A Breasttaking Study

Sun sets over silver path, leaving Gibraltor  (photo credit to Jan)

 Last week's perusal of the health headlines led to a very thought-provoking discovery.  I see today that this story has been picked up by all the major newspapers across Canada and the US.   This major US study, funded by cooperative universities (Dartmouth, St. Charles Health System, and Oregon University) and performed over a thirty-year period, was published in the well-regarded New England Journal of Medicine on November 8.  It has revealed that mammograms have done surprisingly little to catch deadly breast cancers before they spread. No screening medical test is perfect, and mammograms are no exception.    They have, however, doubled the number of early stage cancers detected.  And I am here as living proof of the value of a diagnostic test that didn't let me down, by catching a tumor so small it was not detected by any other means.  I am one of the 60% of mammogram-diagnosed cases.

Does this make me feel better?  Not really.  The study also suggests that up to one-third of all breast cancers, 50,000 to 70,000 per year, are being treated for cancers "that never would have threatened their lives."  Some abnormalities called "cancer" are not a health threat.  I am assuming these are cancers of an indolent nature - early stage, or of a cell type that mysteriously stays quiescent.  Unless I misinterpreting the facts, the crux of the matter is not so much about the inadequacies of mammograms; it's about being unable to differentiate which cancers require aggressive treatment, and which do not. 

"The study is important because what it really highlights is that the biology of the cancer is what we need to understand" - in order to know which ones to treat and how.  All breast cancers are subject to treatment once diagnosed, and we are all lumped (bad pun) into a diagnostic category and subject to surgery, chemotherapy, radiation and hormone therapy, all of which contain their own risks.  The costs are staggering  - to the health care system, to the victims, to their families.  It is sobering to even consider the possibility that "more than a million women have been treated for growths that never would have threatened their lives." 

I do not cast doubt, nor do I affirm, the conclusions of the study.  The fact is, statistics are malleable and a study based on statistics doesn’t always yield a single answer.   Mark Twain said "Facts are stubborn, but statistics are more pliable."  Armed with this knowledge, I would have made exactly the same choices that I did.  But it's a beacon that shines a light on where research really needs to focus - in the pathology lab, where the little monsters are stained and named and appointed chief conductors in our live's direction. Because until the biochemistry and nature of breast cancer is fully understood, we will never really know if we made the right choices.  I have embraced the most optimistic slant on this.  If this study is true and I'm one of the 30% that didn't really need treatment, then bully for me, because I now have double indemnity.  If not, those bases are covered too.  It's the best that anyone can do, until more research is done.  Thoughts, anyone?

The Season Approaches

My two boys

Please take it as a positive sign that I haven't updated this blog in a month!  As the events from the first half of 2012 recede into their proper perspective, life tugged me back on course and time returned to a normal entity, becoming disempowered and once again friendly.  The year ahead tantalizes with solid resolution and determination sprinkled with a good dose of faith and gratitude for the sweetness of support that truly taught me the meaning of dedication.

I continue to shovel bushels of broccoli sprouts down my gullet,  grazing and chewing their peppery goodness,  not unlike Bossy the cow.   It feels good to know I am providing myself with high-grade fuel, and my list of superfoods grows with each evening of research.  Although it is not cheap to do so, making wise choices is a solid investment with damned fine dividends.   So add those pomegranate seeds to a dollop of Greek yoghurt, sprinkle on some walnuts and chia seeds, and know that deep down in your inner workings, your body is sending you a gustatory salute and your knockers are smiling.    Being mindful, practicing yoga, and trying to get in at least 30 minutes of cardio per day are also powerful weapons in the arsenal. 

Christmas 2012 approaches with delicious anticipation and possibilities, the promise of reuniting with friends and family, and the delight of adding new members to the family tree. (I know a secret - stay tuned.)   One new twig arrived a month ago - welcome to Lucas James Van Hoffen, and congratulations to my dear niece and nephew, Carrie, Chris, and very proud brother, Owen! 

SPROUTS!

Ladies, bust out the dental floss, because here's the latest thing that should be parked on your plate.  Meet broccoli sprouts, crunchy, slightly peppery, and loaded with sulforaphane, a compound identified 20 years ago that helps the body's natural cancer-fighting resources and reduces the risk of developing cancer.  Three day old sprouts contain 20 to 50 times the amount of chemoprotective compounds found in mature broccoli heads - and that's a lot of bang for the buck!  There are studies underway to see if eating a few tablespoons of the sprouts daily can supply the same degree of chemoprotection as one to two POUNDS of broccoli.  I like broccoli, I really do - but two pounds are too many and my gut would noisily agree.   For those of you who live in the Valley, you can buy sprouts at Edible Island or Thrifty's.  Even better, they are produced at a local farm called Eatmore Sprouts, and if you call them they will pack them fresh after harvesting and deliver them to the Farmer's Market for pick up.

I haven't quite been able to convince my beloved to partake but I am working on some creative ideas that involve melted cheese or gravy on sprouts.  Sprout French fries.  Or a blender filled with rum & sprouts.   Intravenous at midnight?  C'mon Honey, it will fix your golf game!  There!  That oughta do it!

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Fall creeps in



May your stuffing be tasty
May your turkey be plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious
and your pies take the prize,
and may your Thanksgiving dinner
stay off your thighs!

Walking for the Cure

Today I was one of 1100 people  who ran, walked or rolled their way over a 5 km course on a perfect fall day.  Together we raised over $165,000 towards finding a cure for this detestable disease, and as I held hands with my loved ones and friends, I was deeply moved by the strength of their solidarity and unwavering support.  

Wendy and I

Real men DO wear pink hats!   Rick and Cliff

      

We rode on a wave of pinkness and hope, laughter and tears and celebrated in the simple joy of a day well spent with very good folk.  Hearing the cheers from well-wishers and the friendly honks of bypassing cars made us feel invincible. 

I dedicated my walk to my mother-in-law, Margaret, a courageous fighter and breast cancer victim, who slipped away from us at sunrise yesterday morning.   We knew that she would have wanted us to carry on with the walk, and so we did, with hope in our hearts and gratitude for the time that we shared.  Life is so fragile, isn't it?  Treasure the moments.

"Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops... at all."   -  Emily Dickinson

Critter Calamity

It's been a perfect week, not only because of the weather, but because I have had the warm joy of coming home to Bee's smiling face since Monday. Her week's holiday in Courtenay has given her a break from busting the bad guys, but it has also given me pretty much a spa holiday at home, including healthy gourmet snacks as soon as I walk in the door. Some kids really should never grow up and move away.

Yesterday we decided to take Chance and Piper down to the beach for an early morning stroll. Air Force Beach is beautiful, especially when the tide is out, with long stretches of smooth sand that go on for miles. We parked at the top of the hill then descended the long wooden flight of stairs to approach the beach, happily noting that there was just one other soul there with a couple of golden retrievers that were intent on stick pursuit and swimming. Piper leapt over the logs in excited anticipation of the long run ahead, and as I turned to check on Chance I found... nothing. Within the space of ten seconds, he had evaporated. I called him, not really worried.   And called again, then whistled. Had he snuck by and already gone to the beach? No sign of him down that long stretch of sand. Maybe he had returned to the car, mistakenly? Nope. We continued to search, trying hard to keep the image of a swooping eagle out of our minds. It was perplexing and getting frightening, and Bee commented that she had fresh empathy for those poor parents who say, 'I just turned my back for a few seconds...'

We decided to search separately - I would walk along the salt flats with their tall tufts of sea grass, and Bee would go up closer to the shore. Maybe there was a hole that he had fallen into, or maybe a lion got him or some aliens scooped him up in their spaceship (we were right beside the airport). We called, whistled, entreated him and then demanded that he COME immediately. All to no avail.

After what seemed like an eternity, we finally heard, from far, far away, a pathetic little whimper. But it was impossible to tell from what direction, so we forced ourselves just to move quietly and keep calling. A few minutes later, another heart-wrenching cry, but this time we knew it was coming from the area of the stairs. Bee rushed over, and as soon as Chance heard her footsteps, he started wailing and caterwauling and very quickly, he was found. He was completely caught in a deep thicket of blackberry vines, paralyzed with his long, silky tail wound around and around the vicious hooks of the vine. He had obviously struggled hard and the more he struggled, the more firmly he was caught up. No doubt a bunny had crossed his path and he shot after it, quickly getting his long hair stuck.

Have you ever tried to crawl into a blackberry thicket? It's like one of those "Tough Mudder" races, where they subject you to electric shocks "for fun" as you cross the finish line. Just as we cleared one vicious set of barbs away, another would be in our path. Bee bravely ignored her wounds as she inched her way forward painfully, as I went around the back way to see if the path was less daunting. All the while the little critter kept up a constant moaning that had us convinced he was in the jaws of a crocodile. Finally, Bee was able to put her hands on him, but was unable to extricate him as his tail was so firmly caught. It was either time to cut off his tail, or slash up her hands by twisting the big vine until it broke.

Compassion won out and she set to work on breaking the vine, which took another few painful minutes until it split its fibres and surrendered. Chance flew into her arms, shaking and traumatized, and the two of them backed out of the thicket, getting more than a few jabs and barbs and a few deep slices on her legs on the way out. But at last they were free, and after a few minutes of untangling his tail from the barbs and a good brush down with the hands to get rid of a few other stickers, we placed him gently down on the sand, praying that he hadn't dislocated anything in his frantic efforts to get free.

And the little fool turned around and went right back after that rabbit.

I, for one,  will never eat blackberries again.

Posted with Blogsy

The Festival of the Lanterns

What do all those people want?

Four hopeful and only marginally inebriated ladies managed to make their way to Fisgard Street, after a few false starts (one of which that led them almost all the way back to Sidney).   We were eagerly anticipating the showcase of the celebration of 150 years of  Victoria's Chinatown lantern festival, including moon cakes, Chinese dancing and music, and all the dark and sultry mysteries of Fan Tan Alley.  That's why we got there early.  So we could get a great parking spot.   Which we did - right on the first floor of the parkade.  Which should have been our first clue. 

 We amused ourselves for half an hour while waiting to rendevous with Bee under the Gates of Harmonious Interest.  The vendors were busy setting up booths in the middle of the street, as two blocks of Fisgard were cordoned off to traffic.   There were a few displays of cute children's clothing, an entire booth of carpentry  tools (we could not elicit a connection with the Ming dynasty) and well... not much else.   We dutifully filed up and down both sides of the street, peeking into mildewed shops filled with glittering trinkets, glistening roasted ducks, delicate china and bamboo toys.  We thought by stopping to have dinner at Don Mee's (a long, leisurely one) that the real action would begin by the time we were finished.  So we split a good bottle of Australian Pinot and took some time spinning in the table centrifuge, which was loaded with delicacies.

Not too sure how we missed all the action, but by the time we had walked a few blocks back to rescue Bee's Coco from getting a parking ticket then returning to Fisgard (via the inner harbour on a fall evening so warm and perfect it belonged in a Fellini movie), all the vendors were busily packing everything up.   By 8:30 the stage was dismantled, the moon pies had eclipsed, and there was a great scurrying from within, like everyone needed to get back home by 9 p.m. so they could catch Seinfeld before bed.

Fortunately Bee had thoughtfully picked up 4 honeybuns on Yates Street, and the Three Sacred  Aunties and Benevolent Mother inhaled them in the parkade before making the long trek home in the moonlight.

Today?   We are continuing our harbour duties, fueled by  home-made butter and caramel.   And leg of lamb.  Because honestly, it's just so hard.

Sidney by the Sea

I decided I'm going to blog a POD instead of a POW, along with a little synopsis of our ongoing adventures here in paradise. We are desperately busy manning our positions on the patio and counting the boats in the harbour. Sometimes we get mixed up and lose count and then the only thing to fix that is to have another beer or glass of wine and start all over again. So you can understand my  current time constraints and I hope that the thousand words that the pictures portray will make up for my lack of volume. Because I'm already a few days behind, here's a couple of pictures to catch you up, starting with our view.

How many boats can you see?

It's important  to  keep an accurate count at all  times, even when sitting indoors....

You can understand my dilemma, right?  It's hellishly stressful.

Posted with Blogsy

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile

I see September as January's better half. Both months hold the promise of new beginnings, goal-setting, sharp pencils and resolutions, but September wraps herself in vibrant beauty and perfumes the air with the evocative aromas of baking apple crisp, wood-burning fires, and the pungent smell from a crunchy carpet of leaves. As much as summer soothes us with its long, lazy days and the smell of coconut suntan lotion, fall puts the energy back into our step and makes us feel like we are waking up from a particularly lovely nap.

 This week I'm happy to report a good check-up with my GP, an event that will now be semi-annual rather than annual (not like in the past, when I went on the rare occasion that I ran out of plausible self-diagnoses). Summer, my time of recovery, will now give way to the work of fall, that being dealing with the more annoying side effects of Tammy Ox. My earlier, flippant reviews of this seemingly innocent and life-saving drug have been grumpily revised. We're still friends, of course we are, but I'm getting a little fed up (ha!) with her role as devil's advocate in the food department. In short, one of the side effects has been a hunger that would shame a sumo wrestler. I'm not eating several chickens at one sitting, but there are days when I believe I could. Starting with that crispy skin.  A little research has unveiled the disturbing fact that about one-third of women quit Tamoxifen due to side effects of weight gain, and even worse, over a third who do stay on it are prescribed antidepressants to mitigate it's meaner mental tricks.  I don't want to be one of those women.

 So, in pretty short order, I will revisit the South Beach Diet, a plan I have had good success with in the past, and one that I believe is solidly doable. Hopefully Tammy can be outwitted and put back into her place. But first!  Summer's Swan song:  A fabulous week spent in an oceanside house in Sidney with three of my favorite gals - a week of long beach walks, uninterrupted reading, exploring, great conversation, creative cooking and vats of wine by the fire or in the hot tub. I'll be blogging from there next weekend.  It's my last blow-out before I crash back into reality and deal with the challenge of detox. Coming down from chocolate is not for sissies, but I intend to wrap up this summer in style.  Woot woot!

Through the curtain of color, Filberg Lodge

Posted with Blogsy

THE HBG&B WEEKEND REVEALED

Everyone?  Come and meet Ms. Frances Barkley, a hard-working, dignified lady, who was born in 1958 in Norway and then cleverly immigrated to Canada.   Our day with Frances was the highlight of an energetic, giggle-filled weekend, beginning on Saturday morning with a patio brunch featuring blueberry Dutch pancakes, barbecued Italian sausages and mimosas.  We then waddled to the car and drove to Coombs for a wide-eyed wander through the market, stopping to scarf down a hot dog by the giant stone sculptures in the Emporium before driving to Port Alberni and checking into our hotel for the evening.  And yes, Gramp's Canny Jar (or at least the contents of same) accompanied us, every step and nautical mile of the way.

To our unending delight, we managed to put off the great unveiling until the second we all stepped on the quay.  This required the cooperation of the staff at the Hospitality Inn in Port Alberni, where we overnighted on Saturday night.  Since everyone loves to be part of a secret, they joined in on the fun with many secretive winks whenever "the girls" were nearby, right from the desk clerk to the morning waitress who ensured our hot breakfast was delivered to us early so that we made our 7:30 a.m. Sunday dock time.



Our HBG - With a whale of a smile!

Thanks to RJ's wide-ranging browsing skills, we discovered this opportunity in a magazine, and we couldn't wait to try it.  Frances is a bona fide supply ship, delivering mail, lumber, groceries, hikers and fuel to remote native villages and outlying areas.  She carries on from her predecessor, The Lady Rose, who toiled for over 70 years before her.  We could hardly wait to experience the slower pace of yesteryear and have a glimpse of BC's history, as well as explore a few little villages and towns along the way.

Our route took us 35 nautical miles up the calm Alberni Inlet, and we stopped to drop supplies off at the Sechart Whaling Station,  an exclusive lodge that is well-favored by the kayak crowd.   As we cruised through the Broken Islands, we caught sight of a few whales - mostly well away from our ship but finally, within the reach of the camera lens.  After several hours together the crew and guests worked like a well-oiled team and with the first cry of "whale!", we all rushed to the side of the ship, our digital cameras clicking and humming in unison. We saw one breeching, and he treated us to a few tail flops and barrel rolls before the ship had to move on.    Piper Mahalo, the ship's mascot,  showed intense interest in all the goings on but when things were quiet he served as goodwill ambassador and comedian, entertaining all aboard with his cheerful personality and his dedication to enthusiastic bites of RJ's ears, for no particular reason at all. 

We arrived in Bamfield around four hours later.   Beautiful, bizarre and most definitely quirky, Bamfield welcomes you with a long boardwalk and an inviting stroll beside the harbour.   We disembarked while Frances tootled over to East Bamfield to drop off or pick up hikers from the West Coast Trail.    She then returned and busily loaded freight for a few hours, giving us ample opportunity to stretch our legs.  Our intrepid foursome explored the boardwalk, until we ran into a charming watering hole called the "Boardwalk Bistro."

The Boardwalk was owned by a cranky crustacean who did not bear fools well.  When I politely inquired if there was a spot we could enjoy a beer with our dog, she jerked with her thumb- "Yoo's can get over there to the Dog Bar."  Oh, good, I thought, we can actually have a beer! 

"What do you have on tap?", I politely inquired.   

"I gots one kinda beer and one kind only.  D'ya want it or not?"  Of course I did, and promptly ordered three tall ones.  Turned out they were a darned decent German beer, and we happily settled in at "The Dog Bar."  Of note, the Dog Bar was someone's front porch that directly abuts The Boardwalk Bistro.   We tentatively filed up there and sat primly, nursing our beer as we sat around someone's picnic table, and fervently hoped they would not return home.  Bamfield is very hospitable like that.  If someone's not home, then who cares?

Caught an astonishing sight on our wander back to the ship.   A very large sea lion was playing havoc with the salmon, circling around underneath a school and then launching himself toward them, causing them to break out of the water in silvery unison and allowing him to gorge.    HBG managed to get it on video.   Sorry, everyone,  but the video refused to load so you're going to have to take my word for it!

East Bamfield Harbour

By the time we checked out the General Store (fantastic ice cream cones), the tree-pee loo, and Bamfield's "cat house", we were ready to return to Frances for the three hour trip home.  Although the wind kicked up a bit and the rain arrived, we felt warm and cozy tucked into the little cabin.   Beer, hot chocolate, and the bottomless bag of canny made the hours fly by, and before we knew it, we were docked back in Port Alberni.

West Coast Style Bench

The Tree-Pee Loo



Cat House, Bamfield's privileged felines

 This wonderful adventure was a package deal through a fairly decent hotel in PA.  It included our room, a full breakfast (anything off the menu) as well as the day-long cruise.   We highly recommend it to anyone who feels they would enjoy a beautiful day on the water along with the camaraderie of curious tourists, happy hikers and extremely helpful crew.  The scenery is breathtaking and ageless,  the air pure and fresh and the wildlife bountiful.  A big, big double thumb's up!

p.s.   Sharing photo credits with HBG - thank you for your talented eye!

Sweet Dreams

Gramp's Famous Candy Jar

Yo!  Big adventures forthcoming on the last weekend of August, none of which I can tell you about since the guests of honor are both blog readers.   This is our annual SHBG+B (Surprise Holly By Golly + Bee)  Weekend, and all I can divulge is that it will involve solids, liquids, inert matter and about a gallon of gas, likely of the internal combustion type.  Next week's blog will contain adventures beyond belief, reason or budget, so brace yourself.

This painstakingly-constructed candy jar is to keep the back seat children busy during an undisclosed amount of time on the road.  I formerly used Gravol mixed in with their Fruit Loops, but now that they are over 30, they can handle the sugar rush.  I hope.

This week I want to give a shout out to a pretty fantastic music streaming website called Songza.  It's a free downloud and contains over 2000 pre-set playlists, carefully chosen for life's events.   Like, for instance, "Music To Get Naked By" or, "If It Weren't For Bad Luck, I'd Have No Luck At All."  How about "Hello, Hangover", classic country songs for the morning after?  The playlists are activity-related and are geared to such significant times such as Dirt Road Driving, Waking Up On The Right Side Of The Bed,  or Cooking With Friends.  If you'd rather just go with your mood instead of activity, there is a sub-category ranging from spacey to seductive and all the way back to funky.    From classical to bluegrass to poprock, showtunes, rap and world, the choices are endless.  Just keep in mind that it is best used on WiFI as you are streaming from a site.  If you are out there listening to it as you drive that dirt road, watch for the roaming charges.  It is a free download to your PC, IPad or IPhone.   Party on, dudes!

Also known as.....

I never appreciate technology more than when I receive a text, email or video that features my sweet grandbaby, William.  I am deeply honored to announce my official designation:  I have recently been christenened Nana Banana by Sir William, a title I intend to honor with complete and sober reverence.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Saturni - Saturn's Day - August 4

Saturday morning found us on the road to Victoria, just The Mister, The Critter and Me, floating down Island on a perfect summer's morning in Ace.  Top down, tunes up, bugs in the teeth.  And what a fine weekend it was!  It began with a decadent facial at Aveda.  Some of you may recall, this was my long-awaited Natittivity gift from Bee on treatment day #2.   Sixty heavenly minutes of pampering, fragrant sprays, lotions, potions and ten tiny little fingers whispering their way around my jowls and wattles while I tried hard not to grunt out loud or succumb to a drenching hot flash.  I left there in a state of ravishness too profound to describe.

We dined at The Roadhouse that evening, and this is my second shout-out to this awesome pub on West Saanich Road.  If anyone out there is looking for a great place to go for a delicious meal at a decent price, this is a double thumb's upper.  As an added bonus, there is live entertainment - usually very down-home, West Coast type faire.  This pub just opened their doors about 6 months ago and is a real treasure.  Check out the ambience if you are in Victoria:

Bee had a wonderful after dinner surprise - a trip to Butcharts to take in the fireworks display.  We settled into our camping chairs at the top of a grassy knoll after enjoying watching the sun fade away.  But first - a short wander through the amazing gardens just before sunset -


An impromptu angel emerges from the Ross Fountain



Begonias in the evening light

The fireworks began as the last rays faded from the sky, and they were exhilarating.  They were accompanied by beautiful, musical scores that made them seem even more dramatic.  This was my first attempt at filming pyrotechnics and I nearly gave myself a breakdown trying to remember my F-stops from my ISO speeds while simultaneously trying not to knock over my tripod.  Seven or eight seconds waiting for my shutter to close had me in a full dither, but it did produce some passable shots:

This one was called "Angry Bees"

                             KABOOM!  A fitting way to end a beautiful summer night.


Sunnenday - Day of the Sun - Aug 5

Happy Anniversary to us!   We had breakfast with the orangutans and elephants at the  IMax "Born to be Wild" presentation, which was a heartwarming way to start off the day.  (Mental note: Next year I really want an orangutan for my birthday, Internet.  And maybe a large supply of Pampers.)  This was followed by lunch at the Rum Runner's in Sidney which was excellent, as was the stroll around the floating playground of the rich and famous.   Note the gorgeous hanging baskets next to the each boat slip!  Now that's classy.

And just for the record, I will drive to Sidney pretty much on a moment's notice for one of these:

Faceplant time

The day rushed by, as all good ones do, and by early evening we found ourselves in the lobby of the Royal Theatre in Victoria, excitedly anticipating the final performance of Mama Mia!  This was performed by the New York cast, and even though our seats were almost at the very back of the theatre, the fabulous acoustics and excellent lighting helped to make it an outstanding performance.   You know that, "glass half empty/half full" adage? Just about fifteen minutes into the performance, RJ whispered that he had a most pressing need to pee.  "Too bad!" I hissed back at him, "You shouldn't have drank that entire bottle of water!"   He settled back into his chair with a look of desperation.   The play was so excellent that I was instantly swept away by the music, and managed to ignore the foot shuffling and constant crossing and uncrossing of legs that was happening beside me.  And here comes the half-full part.   When those intermission lights flicked on, RJ bolted like a crazed superman to the aisle and shot to the washroom.  He was finished before anyone had even risen to their feet.  He returned much relieved and wisely shunned the second bottle of cool water for the duration of the performance.

Here's the glass half-empty part.  Remember I mentioned that our seats were almost at the back of the theatre?  Row X.  The only row behind us was an extra wide one for wheelchairs.  And there were a few back there, and as I settled into my own seat I noted that two of them were accompanied by nurses and a few emergency supplies.  A surreptitious glance behind me revealed that one poor fellow actually had a breathing tube in.   What the hell?  I said a couple of quick Hail Mary's, hoping that this event would not be their particular final curtain,  and then the lights dimmed, the music swelled, and we three became captivated.  Unfortunately, not long into the performance there came a few alarming sounds from behind us.   An undeniable howling sound, some strange whistles, and grunting.  These were accompanied by the sotto voice, soothing tones of the nurse. Although many people in front of us turned to stare,  I dared not look around, and I noted that both Bee and RJ stared fixedly ahead.  As much as I admonished both ears to tune into the stage, one persistently revolved backwards to capture the ongoing distressing sounds of gutterations, hissing, more groans and the occasional sharp squeak.   Eyes fixed front, unblinking,  I could have qualified for the honor guard for the Queen.   During the musical numbers it was possible to completely block out the sounds and the accompanying worry and sadness that I felt for these poor souls. Should I turn around and offer to help?  Or not?  Should I catch the eye of the nurse and make sure she was paying attention to her patient, who sounded very much like he was either suffocating or doing something quite naughty?  It was agony.   Finally, the play ended with a thrilling rush of music and dancing,  and the thundering standing ovation given by the wild audience produced three more fabulous musical numbers.

I, for one, had sternly admonished myself not to speak of anything negative that may have affected our enjoyment of the show.  We three chatted happily all the way back to the car, extolling the remarkable talent that we had just been so privileged to see.  However, not long into our journey home, Bee cleared her throat and innocently asked if anyone else had noticed a bit of distraction behind us.  Turned out all three of us were unable to look at each other or acknowledge in any way the scary things that were going on, else it would have opened that Pandora's box of uncontrollable hysteria that Bee is particularly prone to.  Thankfully, it waited to descend on us in the car, and the more we discussed our own genuine empathy and sense of respect to those who were simultaneously, but inadvertently, ruining the performance for us, the more hysterical we became.   It's truly a wonder we made it home in one piece.

Make ME Wait 45 Minutes? NOT.

The recheck appointment in Victoria was yesterday.  I felt confidently nervous as I walked into the BCCA offices for my 8 week check up with Dr. Adolescent and the Playboy bunny.   Dr. A was first.  He still cannot look at me eye-to-eye, but he certainly could direct his attention south about 10 degrees, if 'ya get my drift.  We had a pleasant, if brief chat, wherein I expressed concern over the few negative side effects experienced by hanging out with Tami Oxifen, and he looked simultaneously sympathetic and bored.  Heard it all before, yes indeedy.   He gave me a firm handshake (as his eyes roved around the room and searched the ceiling for invisible bugs) and said he'd like to see me in about 3 years' time, maybe when he was old enough to drive a car.   I wasn't overly disappointed with that plan, and happily watched him leave and close the examining room door behind him.

And then I sat, and sat, and sat and waited for a while, then I waited some more.   IPhone was pressed into service to provide frequent updates and bulletins to Bee, who was patiently waiting in the lobby.   I enjoyed three or four games of Solitaire.  Checked my hair, make up, and my weight (mistake).  Waited a little longer.  Read the bulletin board, which was full of scary stuff.  Sent two more texts, one of them profane.  Then! Eureka!  I found my little movie maker app.  All my time concerns evaporated as I pretty much annihilated every aspect of that little cubicle and sent them all off for Bee's enjoyment.   This one was one of my favorites - the direct result of having to stare at a sphygmomanometer for 45 minutes.

Finally, I opened the door just a crack and whispered to a passing nurse that I believed it was just possible that I had been forgotten.  She hurriedly rushed off and returned, embarrassedly explaining that, because Dr. A. had shut the door, Dr. Bunny had not dared to interrupt, believing we were deep in conversation.   In very short order I had been examined (my second and third time that day) by a student and Dr. Bunny, and they pronounced all well.  They saved the best part to last:  My next appointment with radiation oncology is - well - never.  "Unless you see me in Starbucks", she said, "I see no reason that we'll have to meet again."

And you know what?  I would have waited 10 x 45 minutes longer just to hear those words.

And So It Goes...

Can't theeme to keep my thungue in my mouff anymore

The Critter and I have just arrived home, and he cried the entire way, with heartbreaking whimpers of pain and confusion.   Despite the fact that my temporary crown popped off during lunch today and had to be hurriedly re-cemented, I still think this forlorn little dude wins the Who Suffered The Most This Week trophy.  Count 'em:  Eight extractions, almost 2 hours of general anesthesia, dental prophy and cleaning, antibiotics, IV lines and mouth nerve blocks.  The only people smiling today are the ones working at Mastercard, but I think we may have just garnered enough Air Miles for a Greek Island Cruise. 

A Toothsome Week

  People!  This is what happens when I get left alone in a dental chair with my IPhone.   There was nothing else to do while I waited for my cement to cure, or for the wheelbarrow load of hot, dripping plasticine to form a mold around the stubs of my now mown-down teeth.  Thanks to the wonder of technology, my nearest and dearest were treated to a real-time slideshow of my minute by minute adventures.  Besides, the pressure was on - I had to trump my sister's cell phone picture of her hair all sticking up in foils at the hair salon that she sent me last month.  I'm pretty sure this does it, and if she even thinks she can get me back, I hasten to add that I have a date with the colonoscopy wizard in just a few short months.  Ha!

Laughing gas was not offered, nor needed.   I did, however need to visit the loo three times during the 4 hour procedure, and every time I looked in the mirror and saw the wild-eyed woman with electric hair complete with blue rubber dam and snaggle teeth prominently displayed, I felt like a bonefide member of the Sesame Street cast.  The nitrous would have been a complete waste, given I was already having such a hilarious time enjoying the character in the mirror and firing off texts, emails and pictures.  Honestly?  Best time I've had in a month.

It's Chance's turn tomorrow, 8 a.m.   I'm betting he'll insist on the nitrous, the little wimp.



Summer Arrives!

Ah, summer.  When it finally arrives in the Comox Valley, it is simply intoxicating.  Last weekend, Bee and I took the little dogs up to Mt. Washington to parade along the boardwalk, and we were surprised to see banks of snow abutting the pathway, despite the 18C July heat.   Piper Mahalo Hewlett is a born bon vivant.  With his bright button eyes, laughing face and wagging tail,  this dog could be a poster child for planentary goodwill.

In grim contrast we have my Chance, who, despite his myopic vision, can sense a fellow canine within one thousand kilometers.   Whereupon he reacts with derisive snorts, bullish raking of the turf, and sometimes, out and out apoplectic seizures.  All six pounds of him.   The profanity that comes out of that dog's mouth is legendary, and his rage is so consuming that a whole new litany of sound effects emerges, some of which sound like the end stages of respiratory arrest.  It was all I could do to maintain my own dignity as I hauled this livid creature past a benevolent golden retriever and then a bemused beagle.  "I am NOT a small dog person!", I wanted to scream as I dragged the hydrophobic hound behind me, his nails locked and skittering while foam dripped from his miniscule muzzle.  And while I hurriedly rushed down the trail, cheeks blazing, Piper stopped to sign a few autographs and reward his adoring fan club with a free belly rub. 

It was off to the vet's for the annual check up this week.  Chance, who has never, ever forgotten the medieval torture he endured in that building, shuffled into the clinic with the air of an inmate on death row, complete with profuse shaking, heavy panting, and dripping angst.    In the waiting room there was an elderly German Shepherd, a massive Great Dane, and, surprisingly, a fellow Papillon.   And  what did Chance do?  With his tail dragging and his ears lowered to his ankles, he skulked around on his belly, slitty-eyed and sucking up to every dog there.  I'm pretty sure he was trying to convince them to take his turn, or maybe hitch a ride on the back of the Dane on a jailbreak to freedom.

Instead, he flunked his dental exam and is now signed up for a general anesthetic, cleaning and extractions next Friday.  Don't feel sorry for the little freak.  Because I, Mother of the little Freak, get to undergo a four hour double crown procedure on Tuesday morning, and that totally trumps him.

Outpourings of sympathy will be gratefully received.  Kindly don't hold back, Internet.

Snazzy Mazzy and the Blond Nazi

Sorry for the delay in posting, everyone.  The past three weeks have been a whirlwind of activity, projects and events.  One of which was wrapped up today with a quick trip to Nanaimo to pick up this cool little car.  As I am downsizing, Bee is upsizing, and tomorrow she will take possession of my faithful Honda, Coco.   I'll sport around town looking like a lascivious, sweaty cougar and she will take on the comfortable, utilitarian lifestyle of the CRV.

The dealings leading up to the Mazda purchase were interesting and involved meeting with a bank officer to arrange a small loan.  It began when I swaggered in and confidently requested a minor extension on my line of credit on a temporary basis.  It ended when I pulled out my derringer and shot the skinny bitch - oh! excuse me! - it ended after I had disclosed my income, investments, marital status, frequency of dental appointments, and favorite color of nail polish, then finally handed over most of my dignity in a bucket that I had previously hurled in.  When did the world become so suspicious?  Her demands became so exacting and (I thought), outrageous, and the more she wanted, the angrier I got.  It went right down to the wire on Friday the 13th, when I at last managed to satisfy her demands.  I even had my poor sweetheart rooting through the landmine of my personal files at home, looking for an invisible piece of paper that never existed (sorry, honey), sweating profusely in 30 degree Celsius heat, while I remained chained to my desk running a double clinic (cue the violins).  I fired several caustic,  profusely profane texts his way - not directed at him, of course, but about the bank officer, explaining in no small detail how I would bribe karma to roll back over her and leave tire tracks all over her delicate, furrowed brow.   I pretty much worked myself into a lethal fury, earning frightened respect and wide-eyed tip-toeing from all those who stepped near the firing range.  And then.... just when I was about to boil over like molten lava - a tentative, hopeful text arrived from my hubby.   "So!  Angry sex tonight?".  He managed to hit exactly the right tone at exactly the right time and, just like on those episodes of Mission Impossible, the bomb was diffused with less than one second to spare.  And nevermind, all you inquiring minds out there - my responding text remains classified.

Last weekend was spent in Calgary, for the hugely-anticipated launch of The Origin, the family history book that sister Jan and I co-authored.  We celebrated with very special champagne and the intoxicating joy of having almost our entire family together, on a beautiful summer's day, at Jan and Frank's welcoming home.  Babies!  We had babies!  I cannot resist sharing them with you now.   Everybody?  Meet the kids:

And may I say, it was certainly a pleasure to spend time photographing these beautiful children without being arrested for pedophilia?

On a more serious note, that effing fickle finger of fate has recently pointed in this direction, with one of my most cherished friends being recently diagnosed with breast cancer.  She walks the same path I took just a few short months ago, and is facing her challenges with graceful courage and patience.  This damned disease is so indiscriminate and unpredictable.  Hey, all you ladies out there over 40!  Have you had your mammogram lately? 

Still Waters Run Deep

Maui 2010

So there we were, having an innocent Saturday afternoon after a  morning of shopping and weekend chores.   We were just canoodling and enjoying each other's company.   RJ had just gotten to second base, when a fierce pounding on the door disturbed the moment.  We elected to ignore it, given the circumstances, but when it came again a scant 5 minutes later, we figured we should answer the door.

Turns out it was a neighbour, who pointed wordlessly to the hall behind him, which seemed to be under water.  You know that sound that wet carpet makes when you step on it?  Slushh, squish, squash...  

The Mister hastily donned his superman cape and his baggiest sweatpants and surfed down the hall and up the stairs, searching for the source of the flood waters, which were now rising everywhere.   It didn't take long to find the culprit, a neighbour who had filled her kitchen sink with heads of lettuce,  and then turned on the tap to give them a good cleaning.  And then went shopping for a couple of hours.

We checked on our next-door neighbour, a delightful elderly lady who has a little dementia, and found her sitting in her chair, entranced at the water pouring from the light fixtures over her television.  I grabbed a bucket and a couple of towels and managed to take care of the worst of it, while Dorothy rocked and cackled with lively interest.  In the meantime, on the third floor the bucket brigade (everyone in our building who was sober enough) arrived in short order, and with mops, towels and fans, rolled up their pants to tackle the astonishing sight of a 2-inch deep swimming pool in the middle of a living room. 

Ralbernia - our cherished abode - has escaped from the tsunami (at least so far).  My heart goes out to my guilt-ridden neighbour - a responsible, smart and focused woman, who became distracted for just a second, and set off a virtual calamity.   It could have so easily been me and my forgetful, careless, bitchy buddy Tammy Ox.   Phew.

It's Called Mnemodermia

Athens, September 2011

Mnemodermia, believe it or not,  is a prolonged state of hypersensitivity in a particular area of skin long after an initial reaction has disappeared.

In essence, the skin “remembers” past sufferings and physically replays them later on in life.  Which explains, after consulting with the gurus at BCCA,  how I got disqualified from my hot lavender body wrap on Sunday, and why I am now registered for an "invigorating, exfoliating body scrub."  I'm guessing that attacking the skin with loofah, pumice and Black & Decker belt sanders will effectively erase skin memory, and somehow avoid reactivating Lefty's pickled beet appearance.    I wonder how many parts of me will just drop off?  And, will I be really sorry to see them go?

So I'm thinking, how interesting is this?   Skin remembers stuff, then replays it!  I have personally witnessed sympathetic skin response, although it was many years ago when I took my son Dave to the lab for a blood test.  Bee (then about 3 years old) watched carefully as they did the venipuncture on her brother, and as we turned to leave, I noted a brilliant red streak flaming up her forearm, precisely following the same brachial highway.  We also discovered early in her life that it was great fun to practice dermographism on her, i.e., writing a little note on her arm or leg with a fingernail, and then wait for the prominently raised, red sentence to reveal itself.  Think how handy that was!  Even now -  you know those thoughts that disappear within 30 seconds?  You can just jot them down on her calf or forearm,  knowing that you can reference them later on. No pen and paper required. The possibilities are endless.

Tomorrow morning, my eyes will open on my 57th year.  I share this very special day with my  very special husband, who lags behind me by a full 365 days, and stubbornly refuses to catch up.   Happy Birthday, Honey - here's to knocking the socks off this last year - parts of which, as Elizabeth II would say, were truly an annus horribilus.  And since we're orating in the language of creationism, here's your quote for the day:    

                                                 TUA TOGA SUSPINA EST
                                            (Dude!  Your toga is on backwards.)