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Reconnecting.
Sharing this journey online has rewarded me with opportunities to connect with friends and relatives from the distant past.
Living this journey has rewarded me with the courage to face old fears, step beyond the comfort of keystrokes and into real-time, face-to-face encounters.
My life is so much richer as a result.
And it’s getting easier.
Lucky me.
Being Me.
It’s a month, today, since my final radiation treatment.
In these four glorious weeks, I’ve been living it up and lollygagging with good friends and good family.
I’ve grown some eyelashes and some hair.
I’ve stepped up to the scariness of public speaking.
I’ve coasted obliviously through a significant earthquake.
I’ve enjoyed schedule-free summer days with Lucy and Bayla.
I’m now two weeks into my five years of hormone therapy and — touch wood — its been blissfully imperceptible.
My white blood count is still low (I had a good cry over that news this morning). And various muscles and joints are still struggling with the effects of chemo.
But I feel like myself again — only better, stronger and happier. Really.
I am the rebuilt me.
And, with every thought and every choice, I’m working to stay that way.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Cycling.
In my pre-motherhood life, I cycled across Canada, coast to coast. I cycled through Tuscany, across Newfoundland and Labrador and along the Icefields Parkway, from Jasper to Banff. I cycled in Arizona, the Gulf Islands and in cycling mobs from the Rideau Lakes Tour and Le Tour Nortel to Le Tour de l”Île de Montréal.
Cycling was a challenge and a rush and a close-up, whole body adventure.
But some of my fondest cycling moments have been early morning commutes, pitch dark rides home after drinks with Jay, and chilly autumn spins with Luba.
Until yesterday, I thought those days were done.
Between my chemo-induced balance issues and my aching muscles and bones, I was afraid to try.
Yesterday, with visions of celebratory post-radiation margaritas dancing in my head, I hauled out my neglected bike, pumped up the tires and gave it a go.
It was indescribably heavenly.
Happiness is cycling. Here’s hoping there’s lots and lots and lots more.
A Fresh Start.
Just days before that lump jumped to centre stage, Mark presented me with this birthday card.
Its message so maddeningly trite but true.
Since then, life has seemed a series of countdowns. To surgeries, celebrations and ends of various treatments.
Escaping to the I Can Do It! Conference this weekend reminded me of the importance of choosing :
Above all, it reminded me that every breath can be a chance to start fresh.
I think I’ll take a few.
Psychosocial Oncology.
Again and again I’ve been bowled over with gratitude for the skillful and compassionate nurses, technicians and physicians who have cared for me during this journey…
As I’ve been rolled in and out of surgeries, cared for in recovery rooms, carefully injected with chemo and positioned to the millimeter for radiation.
And for the health care system that has foot the bill.
But some of the most spectacular, gratitude-invoking work to date happened last Friday.
I arrived at the hospital cracked open with despair and found my way to Psychosocial Oncology. I cried uncontrollably as I awaited an initial, impromptu meeting with a social worker. I was barely coherent as I unloaded my long list of troubles to the patient, level-headed young health worker who had generously squeezed me into her day.
And somehow, she put me together again.
She listened, she made notes, she spoke gently and logically. She divided my troubles into chunks and assured me we’d work each chunk, together.
And I was able to go on.
With immense gratitude.
The Wild Oat.
I’ve had a lot of firsts since chemo ended, but the only one to make me cry was my first visit back to The Oat. And I cried just as hard at my second.
The Wild Oat was our family’s cozy oasis — every day — for more than three years.
Its earthy attitude, funky, friendly staff and unbeatable organic coffee, baked goods and meals were well worth the line-up each weekend for breakfast.
Its mellow, homey atmosphere and steaming espresso machine sang backup each weekday morning as Mark and I recorded our daily discussion for Just One More Book.
We knew the staff. We knew the customers. All four of us felt completely at home.
Right up to my diagnosis.
I cry for the pre-c freedom The Oat represents. For our lost podcast. For my lost employment. And for the carefree morning “dates” that Mark and I enjoyed each day before work.
Still, happiness is The Wild Oat.
Long lost family … 
Found! 
Born just one month before me, my cousin Kelly was my very first friend.
From toddlerhood through tweendom, we spent countless weekends and vacations playing, chatting, imagining and growing up.
I was painfully shy, socially inept and my family life was rocky. Kelly’s constant, generous friendship likely kept me sane.
Somewhere in our teens, though, our paths diverged. We did school, got jobs, found partners, and raised our own children to tweendom — without ever crossing paths.
Then, almost by accident and just days before I found that lump, we reconnected.
Luckily for me.
Kelly’s warmth, wit, wisdom, exuberance, understanding and support throughout this journey have been absolutely astounding. She has become the loving aunt we always craved for our girls — her beautiful children the spunky, loving cousins we thought Luba’d never have. And her super-hero husband rocks too.
We’re going to enjoy getting our grandkids to tweendom together. And lots of happy family memories until — and after — that.
Friends and Friendly Neighbours.
As Lucy, Bayla and I headed out this morning, we were greeted by a beautifully supportive card and little gift bag full of home baked chocolate chip cookies — a third care package from neighbouring family, Carolyn, David, Gillian and Jake, who we hadn’t run into at all since this journey of ours began.
As I did my walk this afternoon, I came across my longtime buddy Steve, whose dependably witty, upbeat comments have given me plenty of good chuckles during this journey. I’ve been friends with Steve for twenty years and hadn’t seen him since our Head Shaving Party, in December. We had a long chat in the sunshine at the edge of Dow’s Lake.
Just before I hit home, I happened to cross paths with David, Gillian and Jake. I thanked them for all their beautiful care packages and we caught up on the happenings of our winter hibernations.
These unexpected encounters with good friends and neighbours just filled me right up with contentment. As good a medicine as any — and no brutal side effects.
Thank you.
Rebirth.
I’m through the worst of my final chemo-hangover.
The world’s crisp and sunny and full of chirping birds.
Pure bliss.
Resolute resilience.
Squished into a Starbucks stuffed with newborns and Nikes, I was first treated to the boisterous laugh and generous smile of my friend, Caroline.
It was 1999. We were beginner moms. Bandying blunders. Trading tips. Loving our new lives.
Life soon got busy and our paths untwined.
Almost ten years later, we happened to reconnect. Just in time for Caroline’s cancer diagnosis, three months of us helping as best we could, and then mine.
During these unexpected detours of ours, Caroline’s determination to defeat this disease, her astounding achievements of mind over matter and her generous wisdom and support have filled me with admiration, inspiration, gratitude and hope.
Despite ominous odds, Caroline is completely cancer free.
Today, I had the honour of celebrating the beginning of her new life.
Her new, improved life.
Lucky me.
Please stand and hum “The Final Countdown”.
Our prophylactic dog.
Lucy begged for a dog, almost daily, for 6 years.
Little did we know when we finally broke down and found Phaedra, in February 2009, that the favour we were doing would most benefit me.
Thank you, Phae.
Funky hand made eye candy.
Last week I dropped all News Feeds from my GoogleReader and replaced them with oodles of Flickr feeds full of funky, brightly coloured, creative, hand made cloth sculpture (such as these).
Giving news a pass is an obvious relief.
And the happy photos stir up delicious memories of billions of creative projects from childhood through motherhood. They gently nudge my creative juices.
Most importantly, they feel great on my oh-so-sore eyes.
Why didn’t I think to do this sooner?
A Village of Moms.
Working moms juggle tonnes and finding smart, witty, genuine, fun-loving, down-to-earth characters to share kid-free laughs could be a job in itself.
I don’t know how I was lucky enough to stumble into this gang. But I’m grateful I did.
Years of wee-hour hilarity and way too much wine built the friendship.
But, this winter, these girlfriends have been role models and rocks.
Sweeping in with playdates, sleepovers and meals. Saving us when we’ve found ourselves stuck. Breaking up chemo-isolation with evenings of Girls Night In merriment.
And teaching our daughters about friendship, motherhood, community and strength.
It really does take a village.
I’m so grateful for mine.
Healing.
| Eleven days after my First Surgery
This gruesome* photo was taken 11 days after my first surgery (Oct. 26, 2009, lumpectomy and sentinel lymph node removal). * don’t click if you’re squeamish |
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Four months after my Second Surgery
This much less gruesome* photo was taken exactly 4 months after my second surgery (Nov. 13, 2009, complete auxilliary lymph node removal). * don’t click if you’re squeamish |
Unbelievable. I am so grateful to the magic of the human body.
Mark
Andrea
Lucy* (10)
Bayla* (8)*Luba = Lucy and Bayla
