A Promise is a Promise

THIS PAST WEEKEND, I spent a glorious few days at an oceanfront  Airbnb with my sister and a friend to celebrate the end of my chemotherapy. So I guess you could say now that I feel healthy enough to do things with my friends, I immediately decided to consume enough food and alcohol to make myself feel horrible again! But it was all worth it because I needed the break before I face radiation head on next week. I love those girls and appreciate the good time we had and the memories made.

Celebrations are important. Many are to denote a specific date in time – an anniversary of sorts. It could be a first date, a first kiss, and engagement or a wedding. Or perhaps the day your child graduated or you retired from your career after many years. These are all things we want to celebrate.

But there are also the anniversaries of days that we wish never happened – and these are often the ones we remember even more.  For the older generation or war history enthusiasts, June 6, 1944 is rooted in their brains as D-Day. Then there are assassination dates of great leaders – November 22, 1963 (JFK) and April 4, 1968 (Martin Luther King Jr.). If I utter the term 9/11, everyone knows what I’m referring to.  

Then there are the dates that are also personal to an individual. For me, May 11, 2009 will be the day I lost my dad. Unfortunately, it is also the wedding anniversary for my sister and her husband. So it is a bittersweet day for our family.

August 29, 2019. This has now become the anniversary of when our little family of five said goodbye to our black Labrador retriever, Maggie. So while I laughed and sipped wine with my girlfriends this past Saturday, I quietly thought about the dog that had meant so much to us for nearly fifteen years.

Brad and I got married on December 29, 1990. It wasn’t the date we originally planned on but he had been transferred to Ottawa for a job the previous October and my heart wanted to follow him instead of waiting to marry the following summer. It was the right move and we made Ottawa our home for fourteen years.  We welcomed three daughters into our lives and numerous cats, fish and hamsters.

           Emily and BJ - 1996                        Emily and Spidey - 2003

                                    

When the opportunity arose for us to move back to Nova Scotia in 2004, we packed up everything and made the trek in our Chevy Venture van – hamster in tow. The excitement that Brad and I were feeling quickly was absorbed by the kids as well ... we were going to live in the magical province of Nova Scotia where there were saltbox houses with big back yards and oceanfront beaches to explore.

The girls adjusted to the new location easily and quickly made friends in the neighbourhood. Emily and Rachel began school and Brad started his new job while I stayed home with Colleen and set my mind on decorating our new home. Life felt quite perfect except for one small thing.

Emily was quick to remind us that we had once said she could have a dog someday if we moved back to Nova Scotia. Every friend she had made in the new neighbourhood had a dog and she eagerly walked with them everyday dreaming of her own pet.  “A promise is a promise” she would say. And looking at those big blue eyes, how could we possibly say no?

Maggie was not the Golden Retriever she was hoping for, but this little black Labrador quickly won her over. Maggie was barely eight weeks when we brought her home from the pet store. It was a few days before Christmas and the three girls were instructed to wait in the living room for daddy because he needed to speak with them about something very important. I can still see their wide eyes when he walked in holding this little puppy with a red bow around its neck. And I can still hear Emily utter the words to us with tears in her eyes, “Is that real?” She couldn’t quite believe that we had kept our promise. And she only looked at the puppy for a short time when she said “I’m going to call her Maggie.”

                                December 23, 2004

Christmas came and there was a new level of excitement in our home. Family members visited and everyone got to meet Maggie. We had bought a large kennel for Maggie, anticipating how big she would grow and were firm in our request that she learned to sleep there. We were also firm about no dogs on the furniture. If the rules were not followed, then the dog would be going to another home.  

            Emily and Maggie - 2004

Of course, that didn’t last long. Although Maggie did not usually jump on the furniture, she quickly settled in to sleeping with Emily in her double bed - the way it was meant to be for a girl and her dog.

If you have had a dog, you know that training isn’t always easy. Staying home after the Christmas holidays were over with an almost three year old and a new puppy was a challenge I wasn’t prepared for.  If Colleen wasn’t chasing the dog, the dog was chasing her. If I wasn’t potty training Colleen , I was trying to house break Maggie. I wasn't making much progress with either and was close to having a breakdown. I would count the minutes for Emily and Rachel to return home for lunch so Emily could take the little four-legged menace for a walk and hopefully a number one and two.

We quickly learned that nothing could be left on the floor because the dog would eat it or destroy it. There was the time Maggie chewed Brad’s shoes. These were good leather shoes and he was not pleased. He banished Maggie to the crate and when she wouldn’t stop barking, he attempted to pick up the crate with the dog in it. This was a grave mistake as he lost grip and dropped crate and dog on his toes. While he rolled around on the floor, his face a sickly shade of white and his white socks a worrisome shade of red, Emily yelled, “Are you okay?!” and ran to the kennel. She quickly took out her precious dog and I can still hear her little voice say, “Oh my dear Maggie...you’re okay. It’s okay.” Luckily, Brad’s bloodied and bruised toes healed over time – after all, there was lots of room in his shoes since Maggie had chewed the tips away.

Emily was fantastic with Maggie. We enrolled them in obedience training and Emily and Brad even composed a “How To Train Your Dog” guide that they sold on Ebay. Emily was deeply invested in her pet and didn’t want her to cause too much trouble. But dogs certainly have minds of their own.

We had a nice long porch at the back of our home with a gate. We often put Maggie outside there with her water dish and some shade to get some fresh air if we were too busy to walk with her or play. But her love for chewing quickly resulted in the wood slats being eaten to bits- and as an added bonus, a wood staple in the roof of her mouth.  So off to the vet to have it removed...just one of many visits over the years.

I was grateful that we had Maggie when we moved to Dartmouth in 2007. Emily would be starting junior high and didn’t know anyone. I was worried about her but she had Maggie to come home to everyday. I’m quite certain if you asked Emily she would probably recall feeling the same way. Being a teenager is hard, especially when you’re the new kid trying to fit in. Over the years, Maggie provided much needed love and support to each of us and somehow made her way into everyone’s bed eventually.

  Rachel and Maggie – 2018

Fast forward to 2013 and Emily was starting Dalhousie University. Unfortunately, the evening before, Maggie escaped from the back yard. She would do this occasionally but she usually would run down to the nearby lake, take herself for a swim and then return to either the front door or back deck within the hour. But this time was different. I looked all over the neighbourhood and she was nowhere to be found. I finally had to tell the kids and Brad she was missing. We all continued to look in the dark with flashlights for her and our hearts were broken when she didn’t turn up. We called shelters and left messages and posted on the Lost Dog Network. She wasn’t wearing her collar and without a microchip, no one would know her name or who she belonged to.

Panic was setting in for all of us until we received confirmation the next morning that she was picked up by animal services the evening before and had been in “doggy jail” for the night. I couldn’t get the kids to school fast enough that morning before heading to Burnside Animal Shelter to post her bail. Once I paid the bill, a worker brought out a very skittish, wide-eyed dog that looked as if she had seen the dark side of life. She was as thrilled to see me as I was to see her and she immediately headed towards the car to escape the horrors of the night she had just experienced. All in all, I think it helped her wandering days become less frequent. From that point forward, she seemed quite content to enjoy long walks at Shubie Park or a stroll at the beach with Emily instead.

Maggie seemed to have boundless energy for so long. Despite the white chin hairs and the greying paws and belly, she still had the heart of a puppy. She was always willing to hop in a car to go for a ride if it meant she would get a chance to walk and run in a new place with the girl she loved. And even as Emily had less time to spend with her as her studies and jobs consumed most of her day, she still loved her dog.

Over the last year of her life, it was obvious that getting up and down was becoming stressful for Maggie. Sometimes in the morning, I needed to lift her back legs so she could get up off the floor. The days of jumping on any of our beds were long gone. Sometimes Brad would lift her up on his lap and hold her like a child and she would look at him with love in her eyes. And even though we knew it was painful for her, she needed to follow us wherever we went – up the stairs and down the stairs – click, click, click would go her nails.

That last week of August 2019, Rachel was home from Montreal visiting. The weather was warm and there was a sense of calmness in the air. I sadly made arrangements for Maggie to say goodbye. That day will never be forgotten. Emily took Maggie to Fisherman’s Cove and that beautiful old lab walked for hours. She would walk ahead of Emily but always look back to make sure she was still there. She seemed to find energy one last time to enjoy the salt air and chase the seagulls. She no longer could jump into Emily’s boyfriend’s truck but Emily had no qualms lifting her in and out as many times as she needed if it meant that Maggie would have a perfect last day. We had roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy and stuffing for dinner and let Maggie eat as much as she wanted.  And when it was time, we all headed to the vet together to be with her in the end.

It was quick. It was peaceful. It was necessary. And it was heartbreaking.

Maggie's last week

It took a few days to actually feel the weight of such a loss. The house suddenly was quiet. No more

clicking of nails up and down the stairs. No barking when somebody knocked on the door. No dog to longingly look at us as we ate our meals hoping to get a morsel. No more tricks. No more snuggles. The feeling of loss was immense. 

Life does go on though. Winnie entered our lives in October 2019 and is certainly the complete opposite of Maggie. She has a lot of attitude for a six-and-a-half pound dog. She’s ferocious and spoiled. She jumps on the furniture and doesn’t care. She will steal the food off our plates. She will run after a ball but forget to bring it back to you. She has completely taken over the house. She has trained us to listen to her instead of the other way around. And she’s so darn cute that we let her continue to rule us.

       
                            Winnie - 2020

I have a spot in the family room that is Maggie’s corner. I like having her ashes there and her picture. When we brought her urn home, it gave us some sense of peace and acceptance. There is some comfort having her in the room where we spent so much time together as a family. When we sit there in the evening, with a fire going and maybe a glass of wine in hand, I feel her presence and can almost see her laying in front of the fireplace where she belonged.

It’s a sad anniversary – one year without Maggie. Thank you, sweet old girl. You meant the world to us. We love and miss you every day.

     

A Bump in the Road

 

TEN DAYS AGO, I had my fifth chemo treatment. For those who keep score, that means I have one more to go. August 7, 2020 is highlighted on my phone calendar as my final chemo. Plans are being made for the end of that month with a few friends to celebrate the end of this chapter of my cancer journey.  And then will begin the next chapter called radiation – although I try not to think too much about the details of that.

On any journey, when we see an end in sight, I think most people feel a sense of relief or satisfaction. There is a point we all strive to reach and it is finally within our grasp. So this past week has been a bit unsettling for me.

Chemo knocks me down as I move further in this process. I am fortunate not to have lost my appetite or feel too nauseated. However, the undeniable loss of energy is taxing. It is a physically draining treatment – but more than that, it is emotionally and mentally incapacitating. 

I try to remain positive. People tell me all the time how admirable my attitude is. I hear how great I look and numerous other compliments about bravery, woman power and such. And I truly do believe all the things I post on Facebook and Instagram. I’m no phony. What you see is what you get. So why am I suddenly so sad?

When you find out you have cancer, there are so many unknowns. The range of emotions is endless and the early diagnosis needs to be broken down by so many factors.  You are overloaded with books to read, papers to sign, and names and phone numbers to remember and prioritize. The medical tests and assessments keep you busy and your focus is on determining the stage you are and what will be your treatment plan. Then you focus on the treatment itself and getting through it. You worry about the physical effects of the disease and how you will deal with it. Your attention is directed so much on the physical that the mental aspect is pushed aside.

From the beginning, every surgeon and specialist I have seen has asked me at every appointment, how I was feeling. And they weren’t talking about the dizziness, upset stomach, diarrhea, constipation, dry mouth, headache, exhaustion, restless legs, bone aches, loss of feeling in my arm, drain issues, scar tissue, acid reflux and insomnia. They were asking about my mental health. And every time, I have smiled and said “I’m fine”.

At some point in these last few days, I realized I don’t feel fine. I am depressed.

Depression sneaks up on you. After giving birth to our third child in March 2002, I developed mastitis and became physically ill. I lost a few days to sleep and sweated off a lot of baby weight with a 103 degree fever. After a week and being on antibiotics, I started to feel better physically but still found it difficult to eat or find joy in the things around me. We were living in Ottawa and we had three beautiful daughters, a big house in a nice neighbourhood and our health to be thankful for. To anyone on the outside looking in, we were living the good life. Brad had a well paying job so I could stay home with the girls. The kids had friends and play dates and took gymnastics, dance and soccer. My friends and family who saw me all told me how great I looked. I was thin and trying to run and looked better than I ever have. But inside, I was crying.

Postpartum depression was difficult. Medication did not help me. Gratitude journals did not help. Drinking did not help. Nothing really helped. And I was too embarrassed to ask for help. Somehow, I managed to come out of this depression on my own. I can’t really explain how but I am grateful that by Christmas that year, my mental health was back on track. I had somehow dug myself out of a dark hole without counselling or medication.

But I know what depression feels like. And it is once again has been tugging at me. The feeling that staying in bed all day is just easier than trying to make an effort to clean or cook or do laundry is overwhelming. And I get away with it on a daily basis. After all, those who love me want to help in any way they can so I get a free pass to being lazy. And because of Covid-19, I have a reason not to socialize. I don’t have to bother to make any effort to be with neighbours, family or friends because it would put my immune compromised state of health at high risk. I have been given an okay on every level to do absolutely nothing.

If this doesn’t sound like depression to you, I have to include the state of my personal hygiene. I don’t remember when I took my last shower. I wear the same clothes to bed that I wear the rest of the day. I’m not sure if I changed the bed sheets recently. Things have piled up in various corners of my room and dining room that I just don’t care to clean up.

And there is also the issue of impulsive behaviour to fulfil the need for an instant high. Because I don’t like to go out, my internet purchasing has increased to the point where I will need to go back to work sooner than expected just to pay for unnecessary purchases. My daughter came into my room last week and asked if I had a beach bag and towel she could borrow.  I didn’t so the most natural thing to do was to go directly to Amazon and buy both items – delivered 36 hours later. When they came to the house, I had forgotten I had bought them. This is a problem.

Depression will feed on so many things related to cancer. And in my experience, the saddest thing of all in dealing with cancer is loneliness. No matter how many people are in your corner, cheering you on and providing words of love and encouragement, the reality is that you need to fight it on your own. And in the age of Covid-19, this is even truer.

I was filled with anxiety when my first chemo day arrived. I put on a smile but had to kiss Brad goodbye in the car when he dropped me off at the cancer centre. He couldn’t come with me. No family member or friend could come with me. I wandered around the eerily empty pandemic era hospital, masked and freshly hand sanitized, trying to find the elevators to the 11^th floor. I signed in and was given a number and waited. And from there, every nurse I met would all look the same. Draped in PPE – masks making them indistinguishable from each other.

I pictured it quite differently – other chemo patients smiling at me and offering some encouragement. A special nurse assigned only to me so I would form a special bond. Pink ribbon coloured paint adorning the walls. Flowers to add a bit of cheerfulness to a depressing situation. Music playing to alleviate the stress we would all be feeling. But I obviously had watched far too many Hallmark movies and soap operas.

I was in a room with two other people – an elderly lady who already knew the drill and a deaf older man who was also there for his initial visit. The man struggled to understand what was going on while his nurse hollered over the speaker phone to his wife who sat dutifully in her car outside.  I had about five nurses who periodically checked in on me and shared duties of pushing four separate poisons slowly through my IVs. Due to pandemic restrictions,  no volunteers would visit us during our treatments. So for the four hours I was there, I browsed my phone and updated social media of my whereabouts. Then I watched YouTube videos and TikToks until my phone was left hanging on to 3% power. Putting it away so I would be able to use it to call Brad to pick me up, I spent the last 30 minutes staring around a sterile chemo room. And it was hard not to cry.

Admitting that I am struggling with depression is the first step to overcoming it. It makes others aware that I’m not always able to sail through things on my own.  My legs feel like lead the first week after treatment and my desire to sleep all day is at an all time high, but that one person in my life that can push me to get outside and breathe in the fresh air is helping me more than they know.  Whether that person is Brad or one of my daughters, my sister Dee, or a friend ... they all play an important role in helping me keep my mind in a healing state. That cup of coffee on the deck or facetime call are all part of beating cancer.

So please remember, if you really want to help me or anyone else who is trying to beat cancer – don’t wait to be asked to help. Show up with the coffee and muffins. Take the time to pop by and go for a drive. Come by to weed the garden or plant some flowers.  Share some of your favourite books. Bring the popcorn and watch a movie. I’ll open my door everytime.

Loneliness is difficult and being a friend is the very best cure.

 

 

 

Oh, The Irony of it All!

The date is not a mistake. I seriously have not contributed to this blog since October 16, 2012. I was not incarcerated nor was I incapable of taking a few moments to share a few musings of my daily existence.  All I have been doing is living my life ... the same life millions of other wives/moms can relate to. I believe that my family has needed me and I have risen to the occasion as best I could. I’ve endured the eye rolls from my daughters and welcomed the reassurances from other moms (and dads) who give it their best every single day.

My husband, Brad, is still beside me in this little matrimonial adventure. In fact, we are approaching our 30^th wedding anniversary this year. I know in today’s society, that alone gives us superhero status. But when we married, it was old school thinking - that whole ‘for better or for worse’ nonsense. From the moment we decided to marry, I think we decided to put the effort and care into a marriage and not a wedding. We took it seriously – we still do.

We are still living in Nova Scotia. Since my last blog, Brad and I have explored the vineyards of California, forced two of our daughters to enjoy the beaches of Florida on a budget and even frolicked as a happy couple in the turquoise waters of Mexico. Okay – frolic may not be true – I mainly floated. But I can pretend I looked like the models in the brochures.

There are so many places where future travels will likely take us. But I think it’s safe to say we are content to be visitors. I think as we age and look towards retirement, the thought of a warmer climate and a maintenance free condo or apartment enters our thoughts. And we likely will downsize at some point ...  but probably to a nice little bungalow with a water view in Nova Scotia. I guess this Bluenoser suffers from Dorothy-itis  – there’s no place like home.

The girls have certainly moved forward in life since the last blog! Emily was just starting grade 12 and now she has graduated Dalhousie Pharmacy School. Rachel has left the nest and is finding her way around the big city of Montreal. And my baby, Colleen, is in her final year of high school and trying to decide which university is ready for her.  How can this even be possible?? I could go in to great detail about their lives – proms, graduations, boyfriends, heartbreaks, friendships, weekend excursions, accidents, girlfriends, challenges, hospitals, relocations, tears and laughter -  but I realize there is a good chance they may read this someday. So I’ll leave it at that and let your imaginations take over the direction of the roadtrips they took.....

To say that 2020 is a typical year would be a huge understatement. 

“Here’s to Making 2020 the Best Year Ever!”

What an idiot I was when I declared this on my Facebook page. (Please stop the snickering. I still can’t quite navigate my way confidently through Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat.) But I thought it had to be better than the previous few years – let your imagination run wild with what possibly could have been wrong from 2012 to 2019. 

As 2020 began, you would think that Australian wildfires killing over a billion animals or a downed jet that killed Canadians or the impeachment trial of a US President (cough) would be enough for one year. But that was only the first month! February came and the locusts swarmed Africa. Okay, so this should definitely have been a red flag, right? But even as tornados and floods wreaked havoc in the world, we all just kept smiling and minding our own business. Even though something was quietly creeping into our lives....

Covid-19. Coronavirus. SARS-CoV-2. No matter what you name it, this is the game changer.

As of today, there are almost 3.3 million cases worldwide and almost a quarter-of-a-million deaths.  And despite what some naysayers want us to believe, it is much worse than the common flu. It has killed far too many people – even the ones who appeared healthy and strong. The worst of it is how people die – without the comfort of their family around them. They die only with the medical staff and essential service people in the hospitals or nursing homes. The families cannot even say goodbye to them respectfully because of social distancing. It is by far the most heart wrenching disease because of all it takes away from both the patient and the family of the dying.

And it is especially sad in our little corner of the world. This was the year we would see Emily graduate from Pharmacy. She had her graduation trip planned to Punta Cana. She accepted a fulltime position and was all smiles. She and Chris were looking towards their future together ... did someone say German Shepherd? But all of this has been changed. She is working lots of hours in a career where customers are unhappy with the drug restrictions placed by the government. She maintains her sanity throughout the process by stepping into her running gear to blow off steam on a trail that is still allowed to be used by the public. She is tough. 

Colleen is my baby. And yes – I probably spoil her. But life hasn’t always been kind to her the last few months. (Again, no explanation as I respect her privacy.) So when she started applying to universities and I saw a bit of genuine happiness beneath her smile, I thought it was all going to be okay. She had lots of options and getting through her last semester of high school was all that stood in her way before moving onward to better times. Her prom dress was bought in December. A trip to Montreal with friends was in the works and it was going to be the best summer of her life. She was looking forward to the Cavendish Beach Festival with friends. And then came Covid-19 and many tears. Online schooling has prevailed. Trying to put up with your parents daily is a challenge when there are no other siblings at home for commiseration. The ball gown sits in her closet. Cavendish has been officially cancelled. And every day she checks how many new cases of Covid-19 there are in Nova Scotia – hoping for a turnaround that isn’t going to come soon enough.

And this takes me to Rachel. I can only describe this child as my heart. It is a strange thing but I have no other way to describe our relationship. She has never taken an easy path in life. She places herself in the  biggest challenges possible. Being in Montreal is right for her and I have accepted that. But Quebec is also the province with the worst Covid-19 outbreak in Canada. Yet the leaders there are allowing the least restrictions. All I want is to put her on a plane back to me and hug her and never let her go....and there’s a reason for this.

Strangely enough, the last time I blogged, I was feeling blessed. Thanksgiving had come and gone and after a torturous few weeks, my doctor confirmed I did not have breast cancer. I was elated. And I was also devastated because my sister-in-law did. We both had our biopsies on the same day and we dreaded what might be on the horizon. Brad quietly lent his strength to me and continued to tell himself both his wife and sister could not possibly have breast cancer at the same time. And although he was overjoyed for me, his heart sank for Cynthia. 

But if cancer ever picked the wrong person, it was Cynthia. She tackled the beast (and the breast) and is stronger than ever. I was amazed by her ability to beat the disease and continue life with normalcy. She continued to be an amazing mom. She ran and exercised and travelled. She laughed --- and I would assume she probably cried a lot. I think Cynthia and I have a shared admiration and respect for each other. We both have three daughters and we both have had to tolerate Brad’s antics for a good portion of our lives. My kids love their Aunt Cynthia ... especially Emily who shares the love of running with both Cynthia and Brad. (I am so glad that they have this common interest so I do not have to go all in on the running thing.)

So what does this all have to do with 2020? 

I found a lump. I had a biopsy. This time it was positive.

I have breast cancer.

I had a lumpectomy and left axillary node clearance. 

And now I’ve started chemotherapy. I will need radiation and another drug by IV called Herceptin until April 2021. And after all that, a pill for at least another five years. If I do all of this the right way, I will decrease my chance of recurrence in the next ten years by almost eighty percent. And that is a reason to listen to my doctors.

And it’s also a reason to hug the crap out of your kids....

But we are living in a time like no other. Social distancing means I can’t hug people who aren’t in the same household. I can’t put Rachel on the plane home. My circle of family and friends can’t visit me – even on those days when I feel sad or sick or depressed. On the days I do feel good and want to venture out, I can only walk in my neighbourhood with my mask on. During chemotherapy, I can’t hold the hand of a friend or family member at the hospital. I go by myself and think of better times ahead. This is my new normal and it's not easy. 

I try to make sense of all of this. And that leads me to a confession.

When I found out that I had cancer, I was not surprised. I knew. Just like I knew I was pregnant before I took the test each time. I’ve only cried a handful of times and have never really felt like it was some kind of injustice. I was more upset seven years ago when I thought I might have cancer. The only thing that weighed heavy on my mind when I was diagnosed was the fear that I wouldn’t be healthy enough to enjoy my daughters’ graduations and celebrations. If Rachel came to visit in the summer, would I be ill and frighten her? I didn’t want cancer to make me weak. Most of all, I didn’t want people to look at me as the mom with cancer because my girls deserve so much more recognition than that.

Enter Covid-19. 

And I no longer had to worry. Suddenly, everything is cancelled. Everyone is staying at home if they are not an essential worker. Staying in my pajamas all day is perfectly acceptable. When I need to go out, I don’t stand out in a crowd because everyone is wearing a mask. And when my hair falls out, everyone will think I just shaved my head like all the other bored quarantined people did. Ironically, I got my wish.

And for that, I am truly sorry.

A Reason to be Thankful

So I have not gone into the witness protection program, in case you were wondering. 

It has been almost 4 months since my last blog!! I kept meaning to write but this invasive thing called life keeps taking over and I just can't find the time for witty musings. The third book in the Fifty Shades series is sadly collecting dust on my bedside table. I'm certain there is a frustrated housewife on my street waiting for me to read it and pass it along. But Anastasia will have to wait.....

School has started again. Emily is in her senior year. Rachel has started high school. And Colleen is in grade 5...and soccer...and basketball...and verging on puberty. For all of these reasons, Brad has increased the wine production in our house. Enough said.

Referring back to my previous blog, I do want to acknowledge my hopes of being bikini ready by Thanksgiving. Luckily the only breasts at the dinner table belonged to the gloriously brined turkey. I have remained - for the most part - on my eating plan. I have had success and am sporting a trimmer version of myself. Being able to pick multiple size 9s off the rack and have everything fit is a great feeling. And for once in my life, I feel as if I can stay in my happy place :)

Thanksgiving dinner remains my favorite event of the year. We had twenty people for dinner and it was a day to share laughter and tears with family. Every year brings different things to be thankful for. And this year has been no exception.

In May, my co-workers shamed me into getting a mammogram. Frankly, I was told they hurt and I was scared I might have a panic attack. But at 46, I really was overdue. So I made the appointment and was scheduled for September 7th. As the day came closer, I thought of lots of reasons not to proceed but Brad delivered me to the hospital and I did it. And guess what? It was fine. In fact, I laughed at how easy it was. I even was a little bit sarcastic about it. Women who thought this hurt must have a very low pain threshold. They obviously never delivered 8 and 1/2 pound babies naturally. I laughed it off and proclaimed I would be ready for my next one because this was easy.

So I got my wish. Two weeks later I had to report to the Dixon Centre for another mammogram. The ladies at work assured me that this was not unusual. I had never had a mammogram until now and they probably just wanted a better look. I also noticed that I was scheduled for an ultrasound that day...was this normal, too? 

Going to the Dixon Centre was emotional. The last time I was there, my Dad got his diagnosis of incurable pancreatic cancer. That was a difficult day. I remember holding his hand while reality sunk in.   It was the worst day of my life. I held my breath and went to the mammography department.

Mammogram number two was a little more detailed. They were only interested in my left breast...personally, I think both are pretty spectacular. Brad waited with me patiently while they checked the images. I was told that all was good and I didn't need to stay for the ultrasound. Woo hoo! Time for my happy dance...I must be okay.

Five days later I am at work and I get a personal call from my family doctor. (Please note that I am not very satisfied with this doctor but find it difficult to find a female doctor who is accepting new patients. She is more interested in looking at her computer than at her patients. Most visits start off with her saying, "And why are you here today"...even when she requests the appointment.) She tells me there is an area that the radiologist would like to investigate. She asks me if I have had back pain or arm pain. She says not to worry because it is probably not cancer but a core biopsy is needed to rule it out. 

The only words that registered were 'biopsy' and 'cancer'. I got up from my desk and took a little breather in the staff room. And then panic set in. All the sudden everything in my left breast started to hurt. I got home from work and checked myself in the mirror and felt every inch of my breast. Nothing. Must be a mistake. Had a glass of wine. Checked again. This is crazy and I'm not laughing anymore.

October 1st was biopsy day. Brad took the day off of work and waited with me. My radiologist's name was Dr. Slip and he looked like he was 18. I told him I felt like a cougar with him handling my breast. I told him not to 'slip up" and called him Dr. Doogie. I asked if they could pierce me while I was frozen because I wanted to be the cool mom on the street. When they said they would be leaving a tattoo for future reference, I asked if they could also tattoo a butterfly or flower on my boob. I pretty much rambled on hysterically...but I had the room laughing and I didn't have a panic attack. 

On the serious side, for those of you who have not had a core biopsy done, I can honestly say that my experience was not as bad as I imagined it would be. Dr. Slip and his assistant were excellent. I could see the lump on the mammogram. They located it quickly and took the tissue samples they needed. I got my post op instructions and headed home. And then the waiting began.

Distraction is good. I had a ladies' wine and cheese night at my home. I took Colleen to soccer and basketball four days a week. I started planning a huge Thanksgiving dinner. I volunteered to take Rachel and her friends anywhere they wanted to go. I busied myself with March Break vacation plans.

Waiting is difficult. Thanksgiving Dinner came and went. I took 10 days vacation. I shopped and indulged in retail therapy. I celebrated my 47th birthday. I went to a pumpkin patch and got lost in a corn maze. I carved some pumpkins. I searched every possible outcome on the internet and cried. And then I drank some red wine and ate a little chocolate. Okay...a lot of chocolate.

October is breast cancer awareness month. I applaud the people who spend countless hours fund raising and promoting this cause. I used to be upset that it got so much attention. My family has a history of stomach and pancreatic cancers...why don't they get the same attention? But now I am feeling grateful for every cent that has gone towards breast cancer. Early detection might save a life. It saved my friend, It saved my aunt. Who else is it going to save?

Today I got my results. I was at work when I got the call from my doctor. I am one of the lucky ones. 

I am okay. 

I am okay. 

I am okay. 

I cried. I hugged the ladies I worked with that urged me to get my first mammogram. I think I breathed for the first time in weeks. The air seemed a little bit sweeter. My kids were a little bit more precious to me. My husband relaxed a bit. The celebration dinner he prepared for us tasted a little bit better. 

I am so grateful. But life is bittersweet. Others aren't so lucky. The anxiety of waiting was exhausting. I can't imagine the pain felt by those who get the confirmation that cancer is now part of their lives. I saw it in my dad's eyes and I will never forget it. I silently pray for those who are fighting the battle.

Please get your mammogram. Don't be scared. Don't procrastinate. Every life is important...especially yours. 

 

Mission Possible

June 24th...summer is here (despite the rain and clouds) and I am not ready. Emily is done school and Rachel needs to make an appearance for her grade 9 graduation ceremony on Wednesday. Her prom is now a thing of the past and she seemed to have a great time with her giggly friends.  Soccer is in full swing for Colleen 3+ nights a week. Brad and I have this week off to make sure the girls get to all their year-end events - maybe we'll even get a chance to see a movie or have a date night...sigh*.

Summer is stresssful...it is no vacation for me. Many of my female friends can empathize with me...it is shorts and sleeveless shirt season. I dread this. And bathing suits...I can't go there. I love autumn...the season of sweaters and jeans. Covering up gives me great comfort...as do the turkey and mashed potatoes. And apple crisp and pumpkin pie with whipped cream...well, you can see how I got to where I am. So I am on my zillionth weight loss mission. If I stay on this plan, I will be ready to slip into my bathing suit by October. This should make for an interesting Thanksgiving dinner.

For as long as I can remember, I have been less than accepting of my shape. It has had its ups and downs...more ups as far as the scale goes. Everytime I think I have a handle on it, I lose sight of my accomplishments and slide on back to the nachos and potato chips. Carbohydrates are my drug of choice and I'm the willing addict. There are worse things to be addicted to, right? I don't use drugs and limit my liquor consumption to wine. (Was 3 glasses with supper too much?) I have friends who are shopping addicts...shoes and purses are their passion. But I crave the carbs...

Brad actually initiated this lifestyle change. He ran the Bluenose Half-Marathon a few weeks ago and realized how tough those extra pounds were to carry for 21 kilometers. I had a hard time just running up and down the streets of Halifax with a 20 pound backpack and Colleen in tow to cheer Emily and him onward and upward to their finish line. My calves and hamstrings were aching for 2 days...how in the hell did I get to this level of unhealthy????? I mean, I was buying large shirts at the clothing boutiques...but they make everything small these days, right? And the size 12 pants were stretching beyond their maximum capacity....but I ignored the warning signs.....

1) People no longer tell you how great you look. They carefully say things like "That's a nice color on you." or "Is that a new shirt? It fits you well." How I translate these comments - "The color matches the redness in your out of breath face." and "Wow... you got something that fits!"
2) You realize the contestants on "The Biggest Loser" already weigh less than you by the 6th week of the show....and they still have 20 weeks to go!
3) You step on the scale and you weigh the same as you did when you were 9 months pregnant. Ouch!

I could continue, but you get the idea.

This eating plan (notice I will not refer to it as a diet as this leads to a negative psychological perception that one is somehow deprived) is going well. This is partly due to the encouragement by coworkers who are also on a self improvement mission. The office manager is already down 2 dress sizes and is my inspiration. We are very similar and we often spend quality time together in her office chatting about our kids and husbands and fear of shorts. She weighs herself once a week at the office....brave lady. I told her that this is not her real weight. Everyone knows that you can subtract at least five pounds from this number. Why? My rules for weighing yourself start the night before. Here are the steps:

1) Do not eat after 6pm the day before you weigh yourself. Your body needs to have all food metabolized for at least 12 hours.
2) Have at least 3 cups of green tea the day before...this helps to detox the body of all unwanted crap. If you really want to eliminate, have dandelion root tea. It tastes disgusting but works like a charm.
3) Do at least 1 hour of cardio activity the night before. This helps burn off more calories, gets rid of water weight and keeps you busy so that you won't think about how much you want to eat the doritos in the cupboard.
4) Only step on the scale after you have gone to the washroom. If you can only do a number one, then avoid the scale at all costs. You need to do a number two...that is good for at least a pound.
5) Step on the scale naked. If you need to shave your legs, do this before you weigh yourself. And if you need a haircut, get one the day before. If you wear glasses, take them off and ask someone you trust to read the number for you.
6) Sometimes when you are nervous, you forget to breathe. You hold your breath and all that air in your lungs could increase your number on the scale. So remember to exhale....I do this in the form of a depressed sigh.
7) Weigh yourself in kilograms. This number is much smaller and makes you feel so much better.

The above steps are essential to achieve the best number on your scale. I don't weigh myself too often because it is difficult to have all these perfect conditions met. So sometimes I get crazy and step on the scale and just subtract the 5 pounds. I then convert the number into my BMI...this is the lowest number possible that charts your weight. I won't disclose my weight or how much I have lost in the last 5 weeks, but my BMI number has gone down 2.8 points.....I am only 2.9 points away from being a normal, healthy weight. This is a good thing.

So if you see me over the summer months, try not to be too stunned by my transformation...I am sure you will be amazed at my new-found-old-me. Be kind and don't offer me the cheesecake...just tell me "Wow! You look great!". ...because isn't that something we all like to hear?

Mother's Day for Dad

March Break is over. Easter has come and gone. Victoria Day weekend will be upon us before we know it. (Time to stock the beer fridge!) Looks as if time marches on whether I like it or not. 

I look forward to next weekend's pampering by my lovely daughters. Mother's Day. It is the one day of the year where I do not get out of bed to make my own cup of coffee. I try my hardest to stay under the covers while I listen to the clanging of the dishes in the kitchen. I sneak into the bathroom to powder my face in case there is a photo taken. I fluff the bedding just right and clear the side table so I have room for the orange juice and pancake syrup. Hopes are high that all will go well and nobody cuts or burns themselves in the excitement. 

Mother's Day has meant different things to me over the years.  As a child, it was the day to honor my mom. She endured soggy cereal, crisp pancakes and instant coffee every year. I labored over haiku poems and school pottery. I remember making ash trays one year! We used it as a candy dish...taking our chances on tooth decay instead of lung cancer. As I grew older, it meant a trip home from the city with some flowers or a pretty scarf. Mom always was gracious in her acceptance of our tokens of love. She still is...  

May 1995 was my first Mother's Day. Brad bought me flowers and we went to a restaurant for brunch. Emily was three months old and I remember her big dark eyes smiling at me from the comfort of her car carrier. Along came Rachel and Colleen and Mother's Day became more interesting every year. I have a box filled with cards and pictures from my girls. I have earrings and necklaces and pretty sweaters that scream mother. Every year, Brad and the girls embark on their quest to make me happy for one full day. Sometimes they succeed and then there are the times things don't quite work. But, I choose to focus on the successes. Strangely enough, the Mother's Day I will remember most focused more on my dad.

May 10, 2009 was Mother's Day. My mom, my sisters and their husbands, my brother and his wife and Brad and I all made our way to Dad's bedside in the hospital to celebrate Mother's Day. We brought Mom gifts and read our cards so Dad could hear. We looked at the trees and flowers budding outside Dad's window. We held his hand and shared childhood stories. I asked Dad which farm our dog went to live on when we were young...Dad did not answer but I think he chuckled. Dad's voice was barely a whisper on this day. But his eyes and his smile could still speak volumes to me.  There was a lot of love in that room. I hope Dad felt it.

Dad passed away the next day. 

In my head, I can hear Dad singing a gospel song. I see him sneaking a hug and kiss from Mom when he was in a particularly good mood. I hear him joking every Mother's Day when I asked him what he got for Mom, "She's not my mother!". When Mom visited me in Ottawa shortly after Emily was born, I remember the tears in Dad's eyes when he saw her again after a whole week without her. I remember Dad getting us out of bed by 9am Saturday mornings to do chores so Mom could sleep in. I remember him slipping me twenty dollars at Christmas time to buy stocking stuffers for Mom. I remember his arm wrapped around Mom's shoulder while Emily played "Let Me Call You Sweetheart' on her violin. These happy moments continue to play on repeat in my mind.

So as all you mothers enjoy your day of indulgence next Sunday, I will be holding a place in my heart for my Dad. Together, he and Mom made a wonderful team. Happy Mother's Day!

Great Expectations

March Break

Monday. So begins another week of routine as the kids return to school after March Break. It didn't go too badly this morning...everyone was in the car by 8:14 am. That's only 9 minutes later than I ask of them and only 4 minutes later than I actually expect of them. I consider this to be a good start to the week.

March Break seems to be the perfect time for our children to let us know we suck at being cool. All their friends were going away...so they said. They found it hard to believe that Brad and I actually worked during their break. It was just another week to us of getting up early, packing lunches and trudging to our offices. We actually expected them to do their chores and to make their own fun for the week. I even made them go to the dentist. I know....insanity.

Truth is, they can't help having these irrational wants. It seems as if everyone takes a family vacation in March except for us. I actually feel guilty that we don't take them to Florida or California. Or on a cruise. Or New York City for shopping and a Broadway show. Or even skiing...which I would not enjoy but would gladly sit in the chalet drinking a special coffee. We just can't seem to save the money to afford a vacation for a family of five. We would have been much further ahead having two kids...that third one costs us a bundle. But we're too fond of all three to dump one now.

I remember March Break as being pretty low key when I was in school. Is it just me or did March seemed colder and snowier than it is now? We went tobogganing down the neighbor's hill or skating on the bog. If we were lucky, we might go visit our Gumpy and Nanny in Mahone Bay. Gumpy would buy us a treat and Nanny would dig out a treasure for us. (That was always a source of entertainment...once I got a pair of used slippers. They were a ladies 10 and I was about 9 years old. She said I would grow in to them.) And if we were really well behaved, we might go to Bridgewater on Friday night and hang out at the mall. Good times...

If we did go on a family vacation, it was done on a budget and only happened in the summer. We would take road trips to New Brunswick or Prince Edward Island. Mom packed a cooler full of sandwiches and drinks. We stopped at picnic rest stops to stretch our legs. Dad would start looking for a Motor Inn around 5pm and by 9pm he was usually successful. The motel needed to meet basic requirements - clean bedding and a decent bathtub in case Mom wanted to have a bath. I guess this was Dad's way of saying he loved her and wanted her to have a bubble bath after spending 10 hours in the car with four whiny kids.

Needless to say, we never went to Disney World when we were kids. I went to Orlando for the first time in 1990. I was twenty four and had won the trip. I was there for 5 days in the midst of late April humidity and broke out in a heat rash. I waited in very long lineups to go on 2 minute rides. I was underwhelmed with Sleeping Beauty's castle and was creeped out eating seafood in the restaurant while sea creatures swam around us. There were a few memorable moments. The Polynesian Resort show was amazing and I loved the Indiana Jones spectacular. Space Mountain was thrilling but, overall, I was glad the trip was free.

So despite not going away during March Break, I tried my best to give the kids the things they wanted. I gave Rachel her privacy. She slept in really late (her favorite thing) and I took her and her friends shopping to places they wanted to go. I gave Colleen my undivided attention. I took her shopping and we saw "The Lorax" in 3D...even though my bifocals were not very agreeable. She ate unlimited amounts of junk food and felt sick for much of the week. I gave Emily her freedom. She spent most of her time with the few friends who didn't go away and she picked up extra work hours.

So even though we aren't cool parents who take their kids on expensive vacations, I hope our girls realize that sometimes it's nice to just relax. We didn't have to worry about luggage or passports or sunscreen. We didn't need to wait for an airplane or wonder about the quality of the food or water that was in front of us. We ordered from restaurants we knew and slept in our own comfy beds. Hopefully, they will lower their expectations and enjoy what they have. But it is more likely they will say the same thing next March - "You never take us anywhere!!"
.