in translation

The cancer centre has implemented something new. When patients check in for treatment, we're asked to fill out a questionnaire related to our well-being (it has some acronym but I can't remember it). We're given the option of filling it in on a central computer but I'm really squeamish about germy public terminals. I always ask to fill the thing in manually (furthering my feeling that I am more of a Luddite than some of my seniors).

Filling out the form involves reading statements such as "I am in pain" and then circling a number between 1 (no pain) and 7 (excruciating pain - or something like that). Most of my numbers were very low except for the ones about my emotional well being and sleep habits. My answers resulted in the following conversation with the well-meaning nurse who checked me in for treatment:

Nurse: 

"You're depressed. Why?"

Me: 

"I'm just a little blue. Five years of doing this is a long time." (Translation: "I'm pissed off and fed up and I have survivors' guilt.") 

"I'm seeing someone at the psychosocial oncology centre." (Translation: "I don't want to talk about it with you, in front of the all the strangers in the room"). 

"The crisis is over and now it's all hitting me." (Translation: "I think I have PTSD. Did I mention that I'm pissed off and fed up?")

Next time, I'm stuffing the damn form into the bottom of my purse.

kitchen conversation (he's so, so right)

My spouse (after listening to lengthy rant #342 yesterday): "Not to excuse that person's bad behaviour, but a lot of things piss you off these days."

Me: "True."

Spouse: "Oh! We forgot to put the compost out!"

Me: (String of expletives, unprintable in a blog my children might read).

Spouse (Meaningful silence)

Then we both burst out laughing.

I need to get some perspective.

But at least I can still laugh at myself.

"none of us knows when we are going to die"

On April 25th, Alaina Giordano lost custody of her children. A North Carolina judge ruled that her two kids need to move to Chicago to live with Giordano's ex-husband. She based this decision, in large part, on the fact that Giordano has Stage 4 breast cancer.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

I can't be articulate about this story, except to say that I work very hard to make sure that my kids will be all right- no matter what happens. I wish I could protect them and all those who love me from the realities of cancer. But do I think that cancer makes me a less fit parent?

Not on your life.

Want to read more?

I first read about this on BlogHer, where Jenna argued very articulately that anyone who has ever been ill or ever might be should care about this story and the frightening precedent it has set.

My friend Judy (from Mothers With Cancer) wrote a beautiful response called "We Are All Terminal." 

You can read Alaina's own words on her blog, Beauty in Truth.

I couldn't find a single post or comment by anyone who agreed with the judge's ruling.

For that, I'm grateful.

beautiful eyes

That's what struck me when I met Sarah in person: she had the most beautiful deep brown eyes I had ever seen, with a lovely smile to match.

It was February 2010 and we were both in attendance at the Annual Conference for Young Women Affected by Breast Cancer. We had met online through our online community, Mothers With Cancer.

A short time after we met, Sarah found out that her breast cancer had become metastatic and she began treatment anew. A few weeks ago, she learned that the cancer had spread to her brain and she started radiation treatment. A couple of days ago, she was admitted to hospital with breathing issues. Last night, she passed away.

I won't claim to have known beautiful Sarah better than I did. But I did consider her my friend. And I will miss her.

Here are some things I knew about this remarkable woman:

She loved her three daughters very much and she was incredibly proud of them.

She was happily married.

She was a talented photographer.

She loved animals, especially dogs and horses.

She had an appreciation for good coffee.

She left this world way too soon.

Sarah, you will truly be missed. My heart goes out to your family and to all who loved you.

You can read more about Sarah at her blog, Spruce Hill. Tributes have also been posted by Jenny (cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer), Susan, Nicole, Ree and Mary Beth.

Note: Blogger was down for about 20 hours and when it came back up, this post was gone (as were the comments from my previous post). If you are seeing this twice in a row on the blog, it will be because Blogger has returned it to me.

not really the end

Did you know that the world is going to end on May 21st, 2011? I saw a guy on a street corner today with a sign that said just that. And then I saw a big-ass caravan with the same message.

Contemplation of our impending collective doom helps to put yesterday's election into perspective. It doesn't matter if the Conservatives were gifted with a whopping majority if none of us is going to live long enough to deal with the consequences. There must be more of these end of the world types than I previously suspected. That would help me understand how it is that so many of us thought endorsing the Conservatives would be a good idea.

Or something. You'll have to forgive me, it's been a hell of a day. I stayed up way too late watching the election results and then stumbled around like a zombie all day. I'm delirious.

I even went across town to an appointment, only to discover that it's on Thursday.

It was a very odd feeling last night to watch the NDP take over 100 seats (the previous high having been 43) and not feel elated. Proud, yes but not elated. I just kept watching the Conservative and NDP numbers rise at the same time and feeling like my head was going to explode.

Those of us who oppose pettiness, meanness and bigotry and who support human rights and democracy (not to put too fine a point on things) have four years to get our act together. 

And I think we need to really start screeching about proportional representation.

Meanwhile, I really am thrilled that my party is going to be the Official Opposition. There is hope for the good guys (thanks, good guys, for working so hard to get yourselves and like-minded folk elected). I'm thankful to all the volunteers, staff and veteran politicians and candidates who worked so hard to make this happen.

And, even if I am slightly hysterical, I'm choosing to repeat the words of one of the surprised, young, brand new MPs from Quebec, "It's going to be all right."

optimism tested

As we were listening to yet another story on the news this morning about how the Tories and the RCMP have barred people from attending campaign events (for things like having a photo of Ignatieff on their Facebook page or having been involved in an youth environmental organization), my spouse announced "It's going to work."

I was only half way into my first coffee, so I made him repeat himself. "None of this is going to matter," he said. "It's a story for now but it won't affect the election. The Conservatives will get a majority and then, next time, the other parties will have learned that hateful advertising and ignoring the truth are the best strategies to get ahead." (Forgive me, Tim, I'm paraphrasing. That's the gist of what he said)

I fear that he's right. Even the revelations about former aid Bruce Carson have barely affected the campaign.

Perhaps politicians have always said one thing and done another. These days, though, they barely have to pretend otherwise. And some, like Rob Ford in Toronto don't pretend at all. He's thoroughly corrupt, rude and uninformed. And people love it.

And then I learned that Bradley Manning, the 22-year-old U.S. Army Private accused of leaking classified documents to WikiLeaks has been subjected to torture in prison (Avaaz.org has a petition, if you want to add your name), despite the fact that he has never been convicted of any crime (not that conviction would justify torture).

So the message, boys and girls, is as follows. Telling the truth could lead to severe punishment but stealing and lying can only get you ahead.

It's enough to make any thoughtful person feel like ranting. Although I could never do it as well as Keith Olbermann.

Or Rick Mercer.

And please, if, like me, your sickened by corruption and lies and if you believe that a democratic government is a transparent one, please get yourself to the polls on May 2.

giving in to the monkey brain

Herceptin

I think I'm happy with the outcome of the brouhaha over Herceptin in Ontario. For those of you outside the province or outside the loop. Jill Anzarut, a 35 year old woman undergoing treatment for breast cancer made the news last week when she announced that the province had to pay for Herceptin because her Her2+ tumour was less than one centimetre (that's about 1/4 inch) in diameter.

The province initially refused to budge but eventually caved after a massive campaign played out in the social and traditional media. Access to Herceptin will now much more room for discretion when it comes to providing access to the drug.

I feel good about this. It's not that I think that every drug should be funded for every person. Her2+ cancers are very aggressive and, as best put by Stephen Chia, chair of the British Columbia breast-tumour group, “In HER-2 positive cancers, it’s not the size that drives it; it’s the HER-2 gene that drives it.” 

Election

Canadians are once again going to the polls. I am not happy about this. 

I'm sad that the long overdue Bill C-389 protecting the rights of transgendered people will die before it gets the chance to be thrown out by the Senate.

I'm worried that we will end up with a Conservative majority.

I have election fatigue. There was a time in my life when an election would make me feel excited and hopeful. Now I just think, "Ugh."

Presents in the mail

Did you see my scrabble pendant in yesterday's post? My friend Leslie sent it to me after I told her I'd like to have on with my initial on it. It made me very happy to open the envelope that held my surprise.

The bad with the good

Last week, I received my author's copy of the current issue of Canadian Woman Studies. The theme this quarter is Women and Cancer and I have a poem that is part of a piece called "Seven Reflections on Breast Cancer by Seven Women Who Worked Together." I'm happy about that.

I'm far less happy about another piece I stumbled on when I was leafing through the issue. It's called "The Private/Public Split in Breast Cancer Memoirs." It was written by a woman who came to my book launch in Toronto and asked for permission to speak in order to seek contributions - something to which I readily agreed. She also asked me to contribute to the issue, which prompted me to reach out to my writing group.

I had no idea that she planned to write a scathing deconstruction of my book - but that's what she did. I know that all writers get bad reviews but I found her comments to be very critical of me as a person (I guess you can't seperate the analysis of a memoir from its author) and quite unfair. 

I'm sure how to respond or react, or whether I should do so at all. I've actually been unable to finish reading the article. With a distinct lack of maturity, I threw the journal onto the living room floor and it stayed there for several days. I only just picked it up, in order to write this post.

I'll let you know what I decide to do. Meanwhile, I'm pasting my very own contribution below. It's a very small part of a greater whole (and not the strongest piece by the seven of us by any stretch) but it's mine and, like all my writing, expresses a little bit of what has been in my heart.

Snap shots

December 2^nd, 2005.

When I close my eyes, I see myself as I was then.

Short dark hair and boots with heels.

Irritable and excited in equal measure.

I knew big change was coming. And it did. But it was not what I expected.

I was getting undressed when I found the lump.

July 1^st, 2006

I close my eyes and see myself as I was then.

Round, bald and bloated. But happy.

Chemo is behind me. Or so I expect.

I am self-conscious but also hungry.

I eat two burgers at the barbecue.

December 24^th, 2006

I close my eyes and see myself as I was.

I rallied for Christmas Eve but in the end the pain got the best of me.

My liver was riddled with tumours. And I had waited too long for the morphine.

My mother had to put me to bed. That comforted me.

And so did the drugs.

June 25^th, 2007

I close my eyes and I can taste

The strawberries on my tongue

The sensual pleasure of the whipped cream

And the Niagara ice wine as it slid down my throat.

I knew I would soon have something to celebrate.

December 16^th, 2009

I close my eyes so I can think.

I have now been in remission for 30 months.

And I will be in treatment for the rest of my life.

Some days I wake up celebrating.

Some days I grieve for what I have lost.

Today is a sad day.

Tomorrow will be better. Or maybe the day after that.

someone pour me a drink

A couple of months ago, I bought a sports watch at Zellers.* The clerk at the store convinced me to get an in store credit card, so that I could get a twenty-five per cent discount.

Against my better judgment, I agreed.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks later, when the bill arrives. Knowing that store credit cards have usurious interest rates, I pay off the balance in full immediately.

Fast forward to a few weeks after that, when I get another credit card bill, showing that I still owe the full amount plus interest.

Annoyed, I call the credit card company to complain. The woman on the other end of the phone was polite and helpful. She quickly identified the error, fixed it and told me to have a nice day.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks later when I start getting calls phone calls from “credit services.”

Now I'm downright irate. I call the credit card company again. The person with whom I speak this time has no record of my previous phone conversation. When I ask to have my card credited with the amount that I have already paid. He informs that's “not how things work.”

This is how Zellers proposes to resolve the problem:

They will send me a cheque covering the amount that I have paid them. And I will send them a cheque to cover my bill.

Allow me to restate this – Zellers is sending me a cheque for sixty dollars. And I'm expected to mail them a cheque for sixty dollars.

They can't just credit me with the money I've paid. I can't pay them online or over the phone.

Zellers and I have to send each other cheques for the exact same amount, so that they can cross in the mail.

At this point, I inform the agent on the other end of the phone that I want to cancel my card. He says that I have to call another number to do that and that he can't transfer me.

I place that call, cancel my card (“No, I say firmly, I do not want to give the company another chance”) and am then told that I have to call a third number to cancel the insurance on the card.

Nearing hysterics, I call the insurance people and am bluntly told (after being on hold for a while) that the insurance is cancelled automatically when you cancel the card.

My spouse will tell you that I am extremely tolerant (to the point of ridiculousness) of bad service, generally speaking. But this experience left me feeling that someone at Zellers needs to give some thought to getting it's act together.

*For readers out side Canada: Zellers is a large chain (like Walmart or Kmart). The Hudson's Bay Company just sold it to Target.

chronically whiny

I always think it's going to be different.

I say to myself, "This round of treatment, I will exercise and write and continue with my daily routine and see if that makes me feel better."

And thent, in the days that follow each dose of vinorelbine and Herceptin, I stay in bed too sick to do anything and lacking the self-discipline (motivation?) to try getting exercise, writing or going about my daily routine.

I don't even bother to eat well (although the soup I made the night before chemo was delicious and easy to heat up, so I did eat lots of that) or even do the easy things that might help (I was on the phone with my writing buddy and she asked if I'd been drinking hot water with lemon and ginger. Easy to prepare and she swears by it, yet I had completely forgotten).

I don't even drink enough water.

I just wait until the weekend when I know I'll feel better (unless I get sick, as I did yesterday and had to miss dinner with friends and my beloved book club).

I'm fed up.

Fed up with losing a week out of every month.

Fed up with having to constantly worry about my energy levels and not overdoing.

Fed up with not  having answers and having to worry.

Sometimes I amuse myself (and no one else) by announcing, "I'm done. That's it!"

But I don't really mean it. 

I know where I'd be if it weren't for all the chemo and the Herceptin. And I know that it's worth it.

And who knows? Maybe next time will be different.

10 in june part two: writing through heartbreak

June is a very busy month. The end of the academic year means that there are meetings, plays and endless school-related events (most are fun but they do keep me busy). Also, I've been very distracted because J-Dog (known to us as Jasper Friendly Bear) is very sick.

We are waiting on the biopsy results of tissue taken from several large tumours in his mouth. Honestly, it doesn't look good. Even if the tumours are benign, which is highly unlikely, the surgery to remove the growths would be dangerous and painful (not the mention the fact that having half his upper jaw removed would leave him with a dubious quality of life). Leaving them where they are is out of the question because they are making him very uncomfortable and affecting both his breathing and his ability to swallow.

We love this dog a lot. He's a very sweet old soul, who was born with tremendous dignity, intelligence and loyalty. I can't bear the thought of losing him but I can't stop thinking about it.

And you can imagine that this family would find all of this especially traumatic. As a wise and dear friend said to me, "You have to make sure the kids understand that he's not you." And even as we all understand that, this is all rubbing salt into some wounds that may never fully heal.

This was meant to be a post about writing, though - something I am reminded means more to me than an obligation or an item on a 'to do' list - so let me get back to that now.

Here are my goals for the month (taking up the numbering from where I left off in my last post):

5. Write for ninety minutes, four times a week (or 300 minutes per week). Given how busy I knew I'd be, I thought I'd set a more realistic goal (I'm already behind but not iredeemably so).

6. Write the speech for the Weekend to End Women's Cancers fundraiser (I don't have much of a choice about this one because I'm delivering it on Monday. I've got some detailed notes but a fair bit more work to do. Did I mention that I'm delivering it - at least in part - in French?).

7. Write a first draft of a short story (I've had this idea about Elvis and my home town for a while now).

I'm also going to continue to re-read and edit my draft novel but I'm not going to write that one down as a goal, since it's an ongoing process and I'm on track, thanks to my writing buddy and our regular exchanges and phone meetings.

It felt good to write all of that - about the fear and the grief but also about the goals I have set for myself. Writing gives me hope and a sense of purpose. When I do it well, it gives me confidence.

It's also very therapeutic.

Update: The vet called this evening. It's cancer. We have some choices to make but none will be easy. 

a lapse in judgment

In the last couple of weeks, I have received two emails from Rethink Breast Cancer, an advocacy organization aimed at younger women. The messages urged me to by tickets for the Rethink Romp, a Toronto fundraiser and party.

I like a party as much the next girl and the idea of a superhero themed party made me smile. I love superheroes.

I eagerly clicked through to check out the "Shazamer", an interactive site where I could make my own superhero. At that point, the fun came to a screaming halt, as I read the words: "Show of your six packs and your great racks in support of Rethink Breast Cancer".

It's a great site, with some really cool interactive features but the model is built like Barbie and the "Superheroes" title bears the sub-head "with a great rack comes great responsibility."

The idea that a group of diverse, smart breast cancer advocates sat around a table and decided that this was a good idea is just inconceivable to me. Even more shocking is that this idea went from that table to a high profile, glossy campaign without someone shouting, "Hey wait a minute! Don't you all think this is a little insensitive?"

Yesterday, I sent Rethink this brief email:

Has no one complained to you about this?

A breast cancer organization talking about "great racks"? What if you only have half a rack or none at all? Can I still be a superhero if I'm not white [I did discover after I sent the note, that you can change the skin colour of the model, once you get inside the game but both the male and female superhero start as fair and light-haired] , with big boobs and able-bodied?

I love the idea and I love the spirit of fun and celebration to which you are clearly aspiring. I just don't understand how a group of breast cancer advocates sat down together and agreed that this is the best imagery and wording for this event.

So disappointed.

I haven't heard back yet. Rethink Breast Cancer has a great mandate and does good work. I love the spirit of fun they try and inject into their work. With this campaign, though, the organization has displayed a serious error in judgment.

super me
a one-breasted warrior
with really great boots
a rhea belle top
and some seriously funky accessories (thanks to Babz for that suggestion)
generous hips (the better to shoot from)
crows feet
and smile lines
honest
smart
strong
and always compassionate
but ready to kick ass
when she needs to.

thank goodness someone's brain is working

I've been staying  up way too late and drinking too much coffee to compensate. Then I have trouble sleeping. It's a bit of a vicious circle.

As a result, I seem to be having problems jump-starting my brain.

The items in this post have no real connection, except that I found them on the internet and they were all drawn to my attention by local bloggers.

Zoom wrote about this lost cat. Is she yours? If her owners aren't found, do you have room in your home for this sweet girl? She's been taken in (and cared for) by the Crazy Cat Lady but she needs a forever home.

Nat got my blood boiling with this righteous rant (on why she won't "shut the fuck up") and made me laugh with this piece on Ottawa's ant plague (I feel so much better knowing thaat I'm not alone) and cry with her link to this amazing story about how a city helped a boy with cancer become a superhero for a day.

I don't know what I'd do without my virtual friends.

buckets of pink sh*t

If you've been reading this blog for a while, then you know how I feel about corporations selling pink crap in the name of "breast cancer." I even have a "don't buy pink crap" tag that use pretty regularly, especially in October.

There have been some pretty awful pink products sold over the years but in launching "Buckets for the Cure," KFC and Susan G. Komen for the Cure have sunk to what may be a new kind of low.

This stupefyingly bad idea was brought to my attention by Clergy Girl, in a post called "Buckets Of Saturated Fat For The Cure" over at Mothers With Cancer. She writes:

This was a sell-out Komen.  Did you ask anyone with breast cancer how they would feel seeing that big pink greasy bucket of chicken?  Was someone going to lose their job if you didn’t raise cash quick?  I really don’t get it?  Research also shows smoking and alcohol consumption are clear links to cancer, so why not team up with Marlboro or Bud Beer?  It’s not just about money, and quite frankly, don’t raise money on the backs of research that is clearly linking to cancer promotion.  Please!

Shame on Komen for lending it's name to this outrage.

pictures big and little

I woke up yesterday morning with a sore throat and a headache.

Here we go again. Having a compromised immune system is no picnic. In the last year, I missed my Toronto book launch because of the flu, got H1N1 on the day the vaccine became available, was hit by Norwalk virus when my spouse was away (and found myself crawling along my kitchen floor with a can opener to "make dinner", got pink eye and more little flus and colds than I want to count.

Chemotherapy destroys cancer cells. It also destroys the cells that fight illness. Despite the fact that I try to limit my exposure to germs, wash my hands regularly, get enough sleep and eat well (not to mention the ten doses of Neupogen with which I inject myself after every treatment), I seem to fall prey to almost every little bug that passes my way (and when you have kids, lots of little bugs pass your way).

I am, literally, sick of it (I've also had benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. That had nothing to do with my immune system and was mostly just an annoyance. And when I realized that I did not have a brain tumour, I was actually kind of amused in a "of course this would happen to me at this point in my life" sort of way. Also, my golden, Emma, had a couple of bouts with geriatric vestibular disease, which I think is basically the same thing).

I need a break from chemo and I'm taking the month of April off. On the day when I would normally be at the cancer centre, I will be travelling home on the train from Toronto with D. (we will have been visiting grandparents, hanging out at the Bat Cave at the Royal Ontario Museum and the Harry Potter Exhibit at the Science Centre).

I'm not losing sight of the bigger picture, though. I have a CT scan today (abdominal and thoracic) and I am worrying about it. 

Because I always do. 

I'm fretting about my veins and how many times (and where) they'll have to poke me before they can inject the contrast but I'm also anxious about what the pictures will show.

Hopefully, everything will look normal and healthy, except for the scars that cover my liver. Hopefully, I can add this to my least of clean scans. And, hopefully, I can keep going through this routine, with the same results for years to come.

I haven't started to take the clean scans for granted. I doubt that I ever will.

getting there the hard way (part 2)

When I left off yesterday, I was stranded at the Detroit airport, standing in a line-up for three hours waiting to re-book my flight to Atlanta. 

A very drunk young guy in front of me spent the whole time hitting on all the younger women in line (I was only brought into the conversation for affirmation, "Isn't she pretty?"). He also showed us the the alligator Crocs he'd bought for his young nephew (whom he called while standing in line. Not sure where his nephew lives but it was well after 10:00pm in Detroit) and asked if the shirt and tie he'd bought matched each other. Under different circumstances, he might have been endearing but I was well and truly done with him by the time we reached the front of the line.

At the 2.5 hour point, the woman behind me in line, who had been reading the Book of Ruth and worrying relentlessly about what would happen next, stepped out of the line and went directly to an agent - who served her and sent her on her way. There were some very disgruntled rumblings about this but I'm surprised to say that no one had a meltdown, or even complained to the staff. I was very impressive by the behaviour of the crowd throughout our frustrating wait.

And there were some folks around to give us perspective, chief among them the 6 year old boy who I did not hear complain even once. There was also a big guy who was sharing some beef jerky with his neighbours. I heard him say. "This is a pain in the ass but it's better than being in Iraq." Seriously. He went on to explain that he'd recently returned from a tour of duty.

It was around this time that I overheard an agent telling folks who had succesfully re-booked that they would be given a voucher for a hotel room, if their layover was due to mechanical failure but not if it was due to weather. When she then asked folks one by one which was the reason they'd missed their flight, I did my best to send them telepathic messages, "Say 'mechanical failure'!" - because, really, if no one is checking, why would you say anything else?

I knew that my own case was ambiguous, since my original delay had been due to weather but languishing on the tarmac in Detroit had sealed my fate - and in Detroit the skies were clear and there was no snow on the ground. I was fully prepared to argue my case when it was my turn to do so, to raise my voice, to threaten a blog post and even to play the cancer card. Basically, I was ready to stoop really low to ensure that my head would rest on a pillow that night.

It was after 11:00 by the time it was my turn.

I approached one of the two agents on duty. He asked me how I was. I took one look at his face and said, "I'm just fine. How are you?"

He replied that he was OK, just frustrated because the computers were now working really slowly, to which I said, "That's OK. I've been really patient until now, I can be patient for a few more minutes."

I thought at that point that the guy was going to burst into tears. He said, "You've been really..." then interrupted himself and concentrated on getting me out of town the next day. It took a while but when I left him I had a ticket on a 7:15 flight to Nashville the next morning, a connection to Atlanta, vouchers for a hotel room (no questions asked) and for breakfast the next morning and the reassurance that my suitcase would meet me in Atlanta the next day.

After getting lost trying to find my way to the hotel shuttles, I called the hotel listed on my voucher to find out how to get there. The voice on the other end of the phone told me they were full and I should go to the Quality Inn. I called the Quality and was told how to find their shuttle.

As I left the airport, I spotted the drunk guy from the airport. He was holding the free phone to hotels looking confused. I silently wished him well but was too tired to stop and see if he needed help.

I boarded the hotel shuttle as instructed, along with a lot of other punchy, exhausted travellers (we were sitting in a circle and someone started singing, "Kumbaya!"). Our first stop was a little Days Inn. I got off to confirm with the driver that he would be stopping at the Quality Inn. 

"You have to go here, Ma'am. The Quality Inn is full and all passengers are being re-routed here."

"But I just spoke to someone at the Quality Inn and she said to come on over." I'm sure I sounded petulant.

"I've been told to take everyone here, Ma'am but I'll call for you." He placed the call while I stood there and I listened as a hysterical voice on the other end of the phone shrieked at him that they were completely full, as she had already told him.

I apologized, thanked the guy profusely and got into yet another lineup in the lobby at the Days Inn. There was one person at the front desk and she was really flustered. She loudly announced that she was not at all sure she was going to be able to acccomodate all of us. As I stood at the back of the line, I felt tears pricking my eyes.

In the end, she did have a bed for me, in a smoking room (incidentally, this is the only time in my life that I have checked into a hotel room without being asked for any form of id or a credit card). I was hungry but also nauseated, so I skipped the restaurant which was filled with smoke (it  had also been a really long time since I'd been in a public place where smoking is permitted). I went up to my room, flopped down on the bed and turned on the TV just in time to watch Joannie Rochette accept her bronze medal.

The alarm went off 4 hours after I'd closed my eyes. I showered, dressed (from now on, I'm carrying clean underwear in my carry-on) and headed down to join a throng of bleary-eyed travellers in the lobby (my "free breakfast" turned out to be a tray of wizened, sugary pastries with a large sign overhead saying "Please do not smoke during breakfast." I was tempted to take a photo but didn't want to linger, out of fear of missing my shuttle).

The hotel clerk, a young man, was on the phone as I checked out, trying frantically to find another hotel shuttle. I gather that there were twice as many people in the lobby as had signed up for the airport shuttle the day before. After a couple of minutes, a shuttle was succesfully located - another instance of someone, who is no doubt paid minimum wage to do a difficult job, pulling out all the stops. I was impressed (and I emailed hotel management to tell them so).

The rest of my trip was uneventful. I sailed through security. Bought a latte and a new paperback book and read my way through my next two flights. I arrived at the hotel in Atlanta 90 minutes before the start of my conference.

I was very happy to be there. And way too relieved to complain when I discovered that my "city view" room looked out on a giant car park.

getting there the hard way

At the end last month, I attended the 10th Annual Conference For Young Women Affected By Breast Cancer. The conference was a wonderful experience, the getting there, however, was a traumatic experience.

The kind of experience that made me think that if I never see the inside of an airplane again, it will be too soon.

Please bear with me (or feel free to move on to more interesting places) while I rant. This is my story.

February 25

1-At 8:15am (my flight is at 11:15 and I live fifteen minutes from the airport but I have become paranoid extremely cautious about long lines and security), as I the taxi pulls up, I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I ask my spouse to check on my flight status. It turns out that it's been cancelled. The cab driver is none too pleased when I send him on his way.

2-Wait on hold for an hour so that I can re-book my flight. It turns out that the big storm in New York has caused many flights to be cancelled (I was scheduled to go via Newark). My new flight will take me via Detroit.

3-Leave for the airport at 1:30pm for a 4:30pm flight. End up waiting for half an hour for ticket agents to finish their break and check me in. I truly don't mind that staff take breaks. It is a little annoying when they are doing so in full view of lined up passengers. Couldn't they go have a coffee or something? Couldn't Delta have other staff cover breaks? Do they all have to go on break at the same time?

4-Clear security and proceed to the bar near my gate. Have a big beer and a sandwich. Given what follows, I end up being very grateful for the sandwich.

5- Settle in at the gate only to learn that my flight has been delayed by an hour. 

6-Board airplane and sit on the tarmac for 40 minutes as the wings are de-iced. I have a good book and lots of time to make my connection, so I'm not remotely worried.

7- Land in Detroit with an hour to spare beofre my flight to Atlanta. The flight attendant asks that all those with less than 25 minutes to make their connections be let off first. We then sit on the tarmac for an hour, growing increasingly anxious, as there is too much of a logjam to get to the gate.

8- Get off the plane after my connecting flight was scheduled to leave but note that the Departures screen indicates that my flight is still boarding. Sprint through two terminals and across the airport.

9- Arrive at my gate out of breath and with my heart pounding, to be told that a) my flight has left and b) there are no more flights to Atlanta that evening. I am directed to another gate to re-book my flight. The agent tells me that he has "no idea" whether I will be offered a hotel for the night. 

10-Try to re-book by scanning my ticket. When that doesn't work, I join a very long line,  in which I stand for three hours.

I've worn myself out just writing this. I'm going to go do something else now. I'll conclude this riveting story tomorrow. Do you have a travel horror story? Want to share it in the comments?

stolen content

If you are reading this post on a site other than Not Just About Cancer (besides Facebook or a feed reader), you are reading stolen content.

I have filed a complaint under the DMCA (US copyright law) and hope to have the site taken down (or at least have my content removed) but since the other blog seems to be scraping all my new content, I thought I would create this special post just for them.

Thanks to Sassymonkey for alerting me to the problem, Elise Bauer for this excellent article and Susan Getgood for suggesting I write this post.

in other news

I was felled by a yucky stomach bug this week and really didn't feel much like blogging. It's the price I pay for a weakened immune system. My older son is home sick today, too. Not sure what his excuse is.

Also, my spouse is in Florida. As far as I know, he's not sick.

To compensate for my bitterness at having been struck down during a week of single parenting (I know, some of you have to deal with this kind of thing all the time), I thought I would show off a little.

Here is my latest clapotis. I made it for my mom.



She thinks she's not very photogenic but I think she's lovely.

I made this thing on tiny (2.75mm, if you care about these things) needles and a laceweight (read very fine) yarn. It nearly killed me.

I was working on it during chemo one day and one of the pharmacists, herself a knitter, shook her head and exclaimed, "You must really love your mother!"

I do.

And while I wouldn't necessarily recommend doing this as a laceweight (not just because it takes forever but because fixing errors is a painstaking process) but I am very pleased with the end results. The yarn is an alpaca and silk blend from Knit Picks and the scarf is soft, airy and has a lovely drape.

I think I am addicted to the clapotis. Although I'll do it in a thicker yarn and on bigger needles (the original was done in my much thicker yarn). Doing this on sock yarn will feel like a breeze.

And did you note the state of my walls?

I have been stripping wallpaper. It's part of a project that a friend is helping with (I know that should be "with which a friend is helping" but that felt awkward. Just want you sticklers to know that I am aware that I'm taking liberties). She offered to "paint a room" in my house in exchange for a bunch of kids' stuff we'd outgrown.

I definitely got the better end of that deal. We got a bunch of stuff out of our house and she has already devoted two afternoons to scraping the wallpaper in my hallway - on two floors and up the stairs.

I have to admit that I have never undertaken this kind of project before and I'm actually enjoying it. On our second afternoon we used "Concentrated Wallpaper Remover" from the hardware store and the hard-to-scrape stuff just melted off. Very cool. I hope it's not too terribly toxic. There didn't seem to be any fumes. It kind of smelled like dish soap.

There's another hour of stripping to do and then I gather everything has to be washed, then primed then painted. And then it will all look so good that the rest of the house will seem really dingy in contrast.

Finally, I feel like I can't conclude this post without mentioning the horrific situation in Haiti. Please give what you can, to a reputable organization.

When the Yarn Harlot sent out the "knit signal" last week, I was prompted to direct my money to Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders). They are already set up to help and do excellent work aroun the world.

Click here to donate in Canada, the United States or everywhere else in the world (find your country in the menu on the left). The Harlot mentioned in her post that it is most helpful if you direct your donation to "Emergency Relief" or "Greatest Needs" instead of to a specific project.

"what's wrong with breast cancer awareness month?"

"October is breast cancer awareness month, which again fills the stores with pink products and pink ribbons. But many people with breast cancer are feeling exploited."

It's only September 30th and I already have pink ribbon fatigue. I ranted about about this in 2006, 2007 and 2008 (there is also a version of this rant in my book, Not Done Yet).

This year, let me point you to an excellent article by Maija Haavisto (and I don't just say this because she quotes me):

Since 1985 October has been celebrated as breast cancer awareness month, often symbolized by pink ribbons and the color pink. It is interesting to note that the awareness month was started by the drug company AstraZeneca (which manufactures several breast cancer drugs) and the pink ribbon originated from cosmetics giant Estée Lauder.

Simply put, I think a lot of breast cancer awareness month is big scam. To quote Maija's article quoting me (is this as po-mo as it gets?):

"I really resent big corporations making a profit - while donating only a tiny percentage to breast cancer research - on some disposable item that has been made under questionable environmental conditions by workers who are paid less than a living wage."

Want to do something to raise breast cancer awareness? Make a donation to an organization doing good work. Advocate for changes in environmental laws. Encourage young people to be aware of changes in their bodies. Do something nice for someone who has been affected by the disease.

And if you are craving a slice of pink cake, washed down with a glass of pink lemonade, by all means, indulge yourself. Just please don't do it in my name.

he's only six years old

Today's scheduled post is being pre-empted by a story I want to share with all of you.

My younger son, D., had an appointment at the dentist's today. I decided to turn the day into a special outing and go out for lunch and then to the movies (G-Force. I still do not like rodents).

When the movie was over, he announced that he had to go to the bathroom. As I wrapped up a phone call with my spouse and went to open the bathroom door, a man stepped towards me and said, "I think he's way too old to go in there with you. He looks like he's at least four years old."

I thought he was kidding. I smiled and said, "He's six."

"Six! You really shouldn't be going in there."

He was serious. And outraged (I'll bust some stereotypes and tell you that he was young - no older than early 30s). As I stepped around him and gently pushed my son through the door, I heard him say, "I'm going to talk to the manager."

I was flabbergasted.

D. was quite upset as he has been really reluctant to go into the women's washroom for the last year or so (although lately he's gone in with me when we are out alone without complaining).
He was mortified.

I am not an overly protective parent nor am I prone to paranoia. I also know all that so many more children are harmed by adults they know than ones they meet in the bathroom at the movie theatre.

However:

He can barely reach the taps in public washrooms, let alone the soap dispenser.

He often can't get the stall door to close.

Sometimes, he can't get it open.

Despite his protestations, he's afraid to be by himself in an unfamiliar place.

He's six years old. And it is still several years before I am going to let him out of my sight in any public place.

When I was six years old, a stranger exposed himself to me.

I let my 11 year old go into the men's room by himself. Once, when D. had a friend with him at the movies, I let both boys go in together and stood outside with my heart in my mouth until they re-appeared (I asked if they had washed their hands. My son said, "Yes!" His friend said, "No, you didn't!").

I think the answer to "When is your child old enough to [fill in the blank]?" depends very much on the individual child and on the parents' comfort level (I often say that it's really good that my boys have two parents, otherwise they would never be allowed to do anything). I am, however, very comfortable asserting that my six year old will be coming into the women's washroom with me for a while yet.

And what's the big deal, anyway? Women's washrooms have stalls. It's not as though D. is peeking under the doors. When I went to university, at least one of the residences had only co-ed bathrooms. Now that was weird - brushing my teeth in the morning and having some guy walk by in a little towel.

How do you handle the bathroom situation when out with your kids? How do you feel when you see a child of the opposite sex in a public washroom?