Eve of New Year's Eve

One of the great joys of this time of year (when worn out from eating and visiting) for me at least, is hunkering down on the sofa with a warm blanket and a steaming cup of cocoa to watch any number of classic movies.

Yes, there is the Sound of Music on Christmas Eve, but I'm talking REAL classics. Think A Christmas Carol (b/w version starring Alastair Sim), Miracle on 34th Street (1947 movie starring a very young Natalie Wood), It's A Wonderful Life ... You get the picture.

Over the years, many films have become an integral part of my holiday celebrations. For my late father and me, Christmas morning wouldn't be the same without at least one viewing of the above-noted version of A Christmas Carol - we'd compete to see who would be first to say the lines or spy the stagehand in the mirror. (Many thanks, Dave G, for taking up the slack in terms of the lines.) More recently, Cathy and I have enjoyed a seasonal movie screening over cocoa - at least until the last two years when health issues put a kibosh in the plans.

In the spirit of giving which is so much a part of the season, my New Year's Eve offering takes up where Dad, DG, Cathy, and I left off. Here's my video selection to help usher in all the promise 2013 holds. No, the song isn't as beautiful as last year's pick (hands down my favourite rendition of Auld Lang Syne) but it does contain both the classic film tradition and the wish that the new year start off on a happy note - and stay that way (last bit is my wish).

For some reason YouTube won't let me upload the video I wanted to include here. It's an actual clip from the movie Holiday Inn where Bing Crosby sings the song to Marjorie Reynolds (while serving up turkey dinners in the inn's kitchen). There are clips from that movie in this video, too, as well as some from After the Thin Man and others. Hope you enjoy!

And happy new year to all!

Christmas Wishes

Happy Christmas Eve!

May all my gentle readers awake tomorrow to find they have been visited by a very benevelant Santa - one that didn't feel the need to add to your already growing ugly Christmas sweater collection. Of course, there is always the chance the jolly ol' elf has a sense of humour as big as his belly. Exhibit A: what he left me last year.

Better yet, keep the Christ in Christmas - He is, after all, the reason for the season. And may you all experience the light and love that marks this special time of the year - no matter what you may or may not believe.

In the immortal words of Tiny Tim, "God bless us, every one."

End of the World - not what you think

So, here we are at December 22. A day after the day many believed the world would come to an end. As with every other predication made of such a calamity - whether by Nostradamus, various religious groups, or other Doomsday pundits - the world-wide angst over the rumoured possibility was all for naught. Or was it?


No, I don't believe some great apocalyptic event is going to befall us any time soon but maybe, just maybe, the world as we have come to know it IS coming to an end. Or at least undergoing some very radical changes. This may not be a bad thing in the end.

Not that long ago, the world was rattled by what became known as the Arab Spring. A few short months later, the Occupy movement swept through much of Europe and North America. Toss in the Euro turmoil and the dethroning of long-serving political leaders like Berlusconi in Italy. In India and parts of Africa, there are increasing calls for improved treatment of women and children. Closer to home, First Nation's rights and environmental concerns are coming to the fore as never before. In Quebec, members serving at all political levels are suddenly being held accountable for gang and mafia-affiliations. And south of the 49th, possibly for the first time in US history, there is serious talk of changing one of the Constitution's most volatile clauses, i.e. the right to bear arms. Meanwhile, in the face of dwindling congregations, various faith groups are grappling with mounting pressure to deal with weighty issues such as the ordination of women, same sex blessings/marriages, and access to safe abortions. The list goes on as calls for change are echoing in other quarters as well.

It seems all around the world, at every political level, every facet of society, citizens are rallying against the status quo. In some cases, people are fed up with totalitarian regimes and oppressive laws and/or the inequality between large portions of the citizenry. I liken the situation to everyone on the planet suddenly taking a role in that old movie Network, and collectively screaming that they are mad as hell and not taking "it" any more - even if they can't find the words to express what "it" is or what specifically is distressing them.

In other cases, there is a sense that if something doesn't change in specific aspects of society, matters will quickly become so skewed in a negative direction that any attempt to remedy things in the future will prove to be too little too late.

I remember reading somewhere some time ago that all of this was predicted via astrology and/or numerology. Perhaps. Whatever, it is interesting that so many people in so many places have hit their tipping point almost simultaneously. If you're more inclined to adhere to the so-called Mayan take, you might not have been as far off as naysayers would like you to believe. Perhaps only the manifestation of "the end" was not what you expected.

To me, the end of the year is more about the advent of something new rather than the termination of something gone before. Although the very number 2013 sounds ominous it might, in fact, prove to be the entry into a happier world for everyone.

Let’s just hope cooler heads prevail. My own included.

Inspiring Thoughts for Any Season

Many thanks to Jill and Janet for passing this along. Beautiful images and very thought-provoking words.

Hair today ...

Over the last couple of days I've noticed a number of little hairs clinging to everything from the bathroom sink to my cellphone. While polishing my smile at bedtime last night, I discovered the source: my hair is starting to fall out.

This is no great surprise as it is a very common side effect of radiation treatment, especially when targeted at the head. The loss is nowhere near as dramatic as the first time (during initial chemo/rad treatment five years ago). At that time, each hair on my head was about three to four inches in length. This time 'round, they are all about 1/2 inch as I had a very close buzz cut prior to recent surgery.

The cool thing about have such short hair just now is that I can easily manipulate the hairs so encourage some patterns to take shape as the hair falls out. By gentling rubbing on a given spot, I can create a bald patch within seconds. Current plan is to create a series of star-shaped bald bits, in celebration of the Christmas season. Must say at least one of my attempts more closely resembles a squished bug, but I'm sure I'll get the hang of some type of technique before all the stubble ends up in the garbage bin. Will post photo once there is something to see!

Have asked some of my more creative friends to apply henna designs to my scalp once all the hair is out. Feel this pre-henna stage is a good time to allow my own creative juices to get in on the act.

Rejoining the World

After three days of physical and emotional hell, I'm starting to feel a bit more like my pre-surgery self. Yesterday was by far the worst. Guess all the angst I hadn't addressed over the past five years found an opportunity in my recent vulnerability. Confess that when I was told the "inhibitions" section of my brain was the area affected by these latest metastasis (forgot to mention surgeon found a second smaller tumour during surgery but felt a second craniotomy would be too much trauma so opted to have the radiation work its magic instead) I never thought that it would manifest as a rant that won't stop. Why couldn't I just be promiscuous or something like that? Would be a heck of a lot more fun if nothing else.


How to describe my recent mental state. Only clear thoughts were negative - all the things I should have done but didn't, all the negative things (real or perceived) that have been done or said to me over my lifetime, that sort of thing. No, there were no suicidal thoughts. Been there. Not in a hurry to return any time soon. What I really needed was a darn good cry. Can't remember when I last turned on the waterworks but once the tears started to flow I felt an instant sense of relief. But then I couldn't stop crying, and that was just as unsettling. The worst part was not being able to articulate what precisely was bothering me. Just a lot of pent up stress, angst and emotion I suppose. But I have to wonder why it picked now to come to the fore.

At least the clouds have started to part, even a little, and I'm seeing some semblance of light beyond.

Around a month ago, when I first learned of the metastasis to my brain, I requested some time to deal with the news and subsequent treatment on my own.

Previous experience breaking such news resulted in numerous phone calls from well-intentioned individuals who somehow thought telling me about all their friends who have been diagnosed with cancer (folks I don't know and am likely to never meet) would somehow help ease my stress. Or I would hear about someone else's hospital experience (seriously, what health care professional would send anyone home if they were at risk of contracting an infection - although they might prescribe anti-clotting agents) or surgical mishap. Others would rattle on about having similar pain e.g. in the back, yet make a miraculous recovery after winning a trip to a warmer clime. Then there were the folks who needed more consoling than I did, or somehow managed to punctuate every response I had to their questions with a tisk-tisk click of the tongue. I know all these comments were well-intentioned, but given I was entering the most vulnerable phase of my cancer journey thus far I really wasn't prepared to take on anyone else's angst or fears. Hence my request for no phone calls. I was, however, willing to accept written correspondences via post or email which I responded to when I was able. To those who opted for that route of communications who also realized that I was willing to talk about anything other than my illness, I offer my sincere thanks.

I am gradually getting past the recent dark period. I hope it permanently goes away but suspect that is a very faint hope. Even so, I'm doing everything in my power to return to the land of the living.

Roz and Penny came by Sunday and helped get me back on track by sorting out my meds (I was weaning off the dex far too quickly it turns out) and forced me to get out of the house. Both were things I couldn't seem to do on my own. I'm not feeling stable enough to drive right now, and am not keen on being around crowds of people lest I pick up a cold or flu or other bug. On the other hand, wallowing in a pity party for one has never been useful and cabin fever does little to boost the psyche.

I'm taking phone calls again, and seeing people individually or in small groups. Also starting to see some of the funny things that make life so wonderful - something I haven't been able to find in several weeks. And while I am not exactly swept up in the holiday hohoho, I am finding little ways to celebrate with family and close friends. In this no gift/no card-giving year, I'm more convinced than ever that it is the shared love and goodwill of that makes the season.

Police Incident

Note to self: No matter how well I might feel I'm coping with my ever-changing life, there is always something darker lurking just below the surface. In addition to fear of where the next twist in my medical journey is going to take me, there is an unshakeable sense of impending doom. For example, I cannot get past the thought that this is likely my last Christmas. I need to find a safe outlet for all of that. In the meantime, recent brain-related issues have brought some of the frustration associated with those thoughts to the fore. In a roundabout way, I'm grateful in that the experience has oddly helped me cope somewhat better on an entirely new level. But not without some added emotional pain and frustration along the way.

My last post focused on how well I've recovered from my most recent surgery. A remarkable thing indeed, although I mis-wrote that I was eating lunch shortly after departing from the post-surgery recovery room. For the record, I wasn't even allowed water that first day - although I did opt for a couple of oral meds so my throat didn't completely dry up. Other than that, I had nothing more than a couple of sponge swabs to suck on. The first time I was allowed any amount of fluids let alone solids was the next day. That's when Ellen took the photo of me and my lunch tray.

I continued to improve until the afternoon of my second radiation treatment. That day I couldn't walk the four blocks from the Cancer Agency to Donna's place. I had to take a taxi. When I arrived at her condo, I went straight to bed and didn't wake up until it was time to go to the Agency for the next treatment the following morning. When I was at home for a break over the weekend, I was pretty much confined to bed.

Full-brain radiation results in an unbearable amount of swelling in the brain, far more than the surgery itself created. Migranes became a regular occurance as did nausea and subsequent vomiting. Head not at all happy. Nor was my sacrum largely due to the amount of time I had to sit on or get on and off a very hard x-ray table - halfway up or down was the worst as that's when the skin pulls tightest in that area of the body and the pelvic area bones take the most weight and strain. Walking wasn't particularly comfortable either. So it was decided that my sacrum should also receive a hit of radiation. That came on the final day of treatment, following the usual two-sided blast to the brain. I could actually feel the laser burning my skin and heating up the bone throughout the process, and the sacrum/pelvic area was even more tender when I wiggled my way off the x-ray table. Suddenly all radiation-related side effects were intensified. Dexamethasone dosage was doubled but I also needed hydromorphone (dilaudid) to help keep the pain under control. Not a happy time for brain, butt, tummy or any other part of my person.

As luck would have it, all this was taking place as the BC Cancer Foundation was ramping up its annual Christmas campaign. Everywhere I went in the Agency I was pursued by folks wanting me to buy raffle tickets or books or what have you. Lost count of the number of signs pleading for donations. More nausea set in as a result.

I used to be a regular donor to the BC Cancer Foundation and every/any other cancer-related charity. I also volunteered my time, much of it while undergoing initial chemo and radiation treatments. I thought I was doing a good thing, honouring family members and friends who had cancer. It was also a way of honouring my parents' philanthropy in that same direction - Dad started the volunteer driver program in South Surrey and was a regular driver himself. For several years he co-ordinated one of the largest door-to-door fundraising campaigns in that same area, and both he and Mom put in copious hours handling hundreds of blossoms on Daffadil Days. As I stated in an earlier post, in time I began to question the increasing corporatisation of all of these organizations' funding campaigns. And, yes, the Vim & Vigour thing continues to be a very big sore on my backside.

It has been some time since I made regular visits to the Vancouver agency campuses thanks to the ability to have many of my non-trial chemos administered through the hospital in Sechelt. Suddenly, for 10 straight days, everywhere I went I was subjected to V&V magazine as well as constant pleas for funds. In addition, the local media was finally telling the world what I already knew: that the BC Cancer Foundation does not give nearly the amount of money to research it says it does.

Understand, I think it is wonderful that the BCCF gives around 70% of what it raises to research. I would simply appreciate it if they were more honest about where the remaining money goes.

[[Don't believe me? Check out the Foundation's annual documents filed with the Canada Revenue Agency*. I was especially taken aback by the amount channeled into fundraising - akin to driving around asking for gas money so you can ask for gas money, no? Compensation lavished on senior personnel was another eye-opener. No thought that charity begins at home with these folks it seems. The cost of obtaining the rights for V&V (the lovely Amy at McMurray Publishing in Phoenix, AZ told me the BCCF bought the exclusive rights "for that jurisdiction" so at least no other local medical patients are subjected to the rag) is buried somewhere in the reported administraton fees. Yes, getting a mag this way is far less expensive than producing one from scratch, but that is yet another use of funds purportedly raised for research which are not going to their intended use. As for the recent coupling with Enbridge for one of the Foundation's major fundraisers, well that's a great way to have job security, no? But I digress.]]

From my experience, the BC Cancer Foundation is not at all interested in hearing from anyone who is not fully supportive of their tactics. I've filled out every survery, every comment card, sent emails, met with patient support reps at the Agency, and done pretty much everything else I can think of to get someone to understand that not all cancer patients like being pawns in the ongoing deception. No response. (If you are an articulate young person or a young mother with young children who says anything remotely positive about the Foundation or the research it purports to fund, you are whisked onto the lecture circuit so fast it will make your head spin. Personally I'm waiting for a wide-eyed pet to be the next Foundation spokesperson - nothing rakes in the dollars quite like kids and animals!) Sooooo when approached repeatedly for donations and having V&V thrown in my face for 10 straight days, I opted to try the only avenue I hadn't yet approached. Following my treatment, I walked to the nearest BC Cancer Foundation office to try to make my case in person.

As it happened, the closest office was on Heather Street, almost directly across from the BC Cancer Agency where I get my treatments. Nobody was in the front office area, so I had to call out before anyone came to see what I wanted. That's when I was informed that I was standing in the event planning office. That's all they did there, plan fund-raising events. And sell merchandise bearing the BC Cancer Foundation logo. Since nobody there would be able to address my concerns, the nice man who came to talk to me offered to get the business card of BCCF President and CEO, Douglas Nelson. The man asked me to wait until he got back and then left the building. For some reason I felt that would be a good time to tell the other staff members that they were making a living on the backs of the sick and dying, and that they should be ashamed of their role in the deceptive practices of their employer. That's when two attractive young women marched up and told me to leave. I refused on the grounds their superior had told me to wait. That's when one of them laughed - likely a nervous laugh, but a laugh just the same. Then she started rolling her eyes. That's when I dropped the first F-bomb as in "what the f*** is so funny?" or "what the f*** are you laughing at?". She responded by calling the police. The officer showed up at the same time as Mr. Nelson (and a bizarre woman who said nothing but was constantly shoving a box of tissues at me - how much does it cost the BCCF to have an offical Kleenex holder? FYI, the tissues are not standard hospital issue one-ply but triple-ply and the same colour as my paper panties. Wonder how many research dollars are diverted to fancy nose wipes.)

The officer left after less than a minute. He obviously concurred with my insistance that I wasn't bad but merely very angry and that his time and the city's resources would be better spent if he would pursue some nerdowell evildoer.

For his part, Mr. Nelson may have sat with me for a time, but he didn't hear a thing I said. Rather, he responded to each question, each comment with a well-rehearsed pat answer (in the media these are called talking points). Once again my concerns were totally blown off.

But there is a happy ending to all of this.

Not only were my family members and friends spared news footage of my possible arrest for disturbing the peace by demanding the BC Cancer Foundation be more truthful in its remarks about the amount of money which actually goes to cancer research (closer to $23million not the much touted $50+million the BCCF claims - see that T3010 for proof) but I discovered a way to bypass the BCCF altogether and, thereby, ensure my donations for research actually go to researchers. It is heartbreaking to know that most if not all cancer researchers are forced by the current system of fundraising to spend more time seeking funding than doing any form of research. How do I know? I have friends who just happen to be cancer researchers. They also tell me there is often not enough money for basic office and lab supplies let alone salaries for researchers. A very sad state of affairs.

I am hoping that, somehow, the BCCF learns to be more sensitive to the affect its various activities have on many of the people it claims to be helping. There has to be some forum for bad players like me who don't feel comfortable quietly accepting the current way of doing things. Nobody likes to be used or abused or disrespected. People who are ill far less so. I also have little doubt that the majority of donors - who are not counted among the healthy wealthy who insist on getting something in return for their dollars be it their name emblazed on a building or invitations to lavish gala events - like being deceived re where their donation actually goes. Given the BCCF's track record, I truly doubt ticking the "research" box on a form in any way ensures an attached donation is used solely for that purpose.

So here's the happy ending:
I've learned of a way to give to cancer research without having to go through the BC Cancer Foundation or any other agency. Yes, Virginia, it is possible to given a donation directly to a researcher or research team. I found my donation destination via a simple Google search. Log onto the BC Cancer Research Centre website (http://www.bccrc.ca/) and click on the Departments and Programs page, or do a search for a specific cancer or research field. If you contact the researcher/research team directly, they will tell you the best way to donate to them directly. Okay, so you might not get your name on a building, or even a tax receipt, but at least you'll know your donation is going where you intended it to go.

*  http://www.cra-arc.gc.ca/ebci/haip/srch/charity-eng.action?r=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.cra-arc.gc.ca%3A80%2Febci%2Fhaip%2Fsrch%2Fbasicsearchresult-eng.action%3Fk%3Dbc%2520cancer%2520foundation%2520%26s%3Dregistered%26%3DSearch%26p%3D1%26b%3Dtrue%26&bn=118818434RR0001   Click on the T3010 for details as submitted by the BCCF.

Wild Couple of Weeks

Am slowly getting up and about. The operative word being slowly. Between headaches (technically my first-ever migranes) and continuing back pain, I can easily be out paced by any snail or turtle that happens to cross my path. At least I'm making progress.

The last couple of weeks are something of a blurr now. In many ways time plodded along, in other ways it flew by so fast. Of course, I was unconscious for a portion of one day. Several folks have asked me to describe some of my experience, and I'll try to do that here. With luck, my make-shift photo techniques will offer up some visual aids for the amusement of all.

I'll begin with describing the pre-op routine I underwent the night prior to surgery. During the morning pre-op meeting (with nurse, anethatist, etc.) at the hospital, I was given a speciman container filled with 2% chlorhexidine gluconate, an anticeptic. The instruction was to shower just before going to bed, using the anticeptic in place of any soap or body wash. There was enough in the container to scrub every nook and cranny from top of head to tip of toes of my person a total of three times. I felt very clean crawling into bed that night. In the morning, after checking in, I was handed a sealed package containing six towlettes that had been soaked in the same solution. The towelettes were snow white, and had a texture similar to a cat's tongue. Using a numbered drawing as a guide, I was told to use one towelette on each section of my body, being careful not to overlap any of the areas. Happened to glance at the towelette used on my chest, and noted a distinctive beige colouring. Was it dead skin? Something that had oozed out of my pores overnight? Dirt that failed to come off during the previous night's ample washing? I have no idea, but I suddenly felt very dirty despite giving myself a most thorough cleaning. The pre-op nurse told me all this cleaning was part of a program to help reduce the number of infections patients contract while in hospital. Apparently the method has lowered the incidence of H1N1, Norwalk, c-difficile, and other infections by at least 40%. So all worth the effort, me thinks. But the cleaning wasn't limited to my skin alone. Oh no. The most amusing aspect of the routine (at least for Phil and Ellen who were standing by until I was called to the OR) came when a nurse continued the disinfecting process by attacking any nasties that might be lurking in my nose. That's right, my nose. She first swabbed each nostril with a bright blue solution, and then inserted a light bulb (like those little LED Christmas bulbs) in each nostril. I could feel things warming up, but it wasn't to the point of being uncomfortable. The blue solution did give off a rather odd odour, however. Here's a photo Ellen took via her cell phone. The spiffy glasses helped protect my eyes from the very bright light that had once been my dainty proboscis.

Within minutes after that, I was whisked into the OR, had a brief chat with the surgical team, and said goodnight to those gathered around.

Next thing I knew I was in recovery and being wheeled onto the neuro-ICU ward. Lunch arrived a short time later as did the first group of residents making their rounds. As Penny reported, I was awake enough to greet the group even if I could only see half of them.

An added benefit to having one eye swollen completely shut was that I couldn't identify much of anything on the lunch tray. This in no way enhanced its edibility, but did manage to divert my gaze enough to venture eating at least the salad (iceberg lettuce and 1/2 tomato) and overly salty soup. I'm sure my hospital attire will soon be seen on fashion runways around the world, especially the "happy face" no-slip socks. Too bad we didn't get a photo of the amazing inflating pant legs! Wearing them was like having a constant leg massage - a nice alternative to my usual daily anti-clotting injections.

Every hour on the hour for the first two days, a nurse would check my brain function. She'd ask my name, where I was, why I was there, and then have me wiggle my fingers and toes, squeeze her hands, lift my arms and go through several other gyrations to ensure all synapses were firing as they should. At first this seemed rather silly since I knew very well who I was and could easily perform all the tasks as requested. However, I could easily overhear similar conversations being held in the adjacent rooms, with less postive results. An older gent in one room beside me had suffered a stroke, and couldn't say his name. He also thought he was in a hotel rather than a hospital, but couldn't figure out what city he might be in or what might bring him to a hotel where folks asked him odd questions. There were a number of other brain injuries, some from car or industrial accidents. Then there was the dude who just woke from a coma after being in a bar room brawl - he had several drinks, a few Tylenol for a headache, a few more drinks, got into an altercation in which he struck his head en route to the floor. When he woke up on the ward he didn't know where he was or what had happened to him, proceeded to rip out all his lines, and took out one nurse while she was emptying a drain. After that the fellow was retrained and nurses and other staff were instructed to not enter his room alone. Yup, time on the ward was a real eye-opener. Once again I considered myself very fortunate to be there under the circumstances as they were rather than as any of these others had come to be there.

Odd thing: I felt very little pain post surgery. Only thing I took was regular strength Tylenol. On the 1-10 pain scale, my discomfort never got higher than a low 3. Again, I feel very fortunate. Especially when one considers how I looked once the bandage was removed. To think that some folks pay a lot of money to look like this! If only I had surgery a couple of weeks earlier, I would have won every Halloween contest going!

Don't those staples make you think of a mini model railroad? The "track" runs across the top of my head and along the back of my ear. Another shorter track is positioned over the former cyst site about two inches above my left ear. The brusing is caused by the pooling of spinal fluid and blood post surgery.

Two weeks post-surgery, there is still some minor brusing in the under eye area as well as on the inside of my right wrist where one of the IV lines was inserted. Suspect the fact that I'm back on the anti-clotting agent dalteparin has much to do with the slowness of healing. I had the staples removed last Tues, just prior to starting radiation. My very short hair still has large globs of blood attached to it along the incision lines. Have tried to remove it using warm cloths, but hair and scabs continue to pull away as well which starts things bleeding again (thanks to the deltaparin, no doubt), so I'm letting it fall out of its own accord. All of my hair should be falling out very soon in any case, thanks to the radiation. With luck, by then the incisions will have healed enough to do a proper clean up.

So far radiation treatment is going okay. It takes longer to set things up than to do the actual treatment. The techs line the beam up to the bridge of my nose and the two bones at the back of my skull (one either side of the spine). I get two blasts of radiation, one on each side. Each blast lasts about one minute. The odd part of the whole experience is the sudden smell of ozone as the radiation beam bursts into action. The room smells like smoky bleach. Not unpleasant, but not exactly appealing either. Just strange.

I've taken a taxi to Donna's after each treatment, even though her condo is only a couple of blocks away. Guess all that attention to the brain has more of an unsettling effect that I first imagined. Know I'm suddenly quite tired. After the first treatment, I had one of the worst headaches of my life. Suspect it was my very first full-blown migrane. Lots of those odd auras like I had a few weeks back when I thought something weird was happening to my eyes. Fortunately, after the second radiation treatment, I was put back on Dexamethasone, so post radiation brain swelling is better controled and, thus, so are the headaches. But I'm still mighty tired. Had hoped to use time in town to catch up with folks I haven't seen for a while. Instead, I'm spending a lot of time in bed. Guess that's what my body wants right now.

Gratitude

A very humble but heartfelt thank you to all who visited me in hospital, sent cards and emails, offered up prayers and sent out healing vibes over the last few weeks. Your efforts were not in vain and will not be quickly forgotten. I honestly believe there is power in all that positive energy. May each of you receive double in return what you've sent my way as "thank you" fails to express the depth of my gratitude.

On the Mend

Many thanks to Penny for providing the post-surgery update. Yes, it is true. I was out cold one minute, and up having lunch and talking to the recovery team the next. I am trying to provide photographic evidence, but since my desktop computer crashed I haven't had the technology at my fingertips to upload photos as I might like - laptop doesn't talk to my other equip (printer, scanner, etc) and I can't find the card reader for my cell phone. No matter. Take my word for it, I'm just ducky. Really.

Am currently rushing to get ready for an early morning flight into Vancouver. Will see Phil & Ellen off at YVR before heading to the Cancer Agency for my first radiation appointment. Not sure I'll actually have a treatment tomorrow, but know I'm slated to be glowing for each of five days (Mon-Fri) for two weeks.

Had the 35 staples removed from my nog this morning. Scalp feels very odd. The staples formed a sort of ridge on either side of the incisions and it is taking some time to settle back into the natural flat state. Still can't raise my right eyebrow all that much, and there remains a fair bit of swelling and bruising around the right eye where the various fluids and blood settled post-surgery. Over all, it looks quite good if one compares to how things appeared this time last week.

Interesting how folks around Sechelt have reacted to my new look. Those who know me, even slightly (e.g. various staff at Clayton's) first express concern that I might be in pain. When I tell them they should see what the "other guy" looks like, it kinda breaks the ice and conversation comes easily. I have no trouble talking to people about what has happened to make me look the way I currently do. Suspect it is rather a shock when viewed for the first time. Lots of laughs about how, if my timing was better, I could have won every Halloween costume party in town. What I wasn't prepared for is the number of strangers who feel the need to stare/glare/or mutter "freak" or some such thing. Interesting little insight into how visually "different" people in our society must feel on a day-to-day basis. Oh yes, and then there was the waitress at the restaurant in Vancouver that we stopped at en route to the ferry on Friday. She practically ran up to our table and demanded to know if I was in a car accident!! Turned out her daughter was in a very serious accident the night before and only escaped serious injury because her date (the first time out with the guy) saw the other car heading their way and threw himself between the girl and the car thereby taking the full force of the collision. Best reaction: the huge grin I got from a very young boy (about 4 yrs old) on the street - I like to imagine he saw all that surgical steel like I did, as one nifty mini model railroad track.

Speaking of images, somehow managed to get a cell phone photo off to Roz. She asked what gang I had joined that prompted me to adopt such a fine new look. A gang? Hmmmm. First thought that came to mind was the Homely Sheared Locks (hey, I was an Arthur Conan Doyle fan before Robert Downey Jr was born!). Roz and her sister Jan are giving a thumbs up to the Surgical Steel Magnolias. Once I get some photos up, I am happy to receive other gang name suggestions. Am currently trying to envision what the full-patch jacket of a member of the Surgical Steel Magnolias might look like. Perhaps I can work some of the staples I kept into a spiffy insignia motif of some sort? Seems there's nothing quite like cancer to get the creative juices flowing, at least for me.

So to sum up: I'm doing well. Better than anyone expected but right on target for what everyone hoped. Surgery is over, staples are out, and radiation schedule will be established tomorrow.

Will post further news as it comes. With luck, I'll also be able to include some images to aid with the explanations.   

Channelling Janet

At Janet's request, I am providing an update - sure hope no one is expecting the usual level of entertainment.

The surgery today went well and was, in fact, completed a little more quickly than anticipated - even including the "beautification" of the scalp.  While the anaesthetic may have bought the surgeon a little peace and quiet, the word tonight is that the nurses are having their ears talked off by a very alert patient wearing a wide white headband.  Are we surprised?

Penny

The Plan

Had a whirlwind of appointments in Vancouver yesterday. Met with the neurosurgeon, the radiation oncologist, and also had yet another CT scan of my brain (third in two weeks). Upshot of all that is that I will be having surgery on Tues am followed by a course of radiation. Will give more details later, but here's the short story:

Have pre-op at 8am on Monday, so we (Phil, Ellen and I) are heading in to Vancouver on Sunday night. Surgery is scheduled for 7:30am on Tuesday. Procedure will include removal of the lesion in my frontal lobe as well as the annoying subcutaneous cyst above my left ear. Surgery time should be about 2hrs. Believe I'll be recovering in VGH. How long I'm there will depend on how quickly I recover from surgery, but am told to expect discharge by Friday. May be sooner or later, depending on my response. If I'm feeling well enough, and there is every indication that I will, radiation will begin next Mon. If I'm not up for that, it will be delayed until the following Monday. Will have entire brain radiated to ensure any potential sites (esp microscopic) are also dealt with. Treatment will be five days a week for about two weeks.

Given that the brain lesion is encapsulated and in a "quiet" area of the brain (eg not responsible for speech, motorskills, etc), it is very low risk. Surgeon said very little chance of side effects, especially since I don't currently experience seizures or anything like that. Essentially he'll cut a hole in the skull, take out the growth, replace the removed bone, and sew me up. The cyst is located between the scalp and skull, so no bone to deal with there.

Am told I will need to be much more vigilant about doing brain exercises like crosswords, sudoku, factual comprehension reading, etc to help the brain recover. Bonus: these things have also been proven to help slow the aging of the brain in non-surgical patients so will also serve as an ounce of prevention in that regard. Both the surgeon and radiation oncologist stressed "no passive TV watching!!" as it does absolutely nothing in terms of cognitive funtion. Good thing I don't have a TV and only watch anything via computer - a cheap alternative to TV that lets me watch what I want when I want (usually catch up on all my programs in one evening so TV doesn't rule my life like it might have at one time - you know, it's 9pm on Tues and "my show" is on).

Phil and Ellen are out until the end of the month, so they'll be available to help me both here and in Vancouver. They've been attending various medical appts with me already. Will likely stay with Donna during radiation treatment as she is so close to the hospital. Palliative care team is on deck to help out once I get back home as are several friends. I honestly don't know at this point if I'll need any of this assistance, but won't hestiate to ask for help if needed.

I'm staying away from group activities for the time being.

Will update with details as they come in. If I can't update the blog, Penny has agreed to post any news she feels appropriate to share.

Had my head shaved today. Prefer my stylist's touch to that of the pre-op team. LOVE having a wash-n-go head once more.

All for now.

Pressing Matters

My GP just called with results of Friday's x-ray. Turns out I have added another compression fracture to my rapidly shortening spine. Now boast injuries at T7, T8, and T10. Toss in some metastises in the sacrum (and an accompanying crack) plus a wee bit around C4 together with osteoporosis in pelvis and it's quite the little mess. My days of lifting - heavy or otherwise - have officially ended.

Pop

Pop is a sound I've come to dread. Not the sugary crackle of a refreshing soda, but the actual distinct sound that can only be described as a literal pop. I heard the sound twice on Friday, and am still in recovery mode.

The first pop was linked to my computer. In truth, the pop came on Thursday. When I first tried to turn on the machine, nothing happened at all. I unplugged everything and tried again. Eventually, after a soft little pop, the motor ground to life and all was as per usual. I took this as a sign that the computer's days were seriously numbered and took the opportunity to purchase some extra memory sticks in order to download my photo files, many images of which exist nowhere else. Too late. That little pop appears to be the computer's last gasp. No matter what I did on Friday, the machine could not be resusitated, and so the photo files are gone for good - unless I can find a computer tech who can give it a temporary boost so the images can be downloaded.

Many, many thanks to Donna and Eric for anticipating the need for a laptop back-up plan.

Less than an hour after the computer confrontation, I found myself poking about in my craft closet in an attempt to gather together some weaving and felting equipment and supplies that I was giving to friend Merrily for her birthday. My much-loved but little used table loom was to be included in the gift pile, but it was wedged haphazardly in the back of the closet and in need of one big tug to loosen it. Without thinking of my recent back issues, I stepped up and gave a heave. That's when pop number two made itself known.

The sound eminating from my back wasn't the worst of the experience. The immediate sensation as what I imagine an elastic band must feel. Picture a long thick elastic band running the length of my back. When I tugged at the loom, it seemed as if the elastic was being pulled through an opening in the middle of my spine when a disembodied hand was giving it a good twang - hence the source of the pop sound. While this was happening, I couldn't breath. Couldn't inhale even a tiny bit and had no desire to exhale, only get air in not out. Suddenly my head seemed to come unglued. There was a terrible roaring sound in my ears that was almost immediately joined by a ringing noise. I wanted to pass out. No, I wanted to vomit. No, I wanted to lie down. Not move... Went into the bathroom in case I was going to be sick. Wasn't. Took the opportunity to splash cold water on my face. No doubt I was going into a bit of shock. Thankfully had the presence of mind to call my neighbour Maryilyn who happily drove me to my doctor's office (I just happened to have an appointment scheduled that am re another matter - updating him re latest oncology developments). Was sent to hospital for x-rays. Still awaiting results. Given 'script for hydromorph to help with pain managment. Ran into friend Maggie at pharmacy. She drove me home. George and Merrily were patiently waiting for my arrival at home - we were going to have a birthday lunch to mark Merrily's day while she opened her loom and other goodies. They brough enough food to feed an army, so my larder is well stocked.

Since Friday I've been spending most of my time on my sofa, which is much firmer than my bed. For the first 24hrs my diet was almost exclusively hydromorph and dexamethasone with the odd bit of food to help digest the meds. The drugs allowed me to find one comfortable position that I could lie in for a prolonged period of time, thereby greatly reducing the chance of reinjuring my back. Unfortunately, nothing helped give relief when I coughed - amazing how many little muscles go into that activity.

It's now Sunday. I'm able to get up and move around a bit. Lifting nothing more than a fork. Stopped using the hydromorph yesterday am. Still quite sore, especially when I cough, but nothing like it was. I can sit up for brief periods of time. Even managed to sleep part of the night in my bed last night. When I am up and about, I wear a velcro back brace for extra support.

All in all, I'm okay. Terribly humbled. Pride much wounded. But okay. Hey, it's taken my mind off my brain for a bit. And if there is any issue re the spinal cord, I'm seeing a neuro-surgeon in a couple of days so he'll know what to do about it. Yup, things could definitely be worse.

Cerebrally Speaking

Although much improved with the increase in dexamethasone, my brain continues to make its feelings about the current state of things known. As someone who rarely gets a headache, constant pressure changes are something quite new. Most of the time there is little more than a vague sensation that things aren't quite as they might otherwise be. At other times there is dizziness and/or the feeling that something is pushing my head in a downward motion. Insomnia seems to have taken up any moments not already dominated by fatigue. This week, I've spent two full days in bed together with the better part of two others. Ambition is becoming an increasingly rare commodity.

One of the most annoying side effects is the inability to concentrate. The other night I was up until 3am and feeling rather energized. Assumed it would be the ideal opportunity to give the house a much-needed thorough cleaning. However, every time I started in on a task, my attention was distracted by something else that needed to be dealt with. In the end, I likely clocked a good 10,000 steps but accomplished absolutely nothing more than a mild aerobic workout. Perhaps the most telling example of how my mind is wandering comes via the short silk shawl that I am attempting to knit. The pattern calls for a three-stitch rib along the long edge. At some point I noticed the rib looked "stretched". Turns out I had inexplicably changed to a four-stitch rib about three inches into the project. Since the initial/greater portion of the shawl is straight stocking stitch, this wasn't really an issue at first but it did present a problem when I began working the lace trim as the stitch count completely off. Rather than rip out the majority of the shawl, I simply went back to the three-stitch rib and carried on with the lace pattern. It is the most simple of lace patterns, yet I have had to redo each pattern row 2-4 times. I also noticed that the centre stitch, a knit stitch that forms the backbone or point of the triangle, is crossed in several places along its length thereby creating an unintentional elongated "float". Certainly not my finest knitting. At least the yarn is pretty.

Toyota Time

Have an appointment with Dr Toyota, the neurosurgeon, on Nov 15. Feel I'm in good hands. Not only is he rated the top neurosurgeon in the Lower Mainland, but is also Provincial Chair of Neuro-Oncology. Bonus: sounds like he has a sense of humour so we should get along just fine.

Mindful Matters

Spoke with my oncologist today.

Results of the brain scan were much better than feared. There appears to be only the one lesion, and it is quite contained. There is no evidence at this time of anything developing in any other area of my otherwise unspoilt (albeit occasionally overindulged) grey matter. This is extremely good news as it allows for the widest possible range of treatment options.

Over the next couple of days, my oncologist will be meeting with the BC Cancer Agency's lead neurosurgeon (one Dr. Toyota - yup, he's driving this project) as well as the radiation oncologist who worked with me three years ago. Together they will determine the best plan of action. This may or may not include surgery, targeted radiation, full-brain radiation (which would also take care of any microscopic lesions that aren't yet able to be detected via CT scans and other tests), steroid treatment, other treatments I haven't yet heard mentioned, or a combination of two or more options. There is also the chance the team will determine that things are better off left alone for the time being. Or I might be given the full meal deal. Should hear early next week when I'm to meet with the team to discuss their decision.

The general plan is to stabilize the situation in the brain, and then get back to regular chemo treatments. My next drug of choice is TDM-1, the investigative drug from last year's study. Taking this will help slow the progression of the disease in other parts of my body.

I've been asked why switching to another chemo drug isn't the advised route at this stage. The simple answer is that the drugs that work on my type of cancer (HER-2 pos) aren't able to cross the "blood-brain barrier". In other words, the brain is designed to keep harmful chemicals such as chemo out. It's a natural form of protection. Unfortunately, the brain isn't smart enough to know if chemo is good or bad, so it keeps it out just in case. At least that's my understanding. (not sure why it lets hallucinogenics in, not that I know from personal experience, but how else does one get "high" - anyone?) So if something goes sideways in the brain, it must be dealt with directly rather than indirectly, hence treatments such as surgery and radiation. Like I said, that's my understanding of it.

There is some minor swelling in the brain at present, no doubt due to something foreign pushing resident grey matter out of the way as it tries to expand. Am taking dexamethasone to combat that issue. Get a tad dizzy sometimes, but won't drive if I think it will be an issue. Other than that, it's life as usual. Well, usual for me at least.

So, the short story: There is only one, contained lesion in my brain. My medical team is meeting to determine the best course of action. I will hear from them early next week. Depending on the course of action, I may need surgery or other treatment that will require me to be in Vancouver for a period of time. Or not. I may call in some of those very generous offers of help. Or not. Much depends on what the plan is.

Must say I'm feeling a lot better just knowing what's between my ears and that someone is thinking of doing something with it.

Will post further information as it is received.

Not Only One Seeing a Can of Worms

Many thanks to those who responded to my post of yesterday. I knew I couldn't possibly be the only person feeling this way. To those who hold a different point of view, that's okay. We're all entitled to our own opinion. Since this is my blog, however, my opinion really is the only one that counts. But feel free to offer some opposition if it does your soul good.

To clarify one point:
I fully support those who feel the pink ribbon, wearing/owning pink things, and contributing to the various cancer fund-raisers is a means of showing their support and solidarity for loved ones battling the disease. I also realize that for those personally touched by cancer, these things can be a source of affirmation, of confirming that they aren't struggling alone. I totally get that.
The point that I was hoping to make is that, for me, the commercialization of the disease - and the cult of guilt inflicted on anyone who doesn't buy into the movement - undermines any good the plan may have originally been set up to achieve.

Interesting that the CBC would pick today (the day after my rant) to air a piece about the financial crises so many cancer patients and their families face. If you missed it, check it out here:

http://www.cbc.ca/news/health/story/2012/11/01/mb-cancer-report-hardships-winnipeg.html

When you're done, scroll to the bottom of the page and read some of the comments left by other readers. More thoughts to ponder.

And here's a little tidbit of info collected back in the summer re where much of Canadian Cancer Society donations are going:

http://www.cbc.ca/news/health/story/2012/11/01/mb-cancer-report-hardships-winnipeg.html

'Nough said. It's a new month. On to other things.

Fuck the Pink Ribbon Campaign

Now that October is coming to an end, I feel somewhat safer in launching into a diatribe based on my feelings about the ubiquitous pink ribbon. To spare those gentle readers who are sensitive to any thought of someone - especially someone entering the final stages of breast cancer - dissing the program, I'll cut to the chase: It ain't about finding a cure, it ain't about helping people in need, it's all about money and always will be.

Think about it. So many companies are making a tidy profit over the sales of items coloured Pepto Dismal pink that there is little incentive to slow their marketing efforts. How much money from the sale of a pink high-end dough mixer do you really think makes it to the charity? With everything from toilet paper to garden tools and everything beyond and in between, how many of those companies would be producing any of this crap if they weren't certain of making a profit - profit based on public fear of a disease and all its implications.

If there is such a concerted effort to eradicate cancer, why are the efforts being constantly divided by competing charities at the federal, provincial and local levels? Why not one umbrella group with local representation? Why are there separate agencies/foundations for general cancer and for every separate flavour of the disease? Breast cancer groups seem to be the most prolific. Is that because tits are sexier than, say, bowels? Is it because no self-respecting Mad Man would launch a campaign based on something as close to home as testicles, but happily encourages the plastering of breasts or words pertaining to same at every possible opportunity because if they can't grope them they can at least enjoy gawking?

I find it very, very difficult to believe that the total annual administrative costs for the BC Cancer Foundation (or any of the other national, provincial or local agencies) is well under $3,000. Is NOBODY paid a salary? If not, anyone contributing to these organizations is also contributing to individual poverty of the employees thereof. Volunteers would be risking a great deal if they are the only ones responsible for the intake and distributing of such large amounts of funding.

If so much is going to finding a cure, why do the people I know who work at the BC Cancer Agency's research centre find their work increasingly jeopardized by lack of funding? Why are research projects into some forms of the disease given regular support - i.e. those with the higher public profiles - while others receive next to no funding whatsoever?

And what about the people who have/had cancer but will die of other causes? Even someone with as poor a grasp of mathematics as me can see that more people live with the disease than die of it. Why aren't they and their families getting better access to counselling? Assistance with drug costs? Other support that doesn't come cheaply?

Also, why is so much money being wasted on "special gifts" to donors - crap like address return labels, personalized note pads, pocket date books? It is highly doubtful that such a "gift" will entice someone to give if they aren't already inclined to do so. If these items are given in return for a tax receipt to the printers/producers of the offending items, surely cancer patients, their families, and the landfill would be happier to see a direct donation instead. In short, that money could be far better spent elsewhere.

In my mind, the most blatant example of waste - and insult - comes in the form of Vim & Vigour magazine. For those unfamiliar with this little rag, "Vim & Vigour is the BC Cancer Foundation's quarterly publication created to provide you with the latest in health care information with a specific emphasis on cancer prevention, screening, early detection and breakthrough research being conducted right here in B.C. at the BC Cancer Agency." Really? So why are Colin Firth, Sandra Bullock, George Clooney and other beautiful people the cover kids on each issue? Are they the face of cancer? And what of the magazine's content? The latest issue trumpets its cover story this way: "A New Day: JENNIFER HUDSON makes maintaining
her new, svelte shape look easy. Here’s how she does it—and how you can, too." I have rarely come across anything so insulting, so void of feeling, so incompassionate. AND FROM THE BC CANCER FOUNDATION NO LESS!!! Don't believe me? Check out  http://bccancerfoundation.com/sites/default/files/vv_fall_2012-final.pdf

How much of those donation dollars went to pay for that crap?!

Yes, Virginia, there are scarier things about October than Halloween. Clearly Breast Cancer Awareness Month is one of them.

Since many of you have asked, I'm putting my money in my local community where it will do the most good. Charity of choice in this regard is The Ruby Slipper Fund (administered through the Sunshine Coast Credit Union). I've mentioned it before but given my growing concern about how the public is being pink-washed (much like how companies green-wash - appear to be concerned about the environment but only pay lip-service at the lowest cost to do so) feel that it is best to re-introduce the fund for anyone who didn't hear about it before. The fund has helped the local hospice society purchase a special air mattress so bed-bound patients are less likely to develop bedsores. They also help with medication costs, which can be huge (My anti-clotting drug alone costs $1000/mon, never mind the rest of my meds. What has saved me is the "terminal" diagnosis - the government picks up most of my tab, but by no means all.).

All I ask is that, next time you are approached by any foundation or agency purporting to support cancer research, get some facts about exactly where your hard-earned donation will be spent. Also ask about their specific marketing strategy. If it looks insulting and insensitive to you, just imagine how it looks to someone who could benefit from money actually going to research and patient support.

In the meantime, happy Halloween!

Might as Well Laugh as Cry

Life continues to present unexpected catch-my-breath moments - like the view along the Laurel St overpass in Vancouver and the fall colours that underscored the beauty of the seawall walk that I took from my oncologist's office to the studio last Tuesday after receiving my diagnosis. Fall is my favourite season, and what my eyes beheld on that walk was a treat worth living for. This realization, as I walked along, seemed to confirm my assertion that there is wonder and joy in every minute of life if we only take the time to see it, even if we think things couldn't get darker.

Increasingly, I'm also seeing humour in the most particular things. It's almost as if someone tosses a coin and my brain chooses to interpret a given situation as pure fact or as another example of an odd/bizarre/funny incident. No doubt the latter is a coping mechanism and a very palatable one at that, at least for me.

The opening lines of that old Indigo Girl's chestnut "The Closer I am to Fine" go like this:
I'm trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
The best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously, it's only life after all

And it is only life, after all. We're here for a bit, and then we move on. That's life. That's reality. I get that.

Here's a wee something for all of you who have long wondered about my general mental state. Seems I'm not the only one to use humour to get through the tough times, and see the funny side when others see only tragedy and despair.

Below is a link to a podcast about four months in the life of comedian Tig Notaro. It aired on Public Radio International (PRI), the US version of our beloved CBC radio. Everything Tig talks about actually happened. I can more than identify with the tales of other people's responses to her situation, as well as the inappropriateness of many aspects of hospital bureacracy and stupid questions from some staff members. (That said, I have few complaints about my overall health care experience, other than what is passed off as food in medical institutions.)

Both the Prologue and Act One of the link below focus on Tig and her story, but only for the first bit of each.

I hope at least some of you find some of the humour I did in what Tig had to say and, perhaps, gain a bit more insight into what it's like to be on this side of the "terminal illness fence".

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/476/what-doesnt-kill-you

On the Border

I've never been to Stanstead, Quebec, but suspect I have some idea of what it must be like to live there. The town and its alter-ego Derby Line, Vermont, straddles the Canada-US border and, as such, poses some interesting challenges for town residents. To get into the front door of the public library, one has to pass a border pylon plunked into the sidewalk as a U.S. Border Patrol agent in a pickup looks on. A few strides through the library entrance lies the reading room, but bibliophiles have to step across a strip of electrical tape on the floor, walk out of the United States and back into Canada, where most of the books are shelved.
In the attached opera house, the performances take place in Canada, while most of the audience sits in the United States. All of this back-and-forthing no doubt causes frequent "where am I?" moments.

In many ways, I'm currently residing in a very similar space. I'm scared as hell, but also feel incredibly calm. One foot is firmly in the present while the other is drawn increasingly toward the future. I'm up for seeing a few folks from time to time but require hours of alone time. I continue to enjoy the world around me while giving over ample time for quiet reflection. Everything is strange but oh so familiar. The only other time in my life when I felt even remotely like this was while resurfacing after my full immersion baptism in Porpoise Bay some years back - nothing had changed but everything had changed.

As luck would have it, I recently heard a bit on CBC radio that might help many of my gentle readers better understand where my head is at these days - and where it has been (pardon the pun) heading for some time.

Soon after his mother was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer, Will Schwalbe quit his top publishing job and began reading ... with his mother. Together they formed The End of Your Life Book Club, it was his way to connect with her as he shared care-of-a-dying parent with his father and siblings. The bond they created and the insights they shared live on in Will Schwalbe's new book. We ask about the determination to live even while you are dying.
Download The End of Your Life Book Club: Will Schwalbe - October 15, 2012
[mp3 file: runs 00:23:06]

Two things in particular jumped out:
Will's mother kept saying how lucky she was. I totally get that.
Will's mother had a life-long habit of reading the end of a book first. I've never done that, but understand the metaphor the behaviour represents. By knowing how the story ends, his mother didn't have to focus on what was going to happen. Instead, she was able to savour the finer points of the narrative as well as the nuances of the language. He felt that was much like her attitude to her disease: she knew how her story would end so could focus her attention on living her life. Perhaps that's why I am able to continue enjoying myself despite growing medical challenges? Interesting thought.

Scan Scheduled

Brain scan is booked for next Fri, Oct 26 at St. Mary's in Sechelt. Will update further info as it becomes available. In the meantime, my Angry Birds skills are improving by leaps and bounds.

Cat Bites

If you have not yet read the previous post titled "Please Do Not ...", please do so before you read what follows:


Got the results from last week's CT scan when I saw my oncologist yesterday. Yup, that cat (CT) really bites.

The upshot of the scan results is that I am no longer able to continue on the trial drug (NKTR-102) that I've been taking. It didn't produce the results we were hoping for and also caused some side effects, such as prolonged fatigue and very suppressed immune system, that have seriously compromised my quality of life.

Here's what the CT scan showed:
There is no change re the lesions in my spleen or neck. That's good. Also, no evidence of metastasis to the liver, kidneys, or other organs. This latter bit is very good news indeed. However, there are more lesions in my lungs and sacrum/pelvis than were present a couple of months ago when I started on the current trial drug. Several previously noted lesions show some degree of growth. In short, the NKTR-102 isn't doing its job. Those findings are the reason I am no longer on the study.

The CT scan showed something else as well. There is evidence that the cancer has also spread to my brain.

I knew there was a very real possibility of this happening at some point. Like the lungs, the brain is a common site for breast cancer metastasis. Of course, knowing such things in theory doesn't reduce the shock that comes with the news that such a thing has actually happened. I felt much the same way when I first learned the disease had spread to both lungs. However, the thought of anything disturbing the fine workings of my highly sophisticated and Mensa-worthy brain is much more than a titch unsettling.

I think I'm over the initial shock of this latest bit of news. At least for now. Am concentrating on waiting to hear when a more-detailed brain scan (CT scan) will be undertaken and where it will happen - might happen sooner at St Mary's (Sechelt hospital) than at the Cancer Agency due to a smaller population making demands on the available equipment. When/wherever it happens, that scan will provide a lot more information than we have right now, and will help determine possible action that can be taken. Or not. Surgery, radiation and chemo have all been mentioned, but no plan can be formed until the oncologist knows what we're dealing with. The cancer may only be in one spot. It may be more widely spread.

I believe my oncologist said the lesion noted in my brain on last week's CT scan is about 1cm in size. That is by no means large, no matter what the basis of measurement. It is located in the frontal-most part of the brain, an area called the prefrontal cortex. The specific area affected is the part that controls inhibitions. When I asked my oncologist what effect a tumor in that area might have, she responded by saying "Think of a 72-yr-old straight-laced churchgoing man who suddenly becomes vulgar, foul-mouthed and promiscuous". Yup, that's something that needs to be taken care of before it gets too far out of hand. (Never fancied the thought of being a 72-yr-old man, churchgoing or otherwise.)  Might also explain some of the verbal outbursts I've had over the last few months (e.g. yelling at my former neighbour - the town gossip - in the local grocery store).

Good news:
It appears that, no matter whether there is one lesion or more, treatment options are available.
I will likely have a chance to knit and wear that pink hair-like hat after all!
There's a good chance I can have the much-hated sebaceous cyst removed - that bump on my head that has caused my hairstyles to be  less than perfect for so many years.
Even though the current chemo isn't helping my situation, the study drug from last year's trial is now available. I can start on that once the "brain business" is sorted out.

Better news:

Should I start exhibiting any further evidence of inhibition-related issues, the study nurse (who lives here on the Coast) and a couple of friends have volunteered to set up a LifeLine-type call system so they can respond with appropriate intervention whenever it might be required. I wonder if they'll get special superhero costumes or spiffy souped up cars for such occasions. If operating under a superhero guise, what would they be called and what would their specific superpowers be? The mind reels with possibilities.

To sum up: Remember, my life ain't over yet!! And won't be any time soon if I have anything to say about it!


Will provide more information as it becomes available. 

Please Do Not ...

This post will make much more sense after you read the following entry. But read this one first.

Know that your love, support, and prayers have meant far more to me than I can express in words. As such, I apologize for any hurt caused by what follows. It is not meant to be taken personally. It is not meant to "target" anyone in particular. It is merely an expression of what I need and do not need at this time.

As you will learn in the post that follows, this is becoming an extremely stressful time for me. What I say here is a feeble attempt to reduce at least some of that stress.

I am sorry if any of this comes across as rude. I am simply stating what I need and do not need at this time, and will try to add some explanation in the hope that y'all can "get it" a bit better.

Deep breath. Here we go:

Please DO NOT -

1) Please do not phone me. I have very little energy to talk about my situation other than to the few select people (e.g. family) who need be kept informed as things develop. Also, I do not wish to keep repeating the same information ad nauseum. Know that when I feel up to talking to you, I will call. In the meantime, I will endeavour to update this blog as much as possible.

2) Please do not project your fears on me in any conversations we do have. I do not need you to tell me that "this is awful" or "how terribly tragic". And please don't tell me to get a second opinion, or that this could lead to something else, or any other verbal wringing of hands. Should I be bald when next we meet, do not cry over my hair loss - it didn't bother me before and I doubt it will bother me should it happen again - or any other physical changes you may detect. I have my own concerns and fears to contend with. I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with yours.

3) PLEASE DO NOT TALK ABOUT ANY OF THIS WITH MY MOTHER!!! Should you talk to or see my mother, do not mention my condition. If she brings up the topic, try to change the direction of the conversation or be as vague as possible - "I haven't talked to J for sometime, but when we last spoke she was fine" will likely suffice. Mom is already worried enough about me. She also has her own health issues. I have always been upfront and honest with Mom regarding my situation. That will not change. However, it is best that she be given only essential information on a need-to-know basis - from me. She can't process much more than that.

4) Please do not suddenly start searching the Internet to find out more information about my situation. Much of what is posted is erroneous. Many of the sites are not credible. Much of the information on credible sites is outdated. While some of the case studies may pertain to others with similar conditions, each of us will have enough individual variations to make any comparison useless. My medical team is my go-to for information.

5) Please do not send me information about amazing/wonderful/break-through "cures". Cold hard fact is that should such a thing exist, it would already be in wide general use. Besides, I have no intention of spending the foreseeable future downing copious quantities of baking soda in water or pureed asparagus or whatever. Should the time come that proven science-based medicines are no longer an option, I may opt for something alternative. Or not. My medical team keeps me abreast of the most recent research regarding many non-traditional approaches as well as science-based medical advances, so I'll be in good shape to form a plan if/when the time comes.

6) Please do not suggest that what has befallen me isn't fair. I've had 50+ excellent years of a very blessed life. The only certainty in life is that none of us gets out alive. We've all gotta go sometime. I suspect that, statically, I have a far greater chance of being a traffic fatality.

7) Please do not play the "religion card" with me. Do not say things like "it's God's will" or "how can a loving God do such a thing?" or "if you would only accept 'the true faith' you will be surely saved". In my view, such rantings are an expression of the speaker's own religious hang-ups. Please keep yours to yourself. I have a very strong faith that has and continues to sustain me.

Guess that's it, at least for now.

Many thanks for your understanding.

Personally Plural

Animal group terminology:
apes = shrewdness
bears = sleuth
cats = clouder
deer = bevy
elk = gang
ferrets = business
goats = tribe
hippopotamuses = bloat
kangaroos = troop
lions = pride
moles = labour
otters = romp
porcupines = prickle
rhinoceroses = crash
sheep = drove
tigers = streak
whales = pod

Me? Well, most who know me will say I'm pretty unique so I guess there is really only one of me. Feel free to thank God for small mercies.

However, there is a misspelling in the title of this post. It really should be "pleural" not "plural".

Just spoke with the study nurse (her weekly check-in). I let her know that I'm feeling pretty good right now, but am somewhat annoyed by the persistent cough. That's when she said she remembered seeing mention of a pleural effusion on my last CT scan report. Confess I didn't realize I had such a thing or at least don't remember hearing of it, but then I've been kinda overwhelmed by info of late.

Looked up a definition of pleural effusion and this is what I found:
Your body produces pleural fluid in small amounts to lubricate the surfaces of the pleura, the thin tissue that lines the chest cavity and surrounds the lungs. A pleural effusion is an abnormal, excessive collection of this fluid.

While chest pain hasn't been an issue thus far, shortness of breath certainly is. The matter has been much more noticeable in the last month. Suspect last month's cold thing didn't help matters. No doubt the "crackling" the GP heard in my chest (when I went to see him re the cold thing) was due to the fluid build-up, even though no pneumonia was present. Although it is unlikely the fluid will ever disappear, given my general state of health, it is hoped the chemo will stabilize it and slow its spread. Guess this is my "new normal". Hey, things could be much worse, so I'll take it for what it is.

Back for More

Fall isn't shaping up to be the season I envisioned. In addition to the early return to chemo, there have been all those side effects to contend with, and then the cold thing, and then the eye thing ... Have been in bed more than I've been out. Very disappointed that I not only had to forego the Maiwa symposium lectures (at least those held in Sept) but also had to give up my space in the Japanese dye workshop. A huge debt of thanks to Lynda for delivering some of the much-sought-after dye so I can at least play with it a bit when I feel better.

Off to Vancouver again tomorrow for the start of Cycle 3. I'm still coughing up a storm, but at least my sinuses are better. Still not sure if it's allergies, a cold, chemo side effect, or something other. Time will tell, no doubt. And since this is the cycle when the much-talked-about diarrhea is supposed to take hold, I'll likely be sticking close to home for the next while. Good thing I love my house!

The eye issue seems to be improving albeit slowly. Very few floaters left and the flashes are long gone. Only irritation remaining is the cobweb effect. Apparently that will also settle in time, but may take up to six months or a year to be fully relieved. In the meantime, I will monitor for any changes that may signal a worsening of the situation, although my optomotrist and the current literature indicates that will only happen in rare cases. Besides, I have enough other things to worry about that are far more pressing at the moment - like dealing with side effects from the upcoming chemo cycle.

Not that the last few weeks have been entirely bad news. Managed to drag myself out of bed long enough to host a lunch to mark Momzy's 92nd birthday. It was great fun, especially with a surprise guest coming all the way from Florida to help her celebrate!

Okay, so I spent the rest of the day in bed recovering from the festivities. It was worth it!

Fingers crossed that Cycle 3 is another reason to celebrate.

Eye for Drama

I never thought myself a drama queen. But I might just be a drama magnet.

Seriously. In the last week I have had some interesting chemo side effects. And then I got the cold/sinus infection/cough thing. A furry intruder made himself at home in my home. And late last night something new was added to the growing list of happenings in my life.

I cannot remember what initiated the event (a cough? a sneeze?), but around 6pm I noticed that all was not as it should be with my right eye. There was a very mild sensation of something "letting go", but no pain. At the same time, there was a series of "flashes" and a marked increase in the number of floaters and other things moving through my field of vision. At first I thought it must have something to do with the NKTR-102, but when the floaters appeared to multiply overnight, I knew something was seriously amiss.

Saint Penny drove me to see my eye doctor this am. I was afraid to drive myself in case the vision thing got worse. Was terribly afraid I had a detached retina.

As luck would have it, my drama wasn't quite that dramatic. However, there is a definite problem with my right eye. Have something called a posterior vitreous detachment. Never heard of such a thing before, and was surprised to learn it is a very common condition often associated with aging. Here's how the RNIB (Royal National Institute of Blind People) describes the condition:

http://www.rnib.org.uk/eyehealth/eyeconditions/eyeconditionsoz/Pages/posterior_vitreous_detachment.aspx

At least it's something I can learn to live with, although the cobweb effect is rather distracting at times.

In other news:


Sad to say the mouse is no more. It has ceased to be. It is an X-Mus. Two others found their way to traps in my crawl space. Good news: where there are mice, there are no rats. Better news: the pest dude found their point of entry and will close it off once it is certain all the meeses are out of the house. And the deer mouse was such a dear cute thing, at least its face was. Now that is no longer scampering about, I can get some much-needed sleep.

Mus fuss and other annoyances

The problems mentioned in my previous two posts continue to plague me. Yes, things seemed improved on Saturday morning when my last posting was filed, but by evening they took a nasty turn.

By bedtime I was vomiting, and the fever had climbed to 100.9F. My sinuses had become completely blocked. It was impossible to sniff or blow my nose. Each time I coughed, I'd spit out yellow/green mucus, at times almost chocking on the stuff as it caught in the back of my throat (lovely image that - no wonder I live alone). I had no appetite but forced down water, juice, and some soup over the course of the day despite nasty noises stemming from my GI-tract. The Total Tummy Timpani was seriously upstaged by what sounded like a set of ancient and highly maltreated bagpipes taking up position in my upper right lung. The wheezing and droning was almost deafening. Could not find a comfortable position in either my bed or on the sofa. I was exhausted, but sleep was constantly interrupted by the endless coughing.

Now, gentle reader, I suspect you are asking yourself something along the line of "Why doesn't she go to the hospital?" Well, a couple of reasons. First, the on-call doctor at the Cancer Agency said they wouldn't be worried unless my fever hit around the 105F mark (I was only going to wait until it broached 103F). Didn't feel up to driving myself to St Mary's emergency, and figured the ER staff had better things to do that administer soothing words to someone with a nasty cold. Phoning anyone was neigh on impossible as I couldn't stop coughing and spitting long enough to ask for help. Besides, it was after midnight. What I really wanted was to just fall asleep, and felt if I did so all would be better in the morning.

At some point sleep did find me. Temperature dropped to a friendlier 99.0F. But the coughing and sinuses issues continued. Sneezed so hard at one point, a nose bleed added some extra colour to the situation. By now I was convinced I had pneumonia, but was not up for sitting in the ER for three hours (estimated time given this was now Sunday and all medical clinics would be closed so the ER would be more than a bit busy). Fortunately sleep had become easier, so resolved to call my GP in the morning.

On Monday, I went to see Mom's GP. My own GP was booked for the day, and since Mom's doctor knows a good deal about my situation, too, he presented a logical stand-in. Listening to the "crackle" in my chest caused him to agree with my pneumonia diagnosis. To confirm, he ordered a chest x-ray and blood word which I received immediately upon arrival at St Mary's. The doctor called later in the day to say that the x-ray did not show any pneumonia, my blood work was fine, and it appeared I had nothing more than a very nasty cold. He prescribed an antibiotic, and told me to use my inhaler whenever I was caught short of breath. I thanked him for his kind assistance, and promptly fell back to sleep.

Awoke Tuesday to find my sinuses much improved but the cough was hanging on. No fever, no appetite. I slept most of the day.

When the Cancer Agency study nurse made her weekly phone call on Wednesday (yesterday), she asked what antibiotic I was on. I said I wasn't on an antibiotic. For some reason, likely the fact that he called when I was napping, I misunderstood what the doctor had said. I thought he said he would only prescribe the antibiotic if the cough got worse and, since I didn't feel matters had deteriorated any further, I hadn't bothered to call about the medication. Within half an hour, the good folks at Pharmasave delivered the antibiotic Avelox to my front door (free of charge). I took my first dose immediately upon receipt, read a book for about an hour, and then resumed napping.  At last, all would be right in the world.Except that around 10pm a tiny intruder made it's presence known.

Over the last couple of nights I thought I heard strange noises about the house. A spoon fell off the kitchen counter. A pile of mending tumbled to the laundry room floor. Someone was rummaging in the candy dish on a side table in the living room. Last night I traced a scratching sound to my hall closet. When I opened the door, two very cute beady eyes met mine.

Okay, so I've toyed with the idea of getting a cuddly pet (Murphy definitely lacks in the warmth department) but a field mouse running amok isn't quite what I had in mind. For the better part of five hours, I chased the beastie. After a time, it turned into something of a battle of wits. It was fascinating to see how tiny a space the mouse could squeeze in or out of. Watching it think over how to overcome the various traps I set up was also an eye-opening. Trust me when I say these are highly intelligent creatures. Finally, I couldn't take any more. I called a truce and fell onto the sofa. This morning I call in reinforcements. A pest control dude should be arriving at more any time now. Good thing as I'm not sure how much more excitement this ol' body can take.

Missed my calling

Well my powers of self-diagnosis appear to be as sharp as ever. Seems I have chemo side effects AND a nasty cold AND seasonal allergies. No room left in my stuffed head for any semblance of bliss. Felt crappy enough last night that I called the on-call doctor at the Cancer Agency - was a tad concerned when fever set in. Fortunately, the fever wasn't high so nobody is overly alarmed. Will continue to lay low for the time being. No energy or inclination to do otherwise.

No Yellow Jersey - Early Tales of Cycle Two

Yesterday was the first day of the second cycle on NKTR-102. Thus far the side effects are not nearly as dramatic as they were following the first dose. However, these are early days and I've been warned side effects of the drug are cumulative. No headache this go 'round, but did have slightly blurred vision - which continues this morning. Also had a brief wave of nausea shortly after my buddy IV made her exit. Thank goodness no vomiting resulted. Have discovered a symphony has taken up residence in my tummy, at least the percussion section. Some minor hints of the diarrhea to come, but again no serious drama yet. My strongest complaint pertains to my sinuses. Either I've got  a nasty attack of fall allergies, or a hideous cold has started to set in. In any case, my sinuses ache, eyes and soft palate itch, cough is more frequent, and I'm sneezing to beat the band (if not that Total Tummy Timpani). Am resigned to spend the next few days buried in blankets with cups of steaming liquid at the ready.

Eyes not blurry, but mind is

Decided to read my last posting. Should have done it before "publishing". Ugh! Good thing I'm retired!

Penny's car is, in fact, a Subaru NOT a Suzuki (although it has as much pep as a motorcycle). And, yes, I did take a bit of creative license in describing the congestion inside of the car as well as Roz's prowess re driving under pressure - don't believe she exceeded the speed limit once, or at least not by very much.

Also forgot to mention that part of the discomfort issue re my sacrum is a hairline crack in the area that appears as abnormal on the CT scan. I can bend, sit, and stand without too much trouble. Discomfort sets in when I walk, especially on uneven terrain or for long periods of time.

Anything else need clarifying or correcting?

You, gentle reader, will likely be able to figure out the typo and spelling errors as well as the misplaced words - e.g. "showed" appears as "should".

Apologies for the last post not being up to snuff. Obviously it's bedtime for this Bonzo.

Planes, veins, and automobiles

Had more than a little excitement last week, especially on Wednesday and Thursday.

Wednesday began with a float plane ride from Sechelt to downtown Vancouver (Coal Harbour). Phil gave me a couple of tickets before he left, and this was my first chance to use one. Picked a beautiful day for my first ever float plane experience. Only thing that would have made it better would have been the chance to sit up front in the co-pilot's seat, but a rather burly businessman beat me to it. At least I had the back seat to myself so could enjoy the view out of windows on both sides.

Float plane dock at Porpoise Bay just prior to take off.

Sechelt from the air. My house is hiding somewhere just beyond that long string of houses in the background.

Coming in over Stanley Park.

Vancouver seconds before we touched down.

Enjoyed the flight enough to do it again sometime. The flight was very smooth - only turbulence was felt when passing over the bit of water between Keats Island and Bowen Island. Travel time was 1/2 that of the ferry, and I arrived considerably closer to my destination. Also appreciated the fact that a free shuttle bus was standing by on the Vancouver side waiting to whisk me to the Skytrain station so that I could quickly and easily make my way to the Cancer Agency. A float plane ride: one more thing off my bucket list!

Little did I know that more excitement was to come once I got to the Cancer Agency lab. Had to give yet another vial or two of blood so the study group could record the various levels just prior to my receiving the chemo drug.

Things were progressing normally enough until the lab tech called my name. That's when the man sitting next to me (he had been there for about 10 mins) touched my arm. It was Jim Toy, principal of False Creek Design Group and former president of the Interior Designers Institute of BC, and someone who I knew quite well in my former life as a architecture/design writer. Jim has had his own cancer battle, and now his mom is also going through it - she was the reason they were at the Cancer Agency. Jim and I spoke briefly before I went in to have my blood drawn. I sat a bit longer in the chair than most following the procedure as I have to press on the puncture site for a while due to slow clotting time (thanks, Dalteparin). When I was finished, I stepped back into the waiting room to talk to Jim and his mom a bit before they, too, met with the morning's vampires. The conversation was cut short, however, when Jim suddenly noticed that the right sleeve of my white linen blouse was rapidly becoming more wet red than dry white. Back in to see the lab tech for a quick clean-up and clean dressing. Made sure things clotted better the second time as I kept pressing the puncture site the whole time Jim and I talked (about another 10 min). In the meantime, his mother opted to go to the treatment room by herself so Jim and I could continue our conversation. When she re-joined us, she insisted on holding her puncture site for at least 10 more minutes. "I don't want to look like her," she told Jim in Chinese! I replied that she need not worry as she already had on a red t-shirt. We all laughed at that. Left the building together as I made my way to the Fairmont Building to see my oncologist at the day clinic.

My oncologist was off on a much-deserved holiday so I had a locum, a woman I had met at least once before. She spoke very fast and I had a bit of trouble following some of what she said. But she wore beautiful blue shoes, so I forgave her. In addition to confirming that I would be getting the study drug, the locum also went over the results of last week's pre-chemo/baseline tests. Seems my back/hip issues are caused by an abnormality in the sacrum (large, triangular bone at the base of the spine and at the upper and back part of the pelvic cavity, where it is inserted like a wedge between the two hip bones). The abnormality showed up on the bone scan, but only a biopsy will confirm whether it is arthritis, osteoporosis, or metastatic cancer. The locum suggested (as did my oncologist) that there might be some benefit from a course of radiation at the site in question as well as the area of my shoulder/neck that is also proving problematic. If that course of treatment was given, there would be a delay in the start of my participation in the drug study. Soooo, I suggested we go ahead with the drug study and, if the back/hip and/or shoulder/neck pain gets worse apply the radiation treatment then. The locum agreed that was the best course of action. So that's what we're doing.

Other than the sacrum issue, not much else was new re the bone scan. The CT scan should some progression of the disease in some areas, but stability or regression in others. On balance, however, everything shows some spread so back on treatment I am.

After the locum (and that day's student - there's a different one every visit) finished poking and prodding and going over the various test results and letting me know how the study would go, I met with the study nurse who went over the study protocol and procedures one more time for good measure. The study nurse reminded me that I could obtain copies of any of my oncology reports or tests results by asking at the release of information office at the cancer agency. I'll do that tomorrow. I'll also drop off the prescription I was given for Imodium at the agency's in-house pharmacy en route to treatment tomorrow (yes, I know Imodium is an over-the-counter medication, but the 'script enables me to have it for free and also enables the study team to count the number of doses I took should I have messed up my record-keeping in some way). I was then released for the day.

Had a very nice dinner with Donna and our friends Karen and Fang (pronounced Fong - she happens to be a microbiologist at the cancer research centre).

On Thursday I reported to the Cancer Agency at 10:30am for my first dose of NKTR-102. Unfortunately, the pharmacy only didn't see the note that indicated my latex allergy until after the drug was prepped for the IV. Turns out the plug in the IV bag was made of latex and there was concern that it might contaminate the drug and, thereby, affect me. So I spent the better part of two hours doing crossword puzzles, reading, and listening to my iPod while the pharmacists scrambled to get the thing sorted out. When it arrived, it was in a brown plastic bag - turns out the drug is somewhat light sensitive. The plastic bag acted as a shroud that hung over the IV bag while the drug was being administered.

The nurse at the chemo day unit told me to let her know if I experienced any of the following while receiving the drug: sweating, watery eyes, runny nose, excess saliva in the mouth. I had none of that, but I did have a headache. Was told that wasn't a noted side effect, but she marked it down just the same. The next 90 minutes passed without incident as the NKTR-102 dripped into my veins.

After saying toodly-doo to the chemo day unit, I rode to Granville Island via taxi. Didn't want to take public transit and/or walk in case there was a sudden side effect onset. Spent time at the studio with Roz, Penny and Barbara before Barbara left for the day and Penny rushed off to an evening event. Roz and I hung out, slurped gelato at the back of the market while watching the boats float by in rhythm to a busker strumming a Spanish guitar. We then dropped by Chapters so Roz could buy a book for Jon's birthday present.

When I first arrived at the studio, Roz noted that I looked a tad "spacey". Nothing specific, but just kinda out of it. I admitted to feeling a bit off, but couldn't say what didn't feel quite right. However, when I started looking at the books on the shelves at Chapters, my vision became noticeably blurred. In fact, it felt like my left eye was moving back and forth very quickly while my right eye was going up and down at a similar speed. Had Roz check my eyes. She detected no movement and reported that the pupils weren't dilated or anything. All appeared normal to her (she's an RN, so a good one to consult re such matters). She concluded that it was something operating at the nerve level. Since I was still able to manoeuvre normally and felt no pain or discomfort other than the blurred vision - which I knew to be a potential side effect of the chemo - I thought it best to see if matters got any worse before seeking emergency assistance. In fact, the sensation gradually lessened as the evening wore on.

Off for home then. Roz was driving Penny's car, which is a wee Suzuki and much smaller than her usual ride which is a Lexus SUV. Leg room was at a premium. Not only because I was sitting in the seat behind her, but because a bamboo ladder was hovering over the emergency break and stick shift at about elbow height. It was impossible to move the ladder to a more convenient spot because the entire  - and I do mean entire - car aside from where we were sitting was stuffed to the gunnels with all things fibre as Roz and Penny were transporting their wares to the Sunshine Coast where they would be offered up at the annual Hackett Park Craft Show/Sale. I could barely see out the front window from my vantage point, but somehow managed to direct Roz from Broadway and Granville to Burrard and Davie where we were to rendezvous with Penny. Of course, B&D just happened to be the busiest intersection in the entire Lower Mainland at the time of day, and it took five light changes before we could make the turn off Burrard onto Davie. The delay at the intersection cut deeply into our narrow time allotment, so the drive to the ferry was something akin to a qualifying heat for a NASCAR race.

We arrived at the ferry terminal with plenty of time to spare. Good thing as there was some sort of delay at all of the ticket booths. After waiting at least 5-10 minutes, we managed to buy a ticket for the next sailing and still had time to drop by the Good Karma Kitchen for a pre-boarding snack.

A word of caution: If you should ever find yourself in need of a wee something whilst waiting for the ferry at Horseshoe Bay and you are not able to make the hike into the village for refreshment, do approach the Good Karma Kitchen with a healthy degree of caution. Note to self: DO NOT ORDER THE VEGGIE DOG!!! This warning comes too late for Penny, alas, and she was presented with a white hot dog bun that felt warm but looked suspiciously unheated. Further, the "dog" was the customary length but eight-sided as if it had just been extracted from a tight-fitting package. It, too, did not appear to be heated in any way. The colour was a most unappetizing puce. The only condiments on offer were a somewhat crusty French's mustard, green onions, and ketchup. I opted for the cinnamon bun, but since I later read the list of ingredients NOT in said confection (boxes of the cinnamon buns were stacked next to the order window) "cinnamon" might well have been the only thing I actually consumed. There was, apparently, no dairy, no eggs, no sugar, no wheat, no nuts, no raisins. At least it filled the void somewhat more agreeably than a puce veggie dog with crusty French's mustard might.

Hit the sheets within 15 minutes of arriving home.

Slept most of Friday and until very late Saturday morning. Also slept in on Sunday. Started feeling like "myself" on Monday afternoon.

Can't wait for the diarrhea to set in!!! Oh, wait. Yes I can!!