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.

Caring for my wife through cancer

I'm honoured to run today's guest post by Cameron Von St. James, who took care of his wife, Heather, during her treatment for mesothelioma and their infant daughter. Thank you to all the caregivers out there. - Lori

Cameron Von St. James

November 21, 2005 is a day that will be burned in my memory forever. That is the day that my wife Heather received her malignant pleural mesothelioma cancer diagnosis. Immediately, my work as a caregiver started.

It is an understatement to say that I was unprepared for the task. Only three months earlier, Heather and I celebrated the birth of our only child, Lily. Just like any other family, we were planning holiday celebrations and excitedly preparing for Lily’s first Christmas. However, our holiday plans would quickly change, as we began down a long and difficult road to beat cancer.




My journey to becoming a caregiver

My duties as a caregiver began before we even left the doctor’s office where we received the diagnosis.

Heather’s doctor described her cancer in detail. He said we needed a specialist. We had three options. One was the local university hospital. Another was a great regional hospital, but they did not have a mesothelioma program. The third option would be to go all the way to Boston to see Dr. David Sugarbaker, a specialist in mesothelioma.

Looking at Heather, I could see she was in shock and unable to make a decision. Her eyes pleaded with me for help. I made the snap decision to go to Boston. I asked our doctor to help us make the arrangements. This decision was only the first of many I would have to help make as Heather’s caregiver.

Juggling work, caregiving, and baby




In the next two months, we experienced complete chaos as our daily routines totally changed. Heather and I worked full-time jobs before she was diagnosed with cancer. After the diagnosis, she was too sick to work, and I could only work part time in order to care for her.

When I was not at work, I went with my wife to her doctor’s appointments, made travel arrangements for Boston, and took care of our baby, Lily.

It did not take long for me to feel overwhelmed with everything I had to do. I feared losing Heather, ending up broke and homeless with a baby girl. When these fears overwhelmed me, I would end up on the kitchen floor sobbing. I wanted all of this to disappear. Fortunately, I did not let Heather see me like this. I knew I had to be strong for her.




Letting people help




Our friends, family and even complete strangers helped Heather and me. We received everything from words of comfort to financial assistance. We will never be able to adequately thank everyone who helped.

If any of you or your family is diagnosed with cancer and someone offers to help, let them help. It lets you know that you are not alone. People care about you. They can help ease your burden.

Your emotions




Caring for someone with cancer is challenging. You will feel stress, fear and anger. Being a caregiver will probably be the most difficult challenge you will ever face. You cannot simply walk away from this responsibility like you could from a job or attending college.

Do not allow negative emotions take over. It is all right to have bad days. However, it is important to never give up hope.

Life after treatment

After mesothelioma surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, Heather beat the cancer. Seven years after her diagnosis, she is cancer free. It took years for our lives to resume as normal. However, I learned how to use my determination to my advantage. I had learned that time is precious.

Two years after Heather’s diagnosis, while I was working full time and caring for Heather and Lily, I decided to attend college and study information technology. My time as a caregiver gave me the skills and the courage I needed to pursue this dream.

I graduated with high honors and even spoke at my graduation. At graduation, I spoke about how I never thought I would be on a stage giving a graduation speech just a few years earlier, sitting in a doctor’s office hearing that my wife had cancer.

I encouraged the graduating class and those attending to never give up on their dreams. Each of us can achieve more than we ever thought possible. All we have to do is believe in ourselves.

Thank you, Cameron, for sharing your story. See a video of Heather's story on the Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance website.


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.

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.

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.

Waiting is hard work

I'm waiting for radiation to start. Most people would welcome a break in treatment. And I do. Kind of.

But at the same time, I just want to get it all over with and move on far, far away from this chapter in my life.

I'm an impatient person by nature. I was even born three weeks early. I'm often early for events because I can't stand the idea of being late. I nag at my son, the dawdlingest dawdler who ever dawdled, to hurry up 99% of the time we walk anywhere because this waiting business makes me edgy.

Then I think to myself that I should be taking advantage of this time and just slow down. I try to put on my yoga hat, breathe and stop rushing, rushing, rushing.

But it's hard when it's not in my nature to do so.

On edge

The other thing that makes me edgy is being left on my own after being at the beck and call of appointments all summer. Even if it's for a few weeks, the quiet is unnerving.

I'm sick of doctor's offices, but miss the convenience of having appointments scheduled for me every other week.

When I woke up with a swollen left hand and couldn't remove my rings, I waiting a few days. I followed online recommendations of putting my hand in cold water (painful!), then elevating it, then icing it to no avail. I finally call my GP's office.

Doctor instructs me to elevate my hand for two hours, then try again to get my rings off. If it doesn't work, I'll have to go to the hospital the next day and have them cut off. Awesome.

The two-hour elevation does the trick, rings come off. But I still don't have an answer on why this happened. Could it be lymphedema related? Did I sleep on my hand funny?

Do not leave me hanging

I realize this is ridiculous, so I start calling the cancer agency and leaving messages. When is radiation starting? And no one calls back. How annoying is that? Don't leave the cancer patient hanging, people!

Then I remember, I have a six-month mammogram coming up on the "good" (read: hopefully non-cancerous) side because of something that looked like a cyst, but they couldn't get more than one angle on so couldn't biopsy it. And I also remember my nurse who works out of Mount Saint Joseph's, where I'll be getting the mammo, said to call if I needed anything.

So I call. Imelda tells me when I have my mammo results, she'll also take a look at my arm and hand and figure out what's happening. I mention the unreturned messages about my radiation. She says she'll make a call. And 40 minutes later, I have an appointment for my CAT scan, which is needed before radiation starts (I didn't know this).

This is my life and it's in my hands to a large extent. So if I don't feel like waiting, I know who to call. Like I said on Twitter yesterday, I wish every cancer patient had an Imelda.

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.

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.

Do not let guilt get in the way of life

Image from Find Your Balance

It's hard enough to get time as a couple when you have a young child. Toss cancer into the mix and it's damn near impossible.

Of course, there are the appointments and medical tests to contend with. There are weeks that I feel it would be easier to pitch a tent outside the cancer agency, rather than bother with all this commuting business. Juggle that with work schedules, plus daycare pick-ups and drop-offs to negotiate, and sleep is the most attractive option when we have a moment to spare.

So when friends offer to take your kid to the beach an afternoon, the sane say, "Abso-freakin-lutely!"

After said friends, Cristian and Ximena (thanks, guys!) swung by to collect our boy, we were left to ponder what to do.

Now that my feet are pain-free after the weird callus issue cleared up (as predicted by my oncologist, this happened shortly after I started Taxol), a walk was in order. We wandered the seawall along Coal Harbour.

It didn't take long for us to figure out what we wanted to do. It was a sunny Sunday. We needed a patio, pronto.

Why guilt

Early in my diagnosis, this may have not been possible due to self-inflicted guilt. If you aren't a breast cancer survivor, you're probably wondering why on earth I would do such a thing.

Simply put, booze is not good for breast cancer. Or rather, it's not good for getting rid of or preventing breast cancer.

Says breastcancer.org: "Alcohol can increase levels of estrogen and other hormones associated with hormone-receptor-positive breast cancer. Alcohol also may increase breast cancer risk by damaging DNA in cells.

Compared to women who don't drink at all, women who have three alcoholic drinks per week have a 15% higher risk of breast cancer. Experts estimate that the risk of breast cancer goes up another 10% for each additional drink women regularly have each day."

It's well-documented that being overweight is also a risk factor when it comes to breast cancer. So if you're like me and looking at food makes you gain weight, choosing food wisely is very important. Generally speaking, the experts recommend lots of veggies, a bit of fruit, and little to no animal fats. Many say raw vegan is ideal.

Guilt be gone

I've greatly improved my eating habits, and rarely indulge in an alcoholic beverage.

But I'm not a fan of cutting things out completely, other than tobacco (which happened several years ago). I don't operate well when denied something. Sure, I'll manage it for days, weeks, even months. But then I crack. And I find it difficult to stop after being denied for so long. And that, my friends, is a slippery slope to navigate when it comes to life and death.

So we found that patio (The Mill Bistro on Coal Harbour). We each had a beer, and shared a plate of nachos. And it was glorious.

Help me Bust a Move

The Juggernauts 2011: Cheryl Blanchard-Lake,
Lori Kittelberg and Chrissy Watson. © kittelberg writes

This time last year, I was getting ready for the 60k Walk for Women's Cancers. I had no idea that one year later, I would be in the middle of treatment for breast cancer.

When I was done the walk, I was glad I did it, but figured I would take a pass at any big fundraisers for another year.

That was then, this is now.

The cause

Next April, I'm taking part in Bust a Move with Walk for Women's Cancers teammate Chrissy Watson, and Chrissy's recruit Wynter Trace. We are the Juggernauts.

I feel a need to give back to the BC Cancer Agency, where I am getting my treatment. The agency is partnered with the BC Cancer Foundation, and the foundation is holding this fundraiser.

The treatment I have received at the agency is, I'm pretty sure, the gold standard in cancer care. I've been steered from surgery to chemo, and soon I'll be headed to radiation, without a hiccup.

My medical team, including the fantastic nurses in the chemo ward, is simply incredible. I've never felt like I'm asking too many questions, or worst yet, like I'm simply a number.

Now I feel it's imperative for me to help raise money that will go towards helping other women like me, and help researchers annihilate this fucking cancer thing.

What the Juggernauts will do next spring

My teammates and I will be taking part in six fitness classes on April 13, 2013. The classes are geared to all fitness levels, something I really like since keeping fit and healthy is a huge part of reducing your risk of getting breast cancer. Hey, it's not a guarantee, but every little bit helps.

And of course, there's the fundraising. Each member of my team has to raise a minimum of $1,000. I would really like to exceed this.

We'll be holding fundraising events in the months leading up to Bust a Move. But you don't have to wait - you can always donate now.

Operation fuck kancer: Chemo 6

There's nothing like a first-hand experience to intensify one's empathy for others.

For five days after my first Taxol treatment, I dealt with muscle and joint pain, mainly in my legs. The shooting pain in my left knee was particularly fun, the type of pain that literally took my breath away at times.

When talking to my manager the following Monday, she asked how I was feeling and I told her about the pain. She lives with arthritis, and told me how sorry she was that I was dealing with that level of pain. And she's the one who deals with pain all the time.

This week's chemo lesson

This morning, I had an allergic reaction to the Taxol. Normally, if someone's going to react to Taxol, they will on the first treatment. Not me though. I'm an outside-the-box kind of girl

George had just left to get us lunch when it started. The Benadryl they gave me before the Taxol was making me sleepy, and I wanted a quick nap before eating. See, that's how many people react, they give you Benadryl beforehand, just in case.

It started with a nauseous twinge. Then all hell broke loosed. I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. I don't even know what I told the nurse, but she turned around to look at me and said, "Your face is red." Not surprising, as I suddenly felt like my head had been set on fire. Then my head and chest felt like balloons that were blown up to the point of almost breaking.

The IV drip was stopped, another nurse and an oncologist were in the room in what seemed like seconds. At first I nodded and shook my head in response to their questions because talking took a lot of effort since I was short of breath, and back pain had started. When I did describe what I was feeling, I felt like I wasn't making sense.

At least it's temporary

I was given more Benadryl, then hydrocortisone. They restarted the Taxol drip slowly, and eventually turned it back up to where it should have been. I was fine for the rest of the treatment, but feeling pretty freaked out.

The thing is I'll have two more treatments which will hopefully be uneventful since they're going to adjust them to ensure I don't react again. Then it will be over for me.

Meanwhile, one of my best friends has a peanut allergy. And I have a number of friends with children who have bad allergies. A colleague has a tree-fruit and tree-nut allergy. All these people have EpiPens prescribed.

I can now say I understand the fear someone experiences when having an allergic reaction. When your body is out of control, it's fucking scary. And though I don't know what it's like to see my child have an allergic reaction, I now think I have a pretty good idea of what it's like.

Believe it or not, cancer has helped me be more grateful for my overall good health. And it's helped me gain a better understanding of what people with chronic health issues go through.