The Rainbow Society



I am posting this from Curtis' computer in the basement, where I'm wearin a heavy sweater because it's chilllllly down here. My computer, which has been misbehaving all week, has finally decided to not work at all, at least not online. Guess it's time for a trip to the puter hospital.

Anyway, I had some news to share that just couldn't wait....

Winnipeg, like many Canadian towns, has a wonderful organization near and dear to my heart, called The Rainbow Society. What they do is fulfil the wishes of terminally ill children. Today, I feel like one of their recipients.

I had lunch today with a dear friend and colleague, Kim. Kim and I have taught together for about a decade now, since she first began her career at my previous school. She was there on a term, and after seeing what a brilliant, gifted and creative educator she was, I told my department head she was a definite keeper. The word was passed on to our administrator, who pulled a great many strings to give her a permanent contract. Together, Kim and I transferred over to the school where she and I taught together again until cancer forced me onto long term disability. Over the years, we have been collaborators and solid friends.

Anyway, Kim is on Spring Break this week, and she and I arranged to meet for sushi lunch. Our get-together was supposed to be for her birthday, but she was too busy with the start of second semester, so we rescheduled it for today. Kim loved her gift (a flower press and some flowers - she's very artsy craftsy), and she surprised me with a CD of whale calls and a cute little orca bubble blower. Great, I said, I can practise my calls and maybe encourage them to mate when we go out to the West Coast in June. We had a wonderful meal, lots of good yakkety-yak, and I managed to scoop up the cheque, when she suggested we have some tea.

Then she handed me an envelope, saying, this is from the staff; we are sending you on your whale-watching tour. Inside a card filled with my colleagues' signatures, was ELEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS.

Needless to say, I lost my composure. It's not often that I am at a loss for words, but I was and I am. I don't know how I can ever express my gratitude for the generosity of my co-workers, but I'm gonna have to find a way, so that when they return to the school on Monday, there's an appropriate thank you card awaiting them.

I was born and raised in the middle of the Canadian prairies, surrounded by fresh water lakes and rivers. It has been a lifelong dream of mine to go whale-watching. My colleagues have formed their own Rainbow Society and are making my dream come true.

My gratitude knows no bounds.

It's Always Sumting



Only readers my age, or those who own DVD's of the early Saturday Night Live series, will remember Gilda Radner's character, Rosanne Rosanna Danna. Well, I'm her these days.

As if having a fire engine red cheek from radiation treatments isn't enough, it now feels as if I have an angry hornet in my left ear, one that repeatedly stabs it with its stinger, and has somehow caused all the skin in the inner folds and creases to burn and crack.

Ow.

On top of that, I'm seein my dentist this morning, probably to surrender a troublesome molar to him that has had two root canals, but still acts up from time to time by getting sore and infected.

Ya know what it's like when ya can't chew yer Easter chocolate on both sides? I haaaaate when dat happens.

I'm in Heaven



Happy Easter, everyone.

Leaving Traces



We leave traces of ourselves
wherever we go,
on whatever we touch.
- Lewis Thomas

I've always believed this, to the point that I chose the above quotation to be printed on the memorial cards for my father's funeral, 6 1/2 years ago. For the last couple of decades, as I watched myself age and experienced the loss of people around me, I have conducted my daily life with two questions in mind: What would Jesus do? And what will people have to say about me after I'm gone? For it is my desire to leave behind as many positive marks, no matter how minute. This has especially shaped me as a teacher, a vocation whose responsibilities I took very seriously. Little did I know that, at the age of fifty, I would be prematurely faced with the reality of my own mortality. I guess you could say I'm glad I didn't wait until the last minute to put my house in order.

Today I armed myself with Windex, Old English furniture polish and cleaning rags, in a determined effort to eradicate some of the less desirable "traces" throughout the house. (Truth to tell, after three weeks of radiation therapy and its resulting fatigue, I could have traced my full name on almost every surface.) Things were goin satisfyingly well until I came upon a box of filed photographs, and an empty boxed set of mini-albums that I'd forgotten about. I ended up sidetracked, enjoying the snaps and putting them into the albums. (Luckily, they were already organized.)

I'm doing a lot of that these days: Leaving traces. Collecting memories. I am amazed by how many wonderful and happy times Curtis and I have enjoyed together in just five years. And I'm grateful for them. I cry when I assemble the albums and the scrapbooks, when I leave sticky note instructions on insurance documents, that Curtis will read after I am gone, ending all of them with, "Forever and always."

I know this life is only a temporary assignment, and I think I'll get a pretty good grade, when all is said and done. I believe that what awaits us after our time on this earth, is our true home, but I really like it here and I'm not ready to go for a while yet. In the meantime, I hope to leave a few more traces behind that will have made the world a little better.

This is all so hard. I almost didn't write about it, and once I did, I nearly deleted it several times. But I'm interested to know: What do you think people will say about you after you're gone?

Fargo



It was fun. There was hardly any snow (unlike here: we got a couple more centimeters just last night, grrr), and the shopping was great. Friday night, the nine of us ate at Mr. Steak, where the food was so-so at best, although I was so tired I was doin faceplants into my shrimp, so I don't think I really tasted it, anyway. It had been a long day for me, with treatment that morning, a four hour drive, and then waiting for the others to arrive and not eating until past 9 pm.

Saturday, Curtis and I got up typically early, showered and went to IHOP for breakfast. That was my inaugural meal there, and boy was it good. Gotta love a place that has four big jugs of different flavoured syrup on every table, and then brings you one with warm maple syrup, to boot. I didn't even have pancakes, but I loved the idea. Then we headed down the road to the KRISPY KREME BAKERY. Oh. My. As full as we were from breakfast, we let the free-sample-donuts-right-off-the-line melt on our tongues, then bought a dozen, as well as a travel coffee mug and baseball cap for Curtis.

Super K is a wonderland, not like the grungy K-Marts of old that we had up here in Canada. Everything is always on sale, and the clothing is name brand and good quality. Curtis has enough clothes to last him through the next year, and, between Super K and a consignment store (believe it or not), I bought my entire BC trip wardrobe.

We were back at our hotel room by 1:00, and I slept like a baby and then watched a really neat sci-fi movie on HBO with Dustin Hoffman and Sharon Stone (!) until dinnertime. We ate at Paradiso, and the food was FAB. Had a bit of a snafu as to which Mexican restaurant we were meeting at, and three of our party went to a different one and got mad, refusing to socialize afterwards. Unfortunate, but at this point in my life, I look at incidents like that with a detached mixture of irritation and mild amusement. Life's too short to fuss about minutiae like that, especially mine.

The rest of us had drinks and showed off our purchases (my best friend Marina and her mom Louise emptied every store in Fargo, Moorhead and Dillworth, I'm sure), and went to bed past midnight, all fat and sassy. Curtis and I got up, showered, ate at IHOP again, picked up more Krispy Kremes (including a dozen for the guys at work - Curtis was very popular on Monday), and headed north. I was missing my kitties, and stepped into our home to greet them by 2:00 pm.

Our three furry, four-legged kids were good while Mom and Dad were away: no wild parties, no overturned vases, no huge chunks of Duffy all over the carpet. Whew. Milo the tabby has been Velcro Cat ever since we got home.

Curtis and I are already planning another weekend, this time just to Grand Forks (only about 2 1/2 hours away), for early May.

My Consultation Today: Good News and Bad News

The good news is that there were no surprises. The bad news is that there were no surprises.

The tumors in my abdomen have not changed since my last ct-scan; the tumors in my lung have grown slightly (from 1 cm to approx. 1.5 cm). At least the cancer is not running rampant through my body.

Tomorrow is my last radiation treatment, and I have to wait 4 weeks from then before I can start chemotherapy. I qualify for a drug trial, but it's random, which means I have a 50-50 chance of being selected or rejected randomly by a computer. Either way, aside from pre-chemo tests (brain scan, bone scan, ct-scans, bloodwork), I will get a holiday from the CancerCare centre for a while.

The trial drug has been targetted primarily to treat colon cancer, but there is hope that it will stunt the growth of kidney cancer cells because it is not a chemo drug, but an antibody that inhibits the development of vascular blood supplies to tumors, which starves them. Please pray that I get into this trial, because the regular chemo drug for renal cancer (interferon) is not very effective at all.

I was sent home with a thick package containing information about the drug trial, the likely and possible side effects, and copies of consent forms. I had an unanticipated meltdown when I read phrases like, "advanced metastatic renal cancer," and "you are being asked to participate in this study because you have kidney cancer that is no longer curable with surgery." It wasn't anything I didn't already know, but somehow the finality of seeing those brutally frank words, shook me badly.

The skin on the side of my face and neck has gotten very red from the radiation therapy. It still does not hurt or itch, thanks to my constant application of aloe gel and other therapeutic lotions. One of the technicians told me that the radiation will continue to work - and may even have the most effect - for 10-14 days after treatments end. My oncologist and the trial nurse were encouraged by the amount of shrinkage that has already occurred in the tumor, since renal cancer cells are very resistant to radiation.

I asked Dr C the tough question: how will this cancer most likely claim my life? He said no one really knows what finally causes someone with RCC to succumb: s/he just gradually "peters out," losing weight, getting more and more tired, until s/he just stops living. Since I am in good general health except for this blasted cancer, and since I am "young," (don't get to hear that very often anymore, but most people with metastatic renal cancer are male and in their seventies), I'm in a position to outlast the statistics. Dr C added that there's no way of predicting, since this cancer has already behaved inside me, in ways that he and his colleagues have never seen before.

He aint seen nuthin yet.

I Know You



Hey, do you know me,
I live down the hall,
Of the Evergreen retirement home,
My house is just 4 walls,
Everyday I read a book to my friend, who cannot see, hey,
Do you know me.

Hey, do you know me,
I teach the 2nd grade,
I always get there early and,
I always stay there late,
I give them all I can in who they are and who they'll be, hey,
Do you know me.

Chorus: There are angels all around,
In the sky and on the ground,
They walk beside us everyday,
Giving love away,
There are saints on every street,
You might be the one I meet today, hey,
Do you know me.

Hey, do you know me,
I drive the city bus,
I see a lot of people, who are,
Down on their luck,
I keep a pocketful of change,
For those who cannot pay hey
Do you know me.

Repeat chorus

Hey do you know me,
I'm a beggar on the street,
I know I'm good for something,
If only for one thing,
Maybe to remind you,
That you have all you need, hey,
Do you know me.

Bridge: There are angels all around,
In the sky and on the ground,
They walk beside us everyday,
Giving love away.
There are saints on the street,
You might be the one I meet today, hey,
Do you know me.

Hey, do you know me

- Lisa Brokop

Oh, I know you, all right. One of you sent me a box from across the ocean, with 40 gift items wrapped in colourful tissue paper, gifts carefully chosen to suit my personality and my preferences. As I unwrapped each treasure, I wept with gratitude at the bounteous love and compassion being shown to me

I cannot fathom how it is that I am deserving of such kindness and generosity, but I am deeply grateful.

America, Look Out



I'm comin. Headin to the land where all the money looks the same, and there are paper ones and twos. To the part of America where everyone looks like me (blonde) and booze is so cheap I'm tempted to become a professional bootlegger. Where I can buy clothing, TAX FREE. (Are those not the two most beautiful words in the English language, except for maybe "Krispy Kreme"?)

Please, please let the forecasters be wrong about their predictions of a heavy snowstorm; because I'd HATE to have to spend an extra day or two in the land of twenty-four hour shopping.

Have a good weekend, y'all. (See? I've been practising my American.)

B(u)y the Book



Strumming my fate with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words.
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words.
Killing me softly with his song.


I have been a student and a lover of the written word all of my life, and I can honestly say that some literary works have influenced, if not changed, my life. Sometimes it's a carefully crafted phrase; or a familiar idea or belief expressed with unsurpassed precision, gorgeous artistry or perfect clarity; sometimes part of or an entire work seems to speak directly to me.

Who knows what it is, in a piece of writing, that strikes a chord with its reader(s); but there can be no doubt that some writers have a gift for tapping into aspects of the human condition that are universal. Hence the blockbuster sales of books like Rick Warren's The Purpose Driven Life. Who could have predicted that Brian Nichols, who had just murdered four people in cold blood, would be moved to quietly turn himself into authorities after his captive, Ashley Smith, read to him a passage on "servanthood" from Warren's book? Something in the excerpt, "Jesus…measured greatness in terms of service to others," reached the gunman, made him believe he could still salvage something from the wreckage that he'd made of his life. What more potent proof is there, of the power of the pen?

I will go to my Maker, guilty of envy: envy that I do not possess the ability to write such provocative and influential words. But I will also go, grateful that I have read many of them.

I leave you with a question: What are some of the titles (besides holy scripture) that have left an indelible impression on you, and why?

A Hump in the Road



The cancer journey often presents us with potholes, necessitating that we pull over to a rest stop for a bit before moving on. I've hit a bit of an obstacle the past few days, with a sharp pain in my side that doesn't make it comfortable to do much of anything, much less sit at the computer and pretend to be clever and/or erudite. So if I'm a wee bit scarce these days, it's because I'm trying to get enough rest to build my strength for our stateside weekend with friends.

But I'll be lurking, so behave yourselves.

A Dog of a Way to Get Around



Boy, Harry Chapin was right. Of course, he was warbling about the Greyhound, but I think the phrase applies to all bus travel.

I hate travelling by bus. I've had to do it, long distance, only a few times in my life, and that was back when they allowed smoking. One trip was from Calgary to Winnipeg, and it took 18 1/2 stinkin (literally) hours on a filthy bus that had been on the road non-stop for days and was therefore disgusting. This was thanks to Air Canada, which had gone on strike, therefore forcing me, a whole load of very grumpy businessmen in rumpled suits, and women with screaming, crusty-nosed kids, to cram onto this roach motel on wheels. No crisply uniformed attendants with drink carts, no little pillows, no little baggies of peanuts. We stopped every half hour for the bus drivers who'd been pulled out of retirement and were unwilling to drive far beyond their Barcaloungers, to do a changing of the guard. I helped one poor old guy navigate us out of Medicine Hat, where I'd been before (don't ask). When I finally disembarked, exhausted and reeking like a mouldy cigar, I vowed I would never again board a bus.

Well, I did take the ol orange rocket to get back and forth to University. Because I attended U of W, in the heart of downtown Winnipeg, the stops were frequent (the brakes screaming deafeningly in protest), the traffic heavy, and the passengers numerous, ethnic and smelly. I mean, who knew keilbassa and sauerkraut could come out of people's pores like that?

Again, never again. I don't even know how much bus fare is, anymore, but I've heard a monthly bus pass costs the equivalent of a month's mortgage these days. Well, it's no wonder: Yesterday, I thanked my lucky stars I had filled up the Cruiser before the gasoline prices jumped up 10 cents a liter in one day. 93.4 a liter: That's about $3.75 a US gallon, folks.

Anyway, Curtis came home the other day and told me that his co-worker Carl drives his wife Bev to work every morning, and she takes the bus home. That day her bus came very late, and as she boarded, she grumbled to the driver about it. He retorted, "Lady, if I wanted to hear b***hing, I'd go home to my wife." And when she disembarked, he yelled, "Can't you at least smile?" (She does have a dour expression.) Curtis commented that the bus driver was bein pretty cheeky, and didn't Bev object to that? No, Carl said, because that driver is known for keeping an entire busload waiting while he helps an elderly passenger off his vehicle, then takes her by the arm and carries her parcels to her door for her. In fact, he routinely performs these Samaritan acts, and so folks give his quirks and his occasional tardiness considerable latitude.

Turns out that driver is my nephew Jack, my eldest brother's youngest.

Mulligan Time



In golf, beginners are sometimes shown some charity in allowing them a "do-over" without penalty. This is referred to as a Mulligan. Given the length between seasons due to long Manitoba winters, and being forced into golf hiatus several times due to injury/surgery, I have clung fiercely to my beginner status and its accompanying privilege of the Mulligan for, oh, the past dozen years or so. I mean, it's only fair.

Today I took a Mulligan by dusting off an old story from my archives and re-working it for my editor. Before it hits the stands, here's a sneak preview of the finished product for your entertainment...

Keep Your Phentex Dry

Some fads and inventions are better off being snuffed in the drawing room. Whose brainchild was it, for instance, to put sharp metal tracks on the rim of a bathtub, that act like bologna slicers on soft, warm, freshly washed skin? Don't they know that some people like to perch while they towel off their feet? And hands up (okay, just mentally then, so you won't look like a nut reading this at your computer), who remembers Phentex, the synthetic wonder yarn of the early seventies? If you're old enough to have celebrated Canada's centennial (for you Americanos, that was in 1967), you'll recall the myriad of crafts projects that were made with the stuff: macramé plant hangers, bedroom slippers, crochet purses, knotted throw rugs. It was indestructible, available in an array of garish colours, and a signal of our emergence from the jute and unbleached cotton, hippie era.

There seemed to be no end to the versatility of this new synthetic. I bet major automobile manufacturers were building prototypes for cars out of it, until they discovered that it quadrupled its weight when it got wet. I found that out the hard way....

There was a time when I actually had the figure and the confidence to wear a two-piece bathing suit. In one of her women's magazines, my Mom, gifted with knitting and crochet needles, spotted a pattern for a bikini made with Phentex yarn. She purchased some in the unusual salmon shade pictured, and produced a fetching, lined bikini for me. I sported it proudly at a busy beach, and the colour was flattering against my golden tan.

Some friends approached and offered to take me water skiing, and I eagerly accepted. Thank God in Heaven, I got an impulse to pull on my terry-cloth romper. (It was one of those one piece zip-up short outfits that were in vogue back then....)

I was a fairly accomplished skier, considering how seldom I got the opportunity, but the prankster at the wheel of the motorboat was doing his level best to make me fall, making sharp u-turns to create slack in the tow rope and playing "crack the whip" with me. So I took a couple of tumbles. As I sped around the lake, I felt my new bathing suit, now water-logged, getting heavier and heavier. It was sagging badly, bunching up in the butt and crotch of my terry cover-up. I knew I looked like a baby with a loaded diaper. Before long, both the top and bottom of my suit were hanging out of the leg holes of my romper and flapping behind me, giving me a pretty good butt-spanking.

By the time I stopped skiing and waded ashore, I felt like a Sherpa mountain guide carrying a two hundred pound pack. When I got home, I indignantly waggled my mom's ruined handiwork in front of her, and since we didn't have the personal acquaintance of any sumo wrestlers who might have use of it, she threw it out.

I don't even want to talk about the time I got caught in a rainstorm while wearing a paper dress. I mean, who thinks of these things? Worse yet, who falls for them?

Uh, that would be me.

I've Said it Before, and I'll Say it Again

Cats are weird. Our tabby cat Milo has more than his share of idiosyncracies. We alternate between callin him "puppycat" because he heeds and follows like a dog, and "baby bird" because everything that goes into my mouth, he wants. I mean, he'll climb all over me and stick his whistley little nose (toot toot toot) into my mouth if I open it wide enough.

Curtis is disgusted by the way I share a peanut butter sandwich with Milo (a few licks for him, a bite for me), makin all kinds of remarks like didn't I just see you lickin your butt? (He's talkin to the cat, wise guys, not me.) But Milo's latest kick is that, whenever I take a swig out of my ever-present water bottle, he HAS to have some too. This means I have to fill the cap eight times so he can lap it up, and splash it all over. I now keep a towel bedside so I don't have to sleep with wet covers.

I know what you're thinkin. It's my fault that I indulge him like this. But honestly, who could resist?

We're Booked Tra-La!



I snagged us a seat sale on airline tickets to Vancouver, BC in June, to visit my brother Frank and sister Ann for a week. I can't wait. My oncologist said if I was in the middle of chemo, we'd just suspend it for a couple of weeks. Born and raised in the prairie, I've had a lifelong dream to go whale-watching, and by golly, we're gonna do it, right off the mainland near my sister's house.

Since I'm so happy, I thought you faithful readers deserved to have some fun, too. Go here and play: sand art

Ow

A couple of hours after yesterday's treatment, the neck area under my left ear became swollen and very painful. I had a tough time gettin comfortable enough to sleep last night, until I decided to try lying flat without a pillow. Keeping my neck straighter offered me some relief, and fatigue overtook me, although I must say I had some very weird dreams. In speaking to a couple of radiologists, I've learned that my symptoms are due to injury to the nerves caused by the high doses of radiation I'm receiving. I'm happy to report that I don't feel as badly this morning, although I am lethargic. It took a lot of planning and procrastinating for me to just go to the downstairs freezer and take out some pork chops for dinner.

I hope resting today enables me to get my hiney in gear over the weekend. I'd like to get to the Conservatory at Assiniboine Park (where our zoo is located) to look at some paintings that my friend Sharon is exhibiting, and maybe grab a nice lunch in the lovely restaurant there. I'm long overdue to visit my 89 year old mother, and Sunday evening we're joining a group of friends for dinner and Red Skelton (some old episodes on tape). Whew, good thing my house is in decent order; I just sort of chip away at cleaning and laundry in increments.

About my friend Sharon...Let me tell you about this little fireball: We used to teach together years ago, and were notorious for cutting up at meetings and inservices. When dividing the staff into groups, the organizers always sought to separate us, but SHARON (not me, I was innocent) would disregard her assignment and partner up with me. We were brats, and we wreaked a lot of havoc. I suspect that we were frowned upon by a few colleagues who regarded our shenanigans as "unprofessional". No one could say much, though, because in the classroom, Sharon's dedication, expertise and professionalism were unimpeachable. We had us some major laughs, and still do, when we recount how I mauled her tiny frame in a non-violent crisis intervention workshop, how she submitted to me chalking her nose when we lunched at Eddie's deli and pool hall, how I would deliberately mess up the perfect OCD order of her tidy desk, and how she got caught by the custodian while emerging from the sink room next to her classroom, after relieving herself of the gaseous effects of her Slim Fast diet bars. BWAHAHAHA, that one still gets me every time.

Sharon's brilliant teaching career was tragically cut short by lupus, an illness that for years had plagued her with chronic misdiagnosed health problems. She still valiantly battles this terrible monster, and nobody does it better. Sharon studies yoga and meditation, paints for exhibition and sale, writes freelance for CBC radio and various publications, and teaches creative writing for seniors. And somehow, in the midst of all this whirlwind activity, this lifelong learning and teaching, and the ravages of lupus, Sharon finds the time and energy to brighten my world with her outrageous humour, support, love and understanding.

She'll read this. And she'll cry, because she's a big emotional sap, just like me. I lova ya, my little meshuggeneh.

See? Just writing about her, my neck doesn't hurt quite as much.

If I Could Bottle It, I'd Make Millions



Apparently, my skin is resistant to grafitti. The blue permanent marker lines the radiation technicians put on my ear, neck and jaw are GONE. I swear, I didn't rub them or wash them off, nor do I sleep on that side of my face because it hurts too much. I noticed that a couple of hours after I got home, they had faded a great deal; by bedtime, they had simply evaporated. Right now, if you really strain your eyesight, you can see a slight trace of the big whoppin mark that was on my neck behind my ear, but the others have totally vanished. There are building owners all over the world who would love to get their mittens on whatever compound in my body causes this phenomenon.

I'm already beginning to experience the mouth dryness I was forewarned about; I guess that means my left salivary gland is already goin down for the count. The only other effect I feel so far is increased fatigue, and a brain that works as if it's mired in molasses.

The vet called and told me that Max's ashes have been returned. They very kindly offered to deliver his urn to the house, but I said I'd pick it up on the way to today's treatment. I want to drop off a thank you card for the rose bowl and sympathy card they sent, anyway.

I may get tattooed yet.

Maskless and Tattooless (is that a word?)

Just a quick bulletin, because I'm very tired....

Well, no Harley for this chica. They didn't make me a Hannibal Lecter mask, thank goodness, and no tattoos, either: just a bunch of felt markings on my ear and jaw (a big blue cross on the latter, I feel as though I've been blessed). Dr L radiated my tibia today, as well as my parotid. He said that, judging from his examination of my ct-scans, he anticipates good results from the radiation. There will be 14 more daily treatments on my jaw, excluding Friday (machine down for maintenance) and weekends.

Masks and Tattoos



I received a call to come in to the radiology department of the CancerCare centre at 2:30 on Wednesday, to "get things started." This means the construction of a mask that will hold my head perfectly still for the radiation of my parotid gland. It will most likely also mean the tattooing of the area being targetted. The tattoos are apparently 4-6 pin-prick sized dots that will define the borders of the tumor.

Zoe, you thought you were cool gettin your tongue pierced in your early forties. Here I am, the big 5-0, and I'm gettin a tattoo on my face. Next thing ya know, I'll be ridin a Harley.

Sunny Skies



Thank you so much to everyone who took the time and trouble to leave kind and supportive comments, and especially to Catherine for her generous efforts on my behalf. I am humbled by your caring and fellowship.

I've been feeling better than usual the last couple of days. The swelling went down a bit on the left side of my face, and I've just felt generally stronger. It's wonderful to get a break like this. Yesterday I made a delicious Thai cucumber salad and chicken stir fry with coconut milk, and there's enough to enjoy tonight too, so that will be an easy dinner.

This morning I gave in to rare extravagence and got my hair professionally highlighted and cut. My hairdresser, Wade, sees me rarely yet works such miracles every time. On top of that, he's one of those healing spirits who is good for the soul. Dang, I'm cute now.

I just received an email from my editor, asking me for another invoice, so this makes every month since last April that I've had a story published in Our World, a Calgary-based magazine. Each time I receive word that one of my stories is going into print, it thrills me as if it's the first time.

After a warm spell, we had a frigid day yesterday, although it's supposed to warm up to melting for the rest of the week. Our skies are a clear, hard blue, and the sun is brilliant and warm. Can this be the harbinger of an early Spring? Oh, I hope so; surely we Manitobans deserve it after the summer we didn't have, and the brutal winter we did have.

At night,I still find myself stepping gingerly around the dog bed that no longer lies on the bedroom floor. And today, knowing that another dog is not a feasible idea, Curtis is donating Max's dog box, dishes, toys, beds and food to the Humane Society. To sustain us we have our three cats, fond memories, and the knowledge that our dog isn't suffering any more.

I'm alive. And life is good.