Life is Healthy

1. According to an article in the Globe andMail, women and men respond very differently when they are on the recieving end of an apology:

“Women who are starved of an apology for rude or hurtful behaviour suffer an increase in blood pressure which can raise the risk of a heart attack or stroke, a study found,” The Daily Telegraph reports. “But those who hear a well-timed ‘sorry’ calm down more quickly, with their blood pressure returning to normal 20 per cent faster, the research showed. Conversely, a man’s blood pressure takes 20 per cent longer to recover after an apology – suggesting men become more worked up after hearing an admission of guilt.”

The kind when conversation flows easily along with the wine, all accompanied byexcellent food. Where all the kids get along and the adults are left to talk about books, movies and travel. The kind of evening when three and half hours goes by like five minutes and the time to go comes in what feels like the blink of an eye.

And you have your boots on at the door by 9:06pm.

I remember when Friday nights out didn't get going until after 11:00 and a 1:00am curfew seemed completely unfair. When we danced until the music stopped and got up to the kinds of things that make me dread my own children's adolescence.

It's one of Mother Nature's little ironies that by the time we are mature enough to behave responsibly our definition of a late night (and of a perfect one) has been irrevocably changed.

Boy, am I dopey today.

We had our Thanksgiving dinner last night - turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing (probably the best I have ever had) smothered in gravy. A beautiful salad with a basil and feta dressing. Lots of wine. And Guinness chocolate cake, pumpkin pie, whipped cream, ice cream and chocolate sauce for dessert (I don't think anybody actually had all of those things).

And a truly lovely group of people.

It was perfect.

Today, I am trying to make notes for a presentation I am giving on Thursday. I need to talk about my transformation from individual cancer patient to a member of a vibrant and supportive community.

I had lots of thoughts about this on the week end, when I really didn't have time to write them down. Today, my brain seems to have been replaced with mashed potatoes and gravy (Mmm. Leftovers).

It's an interesting question, though. My online community (which consists of folks I have met in real life and others I probably will only ever know online) has been a key source of information and support over the years.

So, help me out here. What role does your online community play in your life? How did you come to build these virtual relationships? Does the internet help sustain relationships with friends?

I'm not asking you to do my work for me (really, I swear). I'm just curious how you react to the words "network" and "community" and how they apply to your online life.

Where do I know the actor from who played the handyman in The Waterhorse?

Should we have washed the dogs before we cleaned the carpets?

What if my oncologist ordered a thoracic CT scan so soon after my last abdominal one because they heard something during my last exam (and not just because I hadn't had one in a long time)?

Is the hat I'm making for D. going to be too small?

Was the other movie The Truth About Cats and Dogs? (I looked it up. His name is Ben Chaplin and it he was the actor in both movies).

Was I sent for two CT scans two weeks apart because of poor planning (or poor communicaiton) or is there something ugly growing on my lungs?

If the hat is too small, should I give it to someone else or rip it out and start over?

I am definitely on the mend but still sick (less nausea, light-headed and now sneezing my face off). It seems to me a good day to finally get to this "25 things" meme that I keep getting tagged for on Facebook.

I just came back from getting some fresh air with the dogs and many of these are things I thought about when I was out. I make no promises about whether or not I have written any of this before. And since my mother reads my blog, I may engage in a bit of censorship (Hi Mom! I love you!).

1. When I become interested in something, I tend to read everything I can on that subject.
2. My current interest is Enneagrams.
3. I am a 1.
4. I am married to a 9.
5. These two facts actually help me to understand my life a lot better.
6. My spouse and I have been together almost 18 years.
7. My longest relationship before my current one lasted 4.5 months.
8. I hated being pregnant.
9. I had a miscarriage between my two successful pregnancies. I was 11 weeks along. I was devastated.
10. I have struggled with depression since my early teens.
11. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in early 2006, I was the healthiest and strongest I had ever been. I believe that helped a lot.
12. Since I found out about the cancer, I have been angry and sad at times but I cannot say that I have been depressed for very long stretches.
13. I am addicted to online word games, namely Scrabble and Word Twist.
14. I am embarrassed that I can't understand some of my 10 year old son's math homework.
15. I love intensely, hold fierce grudges and forgive easily.
16. I have mellowed.
17. I am an atheist.
18. I feel guilty about everything.
19. I still think my spouse is hot.
20. I still my miss Emma, my golden retriever. She died on June 30, 2006. She was almost 14.
21. One year later, I had my first clean CT scan.
22. I don't consider myself to be sick, despite the fact that I have a chronic illness.
23. If I could turn back the clock and make my life go back to the way it was before the cancer, I am not sure that I would do it.
24. That last sentence astounds me.
25. I wish I were a better knitter.

I had an echocardiogram today. They are a pretty routine part of my life; I have them every few months to make sure that the Herceptin isn't damaging my heart. So far, so good.

It's kind of boring lying there, so I started to play a little game with myself. When I lay down at the beginning of the test, my resting hear rate had been 65 bpm (beats per minute), when I worried about my results, I noticed that it had shot up to 75 bpm (I could also see on the screen that my heart was whooshing away but I couldn't tell whether it was doing it's job efficiently). I took a few deep breaths and my bpm dropped again. I remembered that I have only bought one Xmas present and my rate went back up into the 70s. Up and down it went (I hope that I didn't affect my results by doing this).

And then it occurred to me that today is December 2nd.

Exactly three years ago, I found the lump in my breast. That day, the world tilted on its axis (I felt it do that as I stood in front of my bedroom closet not quite believing I had this big hard mass on the side of my right breast) and my life was irrevocably changed.

If you had told me at that moment, how the next couple of years would unfold, I never would have believed that life could be as good as it is right now, despite the cancer. Don't get me wrong. If I could choose to have never had cancer, I would.

I hate having cancer, hate being in treatment, hate the restrictions placed on me as a cancer patient and I do still grieve for all I have lost. There are many, many ways, though, that my life has changed for the better since December 2nd, 2005.

Maybe that's why, when I remembered the date, my heart rate didn't budge.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

Every so often, someone will tell me they feel bad talking to me about their own cancer experiences because they have had an easier time than I have (because they didn't have a mastectomy, they didn't get sick from chemo, they sailed through radiation or they don't have mets).

I always tell them that cancer is scary and traumatic now matter how you experience it.

And besides, it wouldn't make things easier for me if someone else were sicker.

Last night, I was at a beautiful event, celebrating the career of Deborah Bourque, the former President of the Canadian Union of Postal Workers (this is not a non-sequitur. Please bear with me). It was also an opportunity for women working in the labour movement to get together, celebrate our own achievements and commiserate on the challenges we face as women members, staff and leaders of unions (we also ate great food, had a few drinks and shared some laughs).

It was a bittersweet event for me. I saw many wonderful women I hadn't connected with in a great long while. I loved that part. But it's hard to be reminded that I am not really part of that milieu any more. Those day to day struggles are no longer mine.

I don't miss the stress but I do miss the adrenaline.

I don't miss the bureaucracy but I do miss the work.

I don't miss the workplace politics but I do miss the collaboration.

I don't miss the frustration but I do miss the joy that comes with success.

It is easier now not to feel this loss so acutely. There are so many good things about my life. Now that the book is finished, I feel that I have an accomplishment that I can talk about. And now that I have begun to think of myself as a writer, I don't feel the loss of identity as a union activist so acutely.

This brings me back to the original point of this post.

I was out for a walk with the dogs today (it's beautiful and unseasonably warm in Ottawa) and feeling a little bit sad. And then I felt guilty because there are so many women who are forced to work through cancer treatment and pay a tremendous physical price (others work find it helpful to work, which is a different thing), who don't have health insurance, drug coverage, a supportive spouse, or a roof over their heads. I felt guilty that I should be feeling sad when I am healthy enough to play with my kids, go out with my friends and walk my dogs on a beautiful day.

But I was reminded at the conference this past week end that cancer is a very personal thing, in it's manifestations and in how it is experienced.

We gain nothing in judging ourselves or each other.

And we gain nothing when we deny our sadness, anger or joy.

Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

It's 2:30 in the afternoon and I am sitting in my hotel room, having just eating cold soggy french fries and what I am sure was a hopelessly inauthentic Philly cheese steak from room service (at $14.00 before taxes, surcharge and tip, it was the cheapest thing on the menu and came without the promised fried onions).

The sound of my typing is being drowned out by yelling and the relentless cacophony of sirens on the street below, despite the fact that I am on one of the top floors of what was reportedly Philadelphia's first skyscraper.

I am having a weird day.

My departure for Philadelphia this morning was a bit fraught, the usual clutter and chaos being compounded by last minute additions to the Hallowe'en costumes (D. is going as Wolverine and S. went to school as a hippie and will be dressing up as Sarah Palin - not my idea - this evening. Last night, he was hobbling around the house with one hand on his hip, chirping "You betcha!"). I spent a good twenty minutes looking for the theatrical makeup (for Wolverine's facial hair and a peace symbol for the hippie), only to find it in the very first place I had looked, buried under a pile of rubble.

I managed to get out the door only slightly later than planned and, after 15 minutes of desperate waving, finally snagged a cab.

I sailed through airport check-in (did you know that there is a charge for every piece of luggage now?) and security and got into the line for US Immigration. I always get really nervous when I have to go through Customs or Immigration (doesn't matter which direction), even though I never try to smuggle or hide anything. When the only female worker waved me over for my turn, I was pleased, convinced that she would be more likely to be sympathetic to the purpose of my trip.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Agent: "What is the purpose of your trip to Philadelphia?"

Me: "I'm going to a conference."

Agent: "What kind of conference?"

Me: "Breast cancer..."

Agent: "What's your job?"

Me: "I am a researcher with a union."

Agent: "Then why are you going to this conference?"

Me: "I'm a survivor."

That's when it started to fall apart. I babbled (I do this when I am nervous) something about it being organized by Living Beyond Breast Cancer and that it was called, "News You Can Use."

And then I told her that I was on disability (I am quite sure that I meant to say something else).

Agent: "How long have you been on disability?"

Me: "Ummm...since I was diagnosed...April 2006." (this is inaccurate but I was really flailing at this point).

Then I pulled myself together and said, clearly and forcefully: "But I have a good job to go back to and my insurance company pays x percent of my wage."

Agent: "OK."

Wow. I don't know if I've managed to convey her hostility but she really was very hostile.

I was shaking a little bit afterwards.

On the flight, I sat beside M., a very nice engineer from Alabama. We talked the whole way about Canadian winters (he had spent a winter in Ontario and enjoyed it), kids, blended families, the book I'm reading (Guantanamo's Child by Michelle Shephard) and life in general. I even took a stab at explaining what it means to live in a Constitutional Monarchy and the Canadian and provinicial electoral systems.

M., an employee of the US military, expressed his frustration that, in his opinion, dissent has come to be equated with a lack of patriotism in his country (he also said that the only part of the constitution with which he didn't agree was the right to bear arms).

He also said that he's hopeful that Obama will be elected and that he will bring about real and positive change ("these things don't happen overnight"), if he can build bridges and start work on some concrete projects (he used "energy independence" as an example).

I don't usually chat on planes but M. was a very cool seat mate and the 90 minute trip passed quickly (despite the fact that we weren't offered so much as a glass of water).

At the Philadelphi airport, I grabbed my bag and made my way to the taxi stand. When I announced my destination, the driver said, "I don't know if I can get you all the way there because of the parade."

The World Series parade! In the middle of the day! On Hallowe'en!

It wasn't long before we came apon the diverse (in every way imaginable), festive and very boisterous crowds.

We drove until we literally could go no further. I relinquished my cab to an incredibly happy young couple.

"Do you have to work today?" I was asked sympathetically.

I replied, "I just got here, I'm from Canada!"

"Wow!!!"

I wish sports could make me that happy.

I watched people dancing and singing, cheering and drinking. I saw strangers hug each other as they passed on the street and I saw a couple of gratuitous acts of vandalism.

Walking agains the flow of human traffic, I bravely made my way to the hotel (there were four large security guys standing outside, each with their eyes as wide as dinner plates) and checked in. I immediately went out again for wine and food. I secured the wine but quickly deduced that the only way I was going to eat was if I ordered room service (every restaurant within miles was packed or closed).

And now I find myself, a few hours later (I interrupted this post for a nap and a shower), typing in my pajamas, with a glass of wine by my side. I am starting to feel hungry again but don't really feel like venturing out again.

I don't feel like facing the last of the revelers. Or the sirens.

And I really don't feel like getting dressed.

Maybe I still have some trail mix in my bag.

You'll be hearing a lot from me this month. NaBloPoMo starts tomorrow (which is why my laptop is with me and the reason I am paying $10.95/day for internet. It's not because I'm addicted. Really).

Reading Lene's post on dreams yesterday got me thinking about a post I wrote on that subject last March.

And then last night I had a panicky dream that I was lost in a hotel (hotels and houses seem to be key themes for me). First, I could not find my friends' room and then I could not return to my own. I could not remember my room number. Halls led to nowhere or to places that were completely illogical (like an ice rink). Calls on hotel phones went unanswered, were connected to people far away from the hotel, or produced directions that made no sense (or that I could not remember. These are key fears of mine as a chemo patient - forgetting things or not being able to understand them).

At one point, I was trying to open a door and it turned into a folding wall. For a few moments, I was trapped.

The last thing I remember, was finding the front desk. A woman was giving me directions when my younger son woke me up. Perhaps my dream was about to resolve itself.

I have not been able to fight the lingering feeling of anxiety this morning.

I did have an appointment with the doctor who works with my oncologist yesterday. It was a reassuring appointment, though, as she repeated again that my CT results showed no change from the previous five.

Perhaps I am feeling a little lost now that the book is finished.

The first two weeks after I was done, I felt relief and a sense of freedom.

And taking a break from MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com is definitely the right thing for me right now.

But I think I might be suffering from a case of "what's next?"

I am someone who once really defined herself by work and I have really struggled with the shift in identity that came with being a cancer patient (I feel great most of the time but I am in bed for the days after treatment. My oncologist does not want me to work and I am fortunate to have disability insurance).

One of my goals for myself for this year was to begin to think of myself as a "Writer." In order to do that, I need to keep writing.

I am excited at that prospect.

But I think I am a little scared, too.

Life as a parent is full of Big Questions. Here are some of the ones I have been pondering lately:


Why is it so quiet? What are they up to?


Why is he being so polite? What does he want?


Is he cuddling or is he wiping his nose on my shirt?

Today, is the Jewish New Year.

My spouse is Jewish but I am not.

Neither of us is even remotely religious.

But I love the idea of fall renewal, of having the chance to start a brand new year, in this time of harvest and change.

Nonlinear Girl has a post on this subject today and on having the chance to "cast off" the things that hold us back:

"In the Jewish religion, today is the ceremony Tashlich, which is Hebrew for "casting off." As part of the start of a new year, this is a chance to symbolically cast off the sins of the past year. Jews go to a natural body of flowing water and throw in pieces of bread to symbolize the shedding of these old errors. The idea is to get rid of things you do not want to take with you into the new year. While traditionalists focus on specific errors made in the past year, right now I am thinking more about the ways I make life unnecessarily harder for myself. By tossing away some of these I hope I will feel lighter about whatever happens in the next year."

Toss in my insecurities about my inability to be an artist, my shame about having cancer and the fears that keep me from 'doing.'

Am I freaked out because I can feel a stitch or am I feeling a stitch because I am freaked out anxious about my CT next week and what it might reveal?

Inside my head is not a fun place to be, today.

These are the facts:

• Scarring causes tightness which can make me feel a bit of a stitch.

• I have been exercising hard and felt nothing.

• But as I type this, I feel a dull ache.

• I cannot tell if my liver is swollen because I a have too much belly fat (and lymphedema) and an inadequate sense of my own anatomy.

• If I press really hard, the area where I think my liver is, hurts. But if you press hard enough on any part of the body, it hurts.

Today finds me faced with a dilemma.

I just found out today that I have been awarded a scholarship to attend this conference in Philadelphia. It is being organized by Living Beyond Breast Cancer (don't know a whole lot about them but I do love that name). My air fare and half of my hotel will be covered.

The content looks interesting.

And I would love the chance to meet some other interesting women living with cancer.

It will be almost exactly a year since I attended this conference, which rejuvenated and inspired me.

However, the Philadelphia conference is on Saturday, November 1st. It starts at 9:00am.

This means I would miss Hallowe'en in Ottawa.

I love helping my kids get ready and sending them off to trick or treat. I love giving out candy (I love eating it, too, which is not as good for me).

I need your help. What should I do?

Oh, and if I go to the conference, I get to stay here for two nights.

Jenny, who writes at "At Least It's A Good Cancer," wrote this piece, on the change in identity that comes with being a cancer patient:

At first, I wanted so much to maintain my professional identity, to be the smart, strong person who just happens to be going through cancer treatment. I didn't want to be like those grey, wispy, shadowed people sitting in the waiting room in their headscarfs and their wheelchairs. When I had surgery and couldn't wash my own hair, it was hard to accept help because it just drove home my incapability. When I couldn't walk outside for a full half hour at a time, I felt the loss of my physicality more than I had ever felt its presence.

What the writer doesn't say, and what happened too slowly for me to watch, is that you really can go back to something like your old life, and leave that self-loss behind; but it's almost like a projection of your old life, one rendered in all the same colors and moving in the same patterns, but against a different screen, parallel to the old but never quite touching.

A few years ago, back in what seems another lifetime, I had a co-worker who was driving me crazy. He was incredibly insecure and often sought to make himself look good at others' expense. He was also lazy and very willing to let others slog away at the grunt work, grabbing the tasks for himself that would gain recognition from the leadership of our organization.

I started to obsess about the unfairness of this. I wanted something to be done. And I began to vent my spleen to anyone who would listen. Even when relaxing after an intense project, I found myself returning to this subject like a dog worrying a bone.

One friend in particular would listen sympathetically but he also seemed kind of amused. And he would, after listening patiently, gently try and get me to move on. He was very supportive and encouraging but he hinted that perhaps I should stop putting so much energy into being angry.

I remember thinking at the time that this guy just didn't understand the seriousness of the situation.

I have a different perspective now.

This particular friend is a cancer survivor and perhaps that's what led him to understand what I now see more clearly. It is much healthier (and better in the long run) to focus on what really matters and to save our anger for situations when we can actually hope to create real change.

I have recently become somewhat reluctantly involved (and only peripherally) in a situation where it seems that a group of people, for whom I have great respect, have lost sight of a common goal. They have become bogged down in a morass of pettiness and are choosing to express some legitimate frustrations in ways that are destructive. And some individuals are being badly hurt in the process.

I can't help thinking that life is way too short for this.

I think, in situations like this it is crucial that keep ourselves focused on what's important. I always try and ask myself what my goals are and whether my actions will move me towards it. And if I am acting out of anger or frustration then I am likely only contributing to the problem, not to solving it.

Anger and confrontation certainly have their place but they are not ends in and of themselves. We need to ask, yet again, what organization we want to build, be honest about the things that aren't working and take concrete measures to fix those things.

And we need to treat one another with a little more compassion.

I have been feeling kind of burned out lately and completely uninspired.

Perhaps I have been over-extending myself. And as much as I need and want to write about my experiences as a cancer patient, mining that particular vein can be draining (and I am trying really hard not to repeat myself too much in the different venues in which I am writing).

I did my morning pages today, for the first time in a while and I found it to be a tough slog. I started to list the things that inspire me and I realized that I have not really been making a lot of space in my life to do these things. My days have been focused on being productive and, perhaps, when I have had down time, I have not been engaging in the kind of activities that fill me up.

I think this needs to change. Yes, I have deadlines (and the house is a mess) but I think that I might spend less time staring at a blank computer screen, struggling over every word (or surfing the net to avoid writing) if I let myself spend a little time getting inspired.

Here's my list. What would be on yours?

Reading books.

Knitting.

Going for long walks.

Spending time in the arboretum and other beautiful places.

Taking in other people's art.

Listening to music.

Laughing.

Hanging out with friends and family.

Being silly with my kids.

Spending time with my spouse.

I have recurring dreams.

And while I don't remember all of my dreams, there are some that stay with me very vividly. I don't believe that all of my dreams have great meaning (and some make so little sense when I wake up that I don't even try to ascribe meaning to them) but sometimes, I really feel that my dreams relay messages from my sub-conscious.

I still occasionally have a dream that I am back in university. It's time to write exams, only I haven't been to class (OK some of this did actually happen in real life). In fact, I had no idea that I had even signed up for that particular course.

It's very stressful.

In a recent version of the dream (and I have had this one more than once), I have had to quit my job and go live with my parents, since I have just found out that I did not complete high school. In this dream, I can't even find the school office to get a copy of the class schedule. As the end of the school year approaches and exams loom, I realize that I have not attended a single math class (I don't even know where the classroom is).

At the most stressful periods of my working life, I found myself back in grade school (it is not fun being the only adult in Grade 4).

When I was pregnant with my first child, I dreamed that I gave birth to a chicken. I was horrified. I knew that I was supposed to love that chicken and I was wracked with guilt that, instead, I was repulsed by it. I was especially terrified at the prospect of breast-feeding the chicken.

Several months later, I dreamed that I gave birth to a golden retriever. I took that as a sign that I was making progress in my mental preparation for motherhood. I still didn't know how I would breastfeed a puppy but at least the creature in the crib was mammalian (and the thought of cuddling with it did not freak me out. I have never really liked birds).

In the year before my cancer diagnosis (my last year of working crazy hours), I dreamed that I had inherited a house. After living in it for some time, I would always discover that the house had another floor to it, one I had not known existed. This attic didn't always look the same but it was always beautifully furnished, dusty and fairly vast. My feeling upon discovering it was always wonder, mixed with a lot of fear and some excitement.

I took that one to mean that there was some aspect of my past that needed exploring. Perhaps I was also telling myself that I was neglecting some part of who I was.

More recently, I have been having a dream that is likely related to the unexplored house. In this one, I am staying at a large hotel. It always looks different and the location and reason for travel also vary. But in every dream, I get locked out of my room and I can't find my keys (this is something that happens to me almost every time I travel. And I lose keys all the time). I spend the rest of the dream wandering the halls, trying to find the front desk or, if I succeed in getting a new key, I can no longer find my room. All the hallways and every floor look exactly the same. Or the numbers have disappeared from the doors. Or I get my key to work in a lock, only to find that door opens to an empty room (or one with someone else in it. I have had this happen in real life, except that in the dream, I am the only one who seems to be bothered).

It's not a panicky dream (like the school ones), just a frustrating one. Perhaps I am just feeling stuck and not sure how to get to where I want to go (and unsure of what the destination should be).

I think dreams can tell us a great deal about ourselves, if we can actually figure them out.

Thoughts? Feel free to psychoanalyze me or share dreams of your own in the commments.

A version of this was cross-posted to Mommybloggers.