The weeks that followed

(Catch-up of events from May 30 to mid-July)

The day I got my diagnosis Vicky insisted on dragging me out for a beer - so I reluctantly joined her kicking & screaming all the way ;-) She came to the pub armed with a book and binder of breast cancer information that she'd been given upon her own diagnosis in 2009. I took my biopsy report with me and we went through it together. In fact, as we went through it, Vicky explained more to me about my results than the doctor had! She's my best friend and ally in everything - and now even with this. It's just a bit ridiculous when you think about it. We're both young, fit and healthy women, who eat well, take care of ourselves and there's been no previous history of breast cancer in our family. Yet there we were, unexpectedly able to start comparing notes on a shared journey neither of us anticipated. It doesn't seem real. We even started laughing about how I've always copied her since we were kids and clearly this was no exception. "Yes, but I went one better," I bragged. "Mine's invasive!" Heck, if we can't laugh about this somehow, especially with each other, then it really has won. But we're made of strong stuff and together we're invincible, so this cancer thing had better start running, now!

In the weeks following (which I'll try to summarize for fear of waffling on forever) I went through a whole range of feelings - mostly wavering between anxiety, bewilderment and trepidation about what comes next. In talking about it with a few close friends it all feels very third-person, like I'm actually talking about someone else and while the words are about me, nothing feels real. I haven't yet really been upset or angry. In fact I haven't shed a tear and quietly wonder if that should be a concern but finding myself suddenly included among the breast cancer statistics being bandied about daily, especially in the media, I know it really isn't a case of 'why me' but rather 'why not me?'

I first met my surgeon on June 12, just 3 days before we left for England. It was very surreal to be going to the BC Cancer Agency (BCCA) and then sitting in the waiting room - along with a woman my age (who wore a wig and was obviously going through chemo) and a couple of others much older than me. I felt like I didn't belong. Like a fraud almost. As if I've stepped into someone else's life and I'm merely acting the part. Just weeks earlier I was working at the Cancer Society, now here I am waiting to see a surgeon about removing my own breast cancer. How things change in a short space of time.

Without any hesitation Lorne came with me to the appointment (and to subsequent ones I might add). His love and support has been incredible and I'm very grateful to have him right there by my side, even asking the questions I forget/hesitate to ask. Conversations neither of us expected we'd be having.

Dr McF is a mild-mannered, softly spoken guy with a sincere empathetic air. Through some rough, hand-drawn scribbles he outlined how my Ductal Carcinoma (invasive) differs from its close relative Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS) - basically the cancer cells had originated inside the milk duct (and would have been in situ at that point) but they had already started to extend outside of the duct, infiltrating the surrounding tissue in two very small areas, hence becoming invasive.

"Nevertheless," he assured us, "This is still very early stage, the affected area is no more than 6mm. The choice is yours, of course, but I'm confident I can get this just by going in for a lumpectomy."

He broke down the lumpectomy versus mastectomy scenario and I was actually quite surprised to learn both are that very successful in reducing the chances of recurrence - 5% chance of recurrence after a mastectomy versus 8% for a lumpectomy. While mastectomy is certainly an option, I certainly wasn't going to go that route unless I absolutely had to and nothing in our conversation seemed to indicate that would be necessary. (Suddenly I remember a good (male) friend whose attitude - when I first told him Vicky had breast cancer and would be having a lumpectomy - was surprisingly blunt, "She should just get both removed. Why take the risk of it coming back?" Always easy for a guy to say, but would a man opt for chopping off his penis at the first teeny-tiny sign of cancer? I think not!)

And so it was decided, Dr McF would carry out a lumpectomy (confirmed for July 9, just days after we'd get back from our UK trip) and they'd also take a biopsy of the sentinel lymph node at the same time, to verify whether any cancer has already gone into my lymph system - a pretty terrifying thought that I hadn't yet even considered. It would be a day surgery of just a couple of hours and about 4 weeks for full recovery. After that - and depending on the biopsy results of the removed tissue - the most likely follow-up would be for me to have about 3 weeks of daily (Mon-Fri) radiation treatments - basically the same routine Vicky had gone through.

So in the space of a few weeks I'd gone from annual mammogram to ultrasound, to biopsy, to cancer diagnosis and setting up a surgery date. Needless to say, I was still trying to wrap my head around it all but I was nevertheless impressed how quickly these things were moving along and feeling very grateful to be living in a city among some of the world's best cancer researchers and certainly one of the leaders in breast cancer research and treatments. There are times I feel extremely blessed for the life I live and for having the good fortune to live where I do - and this makes it all the more poignant.

In all the attention paid to my right breast, I mentioned to Dr McF that I felt an underlying concern that no-one had yet really checked my left side - except for during the mammogram - and yet I can feel a couple of areas there too that feel similar to what we now know to be cancer in the right breast. As a precaution I was squeezed in for an ultrasound June 14. I was in there for about an hour, the exam was reassuringly thorough but my mind wasn't put at ease any since the Dr who reviewed the results indicated "there are a couple of small areas that we should keep an eye on. Nothing big enough for us to biopsy at this point, but we should probably repeat the ultra-sound in 3 months. I'll forward a report to your doctors."

We left for England the next day and were away until July 4th. We had booked our trip back in March, blissfully unaware of how impeccably well-timed it would turn out to be. The perfect distraction; great to get away, spend time with family, travel round Scotland, drink fabulous single malts and not be sat at home counting the days till surgery. (If this blog wasn’t so ridiculously behind at this point I’d write more about the trip, but that’ll have to be for another day.)

Suffice to say it was therapeutic to be able to detail so openly and honestly about the preceding weeks of tests etc. and the surgery that awaited me within days of getting back to Vancouver. We didn’t dwell on the topic but somehow its presence added a greater depth to our trip, a stronger bond and understanding coupled with that re-awakened awareness of just how much my family means to me, and me to them, and that we just don’t see enough of each other. 

Bit of a conversation stopper

(Catch-up of events from May 30)

Lorne and my sister were the first people I told about my diagnosis. I knew they were both waiting on my results and obviously they were the ones I needed to tell. Telling them, within minutes of leaving the doctor's office, was very surreal - like an out-of-body experience. I was drifting in an other-worldly haze; somewhat detached and mechanical even in making the calls, knowing simply that I should yet not quite grasping the reality of the words as they stumbled from my lips. I couldn't begin to imagine how it must sound to them, listening on the other side - and there was no facial expression for me to gage the impact of what I was even telling them. The words felt so strange, especially using them for the first time in reference to myself. Heck, I don't think I've ever really got used to using them in reference to Vicky even 3 years later.

Looking back I wonder if calling Lorne at work to tell him, albeit on his cell phone, was really the right, or fair, thing to do. (It wasn't until weeks later that I remembered just how distraught Mark was when I'd spoken to him shortly after he'd got the same news from Vicky a couple of years ago. Had I just devastated Lorne the same way?) Was it callous and unthinking of me to tell him the results over the phone and while he was at work? Should I have arranged to meet him in person instead? Coulda, woulda, shoulda, right? At the time I just knew I had to tell him and it couldn't wait until the end of day.

In fact it wasn't until I told a couple of friends later that same day - in person (and over lunch of all things) - that I began to realize the impact that the words "I have breast cancer" would have on halting a conversation. 

Having cleverly kept an open mind about that morning's doctor appointment, even knowing I'd be getting the biopsy results, I saw no reason to change anything about the lunchtime plans I'd made to meet up with my good friends and ex-colleagues, Lynda and Denise. I hadn't seen either of them for a few months so we chatted and laughed for a few minutes, picked an outdoor table to eat at and casually brought out our food. We quickly caught up with each others' latest news and a short while later, during a momentary lull in the conversation, I felt like I was sitting in the middle of a dream where I knew what was about to happen next but couldn't predict the outcome.

"So, I saw my doctor this morning and....it turns out I've got breast cancer." Perhaps not the most subtle delivery but the words fell out and I was shocked at the absolute shock on their faces - their jaws almost literally hit the pavement, especially since I hadn't even mentioned the biopsies or anything previous. Their reaction stirred in me my first direct awareness of the impact that such words have - hanging there as if frozen mid-air. (Crap, crap, crap - what did I go and say that for? Bugger! I've just gone and ruined a perfectly lovely lunch and made this all about me. Way to go, Katrina!) Suddenly feeling acutely aware of what I'd just said, I could hardly even make eye contact. I apologized profusely for just blurting it out like that and, in my usual fashion, tried to fluff over it and immediately sought to uplift or change the conversation as if (hoping?) they'd forget I even said it. Having not yet had chance to let the news sink in myself, I was clearly ill-prepared for the reaction of others and now I just wanted desperately to take it back and simply save it for another day.

They asked how and when all this had happened, how was I feeling about it, how was Lorne doing and what happens next - and I probably answered with the same bewildered, third-person detachment that I'd had earlier with Lorne and Vicky. Besides, I still wasn't quite understanding what any of this meant myself.

Of course the irony of having recently lost my job at the Cancer Society and then getting this diagnosis was not lost on them either. But my trying to lighten the conversation after dropping that little bombshell was terribly awkward and I suspect I failed miserably. I'm not sure how many times I apologized and expressed how terribly guilty I felt for 'spoiling' our lunch date. I think we managed some follow-up small talk, I'm not sure - it's all a little bit vague really.

After we hugged and went our separate ways, I felt strangely off-kilter and disconnected as I wandered downtown, back toward the Canada Line skytrain. Something fundamental had changed that morning and yet everything seemed just the same. Then I was struck with the realization that there are more people with whom I should share this same news - family and close friends - but how? I hadn't anticipated the impact it would have. I was beginning to suspect that this really is big shit - and it's especially big shit to share with those you love. Bugger!

Knowing we'd be going to England within a few weeks, I deliberated over whether to tell my family beforehand or wait until we get there. Should I tell them now or wait until I've at least met with the surgeon, so that I might ideally have more specifics of what's what and a clearer picture of what lies ahead?

Having quickly gained a sense of just what a conversation-stopper it seems to be, I finally opted to tell my family ahead of time, having decided that I didn't want its immediate impact to spoil our relatively short amount of time with everyone.

It was a few days later that I took a deep breath and dialled my mum's number. Just about the first words out of her mouth were, "Hello love, how are you? Keeping happy and healthy I hope?" (How is it mothers always seem to have sixth sense?)

"Well, erm that's actually why I'm calling...." I'm sure she could tell immediately from my tone and I hated to tell her something that I knew would upset her, especially because she'd already had the same news from Vicky not all that long ago and no-one saw that coming either. 

Thankfully I found my words and gave her an overview of the last few weeks of medical appointments, the recent diagnosis and my dilemma as to how/when to tell her - as well as my brothers. In that call she was exactly the mum I needed her to be - upset, naturally, but not distraught, sympathetic but not panicked, concerned and very loving. If hugs could physically pass down an international phone line, then I swear I could feel her arms wrapped tight around me. I hadn't wanted to tell her news that I knew would be hard for her to hear, but was very glad I had. I felt a huge relief, reassurance and now it was out there for processing rather than having it overshadow the start of our trip home in a few weeks, although things like this always heighten the fact we're so bloody far away!

I told Terry & Jane and Graham via a message on Facebook (how very modern) - it seemed easier to break it that way and less like making a round of phone calls as if to say someone had died. As you'd expect, they were shocked but also incredibly supportive. Telling them - and mum - before the trip home was definitely the right decision.

Having got past that initial hurdle, I told just a couple of other close friends and bit-by-bit the words began to sink in just a little, even to my own ears. Lorne also began to tell his family and friends, in his own time and in his own way. He was very private about the calls and part of me wondered how he was really feeling about all this and how was he even explaining it to them, but I respect his privacy and I'm trying to make sure the lines of communication stay wide open between us. He's my love and my support, this thing affects both of us and it's very important to me that neither of us hides from the other just how we are feeling about this which is why, just a couple of weeks later, it was actually a huge relief to me when he declared that my diagnosis scares him shitless. Heck, I know I've lost sleep over it already, trying not to think about it when it sometimes feels like it's all I can think about. How bad is it? Will I need chemo? When will they operate and how might the surgery change the shape of my boob? Bugger - if there's a part my body I've always been perfectly happy with, it's my boobs. Of course I sometimes think they could be perhaps a little more....ample...but, on the whole, I've always been perfectly happy with them.

And how weird that one of my last postings on this blog was actually about my boobage and how unusually and amusingly busty I feel when I wear a push-up bra, which I nickname my prosthetics. Then here I sit, just months later, hoping I don't end up actually needing prosthetics after all this. Ughh, I'll just be glad when I have more info so I know what to expect from here.

My sister & I share everything....even breast cancer.

Hard to believe it's almost a year since I posted anything on this blog. I'm not really sure what happened. I guess part of me felt like I had nothing really to say, no words of wisdom, nothing hilarious to recount, little motivation to write anything out in glorious detail and no big "aha" moment or anything remotely profound to share. If anything, things were just ticking over nicely for a while and so, being the professional procrastinator that I am, update blog simply became one more item gathering dust on my 'To Do' list.

And suddenly it was April. Spring slowly endeavoured to make an appearance, the days started to stretch just a little longer, the Easter Bunny was on his way and I lost my job at the Canadian Cancer Society. Boom!

Coro's Gail Platt (Actress Helen Worth)

Following a couple of awkward conversations with the Human Resources manager (an extremely fake woman who bears an uncanny and rather unfortunate resemblance to Coronation Street's, Gail Platt) and mumblings of 'I just wish we had something else to offer you here', I signed off on a reasonable severance package, cleared my desk and left quietly that same day.

I was hugely disappointed - not least because I was enjoying my work and the feeling of finally contributing to something significantly more worthwhile than lining the bloated pockets of wealthy corporate execs - but I'd be lying if I said my spidey senses hadn't already started to sense that something along the lines of 'restructuring' might be afoot.

While I certainly felt let down, deflated and abandoned, it also meant that I could take the next couple of months off, Lorne & I would still do our 3-week UK trip in June as planned, after which I'd be eligible for EI while looking for work. So all-in-all, the prospect of a 3-month break wasn't actually looking too bad.

Imagine then, the smack of bitter irony when - just as my severance period came to an end - I received a diagnosis of breast cancer! Double-Boom! - if you'll excuse the pun. WTF???

Even as I sit here now, typing this out several months later, I confess I still haven't quite managed to wrap my head around it all.

Let me start by backtracking slightly......albeit I'll endeavour to be concise or I might never finish this post.

May 2012:
Enjoying my time off and still receiving full pay and benefits, I naturally thought it prudent to catch up on any dental visits, eye exams, physio, chiro and any other medical appointments, such as dutifully booking my annual screening mammogram. Oddly enough I had noticed a small, firm lump in the upper corner of my right breast a few months earlier but figured it was likely just a lymph node or perhaps a small cyst. At first I could only really feel it around the 'time of the month' but gradually it seemed to be there all the time (just a teeny-tiny pea-shaped thing) so I planned to mention it during my May 11th mammo anyway. Three days beforehand, during an appointment with my new GP (my first visit with her since my previous Doc had retired), she carried out a routine breast exam and also felt the bump, which I told her had been there at least a couple of months. She checked deeper into my armpit/breast area and thought she could feel another in the same area, perhaps a little smaller. 'Just as a precaution' she referred me for a diagnostic ultrasound to follow the scheduled mammogram.

Despite the fact my sister, Victoria, was diagnosed with breast cancer just a couple of years ago, I can't deny I was nevertheless thinking (hoping?) this was all just very routine and would turn out to be nothing - still believing in my security blanket that breast cancer isn't in our family history. So I was a little surprised when, further to my May 16th ultrasound, it was suggested they follow up with a biopsy 'as an added precaution'.

All this talk of precautions and 'ruling things out' was starting to unnerve me a little and suddenly I wasn't sure what to think. I planned to meet with my sister and get her take on things, especially since she'd already started on this same route late 2009 but, at the same time, I didn't want to be getting unnecessarily alarmed or come across as over-anxious. People regularly go for more tests and biopsies (don't they?) and it was probably just a cyst or fatty tissue or something (wasn't it?). Besides, I also knew Vicky had a lot on her plate and getting together at relatively short notice wasn't easy. Perhaps surprisingly - now that I look back on it - I wanted to talk about it face-to-face not really over the phone, so with not being able to meet up and chat in person, I didn't mention it, still expecting that surely it's all just very routine and probably nothing to worry about anyway, so why not just wait until later, when I actually know for sure? That typically stoic british, stiff upper-lip thing of 'not wanting to make a fuss'. Not always the best approach, I might add.

The morning of May 22 I endured close to 90 minutes of staring at the stark and dirty walls of a treatment room while a female doctor and nurse poked, jabbed, stabbed & punched me with what sounded like a broken, dollarstore cowboy pistol. Despite trying to focus my mind on creating drawings from the dents and scuffs on the bare walls, and no matter how much they injected me with more freezing goop, I could still feel every poke, scrape and jammed-up pistol in all its painful, scary glory - especially when said gun decided it wasn't going to retract! That was at the 60-min mark and I'd already had just about enough. Having tried to remain calm and statue-still thus far, I felt my armour fall apart when the Dr began huffing, puffing and tugging at the gun, now embedded in my breast tissue. "Could you call Dr X in here right away, I can't get this thing out." Sooo NOT what I needed to hear. Suddenly the tears flowed, I began to tremble uncontrollably and just about fainted. A flurry of nurses brought me tissues and a cold, damp facecloth for my forehead, with smelling salts on standby.

Amid this kerfuffle Dr X finally arrived only to exclaim, in a cold, matter-of-fact tone, "Well, there's only one way it can go - it has to come out!" A renewed wave of nausea and light-headedness came over me. "You're just going to have to hold tight and pull it hard." I almost threw up.

I came out of there dazed, bruised. slightly faint and with a small bag of frozen peas stuffed in my bra (yes, they actually gave me a little baggy of frozen peas!) to help minimize swelling. It all felt very weird and I wandered down West Broadway in a somewhat bewildered state, feeling like I deserved a sugary/cakey treat after going through all that, yet still too wobbly to really believe I'd enjoy it.

And so began the wait....of more than a week...during which I did a surprisingly good job of staying neutral, feeling that no amount of worrying would change the outcome one way or the other, so why get myself all worked up by dwelling on the unknown. Of course it still niggled from the back of my mind as I endeavoured to steer myself away from thoughts of how Vicky'd gone through all this too, just over 2 years ago, only it didn't turn out so well.

May 30 - With a greeting of, "Hello there, so did they contact you with a surgery date?" I abruptly discovered my new Doctor/GP is desperately lacking in diplomatic bedside manner!

"Surgery?" (i.e. What the f*ck???)
"Yes, your biopsy results came back positive for breast cancer." Holy cow, she just waded right on in, blurting out facts-in-hand without offering up even the slightest preamble to soften the blow. Nicely done....Not!

"Wow.... erm.... well.... no - I haven't heard anything yet. I didn't know."

She pulled up a chair and quickly skimmed over the 5-page report; a blur of technical jargon, lab-speak and references to 'biomarkers' and 'estrogen receptors'. I scanned the words on the page but nothing seemed to make sense. That is, until she hit the header "Diagnosis" - circled in pen and marked with an asterix.

There it was in capital letters - loud and clear. I felt my insides pull tight as blood retreated from my face. Still the doctor rushed full steam ahead; "Bla, bla.... positive for cancer.... always verified by two doctors.... bla, bla.... so the second signature right here confirms the diagnosis.... How are you doing? You seem to be okay with this." (Did she really just say that? I was more more stunned than 'okay'.)

"Well, I guess I knew coming in here that this could go either way, I suppose I'm just trying to wrap my head around it."

"So the next step is you'll meet with a surgeon, probably sometime in the next few weeks, they'll call you. Okay?"

Apparently my 10 minutes were up.

"Do you have any questions?"
"Erm, I'm not sure. I'm not even sure what to ask."

And that was it. Wham, bang, thank you ma'am. I couldn't decide if she was just blunt, callous, uncomfortable or just eager to get me out of the door. I suspect all of the above.

I wandered out into the waiting area and sat down. I texted my sister - "Ductal carcinoma, same as you :-(" She called me right away, clearly shocked but asking practical questions - based on her own expertise - and being ever the caring big sister.

"Did they say it's In Situ?"
"No, I don't think so, I'm not sure."
"You should ask. You need to know if it's In Situ - DCIS."

I went back to the desk to see if I could ask the doctor just one more question. They were hesitant but the doctor heard me ask and came over with the report in-hand.

"I'm wondering if the results say it's In Situ."
"In Situ? No it's not, your cancer is invasive." She pointed to the capitalized diagnosis we'd glossed over earlier. "See here, it says invasive. You have ductal carcinoma but it's invasive, not in situ. Okay? I'll give you a copy of the report." And off she went, whipped off a photocopy and shuffled me away with it.

And that was it. May 30th, 2012 around 9:45am I found out that, at 44 years old and just like my dear sister before me, I too have breast cancer.

Well this officially sucks!

Waiting

Here we are, sitting on the couch, mid-afternoon of a cold, grey & miserable Wednesday. Odd how the weather so accurately reflects the mood around here today too - for some reason I remember an old college lecturer describing that as 'pathetic fallacy' in literature.

Today's waiting is for what we anticipate to be news we've been dreading but have known it's on its way nonetheless - sometimes you just can't stop the freight train. Our eldest and much-loved, wonderfully snuggly and heartwarmingly tactile cat, Kramer is at the vet for an ultra-sound to determine the cause of his intense pancreatitis - and we are not kidding ourselves about the prospect of it being anything but sad news. He's 18, has a variety of health issues - including kidney disease and a heart murmur - all of which has been quite manageable up until now, but the pancreatitis has knocked him sideways and despite an initial round of meds that greatly improved his overall health and well-being, he has since crashed during the last week or so, to the point he won't eat or drink. The most probable cause, which will be determined by the ultra-sound, is a pancreatic tumour - leaving little chance of any miracle recovery.

Until the past couple of days he was still a very happy, super-snuggly and content cat who likes nothing more than to nestle into Lorne as close as he can possibly get, moulding himself right into Lorne's neck or chest. And if Lorne isn't around, I'm honoured that Kramer deems me to be a suitably loving substitute to snuggle into. Never, ever have I seen a cat so full of love and absolute adoration of anyone, but Lorne is truly everything in Kramer's world and it works both ways. And from my side too, Kramer is an absolute treasure, the most unique and tactile cat I ever thought I'd meet. I'm privileged to have shared the past 10 years with him since I first witnessed that magical bond between him & Lorne when we first met in 2001.

And here we are, expecting a call any moment that will give us the definitive answer, even though we are under no illusion that this chapter will have a happy ending. While we've truly done everything we can for him and firmly believe that his welfare - and the welfare of any of our furry family - has always been #1 priority, the hardest part is knowing that, at the end of the day, you are nonetheless powerless to change the inevitable and it becomes a question of how happy is Kramer? Is it fair? Is his quality of life what he deserves? And you know it's bad when even the vet starts crying as she tries to explain. She's a lovely doctor - Dr. Kramer at Vancouver Animal Wellness Hospital - who, perhaps because of her namesake, has a real soft-spot for Kramer. Well, anyone who meets him instantly falls in love with him - how could you not, he's just such a big smooch - and that's just the way he likes it.

I love all our cats - even the two new ones I haven't even  written about yet - and as each one passes another piece of our hearts go with them, hopefully keeping them safe and loved in the next world.

When I lost Lucy in 2009 I physically felt my heart break - deep inside my chest something broke and while it will never completely heal, time has helped make it somewhat 'bearable', mainly because it has to be. The pain slowly filled once more by the overwhleming love and heartwarming fondness of our precious years together.

I am incredibly sad about Kramer and sadder still that Lorne will feel that same level of devastating pain and suffocating sadness that I felt with Lucy.....and not-forgetting Molly and Otto. I wouldn't wish that on anyone but it's testimony to the depth of our unreserved love and amazing bond with these incredible, wonderful and magical animals with whom we are very blessed to share our lives.

Why am I writing this before Kramer has even gone? Because he deserves this while he's still here - a message of our deep love and admiration for being the most extraordinarily loving and endearing cat and for all the sunshine he has brought into our lives. And because it is only in being fair to him, that the kindest thing we can do is to love him enough to know when to let go - and to let go with all the love in the world for our little boy.

We love you Rama.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Boobage: a "tourist's" perspective

In German you can add a diminutive "(s)chen", pronounced shen, at the end of a noun to imply its smallness or endearing quality, such as: Haus (house) = Häuschen (cute little house/cosey cottage), Katz (cat) = Kätzschen (kitten), Hund (dog) = Hündschen (small dog), or even Mädchen (little girl). With that in mind, I wondered if I shouldn't re-title this post as 'Boobschen'.

Boobs, bosoms, knockers, tits, twins, hooters, jugs, kahoonas, Bristols, cup cakes, fun bags, doorknobs, beamers, mambas.... Whatever you want to call them - for someone like myself, who's never really had much....okay, anything!... to boast about by way of boobage, I have to say that, wearing a push-up bra and catching your Boobschen with an actual cleavage is really quite intriguing. In fact it's rather an odd feeling indeed.

Courtesy of Calvin Klein*, who (amen!) happens to make very good bras for the mammory under-nourished among us, I've not only managed to catch crumbs between my boobs this lunchtime - something that NEVER happens - but I've also felt oddly exposed in the 'rack' area all day. Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not saying it's a bad feeling per se, far from it, but for one who's spent the best part of my 43 years watching the occasional dropped food glide, blissfully unhindered, straight down into my lap, having it suddenly land 'higher up' is just, well....quite a novelty really.

Similarly, to look down and see two gently rounded baps (or 'dirty pillows', as Carrie's mum would call them) poking ever-so-slightly above my deep-cut, v-neck top feels almost cartoon-like....à la mode de Jessica Rabbit - to me anyways. Even though it would take a lot more than a couple of chicken fillets to give me that much cleavage.... heck, I'd need the whole flippin' coop!

I'm honestly quite satisfied with the boobs God gave me, despite the fact I clearly got short-changed in comparison to both my mum and sister and ignoring the more demoralizing bra-hunting excursions where - to my horror - I've managed to turn a 36B bra into a stereo echo-chamber with my pitiful cries, "How can this be too BIG-BIG....BIG-BIG....BIG-BIG....BIG-BIG?"

And, for the record, I actually did try the ol’ chicken fillets thing just once, a few months ago….and wasn’t sure whether to shriek or laugh out loud when, as I walked across the restaurant, one of them decided to go AWOL, sliding all rubbery-plastic-y right down my ribs and very nearly landing on my left shoe. Thankfully I managed to grab it lower abdomen and kept it in a not-so-discreet stranglehold till I could at least get to the bathroom and figure out what to do. There I was, one boob bigger than the other and shuffling all bent up with a vice-like grip on the runaway fillet just left of my crotch. I can only imagine the shocked/amused/perplexed expression on my face at the time!

Funnily enough, during my single years, I was hesitant to invest in any kind of ‘enhanced/padded’ bra since I genuinely feared the ‘what-if’ of being caught in the throes of passionate undress and the sudden loss of my bra revealing the unflattering truth of the two marbles dwelling therein….the horror…. the horror. Of course, when I think about it now, any guy in the midst of a passionate embrace with a bra-less woman is hardly about to recoil in shock, grab his clothes and run the hell away, is he really?

And there was the time my niece, Bronwyn, was leaning against me on the couch while I read her a bedtime story and adoringly (or so I thought) nestled her head against my ribs. She nuzzled a little more as I continue to read, then ran her hand from my shoulder down my front - and suddenly sat bolt upright exclaiming, "Aunty Trini, why don't you have any boobies?" The look of utter shock-horror on Vicky's face in the background was priceless! Reeling from the blow, I managed to utter, "I do have boobies, you just don't see them so much in this sweatshirt." And with another blow, Bronwyn was quick to fire back, "But where? I can't see them. They must be small then, not like Mummie's boobies." Bless! Out of the mouth of blunt, cutting and brutually honest babes, eh?

So while my boobs are each a polite (though hardly over-generous) little handful, I nevertheless get a kick out of it during the couple of days each month when they're hormonally 'pumped' and actually have a presence - albeit that often comes at the cost of them feeling a tad sore and uncomfortable. Similarly, for the few years I was about 30lbs heavier than I am now, I also remember being a little bigger up top which, along with the overall extra padding, pushed me to needing Large and X-Large tops. Of course, the moment I lost a few pounds that was always the first place to show any sign of shrinkage.

And there you have it. I am of a chest that could certainly benefit from a gentle East-West shove from time to time. (You'll notice I didn't say Northerly, given that they've never been sizeable enough to warrant an argument with gravity.) And I have to say, the odd times I might pull out one of my more enhancing bras, I definitely feel like I've strapped prosthetics to my ribcage. Quite simply, I'm just not used to the feeling of cleavage and ampleness, nor the accompanying oggles from the opposite sex. Suddenly any eye contact noticeably drops a little lower down.

So while I always get to comfortably peruse the small/medium tops and occasionally feel deflated (excuse the pun) when there’s too much fabric that I can’t possibly fill, I at least get to try the other side of the coin too and squish those bumps into a rounder, cleavaged little cushion whenever I like. Though it’s odd when you think that, despite all these women with real and incredible chests and those out there getting breast implants etc., the average clothing market is still geared predominantly to shapeless females with boy-like, boobless bodies – telling us to be rail thin yet still thrust around a decent bundle of boobage. Nothing like mixed messaging and exploitive duplicity.

All in all I really am just an occasional tourist in Boobsville - trying to blend in with my clever disguise. And for some reason, on the days I visit, wearing my somewhat prosthetic bras, the oddness of feeling more ‘ample’ never ceases to amuse me.


* Thanks to Winners (or TJ Maxx as it's known elsewhere) I enjoy my boob-tastic Calvin Klein 'Envy' bras at a much more reasonable price of $16.99 as opposed to $45.99!

When I am anxious it is because I am living in the future. When I am depressed it is because I am living in the past. ~Author Unknown (but could have been me!)

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.
Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.
Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so.
One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.
~Mary Jean Iron


While there are three tenses to life, I realize more and more that I spend most of my time living in just two of them - the past and the future - but not nearly enough time in the present. I'm not even sure how it started yet I seem to have spent most of my 43 years living that way - meandering with a head full of questions between the ghosts of coulda, woulda, shoulda and nostalgic revisiting of the past or else trying to weigh up all the unknowns, uncertainties and yet-to-come moments that sometimes quite literally paralyze me about the future.
It's not that I harbour an overwhelming sense of regret about the past, not entirely anyway. Nor is it that I plan with excitement, or dread, towards the future and where my life will go from here. In one sense I don't so much 'live' in the present as, dare I say it, stagnate and procrastinate - glued to the spot wondering about the paths I might have taken coupled with a reticent intrigue and underlying anxiety about the future. But surely it's a crime to live my life as if the present is a no-man's land.

Either way, I've determined it's not the best use of my time and, if anything, is considerably detrimental to my present. There are times I get sucked into the vacuum of my own head - devoured by questions, wonderings and doubt or reminiscing with fondness, melancholy or a sizeable mix of both. Always wondering if what I'm doing - or have done - with my life is good enough. (Good enough for who?)

It's not that my reflections upon the past are always negative, far from it. I have done many wonderful things and accomplished much in my life thus far of which I am proud, grateful and definitely more the wiser. And I am fully aware of the immense and unique gift that I get to live this life and not that of so many millions of people in a much, much worse situation - facing poverty, sickness, devastating hardships and unimaginable horrors as a matter of daily life. Although I sometimes fear the 'what if' of that becoming my future.

And I certainly don't always look to the future with underlying apprehension, because I know from previous experience that, even when the present has sometimes felt like too much to bear, the future has nevertheless brought better, happier and remarkably fulfilling moments into my life. Moments that I sometimes feared I wouldn't see.

So why then do I waver constantly between one and the other but so rarely within the here and now? Or if I let myself soak up a lovely moment in the present, a little voice of negativity will often sneak in with its subliminal whispers of 'what if this all gets taken away'? I can be laughing and enjoying a walk, a holiday, a movie, a meal or a beer with Lorne, and suddenly it's like I catch myself with a shadowy foreboding of 'what will I ever do if something happens to him?' Borne of the fear that maybe I'm not worthy or entitled to such happiness? Or the guilt of, 'how can I be laughing and feeling this good while half the world's suffering or in turmoil?'

When I really get into it, I can even find myself thinking, 'in the future I might really regret having lived my life this way in the past'. For heaven's sake, why won't I just let myself off the hook? The past - for better or worse - is what has shaped me into the person I am today and has brought many wonderful people, experiences, challenges and accomplishments into my life. No I didn't move to France (yet) like I always thought I would - like everyone thought I would. But I did take a completely different path that has brought me to enjoying the past 10 years with a wonderful man, living in a great city and a great country - and with my sister and her family nearby. I've had some amazing jobs (and some complete doozies - same could go for relationships too come to that) and in all honesty I wouldn't change that either. Maybe it's normal to look back over your life and wonder about the paths you didn't take, or wonder about the lives of people you once knew and how different things could have been. But there's really no telling if you would have actually been any happier, more successful, wiser, wealthier or otherwise.

However I don't think it's all that healthy to feel a greater sense of anxiety about the future than I do excitement or positive anticipation. Most of that stems from my worries of the world we live in which is directly proportional to the amount of news or twisted american crime shows I watch - hence I try to avoid them, even if a lack of political and socio-economic knowledge significantly inhibits my worldly awareness and limits more in-depth dinner conversations and debates.

And while I still have a problem accepting that I'm in my forties - seriously, I don't know why it is after 3 years already, but it still chokes me - I should really just a) be grateful that I got this far :-)  and b) suck it up because, in my 50's or even 80's I'll no doubt be kicking myself that I wasted the full enjoyment of my forties feeling old!

Basically, since I'm unable to change the past, although I do frequently learn from it, and I'm somewhat limited in what I can really control about the future, except what is within my powers to effect, I should consider it 'open to possibilities' - a blank page whereupon any number of things remain to be written - and focus perhaps on making those possibilities into realities.

One thing's for certain, if I don't do more and live my life more in the present, then my future will almost certainly be tainted by melancholy and regret about the past.

Mayne Island getaway

While we normally avoid leaving town on a long weekend, since it usually implies fighting one’s way through loooong lines of traffic & overcrowded ferries etc., Lorne and I broke from tradition for last week’s Canada Day (July 1st) long weekend and booked ourselves a little camping trip to one of the nearby gulf islands – Mayne Island.

Mayne is just a 90min and very scenic ferry ride from Vancouver and thankfully we’d booked well in advance so we didn’t get caught in any delays, in fact it wasn’t a bad trip at all both on the way out and coming back 2 days later.

It’s only the second time we’ve been to Mayne Island, despite having talked about it often since our first trip there back in October 2002. At that time we rented a cheap but comfortable little cabin that we’d heard of through a colleague and went there for Thanksgiving with a couple of friends (which, now that I mention it, further negates my earlier mention of ‘avoiding’ travelling over long weekends).



Georgina Point Lighthouse
& park - perfect picnic spot.

Unfortunately that cabin was sold off since we last went there - replaced by two much larger houses - but that’s just fine because we have our trusty and much-loved camper van and had booked at Mayne’s only campsite – Seal Beach in Mariner’s Bay, on the northwest of the island. Not a bad little campsite, except for the horribly smelly outhouses – they seriously need to de-stench them, it almost made your eyes burn - and the incredibly dithery guy who runs the site had neglected the fact we’d booked for a camper van not a tent (since all the tent spots are apparently walk-in only). We ended up having to camp in what was actually the grassy parking lot, amid other campers cars – but as the only campsite on the island, there wasn’t really any other choice. Thankfully it didn’t turn out too bad after all, despite the somewhat limited privacy, and we at least still had a full picnic table and were only steps away from the pebbly 'Seal Beach'.

Seals chillin' out at Seal Beach, Mariner's Bay

Before breakfast next morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find several seals hanging out sunbathing on the rocks off the campsite beach, only visible at low tide. I managed to get in fairly close (thanks also to my 300mm zoom lens) but my philosophy with wildlife is to photograph without intruding, so I didn’t want to get too close and disturb them. Besides, seals have incredibly bad breath.

Young black-tail deer.

At only 21km2, Mayne’s a fairly small island with a delightfully rustic charm, a lovely community feel and its 1,100 inhabitants are low-key, laid-back (dare I say it) hippies who were just as pleasant this time around as they were the last. I’m not sure if deer outnumber humans on this island, but there are certainly a lot of them about – so you really have to keep your eyes peeled when driving - and they’re quite comfortable around people, just like this guy who nonchalantly grazed within feet of our camping spot.

And talking of rustic charm – we were intrigued by the campsite’s only shower – an open-air ‘tree shower’. Basically a minimal, 3ft high, wide-slatted fence around the base of a large tree which left you exposed to the lower parkland and beaches. No room for modesty in this shower but something very freeing about it nonetheless. Thankfully there was hot water, piped directly from the main house.

View from the shower facing towards

the woods/water.



I did birthday suit not bathing suit

when I showered. Ooops. (And, for
the record, this pic's off the website.)

Unfortunately, being an island, there’s always a high risk and fear of fire, since it could potentially obliterate everything. Despite the fact this year’s been generally cold and rainy up till now, there were no campfires allowed and even the site’s communal fire-pit was closed. That said, the weather had thankfully warmed up enough for it not to matter too much, though it’s still always a great part of any camping adventure. And, oddly enough, there was very little traffic around, people or vehicles.



Note the strategically placed bald eagle for added effect.

The highlights to the weekend were definitely the relaxation, gorgeous weather (despite a little rain Saturday night, at the exact moment we decided to light up an after-dinner cigar) and the outstanding Gulf Island views from our long hike at Mount Parke Park – which we’d never even heard of on our single previous visit. A peaceful forest trail topped off by stunning views at the summit. I could have happily sat there all day, just breathing in the silence, tranquility and incredible landscape across the islands.

Pender Island in the foreground with....others....behind.

Since the lock on our relatively new bike rack on the van is broken AGAIN (it's hardly worked since we bought it) we couldn't bring our bikes over with us and the tidal currents around Mayne are far too strong for our inflatable kayaks, we did most of our touring on foot and in the van. We also made a point to stop by the Saturday morning Farmer's Market which is a small and casual affair - more of a community gathering place really, where locals catch up and trade foods, recipes and family news. The market itself comprises largely local veggies, homemade baked goods (including incredibly delicious bread buns!), jewellery, art and handicrafts. (Note to self: this would be the perfect place to sell my cards and photographs!!!)

On the whole, Mayne Island is so naturally pretty, unpretentious and endearingly low-key that everything was a pleasure – including the delicious lunch at the heritage building in Mariner’s Bay now home to the Green House Bar & Grill (which was a kistchy, overly knick-knacked nautical-themed restaurant called Mayne Mast last time we were there). Delicious home-made food and friendly service. 

All in all I was pleased to soak up the same serenity, rustic charm, down-to-earth vibe and friendly community feel to Mayne that had appealed to me so much on our first visit. That and the incredible views, diverse wildlife and beautiful beaches, bays, coves and parks all around this small island make me seriously want to consider moving there in the future. Not forgetting the fact it’s also generally warmer and much sunnier than on Vancouver’s mainland, which was certainly the case this past weekend too.

Yup, I can definitely see myself living there one day. Dog, chickens, kitty-cats n'all. And maybe even Lorne too, hehe!


(For more photos of Mayne Island and our mid-May visit to San Francisco, visit my Flickr site.)

Stanley Cup; that was then, this is now...

So the Vancouver Canucks, our local hockey heroes, are hoping like hell to score that Holy Grail of hockey the much-coveted Stanley Cup - tonight here in town and it's been a long (very long) ride to get here, not just because the hockey season itself runs from September thru June, but moreso because this is first time in 17 years that the Canucks have even made it to the actual finals of the National Hockey League's Stanley Cup Playoffs. Tonight is do or die and all of us in and around Vancouver will once again be excused from work early to flood the buses, skytrain, roads and highways in an effort to beat the decidedly madding crowds racing to snatch up every last seat at the nearest bar to bow (praying and cursing) before the great honking big screen TVs - of which there are now a gazillion in Vancouver - too many in fact. For me personally, I’ll be headed home where I’m guaranteed a prime seat, the beer's better, the food's good and cheap and the company’s not quite so likely to smash the place to smithereens in the event we don’t actually win (least I hope not anyways).

I'm actually not a huge hockey fan, in fact I'm fickle at best despite the fact there's something I've always found quite hunky about all that energetic over-padded testosterone on skates. Which almost certainly goes back to one of my earliest crushes - on a blonde-haired freckly kid called Mark who played hockey at Grimsby Leisure Centre right after our Monday evening figure skating sessions. I'd purposefully dilly-dally, taking forever to dry off my blades and neatly pack away my skates into their navy-blue and white triangular bag (a gift on my 11th birthday, I was always so proud to carry that skating bag!) in hope Mark would arrive before I had to leave.

First competition ca 1980

- One of the great skating

dresses Mum made.

How could he resist me in all my short-skirt, lean and long legged figure skater glory??? Quite easily it seemed, especially since he always turned up with about 15 other pals equally pumped with their Lord of the Flies adolescence, ready to hammer the opposition into the ice. They all but slammed me into the boards as they rushed their way in. Admittedly not quite the 'body check' I was looking for. And, since I couldn't get Mark’s attention rink-side, I'd resort to 'casually' watching him from the upstairs cafe while we waited (for what often seemed forever) for my Mum to come pick us up.

Anyhooo, I find it's hard not to get caught up in the enthusiasm of all this Stanley Cup excitement - the city's awash in a sea of blue & white Canucks jerseys and the ever-increasing array of associated t-shirts. The air is truly buzzing with Canuck fever as everyone's talking (and dreaming) Stanley Cup - will they or won't they?

While I confess I've jumped on the bandwaggon somewhat, since we're so close to actually winning for once, and I’ve got 10 mangled fingernails as my witness, I haven’t yet parted with the $20 or so to buy a Canucks t-shirt, does that make me a cheap skate?  Haha, get it? Cheapskate? Hockey? Boom! Boom!

For me the whole buzz around these particular playoffs and Vancouver reaching the finals takes me right by to my very first visit (at this time in 1994) to this incredible city that has been my home for the past 15 years.

Vicky had, quite reluctantly as I recall, moved out here in August ’93 with her then husband, Robert. I missed her terribly - she's always been my best friend and the only person to whom I've ever told everything. I felt like I'd lost my right arm and yet, being left to stand on my own two feet without her, I was forced to think for myself, realizing how much I'd always relied on her thoughts, opinions and ever-sage advice. While we furiously wrote each other long and frequent letters, it had was the longest period that we’d ever been separated, physically and emotionally as well as by that anti-social 8-hour time difference, so I was very excited about coming to visit. More importantly, so much had happened for both of us in the time we’d been apart that the trip represented quite a milestone for us both.

Despite the breakdown of her marriage and all that came with it and the struggle to establish a new home, job and network of friends amid the cold and often harsh ‘slap-in-the-face’ reality of being a newcomer to Canada, Vicky had maintained her dogged determination to stay in Vancouver, taking it on an hour-by-hour, day-by-day basis, and I was in awe of how she’d persevered through moments where even the best of us (especially myself) might have seriously just given up. A remarkable inner strength that held on tight for what must have been one hell of a rollercoaster – and her resilience inspired me to keep marching as I too tried to come back from a breakdown just a couple of months before my visit. An accumulative and spiraling series of stressful events in my work, personal and love life had, in the space of a few short months, not only eroded my emotional and physical state into a post-tornado ruin and undermined the somewhat fragile foundations of my self-esteem, but also shredded my normally resilient and outwardly stoic coping strategies (read ‘façade’) to the point that I’d had to take a few week’s leave of absence (Dr’s orders) to just stop, breathe and endeavour to pick up the pieces. It was not a happy time for so many deep-seated and anxiety-laden reasons but I'd started to come back and had even quit my job the night before my flight out, which did not impress my boss one bit. That first trip to Vancouver was truly the light at the end of my dark tunnel despite it being paved with a certain amount of trepidation on my part, since Vicky and I had spent so much time apart with so much going on, at a profound level, for both of us, that I feared the distance might leave us in a bit of a no-man’s land with one another.

Thankfully, while my memories of those two weeks are very fond even if the first few days were a little mixed due to all that had gone on prior, Vicky and I are two halves of one island and thankfully we reconnected on a new and possibly even stronger level. All this while hanging out amid all the contagious city-wide - nationwide even - excitement about the Vancouver Canucks hockey team gunning towards finally winning the Stanley Cup.

The day I arrived in Vancouver I (foggily) remember Vicky taking me downtown to some Japanese noodle house for dinner, seated at the bar, after which we wandered around a few shops and where I'd deliberated about buying a dress that I’d completely forgotten about by next day. I remember a heady haze of activity around me while my scrambled (jet-lagged) brain tried to figure out why on earth shops would still be open at 2 in the morning  - which of course it wasn't.

I love it that she took me to The Yale, where said jet-lag really started to get the better of me after my first beer and I began nodding off, head-bobbing (and no doubt drooling), in my bar seat. I can still hear people laughing and saying, “She’s had a few too many, eh?” to which Vicky jumped to my defense proclaiming, “Nooo, she’s just really, really jet-lagged. That’s my sister and she only arrived from England today.”

Funnily enough (or maybe not) it was a couple of days later that, just in front of the Yale’s seedier neighbour, the Cecil strip club (which has just recently been demolished to make way for yet another concrete condo tower), I saw some shirtless and bedraggled drunk guy literally passed out, star-shaped, in the road. Traffic simply slowed down and drove around him as if it was quite normal he’d be lying there, until an unmarked cop car came on scene. I remember feeling like I was caught in an episode of Kojak – sleazy blues bars, strip clubs, drunken hobos lying in the street and the TJ Hooker-looking cops who knew them only too well.

Typical Vancouver tourist pic

Over the next several days Vicky took me out and about around the city, showing me so many of the tourist things with the ease of a long-term resident already – including Vancouver Aquarium, Granville Island, the Seawall and Kits Beach, which became our regular meeting point after she finished work at the accountant’s office in the decidedly seedy Yaletown as it was back then. And yes, straight from Vancouver Tourism 101, chapter 3 ‘Gastown’, I even joined the bajillion worldwide tourists who’ve had their picture taken in front of the famous Steam Clock on Water Street. Even though I’m committing a huge What Not To Wear faux pas and wearing pleated-front pants, something I would NEVER do now.

Aside from all of the above, the things I distinctly remember about that priceless time together are;

• Vicky taking me for sushi at a bamboo-fronted sushi joint (on Cornwall Ave?) with a speed-talking friend of hers at that time who seemed so ‘american’ to me for all her talk of therapists and her twice-weekly ‘Overeaters Anonymous’ group therapy. I didn't like sushi then although I muddled through and, much to Vicky's constant (friendly) frustration, I still hate the stuff and can't  even attempt to eat it
• The skinny, dodgey looking guy who stepped out of a 7-11 on Granville Street right in front of us, leant against a small tree, threw up on the sidewalk, then nonchalantly peeled and ate a banana as he walked off  like nothing happened. We stopped dead in our tracks, scared to look down in case there was pewk on our shoes
• The odd awkwardness of the few hours we spent with Robert, by then Vicky’s ex, after they picked me up at the airport and took me for a bite to eat. Such a mix of feelings hanging in the air over the three of us - similarly on the afternoon it took us forever to go out briefly to his new place (I can't even remember why) which was a long, very hot walk in the sun beyond the very last skytrain stop. Their lovely dog Sheba was there - I remember when they adopted her back in England - and I met Johnny-Cat, the handsome yet feisty feral cat that had adopted Vicky. It still makes me sad when I think of how she told me how Johnny had tried to follow her down the street when she moved out.
• Going for a beer with Vicky's good friend who laughed his head off when she came out with a mish-mash english-canadian expression saying, 'You think you're hot boogers on a silver plate' instead of 'hot snot on a silver platter'
• The hot, sunny evening we took the Aquabus water taxi from the beach at English Bay to Granville Island where we couldn’t help but notice a party atmosphere on the newly opened patio of the Arts Club bar. Feeling spontaneous n’all, we joined them and drank several Corona’s from the bottle with a slice of lime, which Vicky thought was to wipe around the rim of the bottle as a disinfectant….till we realized everyone else had actually squeezed and stuffed theirs into the beer (doh!)
• The grey day we decided to walk across the Granville Bridge but got hit half way by heavy rain and a strong cold wind – we hopelessly fought with our inside-out ‘brollies’ till we gave up and started yelling “AAAAAARRRGGGHHHH” at the top of our lungs instead, right the way across the bridge.
• Having to go to an actual ‘liquor store’ to buy beer, which we dropped into the barrel-shaped ‘chiller’ of cold water while we went next door to buy a few groceries, then came back to pay for our nicely chilled cans ….unfortunately it was Kokanee, which can hardly be described as ‘beer’ per se, but hey, we were still on a Canadian learning curve back then.   

And many, many more…..

And of course, my original theme for this posting, the excitement around Vancouver being in the playoffs at that same time was incredibly infectious – cars honking each time a goal was scored while people held handwritten signs out the window showing the score, buses with ‘Go Canucks Go’ signs in their windshield, office and apartment buildings with the Canucks flag and, similarly each window showing a letter of  ‘Go Canucks Go’, buses crammed to overflowing at 4pm as people left work early to get home to catch the game, shouting, yelling, cheering, cussing and a lot of ‘ooooohs’…and ‘YESSSSSSS’ ricocheting around the open-windowed apartment buildings that surrounded Vicky’s little bachelor suite. (We took the above picture while watching the game on TV.)

Even now, as I’ve walked home from work this past week and heard the same kind of unison cheering and yelling at TV’s, I’ve smiled as I’ve thought back to the thrill I felt that everyone was so unified in their enthusiastic excitement about hockey here in Vancouver. It seemed such a stark contrast to the boarded-up shops and houses, the violence, hooligans and over-zealous police presence that have typically surrounded football games back in England. In Vancouver everyone was in favour of the playoffs, not in fear of them.

Sadly my trip came to an end just days before the actual 1994 Stanley Cup finals. Back at home (where I lived in the small, crappy town of Kettering at the time) I tried to find anyone who might have satellite TV that could possibly dig up the finals, but to no avail. With no internet back then and only 4 TV channels to choose from, my chances were big fat ZIP. I wanted to keep the energy of a trip that had meant so much to me for soooo many reasons, but alas ‘twas not to be. No-one knew what the hell I was talking about……”Stanley what?.....Cup? Ain’t got a clue, love. What’s that then when it’s at home?”  I heard later from Vicky that the Canucks lost and there were riots downtown – something I definitely hadn’t expected from the friendly, euphoric fans I’d seen during my visit.

Most importantly Vicky and I hadn’t missed a step with each other and the distance (till I finally moved to Canada) would still never keep us apart.

That initial visit was also my scouting trip of Vancouver, since I'd already applied for Canadian immigration (truly exasperated with life in England but warned by employment agencies in Bordeaux - where I really wanted to live - that unemployment was too high there at the time and I'd be better to stay put). Admittedly, during those first few days in this city I actually wasn't convinced this was a place I wanted to live - I didn't feel that, "wow, I want to live here" that I've always had about France and many other places, but my immigration papers were already in process and, by the end of my two weeks, I knew that moving here and being closer to Vicky again, even if I tried it for just a couple of years, meant so much more to me for many, many reasons, than feeling totally smitten with Vancouver per se. That said, it still took me close to 2 years to move here, thanks to a 1-year immigration process, a 7 month diversion in the Maldive Islands and a further 5 months of plain stupidity moving to Calgary (which is a-whole-nother story in itself).

But - here I am, 17 years later, a Canadian citizen, perched on the couch watching Vancouver playing in the actual Stanley Cup Finals….with my Canadian hubby and our two cats, living just blocks from Vicky and her family and still with cries, yelling and – hopefully soon – honking & cheering – from surrounding apartment buildings, cars and passers-by. The city is holding its breath for a goal…..and ideally a win.