Chicken feet and kids are jerks

Chicken feet sans red nail polish. Photo from CEZ'L 

I was delighted to hear from Sandra, a friend from my elementary school days. Namely, the pubescent school days when kids are battling to be cool, or not to be the least cool. Turns out she has been reading my kancer kronicles.

Anyway, Sandra reminded me of something we did, something we thought was hilarious at the time. Something that today, would probably get us suspended at the very least. And something that reminded me that all kids are jerks now and then, even kids like us who weren't normally jerks.

I had just returned from a visit at my grandparents' farm. At the time, they had chickens. I had found the foot of one unfortunate chicken who had been recently decapitated, and thought it would be a great idea to bring the foot home.

I told Sandra about my find. We decided we needed to do something special with the chicken foot.

Hatching a plan

I'm not terribly sure how we selected our target. I remember she was very bright, one of the first to put her hand up in class. She didn't have a mean bone in her body. I guess that was it, she was simply an easy target.

Having been a target many times - I was a quiet, pudgy bookworm - I should have known better. Then again, maybe I was just delighted not to be the target this time around.

Anyway, we decided we would fancy up the foot, package it, and leave it as a gift on her desk.

Crafty chicks

We painstakingly painted the chicken's nails red, then stored them in the freezer at Sandra's house for safe keeping. Then we fashioned a package out of an old Cool Whip container, and made a tag in the shape of a fish. We wrote a love note from the least cool guy in our class, whose last name was Fisher. And topped it with a bow.

April Fool's Day, we made sure to get to school early, so we could deposit the gift on our target's desk before the teacher arrived.

As our classmates strolled in, they saw the package, paused, and wondered what could be inside. Finally, our target arrived. With a crowd around her, she read the note, opened the container and screamed.

A clean escape

Sandra, who made no secret of her dislike of our target, was roundly scolded by our teacher. She even told him it was me who had brought the chicken foot home from my grandparents' farm. For whatever reason, the teacher never said a word to me about it.

Operation fuck kancer: Treatment 5

Today's view, with a bit of my IV bag reflected.
© kittelberg writes

Today I officially passed the half-way mark in my chemo treatment, starting my Taxol regime.

So far, so good.

I got the prime, sunny chair next to the window. Check out the view. Not too shabby.

I felt pretty woozy after the Benadryl, but couldn't sleep during the treatment. I can't sleep on planes or in hospitals, and even have a tough time sleeping in hotels. So it's not really surprising that I can't sleep on Benadryl.
For those of you wondering, Taxol can cause some major allergic reactions, so it's standard for Benadryl to be given before Taxol.

Pros and cons

My awesome quilt. I love my colleagues.
© kittelberg writes

Again, it's a case of trading one not-so-great thing for a good thing. For instance, while I could not sleep and my neighbour in the next chair could, she also vomited. I felt terrible for her and wanted to rub her back or something, but instead I pretended I was asleep because I was afraid she would think I was being creepy. I really hope she's feeling okay tonight.

Thought I didn't sleep, chilling out gave me the perfect opportunity to enjoy the quilt made by my wonderful colleagues. It's a perfect size for taking to chemo, and the personal messages written in the squares make me happy.

Time for crib

Once I was done trying to/faking sleep, I felt less woozy and more capable of forming coherent sentences, so the husband and I resumed playing crib. We had been playing earlier, but stopped when I began having difficulty remembering what I did seconds ago.

I had my ass handed to me, but it was fun nonetheless.

Cats aren't dogs, but they're still pretty cool

The bookends, Bella and Otis. © kittelberg writes

Years ago, a friend said after many drinks and whatnot, "Cats are cool, but cats aren't dogs." And while it was a running joke for the rest of the weekend, I got what he was saying. You see, for much of my life, I was a dog person.

When my sister was still a baby, we briefly had a cat. Two kids had come to our door with the cat, and told my parents their dad was going to leave the cat outside if they didn't find him a home. My parents took pity on him, and Fluffy moved in.

Fluffy did okay with me - likely because I fed him multiple times in an hour playing house with him - but he took one too many swipes at my sister, so Fluffy was given away.

After that, we were a dog household.

Cats 101

I was reintroduced to life with a cat when I moved in with my fiancé (now my husband). Silent Bob had lived with George and his roommates since she was a kitten (yes, Bob was a girl).

At first, ours was a tense relationship. Bob would look at me defiantly as she scratched my sister's chair, which was temporarily in our apartment. Her trademark bitchy meow seemed to sound extra bitchy when directed at me.

No matter. We grudgingly began to tolerate one another, and that tolerance eventually became friendship. When she became ill with advanced kidney disease and had to be euthanized, I cried for days.

I initially made George put all of Bob's things away and proclaimed that I did not want another cat for some time.

Enter the bookends

Then our friend Katherine told us about a women she had met who was looking for a good home for not one, but two cats, a brother and sister.

I had a good feeling about them. We visited them and about 10 seconds after we got into our car to drive home, I said, "I want them."

Days later, we returned and experienced an extremely awkward moment as their owner bawled her eyes out, and we left with her our cats, Bella and Otis.

Bella died last year. We all miss her. We will not have another cat until Otis joins his sister. And it may take longer than a month this time as our son has become quite attached to our big boy cat.

Cat people

I give you all this backstory in an attempt to illustrate my evolution from dog person to cat person. Don't get me wrong. I still love dogs very much. But I think something in my chemistry has changed.

I now meet a strange dog, and a lot of the time, they take a long time to warm up to me. Like they're not too sure about me. Or they're indifferent.

I meet a cat? And it's instant love.

Sure, cats aren't dogs. But that's why they're cool.

Super trooper: A matter of perspective

In case you hadn't noticed, I've been throwing myself a pity party lately. And frankly, I think I've earned it.

As Ally McBeal once said when asked why her problems were so much more important than anyone else's, "Because they're mine."

But all parties must come to an end, particularly those of the pity variety.

My chemo grievances

I saw my oncologist today, and discussed the latest annoyances I've been dealing with, namely foot pain (sensitive skin means I'm developing calluses faster than a normal human being should), and arm pain on the side I'm getting my IVs in. Both are totally normal for someone going through chemo, which is the answer I expected.

We talked about the switch to Taxol, now that I'm done the A/C portion (Adriamiacin Cytoxan) of my ACT treatment, and the side effects I'm likely swapping the nausea and other delights for.

The oncologist noted that some women find Taxol less, well, taxing than A/C. He said he hoped this would be the case for me adding, "You're breezing through your treatments so far."

Easy, breezy, beautiful chemo girl

As I walked back to work, I thought, "Breezing? Really? Maybe if we're talking about a smelly breeze coming from a pulp and paper mill."

Then I thought about it. I never cracked open the in-case-of-emergency nausea meds. I never puked. I had some discomfort in my mouth, but have been able to keep mouth sores at bay with baking soda rinses. I have felt well enough to return to work. (Let's hope I didn't just jinx myself by putting that in writing)

Though it's been challenging at times juggling schedules, for the most part, I've had help when I've needed it.

Enter Abba

Before I left work, my friend and colleague Tony asked me how my appointment went. I told him, and he said, "You're a trooper."

And Abba's Super Trooper popped into my head. Maybe because Abba transports me to a simpler time, dancing in one friend's living room, and dressing up for fashion shows with another friend.

Abba reminds me of a friend in grade 8 who started an Abba fan club because it was lame to like Abba by then, making a fan club super hilarious to our pubescent minds. I'm pretty sure there wasn't one kid in our class who wasn't a member.

If you haven't watched the video yet, do so now. At the very least, you'll get a kick out of the outfits.

One day I know I'll be "feeling like a number one" again.

Pee and garbage harsh my beach buzz

These beach feet don't like to step on other
people's garbage.© kittelberg writes

The tough part about going somewhere that provides excellent people watching is that you have to take the jerks along with the good people.

Enter Mr. Beach Pee

You know, like the guy who openly took a leak in the water at English Bay tonight.

As in stood there up to his knees in the water, with a stream of pee clearly arcing from his shorts to the water.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm no Pollyanna. I know people pee in the water all the time, from babies who don't know any better to adults who are just plain lazy.

But this took the cake. Not only was beach pee guy too lazy to walk the two minutes it would have taken to get to the public washrooms. He was too lazy to even sit in the water and attempt to hide the fact that he was peeing in the water. The water that tons of people, thrilled that summer might have actually started in Vancouver, were swimming in.

His nonchalance made it evident that he's the type of entitled young adult that the old folks like me sniff about. I mean really, what's more entitled than the act of purposefully and obviously relieving oneself in English Bay without regard for nearby swimmers?

Garbage tide

Then there's the garbage that was being hurled onto the shore by the incoming tide. I had visions of wading and perhaps even swimming in the water with my son tonight. I always forget how cold the water is. Then once I saw the garbage, it was game over. This mama wasn't swimming.

There was a plastic bag, then a bus ticket, and broken bits of bottles. These got added to our garbage to be placed in a - wait for it - city garbage can on our way home. Imagine that? Later, there was the disposable soda cup, a straw, then the condom wrapper. Frankly, I lost count after a while.

The sense of entitlement that must grip the people who feel free to leave their crap on the beach infuriates me. If you want to enjoy the beach, why trash it? Do people honestly like wallowing in filth? Didn't their mothers teach them right from wrong?

How can we fix the problem

I'm not sure what the solution is. Have more police officers on the beach, ready to hand out tickets? Not sure I'm a fan of that, as I'm sure the nice couple next to us quietly enjoying a beer would have been ticketed too. Hey, provided you take the beer cans back to get your deposit or donate them to a binner, cheers mate.

What I really wish I had done was take a picture of beach pee guy. Then I would have posted it with today's blog. Maybe someone would have recognized him. A little public shame could go a long way.

Must do DoodleArt

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"Do you remember DoodleArt?" Sharon asked me this afternoon.

Do I remember DoodleArt? I certainly do. In fact, I wish I had kept some of it.

Although what I really want is to get my hands on some uncoloured pages.

I like to colour with my five-year-old son. But it can be challenging, as he finishes his pictures at a much faster rate than me, and wants to turn the page before I'm finished.

Colouring = quiet joy

Colouring is about as crafty as I get. I'm not a scrapbooking mom (if I ever mock a scrapbooker, it's because deep down I'm jealous). I don't sew or knit. But I do love colouring.

Colouring calms me like nothing else can. I can zone out for hours and take my time, considering my options, contemplating the names of the colours. It's quiet joy.

I'm pretty sure I got DoodleArt for a birthday. I was thrilled. It came in a tube. It was poster-size. It had brand new markers. What was not to like?

I remember spending what seemed like hours filling it in at the dining-room table. Not sure, I should ask my mom how much peace that bought her.

A false start

I consulted with a friend who I recalled knew someone who knew the DoodleArt creators. Alas, she cannot recall who it was who knew them. So I googled it.

DoodleArt history

Coincidentally, DoodleArt was born in 1972, the same year as me. The Anderson family - creator Glenn, and his parents, Frank and Jean, patented and produced DoodleArt kits in Vancouver.

DoodleArt was sold last year to Andrew Perkins, Michael McLennan and Julia Finlay.

DoodleArt today

You can order DoodleArt online, or buy it at Chapters and Indigo stores. I'm pretty stoked about this.

If you have a special occasion coming up, and I'm a close friend, you can expect to unwrap some fine DoodleArt from yours truly. I promise I'll try not to colour it before I give it to you too.

When the inside doesn't match the outside

Me in a hat that my husband thinks is "cancer-y".
Does it make it me look more cancer-y? And is that okay?

The last few weeks have been pretty krappy. Sorry, that's not a headline, I mean crappy.

The effects of chemo have been getting worse, of course coinciding with my return to work. Work is my escape. This, along with the fact that I work on contract so have no paid sick leave makes working both part of my healing, and a must.

I've already been off sick for a couple of days because of a sinus cold. My allergies are kicking my ass this week, and I have a nagging suspicion my sinuses are flaring up again as I write this. Added to personal stress that I won't elaborate (too much) on - let's just say pest control visited my home last week - and I've been an irrational, bitchy, paranoid, crybaby mess.

My first-world problem

But apparently, I don't look like a mess. And I'm wondering if that is part of the problem. My hair is gone, my brows sparse but fillable with makeup. My skin tone is good. (Now that I've put all this in writing, I'm going to wake up looking terrible tomorrow, right?)

Why looking okay is a problem

This probably sounds like a good issue to have. And I am grateful that right now, I could pass for a chick with a shaved head. But because I pass, it means people think I'm alright. And I'm most certainly not.

And because people think I'm alright, they're that much more shocked/scared/dumbfounded when I lose my shit. Because it appears to come out of left field. Cue the guilt.

I feel bad for losing my shit on unsuspecting people, particularly my husband. I feel bad for feeling like crap. I feel bad for not being able to stomach the healthy food I should be eating. I feel bad for getting blisters on my feet so damned easily that I can't even do the daily walks I was doing. I feel bad for not writing back to everyone who has sent me a greeting card.

Maybe if or when I start looking not so okay, I'll give myself permission to not feel okay.