Top concerts: Alabama Shakes

Last week, I experienced what I anticipate will be one of the best concerts of my lifetime: Alabama Shakes at the Orpheum in Vancouver.

Alabama Shakes and I have a relationship of sorts. About one year ago, when I was feeling at my worst during chemo - exhausted physically, emotionally, spiritually - George told me to listen to a band he'd just heard on YouTube. It was Alabama Shakes' "Hold On". I was mesmerized.

Not only is Brittany Howard's voice, often described as a mash-up between Janis Joplin and Aretha Franklin, phenomenally powerful, but the lyrics were exactly what I needed to hear at that point in my life. And today, there are still moments when I need someone to tell me to hold on.

I watched two more videos and googled Alabama Shakes. And I bought their CD, Boys and Girls.

Thank you lady luck

Then just this past spring I saw something online about Alabama Shakes moving their show to the Orpheum. "Say what?!" I thought. I had somehow missed that they were even coming. But a change to a larger venue. This meant more tickets would be sold - hallelujah!

I expected big things. And Alabama Shakes delivered.

Hurray for the Riff Raff

They started off with an excellent opening act, Hurray for the Riff Raff. Definitely a country flavour. Singer Alynda lee Segarra's voice reminded me of different people at different times, Stevie Nicks with a dash of Margo Timmins (Cowboy Junkies), but mainly Yvette Narlock (solo artist formerly of Mollies Revenge, Yve Adam).

I bought their CD Look Out Mama after their set. I was pleasantly surprised when the singer announced she'd be at the merch table. In fact, the entire band was there and I got my CD signed. I spoke briefly with one of them about Alabama Shakes and how I first heard them when I was going through a challenging time in my life. "Yep, doctors should prescribe it. Music is the best medicine," he said.

Time for a dose

Indeed, Alabama Shakes proved to be a the kind of medicine that doesn't just make you feel passable, but uplifts you without a comedown and lasts, possibly for a lifetime.

At one point, Howard wondered out loud why she bothered doing her hair before shows. After rocking out considerably, her do was undone, but the audience didn't care. In fact, the fact that she rocked that hard made us love her that much more. If we wanted done up, we'd have shelled out for one of those lipsync "artists" wearing a headset mic.

Alabama Shakes made me do one thing I've never done at a show (and I've mocked others for doing). I cried. Not once, not twice, but three times. The first time, obviously, during "Hold On". The second because of Howard's lovely intro to "Boys and Girls" during which she talked about her best childhood friend and how eventually they were told they shouldn't be friends any more. It made me think of my son and some of his very good friends who happen to be girls.

The third set of tears, I have to admit I can't remember which song inspired it. What I do remember was it was a sweet release.

Be one with the waves

Ready to embark but a tad nervous. ©kittelberg writes

I hadn't paddled since the year before my breast cancer surgery. For someone who was a dragonboat paddler for several years and enjoyed kayaking at least once every summer, it made me sad.

With the kid in daycamp, I figured last week was the week to do it. It took minutes from the time I updated my Facebook status to, "Anyone want to go sea kayaking this week?" to find a kindred spirit in my friend Ceci.

Ecomarine has a 2-for-1 special on Tuesdays. Ceci had family visiting from Vernon. My range of motion isn't 100% in my left shoulder due to the axillary dissection, so I wanted to kayak tandem. Turned out Ceci's daughter, Alex, had to paddle with an adult so I got an enthusiastic partner (who's as tall as me and a strong paddler). And the planets aligned.

No reason to panic

We headed out into the wind so that the trip back to Jericho Beach would be easier. Ceci's sister and nephew were also in a tandem kayak, and Ceci went solo. I was happy to note that the effort felt equal in both shoulders.

I steered so that we would go into the waves, rather than risk having them tip us. I felt capable but cautious. We spotted whitecaps, so decided it was time to turn. Then Ceci's kayak tipped. She was fine, so we chilled out in the waves as she got back into her kayak.

I remembered how to relax as the waves rocked us from the side. It felt like the kayak was simply an appendage. On our way back to the beach, I played more with the steering to hit the sweet spots in the waves. "Look!" said Alex, and I tilted my head up to see an eagle fly above us. A true movie moment!

We got back to the shore, tired but happy. I plan to kayak again (and again) before the end of summer. The lure of the waves is powerful.

Book review: In the Body of the World

A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky to catch Eve Ensler's book reading at Capilano University.

I had read an interview with her in the Vancouver Sun the weekend before the event. Until then, I didn't know Ensler had been treated for uterine cancer. In the interview, she talked about her rage. And I was sold.

As Ensler shared anecdotes of her experience and read from The Body of the World, I felt that kinship I tend to feel when I meet another cancer warrior. All too often, I felt alone during my treatment, despite my friends' and family's efforts to assure me I was not.

Sharing her fear of stopping and being still, Ensler recalled telling someone, "I don't want to be a fucking patient." Amen, sister.

"I feel like this book came from my body," Ensler said. And it reads like it.

In fact, when I completed the book days after seeing her speak, I felt like it could have come from my body too. I told my husband, "It feels like she reached inside my brain and put my words on paper."

The one overwhelming feeling I had, particularly on the days the chemo was exhausting me, was failure. I was angry because my body had failed me. And I was worried if the chemo didn't work and the cancer metastasized, it would be the ultimate failure.

Ensler writes, "All the hundreds of cards and letters and emails I received said the same thing. 'We have no doubt you will make it. You are a force of nature. Nothing can stop you. You will beat this, Eve. You're a fighter.' I know people are trying to give me support and make me feel strong, but sometimes it makes me anxious. What if it just isn't true? What if I can't beat this or it has nothing to do with me? Will it mean I'm a failure and or a failed force of nature, like one of those New York City hurricanes that never shows up after you've put huge taped Xs on your windows? What if it isn't about fighting?"

I wept as I read this particular passage not out of grief but out of relief that someone else got it, that I wasn't alone.

The Body of the World is raw, gut-wrenching, hilarious, and inspirational. If you are a woman, regardless of whether or not you're a cancer warrior, give it a read. I'm pretty sure you won't feel alone either when you are done.

Kancer kronicles: What a difference one year makes

My new do. ©kittelberg writes

One year ago, I started the #kancerkronicles. I had just had my drain removed, a major milestone in my mind.

My body

At this point last year, I was only walking a few blocks here and there. Tomorrow, I'm taking part in six fitness classes at the Bust a Move fundraiser for the BC Cancer Foundation. You can still donate, by the way!

I run two to three days a week, and have signed up for my first half marathon in September.

My hair

I had just had my hair cut short, in anticipation it would soon be falling out or shaved (I opted for the big shave to make it less traumatic when it did fall out). I'd wanted short hair forever, but kept putting it off until I lost weight. Yesterday, I had a bunch of my new chemo curls shaved off because I wanted to.

My kid

When this all started, I was fearful of talking to my son about cancer, which in part lead to some serious behaviour issues. I couldn't see it ending. I wondered if cancer was going to send him down an irreversible path that would lead to a lifetime of unhappiness.

Today, he has several friends I anticipate he will have for the rest of his life. He reads, does math, and can navigate the monkey bars hand over hand from one end to the other. He is compassionate and thoughtful. Sure, he still has his moments but he's six after all, and let's face it, he comes by his stubbornness, ahem, honestly.

My life

I still have fears: around cancer, parenting, money, work to name a few. But I'm working hard to do things despite my fear, and stop compromising. I am me, and I need to do the things that honour this.

To you, my haircut is simply that, a haircut. To me, it's symbolic that I'm going to be who I am and who I want to be, and not hide behind excuses any more. I'm sure I'll stumble here and there. But I was given another chance at this life for a reason. I'm going to try to do it right.

Determining the next step

I think I've figured out the reason I feel so out of sorts lately.

After getting through treatment for a deadly disease, I feel the need to do something great. But I can't figure out what that something should be.

Is this about advancing my career? Writing a book? Writing a screenplay for the movie/sitcom/next big thing my friends and I talk about?

Is it about letting go of some of this career stuff and refocusing who I am as a parent?

Is it about attaining the goal of running my first half-marathon? If so, what happens after that?

Or is it about doing something I haven't thought of yet, but which will seem like the obvious choice once I realize what that something is?

As much as I realize I have to figure this out for myself, part of me wants someone else to make the decision for me.

Kicking kancer's ass one shirt at a time

The Juggernauts (from left): Wynter Trace, Chrissy Watson,
me (in team shirt), and Kirstin Ellis. Photo © Image Maker

You may have heard my Bust a Move team is selling t-shirts with a saucy illustration by Bret Taylor as a fundraiser.

It's the perfect opportunity to support a great cause and local art all in one fell swoop. Just head to Red Bubble and buy your shirt, pronto!

Now that you've made your purchase and have come back, here's a bit about how it all happened.

About the artist

If you're on Twitter and into art, cars, or rock 'n roll, you know Bret Taylor as @BretInVancouver. I've known Bret since George and I visited Vancouver in May 1999.

It's been mighty inspiring to see him develop his style, and watch his following grow. We've road-tripped, we've seen many a rock show, and we've eaten a lot of nachos. As a member of our core circle of friends, Bret is also one of the people who has helped us out in a pinch or two during my treatment, not to mention he was a member of the cheering squad the day I had my head shaved.

So when I thought a team t-shirt would be nice, there was no question about who I wanted to do the illustration.

About the design

Bret has my complete confidence when it comes to design, so I threw a couple of concepts at him. He liked the can-can dancer idea, and we agreed a message about kicking kancer's ass would be a good fit. I opted to misspell kancer for consistency with the #kancerkronicles. And Bret pretty much took it from there.

When he sent me the completed illustration, I was thrilled. From the tiny red hats to the Louboutin red soles, I was sold.

I won't knock anyone for donning the pink at these breast cancer fundraisers. I've done it myself. But nowadays, red speaks to me more. It symbolizes passion and anger. Hence my choosing the red shirt for myself.

Another shameless plug

So now that you know a little more about it, if you haven't already, head over to Red Bubble and order yourself a shirt.

Or if you prefer to have the tax deduction, go directly to my Bust a Move page to make a donation.

And don't forget to head to Bret's website to see more of his work. Oh, and one place I will be wearing pink? Bret's upcoming art show with Alex Stewart, Hot Pink. Drop by and say hi if you're in the Vancouver area.

Coordinating help for a loved one

I've sung praises of our network of friends many, many times in this blog. They were our lifeline during my treatment last year.

However, one of the huge challenges we faced was keeping everyone organized. Did I need to book a volunteer driver for chemo, or did someone offer to drive me? Had someone already said they would pick Malcolm up at daycare? And who was making dinner?

Remembering it all, even in the iPhones age was tough, particularly once chemo brain set in.

Eventually, George took on the vast majority of the organizing, along with being my caregiver. Frankly, it's too much work for one person to be expected to do. He did it without complaint, but it worried me that he felt he had to shoulder so much.

CaringBridge

Today, I received a message from a friend, who knows a woman who is just beginning the whole cancer treatment gong show. She thought I might be able to offer her support. She sent me a link to her friend's story on CaringBridge.

I clicked, and holy crap, do I ever wish I'd known about CaringBridge last spring!

You can set up a site, where you can connect with family and friends, keep them updated on your health (it's open to people with medical issues of all sorts). It's all in a protected space, with privacy settings, no ads.

Clearly, I don't have issues sharing information in a public format. But here's what really interested me: they also have a calendar you can set up (or a loved one can on your behalf).

Fill in what's needed and when, and your friends and family can pick the tasks they're able to take on - cooking, getting you around, providing childcare, feeding the cat, etc.

How did I not hear about this until now?

What you can do

So, if you know someone who needs this sort of support, tell them about CaringBridge, or better yet, set up a site and calendar for them.

And if you're feeling philanthropic, head to the CaringBridge donations page.

Operation fuck kancer: An attempt to decompress

Trying to get back to normal, or figure out my "new normal" as the cancer warriors like to call it, is proving difficult.

I've been back at work full-time for the past few weeks. Which feels great. I enjoy my job, I love what I do, and as I've written many, many times, I work with an incredibly supportive team.

If working was all I had to do, it would be fine. But I'm a parent. And a wife. And I'm trying to fundraise for Bust a Move. And it's almost Christmas, with barely a dent made in my shopping list. You get the point.

I'm overwhelmed.

I know something has to give, but what? It won't be my family. And my family has to eat, so I have to work.

So I'm keeping this post short. I'm off to write the rest of my Christmas cards. Then I'm going to bed.

Just wanted to let you all know I'm still alive and kicking. And just trying to figure it all out.

The gift for the person who has everything

So here's my big "donate for the holidays" pitch.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know I have decided to give back by taking part in Bust a Move, a fundraiser for the BC Cancer Foundation.

Last month, there was a lot of news and kvetching online about pink nausea. And frankly, I agreed with a lot of what's been said.

A lot of us who have been left scarred emotionally and physically by cancer. We're angry, and no amount of pink is going to change that.

I'm not down with buying anything with a pink ribbon thrown onto it as an afterthought. Particularly carcinogen-laden products and junk-foods that are driving cancer rates.

What I am down with is helping fund research at the agency with the best record nationally of helping women survive this horrible disease.

The money raised by Bust a Move will go to the BC Cancer Agency where I received my treatments. It will drive research so oncologists are better able to treat and support breast cancer patients like me.

And I'm also a fan of getting women moving. Keeping fit is just one way I'm planning to keep those cancer cells the heck away from me for the rest of my life.

So for me, Bust a Move simply makes sense.

I have to raise a minimum of $1,000. So, if you are making charitable donations this Christmas season, whether in your name or in someone else's as a gift, please consider giving to the BC Cancer Agency through my fundraising efforts.

You can do this online.

Or if you prefer, you can print a donation form from this page, and fill it out to send with a cheque.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart,

Lori

Operation fuck kancer: Radiation done, now what?

On March 26, a surgeon sliced cancer out of my body. Seven months to the day later, I completed my final radiation treatment.

And now I feel lost, which is why it's taken me so long to write this post.

The "Yay, I'm done!" feeling faded quickly and has been replaced by "Now what?"

The physical scars

The treatments are done, but my skin is feeling battered under my arm where it has blistered along the scar where my lymph nodes were removed.

I was doing well everywhere else until a run last Sunday, when my bra strap rubbed the skin raw where the lymph nodes around the collar bone had been zapped. So no running for me now until my skin heals, which I'm not terribly happy about.

My friend Sharon, who is one of my running mates, suggested the stationary bike at the gym. Which I swear I'll do. Not relishing the thought of smelling everyone else's sweat, rather than the clean rain air.

Guess I am a runner now, eh?

The emotional scars

A lot of cancer warriors talk about the "new normal". I now get it. Life can never return to what it was pre-cancer.

While I don't miss feeling like a piece of crap after too many glasses of wine on a ladies' night, I do miss having the option of making myself feel like crap.

I don't miss being overweight, but I miss being able to enjoy a pumpkin spice latte without thinking I can feel a tumour pop up the moment the delectable beverage hits my lips.

I don't miss eating habits that make my stomach feel like it was full of cement, but I miss having a pre-made bowl of soup with my son when he's not feeling well without the guilt.

Welcome to the corner

I now feel like I've been painted into a corner by fear. I realized this after reading a lovely post by Heidi at Our House for Coffee this morning.

I'm so scared of making a bad decision which morphs into making several bad decisions. I'm scared of undoing the good habits I've worked hard to form over the last several months. I'm scared of getting cancer again, worse. I'm scared if I do have a recurrence, I'll blame myself and give up.

I don't know what to do to shake this fear. A bit of fear could keep me honest, yes. But too much is suffocating.

Look ahead

My friend Elise posted a link to Gord Downie's recent interview with Wendy Mesley about the Hip's latest album. Downie's wife has also been battling breast cancer.

Elise posted it with one simple question: "How's George doing?"

Thanks again, Elise for sharing Gordie's interview with me. This post is dedicated to all the partners out there, who have a loved one who is going through or who has been through cancer treatments. Sending much love and wishing peace to you all. May you find your ability to look ahead.

Parenting through kancer

This post has been brewing for a long time. I haven't written it out of fear. Fear of admitting that I'm less than perfect. Fear of criticism.

Parenting at the best of times is challenging. But parenting with cancer? It's shit.

If you think I'm fishing to be told how wonderful I am, I'm most definitely not. I'm hoping that by putting these words down, I can try to get the bad feelings out of my system and let them go.

I have met women who share how much of a bonding experience cancer was for their family. Everyone together as a unit, ready to fight the evil cancer. My reality is I feel like cancer is trying its best to tear my family apart.

These days, more often than not, I feel like I'm doing a terrible job.

Though I'm physically strong given what my body has been through the past several months, emotionally, I'm all over the place.

Like most 5 year olds, mine likes to test the boundaries. He started kindergarten and has had some challenging days that have resulted in his being sent to the office.

I'm doing all the things I've been told are the right things. I've talked to the teacher, to the counsellors, and to the principal. We've been to the cancer agency's children's group. We've tried to keep some semblance of structure at home.

But sometimes, I feel all this effort doesn't mean a damn. And I'm at a point where I'm tired of everything: a never-ending roster of appointments, trying different types of counselling, being told that everything we're experiencing is "normal".

I have become a more patient person in many ways - stopping to collect chestnuts on the way to school instead of trying to make it there in record time to prepare for my return to work, for instance - but I still have not-so-stellar moments. I yell when a hug is needed. I cry when I it's time to buck up. I stress when I should let go.

Trying so hard to make everything better is, well, trying.

I have this little person who depends on me for so much. My biggest fear of all is that while I'm fighting to get myself better, I am letting him down.

Putting on my 'brows

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day sans makeup and nearly screamed.

When I first realized I might lose my eyebrows months ago, I thought I might try a Carol-Burnett-does-Nora-Desmond look.

I mean, if one is going to lose one's 'brows, why not have fun with it?

With eyebrows on my mind, I thought I would share some 'brow-related humour with you today.

Uncle Leo

One day at the office, I was talking about the whole eyebrow situation. My colleague Dragos warned me to be careful, or I could end up looking like Uncle Leo from Seinfeld.

Milhouse

Milhouse from The Simpsons has eyebrows that constantly get him into trouble.

Real-life crazy 'brows

Of course, a post about eyebrows couldn't omit this fabulous shot of Carrot Top, found on Sodahead. The page even opens with the photo's code underneath the image. Clearly, this is an image for sharing.

carrot top+eyebrows pics on Sodahead

A letter to my fingernails

Worst fingernail is the
middle one. Coincidence?
© kittelberg writes

Dear fingernails, eyelashes, eyebrows,

Evidently, you didn't get the memo. I've completed chemo, four weeks ago in fact. My hair did get it and somehow I thought you were included, or at least cc'd with my medical update.

This means you, fingernails, can stop turning yellow and threatening to fall off.

I've been diligently clipping you short and wearing fancy rubber gloves while washing dishes. I get that you haven't felt up to par, particularly on the right side where my chemo IV went in.

But last night, one of you on the left side decided to try to sneak off while I was unplugging the bathtub. Really? What more do you want from me?

Sans makeup.
© kittelberg writes

With makeup.
© kittelberg writes

While we're at it, lashes and brows, feel free to start growing back any time. I get that you've gotten used to falling out over the past couple of months. But frankly, you're cramping my style. You're making me look like a cancer patient as I near the end of treatment with just 16 radiation sessions to go.

Luckily, my dear friend and Juggernauts teammate Chrissy bought me Quo's Must Have Brows kit before brows began evacuating the premises.

With the help of the fantastic Look Good Feel Better volunteers, I learned how to fill in my brows and not look like a drag queen. (No disrespect to drag queens, just not the look I go for in the daytime!)

The head takes the lead.
© kittelberg writes

The Look Good Feel Better makeup artists also taught me how to apply eyeliner to avoid unneeded tugging on delicate lashes, and to fill in the empty spaces to give the illusion of having a full set of lashes.

So, fingernails, brows and lashes, it's not me, it's you. Stop being stubborn, and follow the lead of your associate on the top of my head who is making a comeback as evidenced by the peach fuzz on my pate.

Sincerely,

Lori

Kicking kancer's ass one step at a time

From left: Ceci and Roxy, Melissa, Sharon,
me, and Claire with the Harry Jerome statue on
the Terry Fox Run route. © kittelberg writes

Four weeks ago, I took a major step in kicking kancer's ass and some personal demons. I started running.

Barring one summer in my early 20s when I was training to get to and from work in case Ottawa bus drivers went on strike, running hasn't been my thing

As a kid, I was a chunk and never liked running. Running hurt. I assumed it was because I heavy. When I was diagnosed with asthma at 19, the pain made sense.

As an adult, being fit certainly helped with running, but by then, I was more into aerobics and weight training.

Run for your life

I decided recently to participate in Bust a Move, a fundraiser for the BC Cancer Foundation. My teammates and I will be doing six fitness classes on April 13, 2013.

I've gone back and forth with my fitness regime, working out like a mad woman for months, even years at a time, then being a lazy slug for a while. I now know I need to commit myself to moving my body for the rest of my life.

I mentioned to colleagues that I wanted to do the Run for the Cure as a way to kick myself in the ass to get moving. Sharon used to lead Running Room learn-to-run classes, and offered her expertise. And Melissa wanted to confront her fear of running. We started a running group. I mentioned it on Twitter, and Ceci joined us.

Terry Fox Run

So after three weeks of training, we decided to make last week's Sunday run the Terry Fox Run. Melissa's friend Claire joined us. I also got to meet my Bust a Move teammates Kirstin in person for the first time at the registration tent. She did the run with her mom, and may be joining me, Sharon, Melissa and Ceci for training now and then.

Ceci brought her daughter Alex who biked, and their dog Roxy who ran with us.

Running becomes fun

We debated whether to do the 3k or 10k run, and opted for the 10k route, rationalizing that we could turn around at any time. We followed our 2:1 (running for two minutes, then walking for one minute) training. When we hit the 5k mark feeling good, our decision was made for us: finish it.

Kudos to Roxy, who provided us with the funniest moment of the day by pooping as we ran, resulting in what was coined the "shit relay".

I want to thank these ladies for an incredible morning, and plenty of laughs on our training runs. The laughs will be needed this week when we begin hill training!

Day of tests

The black dot on the right?
One of my new bad-ass tattoos.
© kittelberg writes

Today started bright and early at the cancer agency. Turns out I was scheduled for a CT scan, not a CAT scan.

The CT scan, as I told my friend Brandee today, ensures the radiation is aimed precisely, all the better to kill off stubborn cancer cells that may or may not be there, and save my organs from being inadvertently fried.

You may have also heard women talk about getting their tattoos, which help with setting up the radiation therapy machine properly.

These new tattoos may not look like much, but with all due respect to the artists who gave me my other tattoos, I think they're way more bad-ass than any other ink on my body.

Now I wait - up to 10 business days - for my radiation oncologist and her posse to refine my treatment, then start. No fuss, no muss.

Mammo me

After a quick visit with my colleagues, I head to Mount Saint Joseph for my mammogram. This is the stressful part. After all, it's about the unknown.

The technician has me wait while she has a doctor look at my results before either sending me off, or having me stay for more tests. I'm sitting outside the ultrasound room, and notice the happy baby poster which had me bursting into tears last time I saw it. Nothing like a reminder that treatment could leave me barren!

This time? No tears. I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that George and I are "one and done" when it comes to children.

A lifetime ago

Then I see the couple. They look younger than me, late 20s or early 30s. She's on a gurney, he's following. I wonder if she's here for a fine-wire placement, which will show her surgeon exactly where her tumour is. Does she have breast cancer, or some other type of cancer? Is this her first surgery?

Less than six months ago, I was in her hospital-issue fuzzy socks, scared out of my mind. My husband was the guy waiting in the hallway, trying hard not to lose his shit.

My ultrasound tech comes over and tells me I can get changed and go home. No more tests today. This must be a good sign. After all, the last time I had a mammogram, I stayed for an ultrasound, then was told I had to come back again for a biopsy. We all know what the result of that was.

I get changed and am ready to cartwheel out the door.

Then I walk past the young man, still waiting. He looks up at me and gives me a nervous smile. I smile back.

I get outside and wish I had said something to him. But what? I hope his loved one is okay. I hope I'm okay. Maybe I'll meet his Mrs. at my next mammogram, and we'll cartwheel out the door together. One can hope.

Operation fuck kancer: Chemo 8

Final chemo, baby. Decked in the shield necklace,
borrowed from Becky, and red power lipstick from Sharon.
© gscameraworks

So I think it's fair to say I'm 2/3 through treatment. Surgery and chemo are done, just a month of radiation to go. Unfortunately, radiation is not starting as soon as I thought it would. Apparently, the body needs four to six weeks to recover from chemo first. Looks like I'll be starting in four weeks, fingers crossed.

My tribe rocks

Again, my family and friends came through with flying colours for the final chemo.

I've told you about the awesome colleagues who have become awesome friends. For today's treatment, I wore the lovely necklace Becky loaned me, which she termed a shield. Funny thing is, I'm pretty sure the only treatment I forgot it was the day I had an allergic reaction to the Taxol. Coincidence?

I also donned my red warrior lipstick, given to me by Sharon T. And in my pocket, I carried the St. Agatha rosary Dragos brought back from Malta. The middle digit you see in the photo is my gift to cancer.

Tablet games from Rahel,
and a hello from Jerome.
© kittelberg writes

Rahel came for a visit again, and brought her tablet so I could play games. She also brought a hello from Jerome, who she'd run into at the coffee shop on her way to the cancer agency.

A gift from away

When we got home, there was a gift from my cousins Alison and Patti and their mom, Aunt Phyllis: two pretty scarves, red and purple. My cousin Pam had given them my favourite colours. When our fall weather hits, I'll be sure to post photos of me wearing them.

And just days ago, a hat arrived from my friend and partner in youthful craziness, Jenn.

My point

I know some people feel like they need to do this journey alone. And who am I to say what will work for everyone? All I can do is say that my family and friends have been a huge part of my making it this far through treatment. Thanks again, everyone.

Operation fuck kancer: Chemo 7

To say this week has been crazy would be an understatement.

On Tuesday I turned 40. On Wednesday, the project I've been working on for nearly a year - the fabulous, shiny new City of Vancouver website! - launched. And on Thursday, I had chemo 7.

It's kind of weird when getting a half-day off for chemo feels like a break.

Staving off the panic

After having an allergic reaction during my last treatment, I can't say I was looking forward to chemo 7. My oncologist offered to prescribe Ativan at my appointment the day before, but figured I would try the mind-over-matter approach.

The fact that my chemo nurse, Sue, was the same one who lead the Chemo Teaching class I attended before starting treatment probably helped, as did the fact that Angie, the nurse who took awesome care of me when I had the reaction, happened to be covering Sue's lunch break when my Taxol drip started.

Then there was the pre-Taxol Benadryl. I was dosed with enough that I couldn't complete words, much less sentences by the time George arrived with sandwiches. In fact, I managed to turn "Bena Dryl" into two words.

Chemo a welcome non-event

By the time my manager, Rahel, came for a visit, I had recovered enough to eat and speak. We talked shop a bit, but mainly chatted about books and TV shows we liked. Which of course, made me want to start watching shows I have yet to see, like Nurse Jackie. But first, I really do need to finish two-and-a-half seasons of Sons of Anarchy.

After Rahel left, I did something I had yet to do during chemo: I napped. My first four treatments, the A/C part, I never napped because they were less than two hours. My first Taxol treatment, I almost napped, but couldn't fall asleep when I heard the woman next to me vomiting. Last time, when I started to lay back, I had the allergic reaction.

This time? Sweet sleep. I guess I needed it.

Feds inconsistent with EI benefits

Canadian parents can now get up to 35 weeks of Employment Insurance (EI) benefits if they have a critically ill child. I've read about parents going broke after having to quit their jobs to care for a sick child, particularly when the family has to travel to another city for treatment.

This is a good thing. And it certainly provided a nice photo opp for the federal government. But where are the benefits for critically ill adults?

How the system fails sick adults

If your employer doesn't offer extended benefits, or if you don't qualify for them because you are working on contract, you could be entitled to a whopping 15 weeks of EI. That is, provided you pay into the system via your employer.

If 15 weeks isn't enough, and your illness or treatments are debilitating enough that you cannot work, you may qualify for Disability Benefits through Canada Pension Plan (CPP). Applications for CPP Disability take about three months to review.

So adults get much more time off for a sick child than they will if they happen to be the one who is ill.

My situation

In my case, I get paid a percentage in lieu of benefits. I pay out of pocket for a very basic benefits plan that does not include sickness benefits. Silly me didn't anticipate getting cancer at age 39.

I applied for Disability and was denied because I can work, now anyway. Fingers crossed I don't start having debilitating side effects later in treatment, or that if I do, it happens within the three-month time slot I have to appeal the decision.

So far, I've been lucky: I feel okay to work, and I have a job I really enjoy where my colleagues are incredibly supportive.

But imagine if I didn't feel well enough to work, but felt too well to qualify for Disability. And if I had a stressful job that taxed my energy reserves. Not exactly a prime situation for healing, is it?

Add that to the fact that I apparently make too much money to qualify for any other type of assistance and I'm the stereotypical member of the middle class who is screwed no matter what.

There are a lot of things I'm grateful for, the quality of cancer care in BC in particular.

But the financial support system for people with cancer has holes in it. It's time for the federal government to take a consistent approach to who they award EI benefits to, and fix it.

Put the pressure on

If this bothers you too, make your voice heard:

• Write your MP
• Write Minister of Human Resources and Skills Development Diane Finley

Crossing the threshold of awesome

On my way to cross the threshold. © kittelberg writes

I stole that headline from my friend Lynn. If I say that right away, it's not really stealing, right?

At 7:40 this morning, I turned 40.

Does kancer make a difference?

I'm not sure how much the whole cancer thing has influenced my vision of 40. Honestly, I didn't really care that much when I turned 30. The last time I cared about the number on my ID was when I turned 25. And then, it was only because everyone kept reminding me I was a quarter of a century old.

The cancer has certainly made me care less about other things that would have once driven the younger me nuts.

At one time, the fact that I couldn't take the days off around my birthday would have made me unbearable to be around. But this year? There's a big deadline at work that happens to fall on August 8. No big deal.

Friends who I thought would join the weekend celebration at a cabin on Pitt Lake didn't come. Only meant there was actually comfortable sleeping space for everyone, so you know what? No big deal.

And the friends who could make it made the weekend unforgettable.

Moonrise brings a new year

As we were being devoured by mosquitoes the last night at the cabin, we watched the moonrise. This is something I've never done before, not because I wasn't awake for it. Rather, I either didn't care, or was too busy partying. Perhaps I've seen double-moons at times. It's hard to say.

It was amazing to first see the light, then the moon peek out a bit at a time. In minutes, there it was, a glowing egg, perfectly reflected in the lake. All this happening to the background of my crazy friends laughing at at a combination of old jokes, and new ones ("Terri, I want an apple. Peel it!")

Lynn has right. We have crossed the threshold of awesome. And there is only more to come. Bring it on, 40.