point. Sort of a relief, I suppose, but not entirely. I guess we'll see how things look next February - hopefully without being examined by a third operator on a 3rd machine simply adding to the apparent ambiguity. Either way, at least I know they're on it ..... so to speak ;-)

Understandably perhaps, I'm not feeling out of the woods just yet - but then, I also suspect I may never have that feeling again, since this is just part of my new reality. Tagged for the foreseeable future. It will always be there, in the back of my mind, with every check-up, mammogram and ultrasound. The legacy of breast cancer gently poking me as a subtle reminder to never again take anything for granted. Not that I ever really did actually, especially not since the very sudden and untimely death of my dad back in '96, my brother Graham's heart attack in '07 (at just 33 years old) or Vicky's breast cancer in '09. I've never pretended that things can't all change at a moment's notice. While I've endeavoured not to dwell on this cancer thing, for fear it would immobilize me if I let panic set in, I strongly suspect it will always have a spot, tucked away in the corner.

Ho-hum, said Pooh.

Bag #2673

And so this is me, Bag #2673, for the next 4.5 weeks. Or rather 22 radiation sessions, daily Mon - Fri, from now until Nov. 2nd.

As luck would have it, Lorne didn't have to start work until 10am today so he came down to the BC Cancer Agency with me for today's initial radiation session.

I'm not sure where in the building Vicky did her radiation, but it seems to me that it's a bit nicer where I go - Unit 6. From the time I went with Vicky to one of her treatments, I recollect the area was sparse and in need of a paint job. But then I also don't really trust my memory on much theses days, so I could just be totally making it up in my mind. (And this is even before any effects of menopause.)

The staff were really friendly and Kerry, who walked us through the plan and general routine for the next few weeks, had a really dry sense of humour, which helped. She gave me my personal, marked up brown paper bag (as above), complete with a navy hospital gown that I will use for the duration and a rather cheery, Christmas candy-cane coat hanger so that, after each treatment, I can leave it hanging in the change area until the next session. It wasn't until I went to actually change, that I realized just how many bags are hanging in that area - and there are more areas just like that - a mix of paper bags and some fabric ones, marked up with number, unit and treatment end date, much the same as mine - reiterating just how many of us are on this same journey. Too many, it would seem.

We went over the radiation treatment plan that Dr N. had talked about a couple of weeks ago; 16 treatments to the whole area plus a further 6 'booster' treatments that would specifically target the area where just few cancer cells remained post-surgery.

Once I had undressed my top half and changed into my gown, Kerry led me into a room with a monster of a machine that immediately reminded me of an oversized food mixer (per the example on the left) where - as you can see from my photo (below) - I am positioned in the spot where the mixing bowl would ordinarily be.

Thankfully, having seen Vicky go through one of her sessions a couple of years ago, I wasn't too shocked by the size of the thing, although it's nevertheless quite daunting to be under there as it buzzes away and then swings overhead after zapping one side of my boob, ready to start again from the other side. I remain convinced it could quite easily eat me whole.

Me, ready to get zapped

Lorne stayed outside the room with the technicians (due to the obvious dangers of the radiation) and watched on the monitors while the radiologists used lines, beams, illuminated rulers, magic markers and my two new tattoos to line up everything ready for administering my first treatment. So precisely measured down to the exact half-millimetre that even the teeny-tiniest movement, sneeze, cough or otherwise would throw everything right off and the technicians would have to start measuring all over again.

With everything all set and ready to go, they checked I was still doing okay, then left the room. Seconds later a loud click heralded the start of my first treatment - noticeable only by the resonating "NNNRRRRRRRR" sound it emits for the duration. It's an odd thing to be laying there, getting zapped by invisible, refined beams of radiation, while everyone else has to vacate the premises and stand well clear of the 8" thick door that separates us.

In just a matter of minutes (or less) it was all done. Kerry and her team-mate came back in, helped me get down from the bed and cheerily wished me a good day and 'see you tomorrow' as they handed me my pink appointment card wherein they write the times for that week's appointments. I took my brown bag and stripey hanger back to the changing room, got dressed and dutifully hung up Bag #2673 on the rail - along with all the others.

Bye-bye tattoo virgin

So I went to the cancer agency for my CT scan yesterday.

First of all they take you to a room and make you watch an in-house video that explains the whole CT scan procedure and the radiation treatments that I'll start in the near future. It was a cheesy but endearing home-video shot at the BC Cancer Agency, complete with wooden-top 'actors'. The woman who played the cancer patient in the video had a very familiar accent - not only english but a familiar Grimsby/Cleethorpes accent. I swear she could've lived down the road from me. I found it amusingly distracting.

There was a piece at the end of the video listing various cancer support services and a couple of the images were a bit wacky - someone laid in a hospital bed while a volunteer sat by the bedside singing songs to them and playing guitar. Another 'relaxation therapy' session showed people laid out on the room floor while a man stood amid them, tapping and shaking a tambourine. Call me cynical (I won't deny it) but it felt like a comedy skit.

At the end of the video I went back to the waiting room where the CT-Scan-ologist (that's their technical name, right?) came to fetch me and walked me to the room where she and another technician prepped me ready to be fed through the big, white CT-scanner doughnut. With some careful cross-referencing and drawing of dots across my chest, boob and into my armpit, they were ready to do the scan.

They both left the room while the mechanics inside the doughnut began to whirr and rotate, drawing up a 3D image that would be used to map out the exact route for the upcoming radiation treatments. Once again I had that detached sensation of role-playing, being physically in the room but struggling to accept that this is real and this is me, the accidental cancer patient, being zapped and scanned ready to set up a treatment plan I never expected.

After a little more checking, comparing and careful measuring, I was poked twice with a tattoo gun/syringe - one teeny tiny dot mid-chest and another near my armpit. That's it, my proud tattoo virginity out of the window - it bloody hurt though. I have no idea what kind of sado-masochist must enjoy the pain of a whole tattoo, especially those massive murals all over their body. (Or even the woman at my gym who has a 6" Christmas ribbon tattooed on the back of both her left and right thigh. Why oh why???)

So now I'm a marked woman, haha. Radiation in....radiation out. I went for the 'freckle' look - although the tattoo mid-chest (where my cleavage should be, if I had a cleavage) is actually darker and more obvious than the discreet dot just below my armpit. Hopefully make-up will cover it.

Apparently they need a couple of weeks to go through all my scans etc. to map out the radiation sessions so I'll probably get started on the actual treatments early October for 22 treatments, which means it'll be more like early to mid-November before I could start work. Of course there's that minor detail of actually getting a job to go to! I'm still applying for jobs in the meantime anyway but I'm not putting too much pressure on myself at this point.

So me and my two new 'tats' are just waiting to get started on the next phase of all this stuff.

Medication meltdown

So today I met my oncologist (yet another word that I never anticipated using in reference to myself). Dr N. is a pale, slightly built and timid looking man of a seemingly nervous disposition. I couldn't decide whether his previous client had scared the sh*t out of him or was it me he was afraid of? Or maybe everyone has that effect on him. I fought the urge to shout "BOO!" for fear he might literally pee his pants.

He brought with him a female trainee/intern (or whatever it is they call them), who was similarly fragile and had the handshake of limp lettuce. I wondered if they were anticipating I'd burst into floods of tears upon discussing the treatment plan. If that was the case they'd be relieved - or disappointed - since the one thing I haven't done up till now is shed any tears about all this, which is perhaps a little odd, I don't know.

After another round of stripping down and being poked, prodded and even being told by the Doc that I have "what we call lumpy, bumpy breasts" (charmed, I'm sure), we sat down to discuss the treatment plan; 16 radiation treatments to the entire breast plus a further 6 'booster' treatments concentrated on the area where a few cancer cells were left behind (the spot where I'd narrowly escaped a second surgery). I was still doing okay up to that point, despite having previously been led to believe I'd need only 3 weeks of radiation but hey, if they need to do 6 extra treatments to make sure they zap those last remaining cancer cells, then I'm certainly okay with that.

It was the next part of our discussion that was, for me, the kicker.

"Now, you were probably told already that your cancer tested estrogen receptor-positive (ER+)." Which, as he  went on to explain, means the cancer cells bind with estrogen and use it to fuel their growth and it can also enable cancer cells to be carried through the bloodstream to other parts of the body. Yikes, I hadn't even thought about that. And naturally it suddenly flashed through my mind, what if these cancer cells have already gone elsewhere???? And why has nobody explained this whole ER+ thing to me before now?

"The good news is," (Thank goodness - at least there's still some good news) "there are several medications that have proven highly successful in blocking estrogen, the most commonly prescribed being Tamoxifen - which is very effective in preventing the recurrence of this type of breast cancer in pre-menopausal women like yourself. So we'd like to get you started on that two weeks after completing your radiation. This course of treatment is generally prescribed for 5 years."

I know he was offering up a positive solution but I can't deny that my heart sank. I'd read a little bit about Tamoxifen - for which the main 'side effect' (in most cases) is that, as an estrogen blocker, it actually brings on menopause that bit sooner. Brilliant! The very thing I've been dreading - I mean DREADING -  for years but had hoped to keep at bay for at least another 8-12 years. Now I'm inwardly terrified that, joy of joys, I get to start on that miserable road even earlier - turning into a 55 year old when I'm only 44.

Dr N. dutifully detailed many of the potential side-effects of Tamoxifen, including the possibility of endometrial cancer, blood clots, stroke, cataracts etc. but I could only focus on the whole menopause thing because of all the 'delights' it entails: mood swings, weight gain, hot flashes, memory loss, depression, insomnia....to name just a few.

By the time I left the cancer agency, I was consumed with an underlying sense of dread and despair - moreso even than when I received the initial breast cancer diagnosis. While I know I should be (and I am) eternally grateful that such a medication exists, I'm nevertheless terrified of the person I'll become once I start taking it, albeit I would have to enter menopause at some point in the coming years anyway.

I went home, pulled out all the info I could on tamoxifen and menopause and sank a beer while I wallowed in my fears and dread. By the time poor Lorne came home from work I could barely tell him about the appointment before my words washed away amid a flood of tears. I was devastated - mortified that I'm going to change into a sweaty, moody, fat and depressed mess of my present self. "I'm afraid I'll become a different person and that person might well be an absolute nightmare to live with." I blubbed. "I'll become a miserable, irrational, moody, overweight and psychotic monster. It'll be like having PMS 24/7/365 only on a much bigger scale. I don't want to be that person. Added to which  the weight gain will make me feel worse about myself. What a treat! It's bad enough I've dreaded menopause anyway but the thought of having to face it even earlier terrifies me. I feel like I just won't be myself anymore!"

Poor Lorne, I don't think he quite knew what to do/say. I was a stressed, wailing mess.....perhaps an early glimpse of exactly the type of emotional wreck I'll be once I'm on this medication anyway, only minus the sweaty pits. (For now at least.)

On the one hand, I know it seems irrational that I'd be this upset over a medication that, to all intents and purposes, will help prevent the recurrence of this awful disease - and it's nowhere near as drastic as chemo and I get to keep my hair, but I could almost live with the whole breast cancer thing knowing that I'm at least still the same person I was before it. The thought of taking tamoxifen and starting menopause makes me feel that I'll lose that. I won't be myself any more. I won't be the same Katrina - the one Lorne knows and loves. I'll be moody, paranoid and irrational and the prospect of a 15-30lb weight gain really bothers me; a) because I have a wardrobe full of nice clothes that just won't fit anymore and b) because, added to feeling crappy, I'll also feel bad about myself being heavier - God knows I suffered hideously low self-esteem for long enough in throughout my teens and 20's. The last thing I want is to go back to feeling as shitty about myself as I did back then. I was downright miserable, self-conscious and depressed.

I realize I must sound shamefully vain. That my dread of menopause must make me seem so horribly ungrateful for the fact there's even a medication available to me to help protect my health. On the contrary, I'm extremely grateful and I also know just how lucky I am to not need chemo, or worse, and to be living in a country where such treatment is even available to me and it's paid for by the government. Incredibly lucky. How ridiculous then to be crying over potential side-effects that may - or may not - even happen, or at least perhaps not to such a great extent.

The more sensible part of me suspects that maybe my upset and tears are moreso the result of a culmination of events from the past several months rather than actually just centered on the (by all accounts) irrational fear of menopause. I've stoically navigated my emotions through the diagnosis, surgery and upcoming plans for radiation while feeling thus far incredibly 'lucky' that it was found so early, perfectly treatable, and that my outlook really is among the best case scenarios for breast cancer.

So to find myself so ridiculously distraught over the thought of menopause starting a few years early makes me wonder if my upset isn't somewhat misplaced. Having felt that my scenario was, in many ways, a good one (I got the cleanest point of a shitty stick), I'm not sure I've even allowed myself to really address how I feel about all this - it's a bit of a life-changer after all. The fear of menopause and all its glory has perhaps given me the outlet, albeit somewhat misdirected, for spewing an accumulation of feelings/fears/uncertainties that I haven't yet been able to face about all this. In being so grateful that my prognosis is so much more positive compared to many, many others who get a cancer diagnosis, being upset about it just seemed pithy and self-absorbed. I felt like I'd merely dabbled' with breast cancer and - by and large - had a 'lucky escape'. Clearly the british side of me was all set to simply brush it under the carpet, treat it as a minor misdemeanour, say nothing more about it and just be grateful that nothing got too damaged. Yeah - not quite so fast there, Missy!

One surgery down and talk of a second....

(Catch-up of events from July & August)

By the time my July 9th surgery day came around, I’d hardly had time to get over the jetlag of the flight home (which had been an interesting 9 hours next to the most intoxicated person on the plane - not Lorne, I might add ;-) A woman from Glasgow who confessed, in extremely slurred babble, that she was so afraid of flying she’d already got hideously drunk at the airport bar and then proceeded to plough through a further nine bottles of in-flight red wine,, endeavouring to engage me in slurry, non-sensical burble, before finally - and all too briefly - passing out in her drunken stupour.)

It was an early start at BCCA - a 7:30am check-in followed by approximately 6 hours of me sitting around in waiting rooms or being wheelchaired from one department to another - even  through a little-known underground tunnel system that runs between the Jim Pattison Building at Vancouver General Hospital and the BCCA. That was quite unique actually, wheeling through the dusty, underground duct-lined guts of such important buildings. (And eerily reminiscent of a spooky Swedish/Danish co-production "The Kingdom" by Lars von Trier that Lorne and I watched a couple of years ago.)

After an initial chest x-ray, I was piled up with warm blankets and wheeled off for an ultrasound which took forever. The technician was trying to place wire markers in my breast to indicate both areas that were to be removed - which amounted the same area, since they were so close together, and therein lay the problem. He was having great difficulty getting the right spot and, after about 30mins farting around, he brought in a specialist and another technician for advice and then all 3 men were leaning on me, pressing, pulling and pushing against my boob while the main guy pushed and shoved to place the wire. How bloody ridiculous it all seemed as I was unceremoniously man-handled like a cow being branded. Thankfully the numbing agent they used was at least more successful than what I’d been given during the original biopsies but the whole ordeal was somewhat disconcerting all the same.

Next I was wheeled off to have a blue dye injected into my armpit to identify the sentinel lymph node from which they’d be removing a piece (during the surgery) for biopsy to verify whether the cancer had already entered my lymph system. A downright scary thought that I couldn't even let myself think about! I remember Vicky had said the dye injection for her had been incredibly uncomfortable but she must've had a different (less experienced?) person do hers because I hardly felt a thing, thank goodness.

Then it was back through the underground tunnels to BCCA to wait…..and wait…..for the surgery. At that point I suggested Lorne might as well go home until they called for him to pick me up. They were running late and it wasn’t until 3pm that Dr McF came through for a quick pre-surgery chat. "How are you doing? " he asked. "Well I'm a bit bored actually," I replied jokingly. I think I caught him off guard actually. "Well, let's see if we can't remedy that, shall we?" he smiled and a moment later a nurse came through to fetch my bed and wheeled me into the OR - 90 minutes later than scheduled. She apologized for the delay but oddly enough it was her I felt bad for, “I guess that makes it a long day for you,” I said sympathetically. Her response made me laugh out loud, “Yeah but hey, at least I don’t have cancer.” I hadn’t even thought of it that way. At least she was honest and direct - I liked her humour.

I came round at about 4:30pm, feeling woozy and achey, like I'd been punched hard in the chest. I vaguely heard the nurse phone Lorne and he arrived to pick me up a short time later. He gently helped me get dressed, which was a slow process because the smallest movement instantly made me want to throw up. I began crying a little as he slipped on my clothes (I’m really not sure why coming around from an anesthetic seems to make me all weepy). Once home I spent the next few hours in a daze on the living room couch. I really wanted to go to bed but simply couldn’t move without getting an overwhelming wave of nausea right away. And while I wasn't quite as sore from the op as I'd expected, I certainly felt like poop – trapped inside a spinny head, wobbly tummy and cheeks that kept preparing themselves for a good ol’ pukathon.

Around 10pm Lorne went to get the bed ready and, stubborn idiot that I am, I began hobbling toward the stairs, leaning on the couch for support. I didn’t get far before I yelled for him to get me a bowl (to throw up into) and quickly sat back down. He rushed downstairs, amazed that I was even trying to make my way to bed without his help. Thankfully I narrowly avoided hurling and several minutes later we were able to negotiate the stairs – sloooowly – and he helped me undress and slide into bed. He’d carefully laid out a bowl, towel, tissues and a glass of water for me. What a treasure!

On the whole I slept really well and wasn’t in too much pain but I still felt crappy from the anesthetic all the next day (need to keep that in mind for any future surgery, I obviously don’t do well on whatever it is they use to put you under). I took it relatively easy for the next couple of days, although I’m really not very good at sitting around and being ill, allowing myself to do nothing. I was still up and about and went out for walks but paid for it later with a sore reminder of having pushed myself a little too soon.

It's funny, the post-surgery soreness was really my first physical association with all this breast cancer malarky. Well, since I'd first noticed the lump becoming more prominent I guess. The rest had all seemed so surreal up to this point that the incisions, stitches and tenderness in my boob felt like "proof" that the doctors were right and I wasn't just making all this up. How odd that I should feel that way, but I did. For some reason it always surprises me to be taken seriously by doctors - I suspect it stems from my british upbringing, where you have to adamantly argue your case before a doctor will even listen, let alone consider sending you for further tests/treatment. Luckily canadian doctors are less skeptical and I could now see (and feel) the proof right there. The physical awareness allowed me to finally connect mentally with just what's going on.

For the next week or so I had to shower carefully so as not to soak the dressing on my boob and in my armpit, but from what I could see, I was relieved that neither scar was particularly big (between 1.5 and 2 inches) and the one on my boob is so far to the right-hand side, that you don’t really notice it from the front. Plus the surgeon did a great job and seems to have removed relatively little tissue so you can hardly tell. Yay, my bras will still fit! I knew my 36B's were in good hands :-)

By the weekend I was certainly feeling well enough for us still to go camping as planned. It was great to have a change of scenery and get out of the house, albeit I got told off by Lorne again when, tired of feeling so useless and feeble, I decided to lift the cooler full of beer from the van to the picnic table to offer him a beer. He was right, it was insane that I did that and I paid for it over the next few days.

I’m not sure if lifting the cooler had strained my incision/stitches but a few days later I was feeling pretty uncomfortable and noticed a slight infection starting in the stitches in my armpit area. A quick visit to a nearby walk-in clinic confirmed my suspicions and I was put on a 7-day course of Cephalexin antibiotics - all the headachey joy and nausea of a week-long hangover, without any of the drunky fun beforehand. Ugggh! I almost never take antibiotics and I felt dreadful on these but they did their job and staved off any further infection.

On July 23 we went back to see Dr McF for the results from the surgery. We were both very nervous so it was a big relief when he entered the room and started with, "the good news is the lymph node came back clear." Big sigh of relief. And the cancer they removed is indeed very early stage, so the prognosis is good and it's the best case scenario of a shitty situation. "However, " he added, "there were still some small signs of cancer in the margins of the tissue we removed, normally we prefer the margins be clear to make sure we got all the cancer." (This was sounding very similar to what Vicky had gone through with her surgery - only she ended up having two further operations before they got clear margins. Yikes.) "I'm afraid I might have to do a second surgery just to be sure we get everything. To be honest, if it was up to me I wouldn't go in again, I'm sure the radiation will take care of it, but I'm afraid the final decision on that isn't up to me. I'd like to discuss your case at a conference on August 8th and will let you know as soon as I can. I'm hoping we can avoid it but let's see in a couple of weeks."

So then began the wait....August 8th came and went with no news.....so I called his assistant the following week....still no decision, "It was bumped from the last agenda," she said. "It'll be discussed in this week's conference"....and so we waited...and waited. Trying to plan camping and visits to friends in Victoria and anticipating the delay in starting my radiation, around whether or not they'd be operating a second time.

Finally, about a month later and frustrated with still having no decision, we booked an appointment to meet Dr McF face-to-face. He walked into the room and immediately confirmed, "No need for a second surgery." Phew!!! Now why had that taken so long???...apparently because of summer vacations etc. Whatever - I was just glad we can keep moving forward rather than being set back several more weeks by needing more surgery. All good news!

Okay, next up, let's get those radiation treatments lined up and get this thing done with and out of the way. Heaven knows I haven't been able to put my mind to anything these past few months. It's a bugger really, I have all this time off, the weather's been gorgeous and yet I just can't focus on anything because of this hanging over me. I've hardly taken any photos, I still haven't gone through my pics from our UK trip - or even the Cuba trip we did back in January. I haven't worked out much, have applied for just a few jobs, haven't read any books, made any cards or done any other crafts. I haven't done much of anything really, except feel like I'm trapped in a bit of a daze. It's been several months of limbo and having this ominous sense of uncertainty hanging over us. At least now we can continue moving forward as we need to.