Grief-Stricken



This morning I was finally feeling strong and cheerful enough to write a light-hearted post. Then I got the devastating news, via an email, that a former student who graduated last June, just died of cancer. I have no idea what kind, or when she was diagnosed. The teacher who learned of it was making a routine attendance call about her younger brother, Steven, and learned from a cousin that the family was at the funeral home.

Lovely, lovely Jane. She of the doe eyes and the long glossy hair. So lady-like and wholesome and conscientious.

Nothing else seems to matter right now.

Update (June 1): A couple of my students, lovely girls named Lisa and Megan, learned of this post and decided to fill me in on a few details via email. Very thoughtful of them. In the fall of '03, Jane was diagnosed with a rare form of pediatric bone cancer after a tumor was discovered in her pelvis. Lisa encountered Jane at the gym this past winter and Jane looked great and said she was in remission, so things must have worsened very rapidly. Jane crossed the bridge at 2 pm on Monday with her family at her hospital bedside. Lisa's mom works with Jane's mom, and Megan's dad is the family's minister, so there are many connections there.

After tonight's injection, I'll be feelin a little rough tomorrow (Friday), but I plan to attend Jane's memorial service at 2 pm. I will undoubtedly see many students and colleagues, who will gather to pay their respects to this beautiful young woman. What a sad afternoon it will be.

The Plane Truth



Kathy has mentioned her fear of flying. I've never admitted this before, but deep inside me, where I've kept it tightly locked up, is a little gargoyle of panic where air travel is concerned. In less than two weeks, Curtis and I will be airborne for beautiful British Columbia, and that demon of panic will threaten to come gibbering to the surface: That's a long long way to fall, Tootsie.

I know, I know. "More people get killed in car crashes, blah blah blah." But, having rolled four times in a high-speed highway crash and lived to tell about it, I also know that you stand a better chance of surviving those. And yes, I've been informed that my seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. Erm, I'm flyin over the PRAIRIES and then the MOUNTAINS. That's LAND. Will my seat cushion break a fall from 30,000 feet? I kind of doubt it.

I figure if the Good Lord wanted me to fly, He would've given me less ballast. This ol chassis is built for comfort, not speed, and the fact that my butt is so close to ground level (from both lack of height and the force of gravity), is another strong hint.

And speakin of butts, did the people who designed the washrooms on aircraft, not realize that many of us are constructed more generously than Gwynneth Paltrow? It's bad enough that you have to back into the things, but you practically have to lower your skivvies beforehand. I know a woman who was thrown against the door of her loo by turbulence when she was in mid-performance, which caused the latch to give. She was sent hurtling down the aisle with her drawers down around her ankles, and every time she tried to scrabble back to privacy, was tossed over onto her side. At one point she decided to just get up and make a run for it, and was thrown into a businessman's lap. She refused to emerge from the cubicle again until every other passenger had deplaned. Who could blame her?

On a flight to West Virginia, I had to change planes twice. Needless to say, it was a fatiguing trip. I was pleased to see that my seat on the last aircraft was in row 12. Hm, not bad, I thought. Turned out row 12 was the LAST one. This was not so much an airplane, as a Greyhound bus with wings. A very old one. The seat designations didn't mean much, since there were only ten of us on this flight, so I was able to move up closer to the front. We flew just high enough to skim the tops of the trees and electrical wires, and the noise was harrowing. Sounded like we were in a bathtub and someone was poundin on the sides with a ball peen hammer. The young couple in front of me clung to one another and cried, whimpering, "We're gonna die." I fought back a panic attack, until the terrain turned gorgeous, and my tears became those of wonder and joy, rather than fear.

Of course, when we were safely on terra firma, my luggage was AWOL. This is standard for me – so much so, that I always take carry-on luggage with enough stuff to last me a couple of days until my suitcase is found (and it always is).

The flight home was uneventful until I reached my home airport. No luggage on the carousel again; but as I was fillin in the usual claim forms, I heard it start up again, turned around, and was elated to see my suitcase. When I ran over to grab it, I was clutched on both sides by security agents, who informed me that the drug-sniffing dog had alerted to my luggage. I laughed at such an outrageous notion, and was now regarded not only as an international drug smuggler, but a smart-aleck one. On top of everything else, in my eagerness to fetch my luggage, I'd left my boarding pass and all of my ID on the claims counter. So now I was a smart-aleck drug smuggler without papers. Nice.

Turns out the dog was a trainee, and had become excited by the rabbit fur on my moccasin slippers. The clerk from the claims desk brought my papers (and my bottle of duty-free Kahlua, bless him) over to me, and all was well again. Except that my over-packed suitcase could not be zipped up again, and my frillies were exposed for all the world to see.

Sigh. I wonder if it's too late to consider driving...

I'm the Luckiest Woman in the World



And no one is loved more than I am. I dare you to read "You Didn't Know It" and tell me I'm mistaken.

Mission Accomplished



This is not my mom's balcony; it's just something I found in Google Images. Hers is bigger and looks better, if I do say so myself. After vacuuming, floor washing and cleaning the main floor bathroom in my home this morning, I showered and packed cleaning supplies into the Cruiser and headed over to the neighbourhood greenhouse. There I got a GARGANTUAN beefsteak patio tomato plant, a dozen coleus (they have wonderful colour and don't shed dead flowers all over the place, so they're great for balconies), some potting soil, and a lovely metal butterfly on a spring stake thingy.

Mom was not expecting me and was very surprised. She spent most of the time I worked on her balcony (in the pouring rain), crying in her chair and murmuring how she shouldn't let me do all this. Well, heck, she's 89 - she can't do it herself, and my brothers, who are both away at their cottages, sure as heck won't.

I was able to do everything I wanted to, except vacuum (she has green indoor-outdoor carpeting on her balcony floor), because it was just too wet. So that will have to keep until another day. I cleaned her windows and patio door, scrubbed her two plastic chairs and three tables, potted the plants, and generally spruced things up. Looks really nice despite the dirty carpet. Her chairs and little table look great - last year I used some of that new plastic furniture spray paint they have at Home Depot, and lemme tell ya, it's super. You'd never know that her forest green table used to be white.

I'm completely tuckered out now, but it's a good kind of tired, ya know?

Interferon Sucks



It was back to the injections last night, and all day today I've felt as if I've been in a train wreck. I managed to suck it up enough to do some banking, gas up the Cruiser, pick up a few groceries, and drive over to the shop and take Curtis out for lunch; the remainder of the day I was pretty much useless: very fatigued and sweaty.

I was glad to see my pick win Idol; so far, I've chosen the winners of all my favourite reality shows (Idol, Amazing Race, and Survivor). It's pretty obvious that both Bo and Carrie have bright futures ahead of them in the recording business.

All my flowers are in now and Curtis has done damage control on the grass's winter kill; now we just have to sit back, splash some Miracle Gro on now and then, and watch all the wonderful growth. I positively LOVE greenness, so this time of year is happy for me.

I hope I feel better tomorrow. My mom's balcony is badly in need of a thorough spring cleaning, and that always falls to me, as well as prettying it up with planters of flowers. If I'm stronger and the fevers will leave me be, I'll surprise her and give her something clean and colourful to look at.

At Long Last



The weather finally got nice enough for me to launch my flower gardening today, and I felt well enough to do it - hooray! The picture above shows our front flower garden last year. It never looks the same way two years in a row, partly because the perennials (especially the ferns and the hostas) keep spreading; and partly because I like variety. As you can see, I love begonias, and no one seems to have many yet, so I've put in only two so far. I just need to add another half dozen or so, plus put some ground cover into a big terra cotta dish, and I'm done planting.



Curtis' specialties are vegetable gardening and lawncare. As a former groundsworker at a golf course, nobody does it better. People actually stop their cars when they see him outside, to ask him what the heck he does to make the grass look so good. Above is a shot of our lush back lawn. When you walk on it, your feet sink up to your ankles.



This is one view of our patio, that shows our wee vegetable garden. Erm, well, the garden is wee; the vegetables are steroid monsters. One of my delights, is to make a batch of freshly squeezed lemonade in Curtis' handpainted pitcher and glass set, and sip at it under the patio umbrella with my favourite hillbilly.



This is Snuggle Central. The chiminea was given to us as a wedding gift by my best friend and her parents, and we have spent many a romantic moonlit night curled up in our swing together, sipping margaritas.

I've had such a good weekend you couldn't wipe the smile offa my mug with the business end of a shovel.

Why I Get Stiff Necks



What you see above is my pillow - or it used to be - in the morning. As you can see, it has been completely taken over by Milo the Pillow Hog. It starts off innocently enough, with him lyin above my head purring contentedly. Later in the night, I am aware of fuzzy feet on either side of my head, Milo having morphed into a fur hat. As morning approaches and he gets more comfortable (he loves the hollow in my chiropractic pillow - fits his belleh like it was custom made), he pushes steadily against my head with his feet, and in my sleep I compliantly move out of his way until I am lucky to have a mere corner of my pillow, usually with my head craned unnaturally to one side or the other.

Anybody know how to get your cat to foot your chiropractic bill?

I'm complaining about this because - hooray! - I have little else to complain about, save a sore throat that I hope doesn't develop into anything worse. I haven't injected since Wednesday night, and I feel like a whole new person. I even ate like a hog at a trough today at our Seine River Cafe, where I fairly dove into my soup, salad and garlic bread.

It feels soooo good to feel good. As I've told Curtis, when my first 12 weeks of treatment have been completed, and I get scans done, they had better show no tumor growth, or I'm gonna have a hard time being convinced to continue with the interferon.

Life is good, even with a stiff neck.

Taking a Break



It has been a rough couple of weeks, so my nurse Pat told me to "take a break" and skip my Friday night injection. "Have yourself a nice long weekend," she said; and believe me, she didn't have to say it twice to convince me. Next week I'm changing my injection schedule from Mon-Wed-Fri, to Tues-Thurs-Sun, so that I'm at my best on weekends. If I continue to suffer from debilitating fatigue, Dr C will reduce my dosage. He says there's no evidence that a stronger dosage is any better than a weaker one. (Translation: This stuff doesn't do much good either way, but it's all we have.) So there's no point in subjecting me to worse side effects than are necessary.

My oncologist Dr C and I also discussed suspending treatments for the week that Curtis and I are going to BC. The last thing I want to do is scare the heck out of my brother and sister with my lethargy and other side effects.

Despite my recent misery, all my bloodwork showed that everything was well within normal ranges; even my liver enzymes, which were a bit elevated but not enough to worry last time, have improved a bit. So the interferon is not making me anemic; nor is it damaging my liver function. This is all very good news.

Tonight Curtis and I went out for dinner to Muddy Waters, a southern style restaurant at the Forks Marketplace (a wonderful bunch of shops and recreation facilities at the fork of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers), where they USED to serve authentic pulled-pork sandwiches. They've taken them off the menu, but promised Curtis they could replicate it. Wrong. He was disappointed; good thing I could eat only a quarter of my delicious chili, because Curtis enjoyed it very much. Our hostess was a former student of mine, a graduate from last year, and we enjoyed a hug and a friendly chat. Afterwards, we strolled through the Market and bought a bunch of varieties of candy.

I'm still fighting queasiness, and had to take some anti-nausea meds when we got home, so that I wouldn't lose the little bit that I managed to eat. I hope that I feel stronger as we get farther into this long weekend; we have a dinner invitation to a friend's on Sunday evening. We'd hoped to have a bonfire at my best friend's, but the forecasters are predicting rain for Saturday and Sunday. Oh well, that's good snuggling weather for my hunny bunny and me.

I hope you all have a great weekend, and to all my fellow Canuckians, Happy Victoria Day.

Dreamathon



All I do these days is sleep. And dream. I work darn hard in my dreams, because they are almost always about teaching, and I was for 25 years a very hard-working teacher.

This morning, as I dozed on and off, I had a series of dreams about a group of behaviourally-challenged students delivering short "speeches." In some of them, they said inappropriate things, and then worried (typical, for this type of kid) that they had "blown it." After each speech, I gave a commentary, careful to cushion any criticism and to find something positive to focus on. I remember one particular boy in my dream whose chest visibly expanded with pride, and whose face beamed with pleasure, when I praised him for an effective opening.

When the class was over, I set about to rearrange the room and prepare for the afternoon. It was lunchtime, and I observed some of my colleagues rushing to get something to eat. Our lunch breaks are only 55 minutes long, and when you shave off time to deal with questions, straggling students who just want to chat, kids comin in to catch up on homework missed due to illness, etc., you're lucky to have a half hour to gulp down a bite. I knew that I probably wouldn't get the chance to eat, but I didn't particularly care: I was doin what I was put on this earth to do, and it felt good.

So why am I crying?

Reason #5,742 Why My Curtis is the Best Husband Ever



One day last week I ruined a favourite fleece cardigan when I caught its sleeve on fire over one of my stove elements. What upset me the most about this was, not only that it was a fairly expensive article of clothing decorated with one of my very favourite birds (the chickadee), but it was part of a three piece outfit (sweater, t-shirt and pants) that Curtis had given to me as a gift.

This morning a parcel arrived in the mail with - you guessed it - a replacement cardigan. Curtis had contacted the catalogue company and managed to order it for me.

See why I wuvs him so?

The Sun Has Come Out



It has, both literally and figuratively. I felt better yesterday, and I can tell this morning that I feel even better today. Getting a bit of a break from the interferon gives me a chance to recharge a little, as do the blue skies. More especially, a weekend with Curtis by my side does me a world of good.

Next weekend is a long one for Canadians. Can't wait.

It's Been a Rough Week



The fatigue has been debilitating, and my apathy is beginning to alarm even me. I just took a hot bath to try to ease the spasms in my lower back, and then it's off to Sunday church service for Curtis and me. I'll be thinking of all my friends and loved ones, and mentioning all of you in prayers.

Happy Sunday, everyone.

Stew Recipe



It's not much of a "recipe," kind of a mutation of a Better Homes and Gardens recipe I found when I was first married - one I have altered to suit my taste. I think the secret of its flavour lies in the wine sauce (base) and the cinnamon. And Faith, if ya can read, ya can cook: All you hafta do is crib some good recipes. Anyhoo, for those who asked, here it is:


2 tbsp butter
2 tbsp flour
8 oz tomato sauce
1/2 c burgundy (or any red wine - this last time, I used some leftover homemade white wine - chablis, actually)

2 c cubed cooked beef (I find stewing beef too tough; cubed top sirloin works great)
16 oz can carrots
potatoes (I like to use those little yellow new potatoes, cut in half, which I parboil for a while)
1/3 c chopped onion
2 stalks chopped celery
a handful of frozen mixed vegies
1 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp thyme
1/4 tsp garlic salt
1/8 tsp cinnamon

In saucepan melt butter, blend in flour. Stir in tomato sauce and burgundy; cook and stir until thickened and bubbly. Transfer to crock pot. Stir in rest of ingredients. Cover; cook on low-heat setting for 4 hours.

Just Call Me Dizzy



I've been called a dizzy dame before, but today I really lived up to it. I had a pretty bad reaction to my Monday night injection, and today I felt woozy all day long. Hopefully, I will have an easier time of tonight's treatment. In spite of the spins, I managed to slap together one heckuva beef stew (about which Curtis has rhapsodized in his blog), and the multigrain loaf I made in our breadmaker came out gargantuan. Syd's did a fantastic job replacing the bumper on my Cruiser, so a nice dinner was a fitting celebration.

Tomorrow morning I have an appointment for a follow-up with my radiologist, after which I will drive over to my best friend's mom's house for lunch. My real purpose for going to Louise's, is to receive the delivery of her new dining room furniture for her, while she is at her grand-niece's school, acting as surrogate gramma for grandparent's day. I think that is soooooo sweet. Sabrina lost her grampa years ago, and her own gramma a little over a year ago to breast cancer; and with Louise recently widowed, the bonding will be good for both of them. And I can loaf around in front of the TV just as easily at her house, as at mine.

A Happy Update



The beautiful blue skies have been covered by angry grey cloud cover again, but it's sunshiney in my world right now, because I just got a wonderful bit of news: My group drug plan has approved coverage of my interferon!

Sweet relief!

Stand, Scream and Bat



I'm usually pretty good at responding to an emergency in the prescribed way, especially if it's something that has been drummed into my head via repetition, but yesterday, when my upper sleeve caught on fire, I forgot all about that "stop, drop and roll" thing. I don't even know why that stove element was on, but as I reached across it to turn the oven down, flames began to shoot from the underarm of my favourite fleece cardigan. Hot ones. (Of course - is there any other kind?) I also singed the sleeve of the t-shirt I was wearing underneath, but luckily only slightly scalded my skin.


I had a rough reaction to my injection last night: chills, fever and nausea, which was eased by the meds I've been given. Yesterday was a day of sloth and lethargy, in no small part due to the mind-numbingly dreary weather we have endured the past week. As I type this, the streets are damp but the skies are blue. I'm hoping that the forecast is wrong, and we'll get some sunshine today. A bike ride in the fresh air would do me some good.

That's about it. Dull, huh?

Happy Mother's Day



To all moms, stepmoms, birth moms, adoptive moms, and female nurturers out there: Have a wonderful day.

Hear Me Roar



Our non-Persian longhair Duffy gets picked on a lot by our other two cats, despite the fact that he weighs as much as the two of them put together. One of his coping mechanisms, besides comin to his two humans for comfort and affection, is to launch a nightly assault on his "foxy," a plush animal that has been his since he was a two-pound kitty and would trip over it, tryin to carry it through the house. He will scold it, yowl at it, beat it up and, erm simulate a certain act (which, given that he's neutered, is as close as he can get to the real thing) - in short, dominate it in a way that clearly gives him some sense of empowerment that he gets nowhere else.

There are times when we are made to feel impotent by bad fortune that seems to plague us, and it's easy to knuckle under and surrender to anger and self-pity. But that's not my nature. I'm an organizer, so when I am battered by adversity, I tend to get busy: make lists, phone calls, arrangements.

I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but it works for me. And so, as soon as I got home from the car wash where another motorist smashed into the back of my new car, I went into action. And yesterday, it took mere seconds for the Autopac adjuster to declare me blameless, and to assess the cost of a new bumper and installation at $1009. My baby will soon be as good as new again.

I was also given a "gold star" by my oncologist, who patted me on the arm and said, "We're very pleased with you." It seems that, despite too much of a weight loss in a short time (hey, there have to be some perks to cancer), I'm doing extraordinarily well for someone with my condition. My blood's good, my most recent scans show no change, and I'm coping well with the side effects of treatment. He and my nurse like my proactive approach to pain control (hot water bottle, light massage, soaking baths) and nutrition (my own special smoothie recipe with lots of protein and calcium).

I don't plan on humpin a plush animal any time soon, but I have my ways of seeking the positive in every day. Today, a certain hillbilly will find this note in his lunch bag: "Look out back of the shop - There's a blonde in a Cruiser, waitin to take you out to lunch." As Victoria so often says, life is good.

My Daughter Lost Her Virginity Today



Well, not really. I don't even have a daughter. But that's how I feel, now that someone rear-ended my beloved PT Cruiser at the car wash today and damaged its bumper.

I had come from gettin a trim at my hairdresser's, and happily jumped into next-in-line at one of the three bays of the inside-outside car wash. I was sittin there, minding my own business, when WHAM! The guy behind me rammed into me. Despite his claims that there was no or minimal damage (my car bumper was too dirty to tell, but I was certain I saw a crease), I asked for his driver's license and wrote down his particulars, noted the make and model of the car, and its license number. After we turned our cars over to the attendants and went inside, he asked for my license, borrowed my pen and paper, and as he wrote down my information, tried to convince me to not report the collision to my insurance company. He said if I got an estimate, he'd "just write me a cheque" for the repairs, and save me the cost of my deductible.

Nice try, fella. I happen to know that, when an accident is 100% the other driver's fault, I don't have to pay any deductible. I was feeling angry and shaky and hot, and in no mood to argue with this moron (who claimed to have been fiddling with his visor when he hit me), so I let him blab. When my Cruiser emerged from the wash, I could see that the damage was a lot worse than I'd thought: The paint is gone in two oval spots, one on either side of my license plate, evidently caused by the rubber-covered protrusions on his bumper. The part will probably cost several hundred dollars to replace.

As soon as I got home, I called Autopac and reported the accident. The clerk recorded all the information I had written down and said she'd send a letter to the other driver. He won't be happy, I told her; she said too bad, it's your right to go through your insurance agency. I have an appointment to see an adjustor tomorrow afternoon, after I have bloodwork and a consultation, and pick up more interferon at the CancerCare Centre.

POOP.

Hangover Day



Last night, the side effects of my interferon injection were blessedly minimal; if this is the way I'm going to react to my chemo from now on, I'll be able to handle the treatments quite easily. Still, the day after an injection, I'm pretty much useless. Our tabby Milo and I spend a lot of time together in the horizontal position.

This morning, I soaked my tender legs in a hot bath, which Milo finds endlessly fascinating. He has always had great interest in the tubsurround in our main bathroom, the shower stall in the downstairs loo, and both bathroom sinks; but lately, he does everything but take showers with us. Today, he was dabbin at the warm water with his paws, slurping the droplets off the sides, lickin my wet toes, and even trying to drink out of the full tub. Curtis reports how, while he is taking his morning "constitutional" downstairs, Milo yowls and mashes his forehead against Curtis' until Curtis runs some water into the basin for him.

Milo is one cat who knows what he wants, and he makes sure you know it, too. He has become completely imprinted on me, and everything that I do, he must play a part in. He shares my peanut butter and my bottled water; and when he naps with me, he licks my forehead and digs at my collar until I cover both of us with a throw so that he can "make biscuits" on my side, contentedly purring. No matter what I am doing, he is never more than an arm's length away.

He's a real buddy.

Comfort



A couple of days ago, I mentioned how a card from Mary Lou brought a smile to my face. This one, which I received from Houston today, gave me peace. Thanks, my friend.

I regret that, when I scanned it, the soft colours did not translate. The text, in case you cannot make it out, reads as follows:

When you come to the edge of all that you know,
you must believe in one of two things:
there will be earth upon which to stand,
or you will be given wings.
- Author Unknown

The Runaway Bride



The more I hear about this woman who lied about being kidnapped after fleeing from her extravagent nuptuals-to-be, the more I need a crowbar to pry my teeth apart. The fact that a 32-year old woman couldn't find a better way to cope with pre-wedding jitters, than to run across the country, publicly humiliate her fiance, worry her parents, friends and loved ones to death, and deceive FBI and police about her true situation, speaks to why she has remained single as long as she has.

What was the matter, you twit? Worried that there wouldn't be the precise number of bubbles in the champagne? That one of your fourteen bridesmaids might look a little chunky in her gown? Or did it finally dawn on you that, after you rode off into the sunset with your Prince Charming, you might actually have to learn how to turn on a dishwasher or draw your own bath?

And that poor dope still says he wants to marry you. It must be an arranged merger, orchestrated by the two powerful families. Maybe that's why you wanted out. I wouldn't blame you for that (I'd probably respect you for it), but what a crummy way to respond.

Issues? You think you have issues, Jennifer? Wanna trade?