Enjoying cPR


Some girls celebrate with a mani-pedi, others with a new pair of shoes—this girl celebrates with silky gravad lax. Image courtesy Donald Russell: http://www.donaldrussell.com/ultimate-gravadlax-salmon-f104.html

Some girls celebrate with a mani-pedi, others with a new pair of shoes—this girl celebrates with silky gravad lax. Image courtesy Donald Russell: http://www.donaldrussell.com/ultimate-gravadlax-salmon-f104.html


Feeling just like King Julien

I’m still basking in the glow of my cPR (complete Pathological Response), and trying to spread the love back to everyone who sent their prayers and positive vibes my way through the first six months of this unwelcome side trip in my life. I wanted to do some kind of celebration, maybe a real party, but that would involve all kinds of planning and energy that I don’t have, so after the pathology appointment Tessa, my man and I headed for the St. Lawrence Market. When I was an editor at Toronto Life magazine and later at WHERE, the market was one block away, and I would be there at least twice a week, usually more. I love that place, but since working at CAMH, getting there is a virtual impossibility during the week, and I’m happy to stay out of the downtown on the weekends, so going there was a huge treat. On the list of the celebratory purchases were a full pound of Domenic’s house-cured gravad lax with lemon zest and dill, St. Urbain bagels (Montreal style, baked right there), Jelly Belly’s (my fave), Callebaut milk chocolate chips (not for baking, just for precision portion controlled eating) and other little treats. We ate the gravad lax right from the butcher paper as we were driving home—and there was still plenty left for a vodka toast when we got there (yes, I have read the articles, I had barely a third of an ounce, thank you). We said we would properly celebrate when things return to the new normal anxiety-wise.


Shaking off that anxiety angst

I’m working on it, although I haven’t had a chance to really catch up on all the quality sleep I missed while twisting in the how-much-cancer-is-left?? wind. Luka was still on his Ottawa school trip this morning, and I had no appointments to get to, so I planned a good, long lie-in. Unfortunately the message was not relayed to my brain, which pinged awake at 6:40 and would not shut off.

But I didn’t have an endless loop of what-if-it-spread-past-the-original-five-nodes-and-the-chemo-doesn’t-work thoughts. Instead, my mind just wandered around: should we try to visit my dad this Sunday? Will my breasts take a two-hour drive each way? Maybe some tensor bandages and the sports bra together? What would he like for a present? Normal thoughts. What a relief! (I just read that over, and I crack myself up. Asking yourself if your breasts can stand a two-hour drive is a normal thought?)


Radiation planning

The morning after the good news appointment I was at Princess Margaret  Hospital for 9:30 to sign consents for radiation. I was in an excellent mood, feeling very positive, on time. I met my second-in-charge radiation oncologist and my radiation tech, of course had to whip off everything above the waist—what else is new? I’m surprised my pharmacist and dentist don’t ask the same thing—and when the doctor started to explain radiation, I asked if it was OK if I recorded our conversation. Either Tessa or my man has accompanied me to particularly info-packed appointments, and if I take notes I have them as a back-up should I forget something. Plus, as treatment goes on, I have found it difficult to actually grasp some concepts, so recording seemed like the best plan. My sisters and I often record doctor visits with our parents so we can share info with the other siblings. But my new doctor said no. I blinked. I explained that I was alone, that I was very anxious (hadn’t been up to this point), that chemobrain was making me stupid, that note-taking was physically laborious and required too much concentration to be able to keep up. She said she would talk veeeeerrryyyyyy sloooowwwwwwllyyyyy, and I lost it. I started shaking and tears literally bounced out of my eyes and down the front of my stupid hospital gown. She handed me a box of tissues and asked if I would like to take a moment. Yes, I’ll have a moment in early 2001, after Luka was born but before Graydon got leukaemia, when Tessa was dancing and my marriage was still intact. That would be nice. I choke-sobbed for a minute or two, then splashed my face and opened the door and took notes I can’t even read.

I will have 25 doses of radiation, five doses a week, to my right breast, axilla, and because my cancer is metastatic, the internal mammary lymph nodes and supraclavicular lymph nodes too. It can’t start until my plastic surgeon, Dr. Musgrave, gives the word that my healing is sufficient. I see her on the 18th, and then radiation mapping on the 26th, and then we see when I start. Radiation should start four to six weeks after surgery, so I should be on track.


Dining like a queen

This afternoon the lovely lady from Presidential Gourmet arrived and delivered dinners four and five: rainbow trout and a quinoa and grilled vegetable salad, and a baked pasta with garlic bread. I cannot say thank you enough to the Good Food Fairy who has made it possible to have delicious, healthy dinners five nights in a row—no planning, no grocerying, no prep and virtually no cleanup. It is incredible, and appreciated by all of us. And it couldn’t have come at a better time: I have just enough energy to really enjoy the spoiling!!


2 Responses

  1. You are amazing the way you can take a very serious subject, make detailed descriptions, and have one nearly in tears and then laughing hilariously. You have a great talent !!

    • Thank you! Since I feel like my brain has taken a holiday these days, your words are very encouraging. And i think I come by that talent honestly, when you think of my dad and his storytelling abilities…

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