Life is Healthy

Has no one complained to you about this?

A breast cancer organization talking about "great racks"? What if you only have half a rack or none at all? Can I still be a superhero if I'm not white [I did discover after I sent the note, that you can change the skin colour of the model, once you get inside the game but both the male and female superhero start as fair and light-haired] , with big boobs and able-bodied?

I love the idea and I love the spirit of fun and celebration to which you are clearly aspiring. I just don't understand how a group of breast cancer advocates sat down together and agreed that this is the best imagery and wording for this event.

So disappointed.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, then you know how I feel about corporations selling pink crap in the name of "breast cancer." I even have a "don't buy pink crap" tag that use pretty regularly, especially in October.

There have been some pretty awful pink products sold over the years but in launching "Buckets for the Cure," KFC and Susan G. Komen for the Cure have sunk to what may be a new kind of low.

This stupefyingly bad idea was brought to my attention by Clergy Girl, in a post called "Buckets Of Saturated Fat For The Cure" over at Mothers With Cancer. She writes:

This was a sell-out Komen.  Did you ask anyone with breast cancer how they would feel seeing that big pink greasy bucket of chicken?  Was someone going to lose their job if you didn’t raise cash quick?  I really don’t get it?  Research also shows smoking and alcohol consumption are clear links to cancer, so why not team up with Marlboro or Bud Beer?  It’s not just about money, and quite frankly, don’t raise money on the backs of research that is clearly linking to cancer promotion.  Please!

I was felled by a yucky stomach bug this week and really didn't feel much like blogging. It's the price I pay for a weakened immune system. My older son is home sick today, too. Not sure what his excuse is.

Also, my spouse is in Florida. As far as I know, he's not sick.

To compensate for my bitterness at having been struck down during a week of single parenting (I know, some of you have to deal with this kind of thing all the time), I thought I would show off a little.

Here is my latest clapotis. I made it for my mom.



She thinks she's not very photogenic but I think she's lovely.

I made this thing on tiny (2.75mm, if you care about these things) needles and a laceweight (read very fine) yarn. It nearly killed me.

I was working on it during chemo one day and one of the pharmacists, herself a knitter, shook her head and exclaimed, "You must really love your mother!"

I do.

And while I wouldn't necessarily recommend doing this as a laceweight (not just because it takes forever but because fixing errors is a painstaking process) but I am very pleased with the end results. The yarn is an alpaca and silk blend from Knit Picks and the scarf is soft, airy and has a lovely drape.

I think I am addicted to the clapotis. Although I'll do it in a thicker yarn and on bigger needles (the original was done in my much thicker yarn). Doing this on sock yarn will feel like a breeze.

And did you note the state of my walls?

I have been stripping wallpaper. It's part of a project that a friend is helping with (I know that should be "with which a friend is helping" but that felt awkward. Just want you sticklers to know that I am aware that I'm taking liberties). She offered to "paint a room" in my house in exchange for a bunch of kids' stuff we'd outgrown.

I definitely got the better end of that deal. We got a bunch of stuff out of our house and she has already devoted two afternoons to scraping the wallpaper in my hallway - on two floors and up the stairs.

I have to admit that I have never undertaken this kind of project before and I'm actually enjoying it. On our second afternoon we used "Concentrated Wallpaper Remover" from the hardware store and the hard-to-scrape stuff just melted off. Very cool. I hope it's not too terribly toxic. There didn't seem to be any fumes. It kind of smelled like dish soap.

There's another hour of stripping to do and then I gather everything has to be washed, then primed then painted. And then it will all look so good that the rest of the house will seem really dingy in contrast.

Finally, I feel like I can't conclude this post without mentioning the horrific situation in Haiti. Please give what you can, to a reputable organization.

When the Yarn Harlot sent out the "knit signal" last week, I was prompted to direct my money to Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders). They are already set up to help and do excellent work aroun the world.

Click here to donate in Canada, the United States or everywhere else in the world (find your country in the menu on the left). The Harlot mentioned in her post that it is most helpful if you direct your donation to "Emergency Relief" or "Greatest Needs" instead of to a specific project.

Since 1985 October has been celebrated as breast cancer awareness month, often symbolized by pink ribbons and the color pink. It is interesting to note that the awareness month was started by the drug company AstraZeneca (which manufactures several breast cancer drugs) and the pink ribbon originated from cosmetics giant Estée Lauder.

Today's scheduled post is being pre-empted by a story I want to share with all of you.

My younger son, D., had an appointment at the dentist's today. I decided to turn the day into a special outing and go out for lunch and then to the movies (G-Force. I still do not like rodents).

When the movie was over, he announced that he had to go to the bathroom. As I wrapped up a phone call with my spouse and went to open the bathroom door, a man stepped towards me and said, "I think he's way too old to go in there with you. He looks like he's at least four years old."

I thought he was kidding. I smiled and said, "He's six."

"Six! You really shouldn't be going in there."

He was serious. And outraged (I'll bust some stereotypes and tell you that he was young - no older than early 30s). As I stepped around him and gently pushed my son through the door, I heard him say, "I'm going to talk to the manager."

I was flabbergasted.

D. was quite upset as he has been really reluctant to go into the women's washroom for the last year or so (although lately he's gone in with me when we are out alone without complaining).
He was mortified.

I am not an overly protective parent nor am I prone to paranoia. I also know all that so many more children are harmed by adults they know than ones they meet in the bathroom at the movie theatre.

However:

He can barely reach the taps in public washrooms, let alone the soap dispenser.

He often can't get the stall door to close.

Sometimes, he can't get it open.

Despite his protestations, he's afraid to be by himself in an unfamiliar place.

He's six years old. And it is still several years before I am going to let him out of my sight in any public place.

When I was six years old, a stranger exposed himself to me.

I let my 11 year old go into the men's room by himself. Once, when D. had a friend with him at the movies, I let both boys go in together and stood outside with my heart in my mouth until they re-appeared (I asked if they had washed their hands. My son said, "Yes!" His friend said, "No, you didn't!").

I think the answer to "When is your child old enough to [fill in the blank]?" depends very much on the individual child and on the parents' comfort level (I often say that it's really good that my boys have two parents, otherwise they would never be allowed to do anything). I am, however, very comfortable asserting that my six year old will be coming into the women's washroom with me for a while yet.

And what's the big deal, anyway? Women's washrooms have stalls. It's not as though D. is peeking under the doors. When I went to university, at least one of the residences had only co-ed bathrooms. Now that was weird - brushing my teeth in the morning and having some guy walk by in a little towel.

How do you handle the bathroom situation when out with your kids? How do you feel when you see a child of the opposite sex in a public washroom?

Yesterday, I had to fish my dog out of the canal. I was jogging along, with one dog tied around my waist and holding on the leash of the other one (the small, bad one). My mind may have been wandering a little bit. Her leash had been slack for some time when Lucy caught sight of a group (gaggle? flock?) of ducks, yanked hard and broke free.

She slipped under the rails at the sides of the canal (I think it may have been this exact spot, although there was no dredger around) and hesitated only a moment before jumping in. Now I had never seen her swim before, and my heart sank, as she did. She re-emerged pretty quickly, and having recovered from her surprise (I think the canal was a lot deeper than she expected), she set off after the ducks.

I yelled her name. I looked around to see how she might get out (and how I might get in, if I really had to). I waited for her to realize she wasn't going to catch the fleeing fowl and return to me. She made it almost to the other side before she got tired, turned around and swam back in my direction (and even then she did one about-face and reconsidered). When she reached me, she of course, could not get out along the concrete sides of the canal. I lay down on my stomach, grabbed hold of her leash, guided her over and then pulled her out by the scruff until she could find enough purchase to clamber out.

At which point, she shook herself and soaked me in filthy canal water.

She trotted home quite happily, none the worse for her adventure. I on the other hand, was mad as a wet hen.

But the day's adventures were not over.

I dropped by my sister's yesterday afternoon. It was her birthday a couple of days ago. I gave her a card inscribed with the following:

On the cover: "My dog ate your present."

Inside: "You can have my dog."

I thought it was pretty funny, but I didn't realize how apt.

I also gave my sister two balls of wool, which are going to become socks. I took the wool away with me so that I can execute that transformation. And when I got home, I plopped both balls on the dining room table. I went upstairs to watch D. in the bath (S. and my spouse are both away right now).

When I came down, I found Lucy at the bottom of the stairs with wool wrapped around her neck and paws. Yarn was also draped around furniture legs. Both balls had had the paper ball bands removed. It took me an hour and a half to untangle the mess.

Perhaps she was trying to make art.

Just the other day, I was bragging to a friend about how good Lucy was on our trip East. I uttered the words, "She has really turned a corner."

My spouse would surely call that 'hubris.'

Lucy is lying on the floor beside me as I type this, looking very peaceful and innocent. She really can be very sweet. It's a good thing because I was tempted to call this post, "Free to a good home."

Ottawa's mayor, Larry O'Brien, was just acquitted of attempting to bribe (in the form of a political appointment) a rival candidate during the election. While the allegations still seem to me to be entirely plausible (my opinion and no, I emphatically did not vote for the man and the whole election process is a bit of a "don't get me started."), I was not surprised by the results. My spouse and I heard the news on the radio as we were in the Maritimes, grunted, sighed and went back to mediating the squabbling in the back seat of the car.

Then, today, I heard about this (via Miss Vicky):

"Lisa MacLeod is a young female politician who commutes to her job at Queen's Park from Ottawa and leaves her husband, Joe, and four-year-old daughter, Victoria, at home. Mr. Justice Douglas Cunningham of Ontario Superior Court said this is a big distraction for the 34-year-old woman and as a result he felt he could not accept her evidence as corroboration of the Crown's key witness in the recent high-profile, influence-peddling trial of Ottawa Mayor Larry O'Brien.

Judge Cunningham is 69; he was appointed to the bench in 1991.

His comments, delivered last week in his ruling dismissing the charges against Mr. O'Brien, are now drawing criticism from political strategists and activists who are shaking their heads, wondering when women will be treated as equals in politics."

She was known as Sepha and her blog was Undone.

I have been meaning to email her, send her a package, comment on her blog. I have been thinking of her lots.

Now we have lost another one. Another smart, funny, creative woman has succumbed far too young to cancer.

Life, sometimes is so unfair. And damn, I wish I had sent that package.

My heart goes out to her family and her Dear Other.

I hate cancer.

Warning: This post may contain too much information for some readers.


I have not worn a prosthesis for more than two years. Lymphedema and then scarring from radiation made the experience of wearing it excruciating. The last time I tried to wear it, I was on a date with my spouse in Florida. After an hour, I was in tears, it hurt so much.

Out it came and I haven't looked back.

At least not much.

I find that I'm pretty comfortable without a prosthesis. Sometimes I dress to camouflage and others I just don't care. And most of the time, I don't think about it at all.

Lately, though, I've wanted the chance to blend in a little more, to not have to lead with my cancer when I meet people. And although I have some great tops that work with my asymmetrical body, (from Rhea Belle, of course) I do get tired of the limited options open to me (it's hard enough finding funky clothes in larger sizes).

So, while feeling slightly guilty about giving into societal notions of beauty (in hiding my asymmetry, am I implying that I think there is something wrong with it?), I set out to visit Kelly's Mastectomy Boutique.

The entire operation took all of ten minutes ("Oh look! Boobs!" I exclaimed as I tried on prosthesis and bra) and cost several hundreds of dollars (recuperable, thanks to the government and my insurance plan. I wonder though, why do we need a referral from a doctor? Does anyone get a prosthesis for fun? What would they do with it?). I brought it home, stuck it in my closet and didn't wear it for almost a week.

Yesterday, I decided it was time for the prosthetic equivalent of a test drive. I was meeting Sassymonkey for pints and knitting on a sunny patio. It seemed like a low stakes endeavour, in that if I arrived with my boobs pointing in different directions, Sassymonkey was likely to be unperturbed. It was also a good opportunity to put the boob through it's paces, as I would be biking, knitting, eating, sitting in the warm sun and engaging in a social encounter.

My new fake boob is squishier in back and is supposed to be lighter - better for both my uneven chest wall and lymphedema. I wore it under a t-shirt with a picture on it (much harder to wear with an uneven chest) and one that is slightly snugger than I have been wearing lately. I noticed immediately that my waist, gone for ages, seemed to reappear. I also noticed that my posture seemed to improve.

I ran into someone I knew on my way to the pub. She said, "You look different. Have you done something to your hair?"

And after Sassymonkey and I had been sitting for a while, I pointed out my newly symmetrical rack to her. "That's what's different!" she exclaimed.

"You'd tell me if I were unbalanced right?" She assure me that she would (I felt unbalanced, I'm so unused to having this weird mound on the right side of my chest).

All in all, I declare the outing a success. The thing felt odd but there was no pain. I even forgot I was wearing it for a while.

When Sassymonkey and I parted we hugged goodbye (I later repeated this experience with T. Hugging feels very odd, like we are squishing a big pillow between us) and she noted, "You're still balanced."

I said I was glad but that I was going to take it off when I got home. "It's like breaking in a pair of shoes, you know?"

She said that she did.

As I type this, the stand-in for my right boob is nestled in it's box in my closet. I am toying with taking it out for a spin again this evening.

And one last thing: there needs to be more support and encouragement of women who create clothing for the post-mastectomy body. Also, it would be great if the bigger clothing companies would come across, by supporting the work of women like Jacqueline and modifying their own designs. I can't be the only woman who has had a mastectomy, does not love prosthesis and cannot/would not choose surgical reconstruction.

Mixed results from my appointment with my oncologist yesterday.

First of all, I was late. As I was riding to the hospital, I noticed that it was getting harder and harder to pedal. When it actually became impossible, I got off the bike and checked. My front brake was squeezing the front wheel. Hard. I think I had been riding like this for some time - and tightening every time I braked. I just thought I was tired and out of biking shape. I solved the problem by releasing the front brake entirely (I'm sure that's not the safest thing). This meant that when I hit the big hill before the hospital, I was already wiped out from pedalling with all that friction.

I arrived at the cancer centre twenty minutes late and a hot, red, sweaty mess.

When I finally saw my doc, he easily agreed to a break in July (which is a good thing because I have non-refundable air tickets and a pre-paid hotel for BlogHer). That went so well that I (without making eye contact) asked for August off as well.

The answer was an unequivocal "No."

I didn't argue with him and I listened patiently as he reminded me that I need to think in terms of a chronic illness that we need to keep treating. I can't really take a (longer) break because we need to keep managing the illness.

I told him that I understood. That I know that the treatment I am on is our first line of defence and that the longer I stay on it, the more chance there is for the second, third, fourth and fifth lines of defence to be developed and improved.

He said, "Well, that makes me feel better. When I saw the note in your chart [that I wanted to ask for two months off], I got a little worried."

I reassured him that I am not planning to bail on treatment, I'm just feeling ground down and fed up.

Dr. G. also reminded me that, "Although, it's great that you have remained with no evidence of disease for so long, there is likely cancer somewhere in your body. Statistically, there is something there." But then he added, "But we don't know enough about Herceptin in the long term. Maybe you're cured. We just can't know."

"Cured." Nice word, that.

And I get it. I really do. And I know that while I was incredibly unlucky to end up with metastatic breast cancer (especially in the liver), I have been fabulously, gloriously fortunate to end up in remission. I know so many other wonderful women (Jeanne and Rebecca, for example) who have had to move to regimens that are harder to tolerate.

I can accept the fact that I will be in treatment for the rest of my life, with only very short and very occasional breaks. I can even make the best of it. And I can feel pretty positive most of the time. I think I am also allowed to get pissed off every once in a while.

On another note, my spouse wants you all to know that the Xmas tree in my back yard is "next winter's firewood." It hasn't been chopped, though. Maybe we are going to have a bonfire in my living room.

Chemo has left me uninspired.

Here is a link to a story ("Cancer labs no closer to national standards: Despite fresh doubts about tests in B.C. and damning report on Newfoundland scandal, efforts to set quality benchmarks are stalled.") from today's Globe and Mail that made me grumpy.

The quality and accuracy of cancer testing can be so uneven and no province has been exempt from error. The feds don't feel they need to take any responsibility for resolving the problem:

Federal Health Minister Leona Aglukkaq declined to be interviewed for this story, but her press secretary said in an e-mail the federal government will not become involved because "the regulation of pathologists and laboratories is a provincial and territorial responsibility."