Oregon

“I’m an American Citizen! I’m going to Oregon where I can die with dignity, it’s legal there. You can’t stop me.” That’s what I was thinking when my oncologist told me that I was bleeding internally and that he would have to open my abdomen again. Are you fucking kidding me?! No, no, no! I was over this crap. Over the pain. Over being butchered. Over my drug-induced delusions, which of course I didn’t understand were delusions. There were people watching me – they were standing behind a curtain and staring at me and no one cared!

Needless to say my plan to sneak off to Oregon to die with dignity did not pan out. Instead I was sliced open again, only this time when they sewed me back up it felt much tighter. Is this how it feels when women get their vaginas “re-juvenated?” No, this must be what it felt like to wear a Victorian-era corset. No wonder those poor ladies were always fainting, they couldn’t breathe! And those damn people were now laughing at me. They were behind a red velvet curtain, but I saw them. They were laughing because I was having trouble breathing. They could see my corset. They were chanting: “tighter, tighter, tighter, tie that corset tighter!”

Later, having forgotten about Oregon and my corset, I became fixated on my nurses. They were obviously part of some reality TV show and they were filming me, using me. Every medical professional who I could see – and there seemed to be so many of them – were in on it. Ha! But they didn’t know that I knew. I was determined to play it cool as a cucumber. I would fake them out, just like they were trying to fake me out. So I lay there, sweating through my robe, secretly watching their every move. “I wonder which network this reality show is on?” I thought to myself.

I asked for a clipboard. I had seen one of the reality TV nurses with a clipboard and I wanted one too. I also got paper and a pencil. I started writing out a very important fax. Who sends faxes anymore? But this fax meant everything to me and soon I forgot about the reality TV show, though the people behind the red velvet curtain remained. Bastards.

The fax was no longer of importance to me, now it was the “crowdsourcing in my brain.” I couldn’t sleep one wink because they were crowdsourcing in my brain. My partner visited me and I anxiously told him about the crowdsourcing and how it was keeping me from sleeping. He didn’t understand. What the hell was wrong with him?! Crowdsourcing was dangerous. It was like Scientology mixed with evil wizards and they had control of my brain and through my brain they had control of the whole world! Why couldn’t he understand how dangerous this was?

Then my partner told me that there was no one watching me; what a horrible lie. What a despicable man to lie to me like that. Of course there were people watching me, they were right next to me, behind the red velvet curtain. I simply couldn’t trust anyone anymore – not my partner, not the nurses, not my oncologist. I would have to pretend that everything was fine. I would have to give an Oscar winning performance, so as not to let anyone in the hospital know that I was ON TO THEM.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dammit!

After my surgery and heated chemotherapy (HIPEC), I spent two months in the hospital.  At one point my room looked like a funeral parlor, there were about twenty floral arrangements.  Now I love flowers and I love receiving them and I was/am hugely grateful for the kind gestures of my friends and family.  But we need to mix it up a little, too many flowers can make a patient feel like a priest is about to walk through the door to administer their last rites.  So what to buy your loved one instead?  I recommend “Dammit Dolls.”  They are bright, joyful, nutty little creatures that you can bang against your hospital bed when you get frustrated waiting for your morphine.  There are many to choose from, one is even especially designed for cancer patients, with half the proceeds going towards fighting childhood cancer:

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Another favorite of mine (no name needed):

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And they also offer these fab little Dammit Heads:

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To shop the whole collection:

https://dammitdolls.com/shop/dolls/Team-Rocket/Team-Rocket

 

 

 

 

Emily to the rescue!

When I was diagnosed with Peritoneal Mesothelioma, a rare, incurable cancer, many people didn’t know what to say to me.  I don’t blame them at all, I wouldn’t have known what to say to me either.  Enter the brilliant Emily McDowell and her fantastic line of Empathy Greeting Cards.  Emily has created cards for those many awkward moments in life when we just don’t know what to say.  Whether your friend is struggling with cancer, infertility, or the death of a beloved pet, Emily’s cards are perfect.  They are humorous and heartfelt and many of them poke fun at the ways in which we try to say the right thing but fail miserably.  As a cancer survivor, Emily knows first hand what it’s like to have friends say cringe-worthy things like, “none of us know when we’re going to die, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow!”  So let Emily’s cards do the talking for you and bring a smile to your loved one’s face.

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For more amazing cards:

Empathy™: What to say, when you don't know what to say

 

 

 

#gratitude

Lately there has been a lot of talk about Gratitude, especially on Instagram. According to the eight million lifestyle gurus out there – who all seem to live surrounded by succulents, crystals and those white, fluffy IKEA bear rugs/throws – if we begin each day with our hearts full of gratitude, good things will come our way. Can we just please stop with this faux-spiritual crap? It’s enough already. Being grateful for what you have: loving friends, a roof over your head, food on the table, good health, a job – is hugely important. Those who are not grateful are basically just assholes. But the idea that gratitude is somehow an elixir that will allow light, beauty and positive experiences into our lives is a lie. The problem is that the truth just doesn’t sound as good, it’s not as hashtagable. The truth is that you can start your day full of gratitude – for your life and for everyone and everything in it – AND tremendously shitty things will still happen to you and your loved ones.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of gratitude as a magical potion. It is vaguely comforting, like drinking a glass of wine while swaddled in a velour blanket. And, full disclosure, I own three crystals – I bought them at one of those Witchy Woman type stores, the kind that offer workshops on making your own moon juice. I bought the crystals because I thought they were pretty to look at, although I tried to tell myself that I was buying them for their healing properties. They sit next to my succulents, which are the only plants I can seem to keep alive. But as someone with cancer, I find the whole Gratitude Movement annoying and kind of insulting. The truth is that no matter how much gratitude you bathe yourself in, life is completely random, some of it is just plain horrible and much of it is out of our control. Yet, in many ways this truth is magical. Because in all of its harshness it quickly simplifies things. The shades of grey disappear and POUF! life becomes more starkly black and white – it can be freeing. You become a better editor of your life. For me, these editor conversations sound something like this:

  • Do I want to spend my evening with a woman who will only talk about herself for three hours? No, no I don’t.
  • Do I want to go to a party when I’m not feeling well just because I’m expected to go? Nope.
  • Do I want to make sure that my partner and I travel somewhere wonderful this summer while I am still healthy-ish? Hell yes!

That said, I think we should all use whatever tools and whatever bag of tricks we have to help us move through life with as much ease as possible. And I definitely think that gratitude is essential. Also, it’s entirely possible that I’m just envious of all those who truly believe in the Gratitude-Crystals-Succulents-IKEA Bear Rug/Throw Religion.  I think I secretly want to be one of them. But I just can’t. I like the look, I like the idea of it, but I just don’t buy it.  #butistillwantoneofthoseIKEAbearrugs

Cancer Rant

One of the many annoying things about having cancer is that you are expected to “make the most of every day!” & “live each day to the fullest!”  Frankly that is too much pressure.  And yes, I know I am lucky to be alive.  Many of the people in my private FB Mesothelioma group are doing far worse than I am, or they have already died.  But I reject this pressure to live the perfect cancer life.  I refuse to drink green smoothies, post positive affirmations on social media and joyfully check off items on my bucket list.

Just like everyone else on this planet I have enough to worry about without this added “be the sparkling cancer inspiration girl” bullshit.  I worry about my aging parents who seem to have no long-term plan in place.  I grapple with how best to deal with my sibling who has a personality disorder.  I have relationship problems.  I am trying to figure out a new career path/going back to school, even though some days I am so exhausted and nauseous that I can’t even get off the couch.  I am navigating depression & anxiety.  I am experiencing that weird mid-life crisis, wondering “what does it all mean?”  I am feeling unsettled, missing the U.S. where I spent most of my adult life, but knowing that I will now never be able to move back there.  I am dealing with longing and sadness over the fact that many of my close friends and family live far away.  I am navigating life with our recently adopted senior dog who seems to be in great pain and so now the endless Vet visits begin.  The list goes on and on.  And of course I am indeed one of the very lucky ones because I don’t have to worry about keeping a roof over my head, or having enough money to put food on the table, or fearing for my children’s safety.  So although my worries are nothing compared to those of most people out there, they are enough.

This whole pressure – intensified a gazillion times by social media – to be endlessly grateful, joyful, spinning in positivity while you have cancer is f*cked up and I am not buying into it anymore.  And for the record, I don’t have a bucket list. But what I do have is a two item list of things I get to do when I get very sick, which my partner has agreed to:  1) I get to feed the squirrels peanuts – I know it’s not a good idea but it’s my list & 2) my Pit Bull Dexter The Elderbull gets to snuggle on the bed with me. 💖

Tiny Dancers

dexter

My rescue dog – Dexter The Elderbull – is finally here!  Earlier this week my brother drove with me to Hamilton to pick him up from his foster family.  The drive home was relatively smooth, though Dexter did try to jump into the passenger seat to eat my brother’s Tim Horton’s donut, but really, who can blame him for that?

Many people have asked me why I adopted an elderly dog – Dexter is a twelve year old Pit-Bull.  What I usually tell people is that elderly dogs have a difficult time getting adopted and they deserve a loving retirement home.  And that’s the truth.  And I’ve always wanted to adopt an elderly dog, that’s also the truth.  But here’s the other truth: with my type of cancer – Peritoneal Mesothelioma – a “long-term survival rate” is considered five years.  I was diagnosed and treated in November 2014.  So far my scans have been good, though that doesn’t mean as much as it does with other cancers.  Often patients with Mesothelioma have regular “clear scans,” then start feeling sick, then get exploratory surgery, only to find out that there are Tiny Cancer Dancers doing The Hustle in their abdomen.  So, my thinking was: “I will adopt an elderly dog and hopefully he or she will die before I do.”  But of course that’s not exactly the kind of thing you say casually to someone at the park, no one wants to hear that.

There was also my partner to consider.  After my dog Leroy’s death in March, my partner didn’t really want to get another dog.  His primary concern was that I would die, he would be devastated and he wouldn’t be able to or want to take care of my dog.  Again, that’s not something that I usually tell people, (other than my family & friends), because I have no interest in making people feel uncomfortable.

Though I am often prone to getting carried away with theatricality, sparkle infused dreaming and wishful thinking, when it comes to my cancer and the strong probability of dying young (ish), I am very pragmatic.  I wanted a dog and I found a creative solution.  One Elderly Dog + One Mesothelioma Patient who naps like a toddler = the perfect joyful solution!

Editor’s Note:  A special thank you to the friends and family who have volunteered to take care of Dexter if ever we need the help.  xo

Doll Hoarder

While in the hospital for two months I had very little control over my day-to-day life. I couldn’t walk, I had to poop into a bag and I was dependant on nurses to drain my urine.  I had to find ways to make myself feel like I still had some shred of control over my life and that I wasn’t completely helpless.  So, I became a “pill hoarder,” or, if you prefer, a “doll hoarder” (“Valley of the Dolls” is one of my favorite movies – not sure what that says about me).

Like any skill, pill hoarding requires practice.  Since I was trapped in bed for so long I had lots of time to perfect my craft.  But first, I should mention that I also had my own personal stash of pills with me in the hospital – technically  I wasn’t allowed to, but it’s not like anyone checks your bag.  I had Xanax tucked away in my toiletry bag, under my facial wipes, hand cream and tinted lip balms.  I had been given the prescription by my Doctor to help with the epic panic attacks that began a few months before my diagnosis.  I’m actually very grateful to those panic attacks (I still occasionally have them).  The attacks served as a huge Red Flag Warning: “Something is f-ing wrong with your health!  Don’t stop harassing your doctors until you get to the bottom of this!” is what my “I can’t breathe” attacks were telling me.

Every night I was allowed two Ativan, (small dosage), but I had to take them both at the same time.  I assume that rule was in place so that a patient couldn’t hoard them and then take a whole bunch at once.  Ahem…The overnight nurse would always ask me “do you want one or two pills?”  Well of course I always said two – who turns down perfectly good drugs?  And thus would begin my nightly pill trickery.  Though I adored most of my nurses, I still played this game every night and I had a 75% success rate.  Being a Chatty Cathy I would engage them in conversation and then like a magician I would swallow only one Ativan and pocket the second one.  Later when the nurse was gone I would reach over to my toiletry bag and add the pill to my growing stash. I had no grand plans to take them all at once and overdose, I just liked knowing that I was well-stocked.  Of course there were a few hard-core nurses who knew all about my kind of crazy.  They engaged in no conversation and stood over me like drill sergeants, watching me with frown-y faces as I swallowed both pills.  Those nights of defeat were always hard.  Afterwards I would lie in bed, high from my pain killer drip and the two Ativan and try to come up with new tactics to outfox the frownies.

During this period of intense vulnerability, my pill hoarding gave me the strangest sense of hope.  With each pill I pocketed, I felt one step closer to getting out of the hospital and reclaiming my life.

 

Editor’s Note:  I do not condone pill trickery – please don’t copy my crazy ways!   I had amazing nurses & I am forever grateful to them!

**I wish I knew who created this fab glitter pill image, thx you!**

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