You Gotta See This



My brother sent me this URL, via his son Dennis. The videos of Tyson, the skateboarding bulldog, have to be seen to be believed.

Flirt Rocks



There are some true angels out there in the blog community, and one of them is Catherine, whose blog is called Flirt in a Skirt. Tomorrow (that's MONDAY), she will donate to a charitable cause, one dollar for every comment left on her blog. So PLEASE visit her by clicking on her name, and leave her a kind word or two.

Child Prodigy



My nephew Dennis is a professional artist, specializing in computer animation, graphics and design. He does animation for Disney. He inherited his talent from his dad, my brother Frank, who evidently got the genes from our dad. On his web page, Dennis writes about how he has early childhood recollections of watching his own father copy comic strip characters from the newspaper. That made me smile with my whole heart, because I recall my own toddler days, sittin in my dad's lap as he amused me by making freehand copies of the editorial cartoons.

Very early on, Dennis showed an interest in self-expression using various media. Case in point: When he was a baby, he slept in a crib upstairs in our home on a visit from Ontario. My parents took my sister-in-law Delima and my niece Sheryl shopping; Frank and I stayed behind. I was deeply immersed in a homework project in my bedroom, and Frank was absorbed in some sporting event on the television.

Being the youngest in my family, I knew nothing about babies: I wasn't even sure exactly when they opened their eyes. Frank was supposed to be in charge of Dennis' needs. After a couple of hours, I took a washroom break and realized that Frank's butt had pretty much worn a permanent groove into the couch. He was still deeply involved in the manly pursuit of watching soccer or football, or some guy sport that stimulates follicle growth on the chest. I asked him if he had checked on Dennis, and got some sort of decidedly disinterested Neanderthal grunt. I took that as a "no", and climbed the stairs to see how my nephew was doing.

Dennis was always an amiable kid, the kind of baby who would not start exercising his lungs as soon as he awoke. Au contraire: he usually found a way to amuse himself, babbling cheerfully and rarely making demands. Halfway up the stairs, the stench that assaulted my nose told me that he had certainly been making something.

What I saw when I reached the landing was a yellow-brown mural, painted onto the wall between the crib's side rails by a smiling junior artiste with the only materials he had at his disposal: his little hands and his heavily loaded diaper. And the kid had a lot to work with. I mean, he could've painted the entire Sistine Chapel, and still had enough left over to do the trim on the Pope's garage.

Dennis, you've come a long way, baby.

The Telephone Game



Do you remember a childhood game called "telephone"? Kids would sit or stand in a long line or a big circle, and one kid would whisper a sentence to the next, and each kid would attempt to repeat it. When you got to the last player, s/he would speak it out loud; and everyone would laugh at how much the message had altered through repetition.

Well, today, I fell victim to that game, and it wasn't funny at all.

I left the house for a little over an hour, to go for a much-needed therapeutic massage at a nearby clinic. Of course, while I was gone (the caprice of Murphy's Law), I received three important voice messages to call back: one from my oncologist's nurse, Kristie; one from the gynaecologic surgeon (Dr. H) who was to do my abdomenal surgery on Feb. 9 if a bone biopsy proved negative for metastasis; and one from the nurse (Rosa) of the orthopedic surgeon from whom I've been waiting to hear for almost three weeks.

Figures.

So, I spent most of the afternoon playin phone message tag with these people, the initial results of which were encouraging. Both Kristie and Rosa were calling with some welcome news: I FINALLY have a consultation appointment with the orthopedic surgeon on Tuesday afternoon, right after I see the thoracic surgeon (they're down the hall from one another). When Dr. H finally calls back, it's to tell me that my abdomenal surgery is cancelled - not postponed - because the MRI was positive for cancer in my leg.

Excuse me? My oncologist, Dr. C, told me personally that it was "consistent with malignancy, but not conclusive". Those were his exact words: I wrote them down. I pled my case, but Dr. H was insistent. "Nope," he said, like he was arguing a hockey score, "it was definite."

I broke down. Bigtime.

Then I called Kristie, and she assured me that what my oncologist had told me was accurate, and that Dr. H was mistaken. That's why Dr. C was arranging a bone biopsy - to be sure. She said she didn't know what had happened during the communication between those doctors to make the surgeon believe differently, but she would inform Dr. C and he would straighten Dr. H out. I said, "Kind of reminds you of that game we used to play when we were kids, huh?" And together we said, "Telephone."

What Not to Say



Almost every time someone first learns of my cancer, s/he says, "I don't know what to say." Some people are so stumped that they withdraw altogether, although I think that has more to do with the discomfort of facing their own mortality, than inarticulateness. Some of these people haven't sent me so much as a personal email since they learned of my terminal status: they send me forwards. I just hit delete without opening them; I don't have the energy to read recycled jokes with <<<< inbetween every four words. And those chain letter things? Ugh.

I know how they feel. I didn't always have cancer. I've had considerable experience supporting others and expressing empathy. I honed those skills during the three years that I was in remission. I just flew by the seat of my pants, sayin what I meant: that I was sorry, that I was thinking of him/her, that s/he was in my prayers, that I was praying for the treatments/surgery to do their job. Were they the "right" things to say? I didn't know. I still don't. But they felt right. And now that I'm on the flip side, it still does.

I'm terminally ill. My cancer is incurable. I'm fighting for more time with every speck of strength and faith I can muster, but this is not gonna go away. Those are the cold hard facts. I'm sorry if that makes people uncomfortable; I hafta tell you I'm a little squeamish about it myself.

There are no "rules" about what is appropriate to say in response to such unwelcome news. But I can tell you from my experience, that I bristle at being placated with words like, "You're going to be okay," and "You'll beat this." I know the speakers are well-intentioned, but denial doesn't make me feel better. Hope is great, but false hope is just...well, false.

It helps to know that people care, that they are praying, meditating, chanting, crossing their fingers, sending positive vibes. It really does. So the next time you feel the need to say something to someone who is ill or grieving, just say what you feel.

We'll understand.

A Little (Pea)Nutty Philosophy



This is a week fraught with appointments and anxiety, so I'm feeling rather uninspired as far as original writing is concerned. I will, however, share an email that was sent to me by a student. I think it's quite likely that you've read it before (I have), but I like it.

Hope all is well in your corner of the world.

*************

The following is the philosophy of Charles Schultz, the creator of the Peanuts comic strip. You don't need to actually answer the questions....Just read it straight through, and you'll get the point.

1. Name the last five winners of the Miss America contest.
2. Name ten people who have won the Nobel or Pulitzer Prize.
3. Name the last half dozen Academy Award winner for best actor and actress.
4. Name the last decade's worth of World Series winners.

So, how did you do?

The point is, none of us remember most of the headliners of yesterday. These are no second-rate achievers, they are the best in their fields; but the applause dies; awards tarnish; achievements are forgotten; accolades and certificates are buried with their owners.

Now, here's another quiz. See how you do on this one:

1. List a few teachers who aided your journey through school.
2. Name three friends who have helped you through a difficult time.
3. Name five people who have taught you something worthwhile.
4. Think of a few people who have made you feel appreciated and special.
5. Think of five people you enjoy spending time with.

Isn't that list easier?

The Lesson:

The people who make a difference in your life are not the ones with
the most credentials, the most money, or the most awards. They are the ones who care about you most.

What's in a Game?



On weekdays, dinner time in our household usually falls right when "Wheel of Fortune" is airing, followed by "Jeopardy," just for contrast. We have taken to calling "Wheel," "The Stupid People Show." I mean, where do they do their contestant searches, at DENSA? These people are stoopid with two o's. Yesterday, the entire puzzle was revealed, except for one letter – "T_e bottom line" – and not one of the three could get it. I'm not kidding. I'm embarrassed to admit that this program has me screaming at my television monitor, in the same way my mom used to screech at the tv wrestling referees when I was a kid.

Now, Jeopardy is a whole other matter, largely because many of the questions are American-based. Those questions I find considerably more challenging, but then why would a born-and-bred Canadian girl be knowledgeable about state trees, or minutiae concerning Civil War generals? I do better at general knowledge categories like Greek mythology or potent potables. I get a kick out of Trebek's painful attempts to "interview" the dweeb contestants, whose most exciting life experiences are standing next to the world's oldest redwood tree, or carving a chess set out of Dial soap.

For years there was no game show for the mediocre; every one of them catered to either those with IQ's three points above plant life, or rocket scientists. "Millionaire" tries to find a happy medium, but I'm irritated by the duhhhh "warm-up" questions at the beginning of each round. I always felt that there ought to be a game for the average shmo - maybe "Who Wants to Win a Few Bucks?" The one that has come closest to achieving this is, "Win Ben Stein's Money," an irreverent parody of the genre that features edgy humour and Stein's hefty ego. Most winners walk away with a few hundred dollars, and if one of them can outsmart Ben (and he's one smart cookie), their maximum prize is $5000, modest by today's game show standards.

When I was a little kid, one of our local tv stations hosted a children's game show called "Kids' Bids." It was a sort of auction, and the currency was, inexplicably, the tops of Old Dutch potato chip bags and boxes. Billions and billions of them. Kids shlepped huge garbage bags stuffed with the things. CJAY-TV must've been getting some sort of sponsorship from the local chip manufacturer, I don't know. Anyway, my brother and I regularly watched that show with bitter envy, knowing that, with no relatives or parents in business to help us accumulate enough proofs of purchase, we could never dream of competing with the kids who bid eagerly for dolls and bicycles with their mountains of chip labels.

It was a local boy from our city's core area who conceived of the wildly popular "Let's Make a Deal," which aired for 13 years during the 60's and 70's. Good ol Monty Hall, who grew up with a keen awareness of what it was like to be one of society's have-nots, found a way to gleefully mock the greedy who got "zonked", and make a lot of bucks in the process. He took sadistic pleasure in seeing people beg to demean themselves on national television, and so did his millions of viewers.

One of the most grotesque game shows I remember from my childhood was "Queen for a Day," a horrifying show whose three contestants would relate sob stories of epic proportions; and the one who was deemed the most pitiable, would be crowned, robed and sceptred, and showered with gifts. The other two? Well, they weren't quite pathetic enough, so they were sent back to their miserable lives with lovely parting gifts. Ghastly.

It's interesting to examine the evolution of game shows throughout the decades, especially now that digital cable airs some byegone programs that I had forgotten even existed ("Plinko," "Match Game," "The Newlywed Game," to name a few.) "Wheel of Fortune" endures, enjoying a resurgence since the days that it offered a kitschy ceramic dalmation as a featured prize. What makes it so wildly popular? Maybe it is because the contestants are so dense, so incapable of seeing the painfully obvious, that it makes viewers feel better about themselves, more capable of attaining the unattainable.

Eureka! That's it! "Wheel of Fortune" is the culmination of the American Dream, and its appeal is to every frustrated Willy (or Wilhemina) Loman out there in suburbia. We can all be winners if only we get the right spin of the wheel. I knew I'd figure it out if I just mulled it over long enough.

Now get me on that show.

Thumbs Up



Nothin says lovin like:
a) home baking
b) a gift parcel in the mail

And when you get both in one, along with another lovely surprise, packaged in a box covered with "thinking of you" and "best wishes" stickers, that's a whole lotta lovin.

I love you back, Esther.

MEGA.

What I Need is a Good Can-Opener



In my housing development, we do not get door-to-door mail delivery service; our mail goes into "superboxes" like the ones depicted above. Well, somebody's mail gets into some of the boxes, sometimes. Both yesterday and today, I got pieces of my neighbours' mail along with mine.

When parcels are sent to us, they are put into one of the larger boxes, the key to which is left in our personal mailbox. Of course, that's if the mail carrier remembers: a couple of weeks ago, I got the key but found the parcel box empty. He remembered to leave the parcel AND the key a couple of days later. Today there was a parcel box key in my mailbox, but it didn't fit the lock.

Multi-tasking is a b**ch.

What's really making me crazy, is that I have a very strong suspicion that, on the other side of that little door, is a carton of homemade thumbprint cookies with a container of cream cheese and peach filling. I dang near chewed my way through to it.

If the proper key isn't in there tomorrow, I'm gonna lend new meaning to the phrase "going postal."

Back in the Saddle



Okay, I admit it; I got thrown. Last night and this morning, I caved in to the abyss of depression. Enough. Three years ago, after my first diagnosis, I wrote the poem which follows. It's time I lived up to it.

No more
You won't rob me of any more joy
You have taken enough
I am a survivor

Gonna march in that Survivor Victory Lap,
Wear that t-shirt and tell you right to your face,
That you can't kill my spirt, my hopes, my love of life.
How do you like that?

I got a road map on my body
It tells of a difficult journey
I'm not ashamed
There's beauty in that
It's a tribute to my strength
A testimony to the prayers and tears
of fear and relief that have been shed
for me
For me
You can't take that away, I don't want you to; it's precious

You thought you had me, didn't you?
But you were wrong
I'm a survivor

I'm Just a Ray of Sunshine Today



Yesterday? Well, I've had better days. Without going into detail, Mom had a bowel accident while my brother, sister-in-law, great-niece and I were visiting her for her birthday; and she was terribly mortified and upset. It was not a pleasant clean-up.

Secondly, it appears that the mass on my parotid gland (left jaw) is developing another infection, as it is swelling up, even into my temple, so that the arm of my eyeglasses leaves an indentation. On my way home from Mom's I filled a prescription for an antibiotic that the jaw specialist gave me in the event that this should occur. The pharmacist warned me that it could cause diahrrea.

Like mother, like daughter.

So of course I had a crampy night, and then awoke to raging winds, subarctic temperatures and blowing snow. I was scheduled for breathing tests at the respiratory hospital at 8:30 this morning, but I think I'll reschedule, since the likelihood of lung surgery is dimming anyway.

Friday Winnipeg set an all-time record for energy consumption; yesterday it broke that record.

Beam me up, Scotty.

Not Much News



It's still bone-numbingly cold here: minus 46 this morning (that's about 50 below fahrenheit), with no break in sight. There's more snow in the forecast, and who can shovel in such dangerous temperatures?

I'm still waiting for an appointment with the surgeon who may do the bone biopsy on my leg.

I'm still battling fatigue, and I seem to have settled into a rhythm of feeling not too bad at all one day, and thoroughly exhausted the next.

I still receive emails from students, although one I got this weekend was clearly less concerned with my fate than her own: Two months after handing in an assignment that was copied, verbatim, from the internet, she wants me to "give her another chance." (I gave her a zero, which I printed right beside the URL of the site for the stolen paper.) Her claim is that, since she got the essay from another student (who received a grade for it from a colleague who didn't catch onto the plagiarism), she wasn't really guilty of academic theft. Nice logic. I explained to her that she had still cheated, and that I wasn't exactly on a vacation. My guess is that, after writing the provincial exam, she's worried about her marks, and is looking for rescue. Sigh.

My mom turns 89 today, and I have an applesauce cake in the oven, which I will drizzle with French vanilla icing and take over to her later with a wooden photo box filled with her favourite Oil of Olay products.

I'm looking forward to the "American Idol" auditions, which begin airing on Tuesday. That's my favourite part of the show. I heard they have a woman who makes William Hung sound like Enrico Caruso.

That's about it, folks.

Meme


a peek inside my busy mind....

I don't usually do these because I just don't think I'm that interesting, but I stole it from Mary Lou a long time ago and it has been mouldering in a Word file. I have little else to say, so I dragged it out....

LAYER ONE:
-- Name: ellen
-- Birthplace: Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
-- Birthdate: Sept. 23, 1954
-- Current Location: Winnipeg, Manitoba (Will someone please get me out of here?)
-- Eye Color: grey
-- Hair Color: blonde
-- Height: 5' 3 1/2"
-- Righty or Lefty: Righty
-- Zodiac Sign: Virgo

LAYER TWO:
-- Your heritage: Dutch
-- The shoes you wore today: grey mocassin slippers
-- Your weakness: orphaned animals, especially cats
-- Your fears: black bears, bats (shiver)
-- Your perfect pizza: meat lovers'
-- Goal you'd like to achieve: lose weight

LAYER THREE:
-- Your most overused phrase on AIM: I'M KIDDING
-- Your first waking thoughts: Oh good, Curtis really is here; I'm not dreamin
-- Your best physical feature: my smile
-- Your most missed memory: my chow chow, Jinx

LAYER FOUR:
-- Pepsi or Coke: Diet Coke with lime
-- McDonald's or Burger King: Burger King, chicken sandwich
-- Single or group dates: Dates? either, as long as they're with Curtis
-- Adidas or Nike: Neither - I wear Reebok walkers
-- Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Nestea, but my favourite is Crystal Light
-- Chocolate or vanilla: CHOCOLATE
-- Cappuccino or coffee: neither - they get in your mouth

LAYER FIVE:
-- Smoke: nope
-- Cuss: nope
-- Sing: all the time
-- Take a shower everyday: yes, and I enjoy the occasional aromatherapy bath when I have time
-- Do you think you've been in love: I KNOW I have
-- Want to go to college: I did. I have a Bachelor of Arts with a double major in English and Philosophy/Religious Studies, and an Education Certificate.
-- Liked high school: No. I wasn't happy there.
-- Want to get married: Yup. I married Curtis twice, and I'd do it again if we could afford it.
-- Believe in yourself: In some areas, but I'm a little shaky on self-esteem.
-- Get motion sickness: I used to barf every time I rode in the family car on the highway when I was a kid. I've been sick on a boat. I'm okay on planes and trains.
-- Think you're attractive: From the neck up, I'm okay.
-- Think you're a health freak: I wish.
-- Get along with your parent(s): I did with my dad. I'm good to my mom but she drives me nuts.
-- Like thunderstorms: Yes, especially at night.
-- Play an instrument: I wish I did. I'm pretty good with wax paper over a comb.

LAYER SIX: In the past month...
-- Drank alcohol: yes
-- Smoked: nope
-- Done a drug: nope
-- Made Out: oh yeah
-- Gone on a date: yup
-- Gone to the mall: yup
-- Eaten an entire box of Oreos: nope
-- Eaten sushi: yup, love it
-- Been on stage: nope
-- Been dumped: nope
-- Gone skating: nope
-- Made homemade cookies: yes
-- Dyed your hair: nope
-- Stolen Anything: nope

LAYER SEVEN: Ever...
-- Played a game that required removal of clothing: yes
-- If so, was it mixed company: yes
-- Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: yup - didn't like it
-- Been caught "doing something": nope
-- Been called a tease: nope
-- Shoplifted: yup - used to lift those Little Golden books all the time when I was wee
-- Changed who you were to fit in: no - quite the contrary, and I suffered for it

LAYER EIGHT:
-- Age you hope to be married: I never set a date, but I was married at 25, and then again at 47.
-- Numbers and Names of Children: none, except for 4-legged ones with whiskers
-- Describe your Dream Wedding: The one we had on Jan. 10 last year - small religious service at beautiful Holy Trinity Church, then a lovely dinner at our favourite little restaurant with about 40 relatives and friends.
-- How do you want to die: peacefully
-- Where you want to go to college: I went to University of Winnipeg and University of Manitoba
-- What do you want to be when you grow up: I have to grow up?
-- What country would you most like to visit: Greece

LAYER NINE:
-- Number of drugs taken illegally: one
-- Number of people I could trust with my life: 10?
-- Number of CDs that I own: probably a couple of hundred
-- Number of piercings: 1 in each ear.
-- Number of tattoos: none
-- Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper?: maybe 3 or 4
-- Number of scars on my body: 10
-- Number of things in my past that I regret: Dozens and dozens, at least – few that were my fault, though

Oh, The Weather Outside is Frightful



We had snowfall for about eight straight hours today - light, powdery flakes so twinkly they looked like fake movie set snow. As soon as it stopped this afternoon, the temperatures began to plummet and now, as predicted, the winds are building up. Curtis said the roads were like skating rinks, vehicles gliding around helplessly like lost ballerinas. The wind will buff the roadways to a diamond finish, and cause zero visibility in open spaces. It's a blizzard warning.

I asked Leslie nicely to keep her minus 40-something temperatures, thank you very much, but they're headed here from the west nonetheless. At least Calgarians will get a warm Chinook at the tail end of all this nastiness, but all we are promised are more windchill warnings.

It's times like these when I phone my mom and give her heck for emigrating here, of all places in North America. My parents couldn't pick a warmer clime with palm trees and blue water?

Boy, is she gonna get it.

Another Wedding Anniversary

Recently (Dec. 28), Curtis and I celebrated the third anniversary of our civil wedding. Today it is one year since we had our lovely church wedding.

We're still as happy as we look in this photo.

Body Types

Apparently, there are three body types: ectomorphs, mesomorphs and endomorphs. Ectomorphs are the people most of us love to hate: the skinny ones who whine about not bein able to put on any weight. Boo freakin hoo. Mesomorphs are the broad-shouldered, muscular type – the ones you see on the covers of bodybuilding magazines and on beaches in Speedos. If they do a few more carbs than they do reps at the gym, they may tend to gain some pudge on their hips and thighs. Endomorphs are predisposed to weight gain, carry more fat than muscle, and tend to have big guts if they’re guys, and big chachkas if they’re women.

It doesn’t take any callipers that measure percentage of body fat to figure out into which category yours truly falls (or should I say, comfortably reclines). In fact, get away from me with those things. Pinch an inch? It’s more like grab a slab. Folks with my proportion of upholstery may well have invented a fourth category: omnimorphs.

Don’t come at me with Dr. Phil’s diet book, either (which, by the way, has collected a thick layer of dust between my nightstand and my bed, right under an empty Ruffles bag). Or that crazy Dr. Atkins diet. Elminate an entire food group? That’s just plain unnatural.

I'm not makin any excuses, and I have the utmost admiration for those of you who, like my adoptive brother John, have the self-discipline to follow strict fitness regimens. I just maintain that it was my destiny to be rotund. I came into this world at 9 pounds, 2 ounces, and was the type of toddler with dimples in my hands, feet and knees. Case in point: Note the photo below, taken on a Lake Winnipeg beach when I was nearing my second birthday. I’m wearing one of those inflatable toy swim rings. Most little kids have to hold theirs up; notice how my pudgy little arms are resting comfortably on mine. I’m so tightly wedged into that thing, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it had been inflated after it was put around me.



Whenever I’d increase my level of physical activity, two things would happen: I would build bulky muscle, very quickly; and I would become ravenously hungry. Salad and vegies did nothing to satisfy me – not unless you deep-fried them or drenched them with chocolate sauce. Bad idea: salad goes much better with a side of French fries, a nice big cheeseburger or a basket of thickly sliced garlic bread. So then I’d just look like a plump, feminized version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. With boobs.

Don’t get me wrong: I once was a size 2. Really I was. Of course, I was a fetus at the time.

My MRI Results

My oncologist phoned me an hour ago, just as Curtis and I had begun dinner. The news was not what we had hoped and prayed for: The MRI findings were consistent with bone metastasis in my tibia. Not definitive, but consistent. On the basis of that, there will be no surgeries to remove the tumors in my abdomen and lung.

All hope is not lost. My oncologist discussed with me, the slim possibility of a bone biopsy, which still may not be conclusive. If such a biopsy were to be performed, and its findings were positive for cancer or inconclusive, there would still be no surgery for me; if its findings were negative for cancer, then the surgeries would be performed as planned.

Dr. C. asked me to bear with him, and give him a few days to try to find someone who would be willing to perform the biopsy - someone who would not feel that it would be too painful or futile. He is clearly leaving no stone unturned in his attempts to help me.

If no surgeries are done on me, then we will proceed with chemotherapy to try to slow down the progress of my cancer, as well as radiation to try to alleviate the bone pain in my leg.

Curtis and I are devastated by this news, but we do not intend to give up the fight. Thank you all for your prayers and positive thoughts.

Thank You, My Friends



I had the MRI this morning. As I lay there, swaddled and bound for an hour, earplugs muffling the noise of the busy machine, I closed my eyes and prayed. I haven't asked God for much through all of this, but I begged Him to give us just this one. I felt the presence of all of you kind souls encircling me with love and caring.

I'll post the results as soon as I get them.

The Crucial Test

Tomorrow morning at 7:15, I will have an MRI to determine whether or not there is cancer in my leg, and whether or not I will have the two surgeries that could improve my life expectancy.

Wish me luck.