Emma Goldman Kingston (aka Golden Breeze Lady Emma Delight), b. July 17, 1992, d. June 29, 2006.

I am grieving an old and dear friend today.

By L. (age 38) and S. (age 8):

We miss Emma because:

1. She loved kids and always protected them, even when they didn't need protecting.

2. She was so affectionate with us.

3. She thought her name was "Beautiful Dog."

4. She enjoyed a good tummy rub.

5. She was the most stubborn dog we've ever met. From the time she was a round little puppy carrying tree branches, she did things her way.

6. She lived until she was almost fourteen and still loved us.

7. She once ate a dozen chinese buns and was so full she could barely stand up.

8. There will never be another dog to replace Emma.

mushy and queasy

It has been brought to my attention that my last couple of posts have been a bit over the top. I am completely unapologetic about this. Years ago, my spouse said to me that I always describe the people I love in terms of superlatives. Can I help it if my family and friends are all gorgeous, brilliant and wonderful people?

I just feel incredibly grateful for the all the love and support that people have shown since this cancer nightmare began. It is because of my friends and family (and some complete strangers) that I have found the strength to get through the worst of the cancer treatment.

Despite how hard many things are right now, I have moments where I can't believe how lucky am.

Last chemo completed yesterday. I feel pretty crummy today. This is the last time, though, and that does make it easier.

once more unto the breach

Tomorrow is my last chemo.

I have not written much in the last few days because I have been too busy spending time with my kids and being hedonistic in my spare time.

I have spent my time with people who fill me up - make me feel good about myself and fortunate to be in their presence.

A lovely dinner Friday night with three amazing women. I am awed that they think of me as their friend.

An extended week end with my friend L. Spending time with her is like a balm. I don't have words for how wonderful she is. We met on the first day of an impossible class in university. I walked up to her and said, "You look like someone I would be friends with." This was totally out of character for me and the best thing I ever did.

I spent most of today with my friend B. We went for lunch, engaged in a little retail therapy (cancer presents: new clothes that fit my chemo-bloated body. I feel so much better about myself) and a facial at the spa. When I told B. last January that my biopsy had confirmed that I had cancer, she said, "This is a campaign and we are going to win it." B. is a formidable woman. When she says things like this, I believe her.

On another note entirely, it turns out I am not as much of a hypochondriac as I thought I was. My oncologist took one look at me this morning and said, "Your eyes are irritated." It turns out irritated, runny eyes are a common symptom of chemo, especially near the end. I feel vindicated.

for a very good dad

Today's blog is dedicated to a wonderful father.

I love you, my dear spouse. You have exceeded my expectations of a partner, father and friend in the fifteen years we have been together but never more than in the last six months. The boys and I are very fortunate to have you in our lives.

Happy Fathers' Day!

the hardest thing i've ever done

There is a sense of pride and accomplishment that comes with knowing that I have almost completed chemotherapy. Nothing I've ever done has been as hard as this.

I am stronger than I thought I was. And tougher.

I know that I still have one more horrible chemo and the grind of radiation (not to mention Herceptin treatments every three weeks for a year) but I just realized today that the worst really is behind me.

Breast cancer has cost me a lot, physically, mentally and emotionally. I have not stopped being angry that it happened to me (and to other women, in frightening numbers). I have, however, gained a sense of my own strength and the confidence of understanding what it means to be a 'survivor.'

I know that others have always seen me as confident but I know how often I avoided challenges or situations which made me feel scared or intimidated. I think that will happen far less often in the future.

It's not that I don't expect to feel frightened or intimidated. It's that I know I can face those fears. I've written before that I did not anticipate how much of the fight against cancer is mental. I now know that I am brave enough to face a life threatening illness and strong enough to survive treatment with my optimism and sense of humour intact. There are very few challenges that now seem insurmountable.

That is the gift my cancer has given me.

portrait of the insomniac as an eight year old boy

After tossing and turning (and a few tears of frustration), S. finally falls asleep on his bedroom floor.

bald hypochondriac

I never see other bald women when I am out in public.

For the first several weeks of being bald, I kept my head covered in public all the time. Then it got hot. And I got sweaty. And the hat or scarf started to slide around on my head.

I just don't suffer in silence very well, so I've started taking off the head covering and offering up my head to the elements (or rather, to the air conditioning. I do keep my head protected from the sun).

The first time I exposed myself like this, I was out at a nice restaurant with friends. I felt naked and acutely self-conscious at first but became gradually more comfortable. My friend B. said afterwards that there was at least one woman in the restaurant that night, hot and sweating in her wig, who was wishing she had the confidence to do what I had done.

I wonder if that's true. Given the cancer stats, there should be many more bald women out there. I'm not particularly brave, nor do I enjoy drawing attention to myself. I just don't have a high tolerance for discomfort. Am I violating some taboo I didn't know about? Where are all the bald women?

On another note, the depressed immune system from chemotherapy is exacerbating my not-so-latent hypochondriac tendencies.

My spouse took my youngest son to the doctor last week with a suspected eye infection (another child had been sent home from day care with an infection earlier in the week and D.'s eyes were suspiciously puffy), which I became sure he had given to me. All morning I complained of itchy, watery eyes. I figured it was just a matter of hours until the infection would blind me completely.

I was stunned when my spouse called to say that D. did not have an eye infection. He had a mild case of tonsillitis. My eyes cleared up immediately.

At least I can't become convinced that I have tonsillitis, too. I had my tonsils out when I was eight.