not enough to think pink

Pink is not my new favourite colour (unless it's hot pink, then maybe we can talk).

I will never, ever buy a pastel pink sweater with pink ribbons on the buttons just because "a portion of the proceeds" goes to breast cancer research.

Lots of good writing has appeared in the blogging world on this subject in the last couple of weeks. You can read lots more about this on BlogHer, my new favourite thing (in particular, you should check out posts by Suzanne Reisman (Breast Cancer is Sexy, or Pink Ribbons, Advertising, Class and Race) and Liz Thompson (The Bad Business of Buying for a Good Cause).

I resent large corporations benefiting from breast cancer and find the small donations made by some to be tantamount to fraud.

But I knew there was more to my extreme annoyance than this (and the fact that very many breast cancer baubles are hideously ugly).

And then I had a conversation that had nothing to do with breast cancer.

I was in my local fair trade coffee shop the other day buying beans. I ordered Brazilian, their very darkest roast and was informed that it would not be available for several months. "Do you want to know why, asked the clerk?"

She told me that Wal-Mart decided they wanted to start a fair trade line of coffee and had bought out all the beans from the co-op in Brazil. Shortly after they had cancelled these plans, leaving the co-op farmers to reach out again to their smaller distributors.

That Wal-Mart wants in is a testament to the power of the fair trade consumer. But that this low-wage, anti-union, sweat shop-supporting behemoth should hop on the fair trade bandwagon is beyond hypocritical.

And that, I realized, is what bugs me about breast cancer product promotions. Too often the products sold are full of carcinogens or are made under conditions that are highly toxic to the environment. I don't want any part of that.

Let's make our donations directly to organizations that are working to prevent, treat and cure breast cancer.

I'm off to a lymphedema workshop at Breast Cancer Action, one of those great organizations. I'll make a donation while I'm there.

'a kinder season'

I can't get enough of this new CD, by my friend Eve Goldberg.

Eve has the most beautiful voice and her songs get right under my skin. I was fortunate to have been given an advance copy, right after my diagnosis, and her album was one of the things that got me through some of my darkest moments.

Eve's mother passed away from breast cancer in June 2005, Eve's music is infused with heartbreak and love. In her words:

"'A Kinder Season' was recorded in months following my mother's death. Although none of the songs are directly about my mom, the album is permeated with the emotion of that time - a time of great sadness but also of extreme clarity, beauty, even joy. If I learned anything from my mom's death, it is that sweetness can be found in the bitterest season."

Amen to that.

And this time, right now, is my 'Kinder Season.'

You can find out more by visiting Eve's web site or through her record label, Borealis Records.

seeking balance

Apparently, people on long term disability don't often call their insurance company to say, "Can I go back to work now?" (At least that's what my insurance rep told me when I spoke with her).

"What's the rush?" asked my oncologist when I mentioned a return to work.

And there certainly are many other things with which I could fill my time and not get bored (aside from physiotherapy and trying to find my house under all the rubble).

I know how lucky I am to have a supportive employer with a good insurance plan. I am also very grateful that I live in Canada where we have socialized medicine (women without health insurance face alarmingly high death rates) and a terrific oncologist who supports whatever choice I need to make (as long as I promise to take things slowly).

In part, I want to return to work slowly so I can build up my stamina gradually and not feel overwhelmed by the shock of trying to get up to speed.

But that's not all. I attended a staff retreat last week (at the Chateau Montebello, in a village near where I grew up. I'd always dreamed of staying there) and the truth is, I felt energized by the experience, and, in fact, have continued to have more energy since my return. It was so good to be around people and to have my thoughts be consumed by something other than cancer for a while.

I love my work (and my co-workers were an enormous source of support during treatment). And a significant part of my identity has always come from my work life.

I am a mother, lover, friend, trade unionist and now, irrevocably(but not primarily), a cancer patient. Each of these identities is important to me and I need to give voice to each of them in order to feel whole.

I know that I need to be careful. The last thing I want is to end up on sick leave again (and labour movement jobs are famous for being demanding and stressful). I am going to have to set clear boundaries and figure out how to pace myself.

But I feel ready to start re-claiming the life I had before cancer.

I'll let you know how it goes.

more than skin deep

The stages of recovery from radiation:

1- Burned, blistered, raw, achy and sore.

2-Fragile and sensitive.

3-Renewal. Still very tender but on the road to healing.

4-Better. Not as new, but strong, healthy and fit.

I am hovering somewhere between stages three and four, sometimes taking two steps forward and one step back. I am making progress, though.

And my skin is healing, too.

the last time

Today, I will go to radiation for the last time.

I'll enter the cancer centre and turn right at the door marked radiotherapy, scan my card to get in the queue, go and change into my robes (one backwards and one open at the front) and sit in the waiting room.

When my name is called, I will go and lie on a table that has been set up just for me. I'll slip out of my robe, lift my knees so they can put a cushion under them and tuck my left hand under hip. My right arm will go over my head and into a special brace. I won't move again until the end of treatment.

The therapists will spend some time making sure I am aligned perfectly, with the help of lasers, lines they have drawn on me (with permanent marker) and the five little tattoos I was given before I started treatment. When they are satisfied that everything is set up the way it should be, they will drape something called a bolus (pliable plastic-like material that draws the rays to the skins surface. Treatment will be interrupted part way through to remove it) across my chest.

Then they will turn off the lights and leave the room.

The door will close with an audible click, a green light will turn to red and treatment will begin.

The machine they used looks like a giant lamp, with jaws at it's centre that open and close to control the amount of radiation emitted. As it moves around me, it makes a whirring noise and a high-pitched buzzing with each dose.

It will take only a few minutes to treat my back, chest, axilla (under arm) and clavicle (this felt like so much longer during the first week of treatment when I was still freaked out about being treated with radiation).

Then the therapists will come in, I'll say 'thank you' and be on my way.

I might cry.

Radiation was a pretty dehumanizing process. As a coping mechanism, I deliberately engaged the radiation therapists, asking questions or making observations. I am very grateful to the therapists and nurses who took the time to respond and who treated me as a whole person and not just body parts to be treated. I hope they realize what an enormous difference this made.

bizarre

Cancer treatment is a very strange thing. The purported cures come with a whole host of side effects that I'm convinced are not fully understood by anyone.

I know a woman who was travelling abroad to celebrate the end of treatment. One day, she noticed that her treated breast had turned brown.

On her return home, she consulted her radiation oncologist, who insisted that this change could not have been brougth on by treatment.

She raised the subject with an alternative practiotioner, who said, "Don't ask your doctors. Ask other women."

The next time her support group met, this women mentioned what had happened to her breast. Four of the twelve women in the group had experienced the same thing. None had told their doctors.

Brown breasts, blistered skin, blackened toenails and bald heads.

Sometimes I think we haven't come that far since the days when people were treated with leeches.

sometimes it's hard

I'm a bit of a mess these days.

I've got quite a bad burn from radiation and have been afflicted with a fatigue that defies description (a bit dramatic that, no?).

So, it's not surprising, I guess that my emotions are all a little close to the surface. I was especially feeling it earlier in the week. Frustration, the effects of treatment, the time I've lost to cancer and ramifications of battling a life threatening illness...it all hit me with the force of a tidal wave.

I'm feeling quite a bit better now, though. I spent the week doing as little as I could. Resting, reading. I even had a friend come with me to radiation (this had been planned for a while but the timing could not have been better).

My spouse and the boys have gone away for the week end. Last night they saw Spamelot in Toronto. Today, S. and my spouse are taking part in the year's most highly anticipated event - a comic book convention. Before leaving, S. hugged me and said, "Don't die while we're gone."

I started to reprimand him and then realized that he wasn't joking. He asked me, "There isn't a chance, is there, that you could die before I come back?"

I reassured him that the cancer treatment was to make sure that all the cancer was out of my body. "And you know what, if it ever does come back, we'll treat it again."

"So does this mean that we don't have to worry for at least a year?"

"Yes," I answered.

He looked so relieved.

Sometimes, I hate how hard this is.