Cancer Strikes Again

I'm back. A little worse for wear, sliced up and stapled together, a bit rattled but here. I was diagnosed with cancer nine months ago and it was every bit as traumatic and difficult as you might imagine it to be.  Nobody's journey with cancer is ever easy and though mine wasn't the worst of stories it was the worst thing I have ever gone through. I've sat down to write this post about four times now and I can't quite seem to get clear what I want to say about the experience so I will just say it sucked...big time. My surgery has left me with a long scar that cuts along the top of my shoulder, loops up behind my ear and down again, then swoops around under my jaw to end in the centre of my throat. It would make a great track layout for Hot Wheels cars. It is quite something to see and definitely the most impressive of my surgical scars to date but that's just the physical reminder of the event.  It's the mental scars that are more concerning.

It takes an army to diagnose, treat and rehabilitate someone with cancer. I had that army on my side as well as many loving friends and family members without whom I don't know how I would have made it, especially my husband who was always there to hold me up emotionally and at times physically. Luckily, he is a big, strong guy in all ways and could handle that. Thanks, Ted.
This strange and difficult year, ushered in by my cancer diagnosis also contained cancer for friends and relatives along with the recent deaths of two close family members.  They were both women in their sixties and they died of cancer, different cancers than mine but it makes me feel that I am alone in a little boat, rowing upstream for all I'm worth while the mighty current of Cancer pushes me back.  It's hard work just staying in one place, but I'm not giving up.

Times like these make me admit I am getting older. I am hoping that this year was an anomaly, not the coming norm but a nasty voice whispers in the back of my head that this kind of stuff is going to keep happening. When you are young and hear of someone dying in their sixties you don't give it much thought, it might seem a bit early but not that much. When you are in your sixties it's shocking. Somehow it feels like all us nice people that eat our vegetables and get regular exercise should be given a pass on death until at least eighty. Apparently that's not how it works.

I have no great words of wisdom to give, no epiphanies to reveal. I don't believe in living life like every day is your last, that's way too much pressure for anyone let alone someone who is still recovering from illness. What I went through felt so random it's hard to make sense of it.  Even the doctors could only tell me it was bad luck when I asked why this had happened to me. That's some cold comfort. Bad things happen to good people and vice versa, that about sums it up. Will I now give up bacon, alcohol and the occasional doughnut? No. Will I take up smoking, fast food and suntanning? No. But I will try to worry less and be even more grateful for my life while pulling hard on those oars.

If you want to read more from me please go to my blog site at https://whatfayesaid.blogspot.com.
Thanks.
 

Taking a Break

Life has thrown me a curveball in the last couple of months that has kept me from posting to this blog. Medical tests and tense waiting periods for results have sapped my creative energy for writing an interesting post to entertain my dozens of fans, as I like to refer to the steadfast twenty-seven readers I think I have. Twenty-seven is technically dozens, right?

Since 2018 cracked itself open I have suffered through a crash course in patience, overcoming fear and embracing uncertainty. I have not necessarily passed that course but I’m working on it.  This has been a very destabilizing time as can happen when something so unexpected hits you from out of the blue. Like most people I spent lots of time worrying about things that did not happen and was not prepared for what did. But that’s part of the human condition, useless worry and unpreparedness.

I am standing at the end of a rainbow,
it must be good luck!

Right now I don't know what the future will bring and I'm trying to be okay with the not knowing. I haven't decided if I will post anything further about my health issue as this was never intended to be that kind of a blog. Perhaps my creativity will fight its way through the turmoil and I will find something of the absurdity of life to give my opinion on, and save my health concerns for another forum, if any. As long as no one tells me that everything happens for a reason I’ll be fine. I thank you all for visiting my blog and perhaps we will connect again soon.

Another Year Has Slipped the Reins

The Christmas decorations are all boxed up, the poinsettias are in the compost, the new year has been rung in and out. It’s 2018. We have survived a year of President Trump's twitters, Prime Minister Trudeau's socks, sexual harassment charges galore, wild fires and torrential rains, and North Korea did not push the big red button...yet.  Just another year of good and bad.  As I have written before, I don’t do New Years resolutions and this year will be no exception.  I am at the bottom of my energy cycle, the battery is drained,  just waiting it out now until spring arrives.  This blog post is being fueled by caffeine and gingerbread cookie, not by enthusiasm. Being honest with you here.

What is the hoopla about the turning of a new year anyways?  Why such a feeling of renewal and resolution for many people all around one slim day, January 1st? It’s arbitrary. It's just another year., actually just another day between one year and the next. People want to know what your plans are for the coming year, your goals.  Well, much the same as last year, folks. Take care of myself and others, be a good person, tackle the challenges with some grace and grit. The same old rules apply. There will be no easy wins, stuff happens with hard work and commitment, small joys need to be celebrated as much as the big ones, losses taken in stride, hope sown, despair weeded out.  That’s about as specific as l like to get as we all know what happens to best laid plans.... they oft go awry, so I’ve heard.  I do make plans and set goals for myself but with an understanding that this year may not be any more helpful in achieving them than the last year was. There is no magic in the change of number on the calendar. A good friend had a challenging last six months and she commented that she was looking forward to 2018 as 2017 was a prime number and she has always disliked prime numbers. That’s as good a reason as any to ring in the new year on a hopeful note.

We humans are so irrational, emotional and so easily swayed by the unexplainable. We go on feelings, gut instincts, lucky numbers, auspicious signs, and our horoscopes in the paper that morning. Anything can cause us to have a good or bad day, feel our luck is turning for or against us. Hitting three green lights in a row, no line up at the coffee shop, finding a twenty dollar bill in the coat we put on can make our day feel like a good one.  Research has shown that people who believe themselves to be lucky are more lucky. Makes no sense but there is some science to it apparently.

So that brings us back to the turning over of a calendar year and the effect it has on us. Some people can hardly wait for the year to end as they feel a new year will bring better luck or more happiness than the one that is finishing, with no actual reason for that other than faith in a new start of sorts.

 The Romans priests before the reign of Julius Caesar manipulated the calendar any way they wanted, shortening and lengthening it to suit their purposes. They could keep people in office or boot them out by changing the calendar.  Now that’s power! We don’t have that ability, sadly, so we must go along with the length of the year given us, why?  When approaching a birthday with one of the weighty zeros at the end I decided to give up the number counting and become ageless, maybe now is the time to become yearless.  It will be neither a good year nor a bad year ahead, just another set of days, the same as we had last week and the week before. This puts the onus for change and fresh starts where it belongs, not on poor overworked January 1 but on us. As for the annual party and popping of champagne and wearing of silly hats that we have all enjoyed at times, let's move that to a day that deserves it, a day that really does something for us - the winter solstice.

Another minute of daylight, now that is something to celebrate!

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Want To Know About The Other Sex? Pick Up Their Magazines

A typical cover for Men's
Health

It started out innocuously enough.  I had purchased a subscription to Men's Health magazine for my husband as he was working out regularly and I thought he might enjoy it. He barely glanced at it. This was back in the day when you actually bought physical magazines and had them delivered to your house.  My ingrained thriftiness wouldn't allow me to let the magazine go unread every month, I would get my money's worth out of it, so I picked it up and started to read. Since I worked out at the gym twice a week I thought that the information the magazine was giving out might just as well pertain to me.
My world at the time was very estrogen heavy, filled with other stay-at-home moms raising their kids. While it was comforting to share what I was experiencing with my female friends who were doing the same thing it could get a bit.... boring. And then along came Men's Health magazine. Bam! I was hooked. Opening the cover was opening the door to another world. A testosterone filled one. The writing was sharp and punchy, even aggressive. A "kick in the pants" style telling men to get off the couch, work out, cook something healthy, dress better, do some personal grooming and how they could please a woman in bed.  They were speaking my language.

I had had enough of women's magazines showing me how to stay young and sexy to delight my husband while raising brilliant children in an impeccable home. I was more than ready for another point of view.  Raising two boys and married to a man, this stuff was relevant for me. Soon I was picking up GC and Esquire to round out the picture and everyone just assumed my husband was the one who read them. The inner workings of the male body, and the male mind, why wouldn't this appeal? The writing was so good, funny and direct. Interviews with well known athletes, movie stars, politicians, and writers; coverage of scandals and crimes; medical breakthroughs and great nutritional advice, fashion and grooming ...it was all there, but with a male slant. Written by men for men. I became a better gift giver for the men in my life, got styling tips on keeping my husband well-dressed and I found out what was a turn off and turn on for men sexually, at least according to the magazines. I learnt about making classic cocktails, how to get six pack abs and that vexing question of whether to match your sock colour to your shoe or pant (answer:pant).  And the pictures! What's not to like about well-muscled, handsome men in spandex doing push ups? Or one wearing a $3000 suit, glancing at a $10,000 watch.

It was reassuring to see that the media was pushing a physical ideal on men that was just as out of reach for most of the population as the one that the women's magazines were pushing on me. I knew these male models were clocking many hours in the gym every week and living off of chicken breasts and celery sticks to maintain their 42 inch chests and 29 inch waists. I appreciated every ounce of their effort. And, I could follow their work out regime as published in the magazine to try and attain those abs for myself! What's not to love?

Eye candy aside it was the topics and the writing that kept me reading. Advances in prostate cancer research, new information on cardiac health, how men feel about their father and being a father. It was all great stuff and not what was being discussed with the moms at the school playground. It was truly an alternate universe for me that helped me to better care for and understand my husband and sons in ways that Good Housekeeping or Vogue could not.
Eventually though the bloom came off the rose. Just as with other magazines the stories became repetitive. There are only so many ways to pump up a bicep or make a steak salad or groom your facial hair. The subscription got canceled and I now only rarely look at Esquire on my iPad but I have nothing but fond memories of my journey through the world of men's publishing. I like to think it gave my little universe a bit of balance at a time when I felt I was drowning in ways to decorate my table for Easter.  Perhaps in this outraged #metoo world it might do men some good to pick up a few magazines aimed at women and give them a read. You never know what understanding may lay beyond that door.

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Yup, It's November Again

It's relentless outside as I write this, a constant deluge of rain, clouds have descended into the tree tops and the sound of life outside is drowned out by the rush of water all around me. My apartment has many windows and skylights and the effect today is one of living in a glass globe placed under a waterfall. Cascading is the only word that comes to mind.

I had been searching for some blogging inspiration by going through my previous posts, looking at things I had started and not finished and there it was - a post about November, started last November  the 23rd. Today is the 21st of the month and my mood is the same as it was then. Dark and damp. And the forecast for the next seven days is less daylight, more rain. The Vancouver Sun today tells me that the rainfall to date this month is 63 mm or 2.48 inches more than the normal totals. It has been raining a lot.

My father hated November and after he retired, he and my mom often planned a holiday somewhere warmer and drier for this month. I didn't understand it then.  November for me was just a break between a gorgeous, golden leaf-filled October and Christmas, a time to start gift

shopping and enjoying the new tv season. What was the problem?  February had always been my problem month. Cold, bleak and devoid of highlights except for the manufactured silliness of Valentine's Day. But now, I am starting to see my dad's point of view. November sucks.

Is November weather getting worse or is it just me?  I have always been sensitive to the cold, that is nothing new so my home is warm and I keep wool cardigans and throws handy and sheepskin slippers on my feet. The hall closet is filled, almost embarrassingly so with down coats, scarves, gloves and boots. I am prepared for the outdoors.

I just don't want to go out there. I suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affected Disorder, but I'm venturing a guess that most of us that live here feel a touch of the winter blues. For me it manifests as a desire to drink coffee and/or wine, eat carbs and chocolate and stay in bed as long as I can in the morning. My brain turns foggy and my memory is poor. At the end of the day I can't remember what I was supposed to have accomplished with the previous hours. Whatever it was probably didn't get done if it wasn't written down. I use a light therapy box in the mornings and force myself to get outside as much as I can as even a grey day offers some benefit to those suffering from SAD.  Some days it doesn't seem important enough to bundle up and brave it though, I'd rather eat another cookie and find things to do inside. I don't suffer enough to require medication I just need November to pass. It appears it's not the weather getting worse that is the problem.

December never seems to be quite as bad as November, it usually doesn't rain as much. Then, as the winter miracle approaches on December 21st, that being the solstice, not the birth of Christ, my spirit lifts every so slightly. The days start getting longer, praise the lord!  There are also the distractions of Christmas and New Year's Eve to make the days sparkle a bit as opposed to the solemness of Remembrance Day that November holds. November could be enjoyed as the start of ski season, the play-off time for football, the NHL gets into gear, and the Black Friday sales are coming ....but not for me. Here on the great wet coast of BC it's dark, it's damp and I'm pulling the blankets over my head and making cookie crumbs in the bed. Wake me up December 22nd.

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Can a Taste for Opera Be Developed?

I love the Sydney Opera House,
Does that count?

Opera. Does anyone really like it or is it like eating tripe or brains? You are supposed to like it if you have more refined and adventurous tastes than average but in actuality its a tough slog for everyone.  Are people just forcing themselves to like it? Fake it till you make it?  I have heard it brings people to tears and transports them to a higher realm of being but I just don't get it. I mean no disrespect to the people that perform it, they spend a lifetime honing their skills, and full disclosure, I am pretty much tone deaf. I cannot sing on key at all, nor can I hum a melody to a song that anyone would recognize. How I ended up with two musically inclined children is all due to my husband's genes.

When I was twenty I had a boyfriend who had been raised in Europe on classical music and he loved it. He listened to it in the car and at home, watched classical concerts and opera on tv. He loved it like I loved the Eagles or Stevie Wonder so I was exposed to it all the time. My upbringing was filled with radio pop and the hard rock of my older brother's records but I was willing to try and appreciate classical music since my boyfriend seemed so taken with it but after a while the minute he left the apartment or the car, the radio station got changed.  I tried, I really did. I grew in knowledge to be able to tell the difference between the violin playing of Itzhak Perlman and Yehudi Menuhin but I could not savour the experience like he did. When the relationship ended so did my exposure to classical music for the most part, other than the occasional bit I got through movies or being put on hold on the phone.  I tried again years later when my son got interested in classical music and was given an array of CD's for presents. I would slip some Mozart into rotation on my cd changer in the car and give it a go but invariably it ended up creeping me out or boring me so I gave up. Just being honest here.

A physiotherapist who treated me about ten years ago was always regaling me with his love for opera and I felt like an ignorant dummy for saying I wasn't interested in it without ever actually having been to an opera. So I made a decision that I was allowed to dislike something...like tripe, as long as I had tried it with an open mind.  I bought tickets to the Vancouver Opera performance of Carmen, something with recognizable music, not obscure and demanding, and went with the intention to have my mind blown and my tastes changed. This was the real thing, albeit not the Metropolitan Opera or anything of that calibre but it was live and these were professionals. The lights went down, the performance began and my eyes started ping ponging back and forth from the video translation rolling by far above the singers heads and the actual action on the stage.  It was amazing how hard it was to read and follow the story while trying to listen to the singing and appreciate it. Finally I just ignored the translation and let the action and music roll over me. Easier but like watching a foreign film without the subtitles, sometimes I could understand what was going on and other times there was a barrier that I couldn't climb over, nothing made sense. It was slow...and long.

The first time I tasted a sushi tuna roll I didn't like it but I grew to like it very much over time so I figured I had better give opera another chance. A good friend of mine offered to go with me as she had the same curiosity about it as I did so we bought tickets to The Marriage of Figaro.

The wonderful poster by
Edel Rodriguez of
The Marriage of Figaro

A little more lighthearted than Carmen.  Our big mistake was to indulge in a nice meal and a glass of wine before hand. Maybe two glasses of wine. The lights went down, the music commenced and within an hour our eyelids were drooping and our heads were nodding. Opera is long! Despite all the shenanigans on stage and the playfulness of the story we could not keep our eyes open. We stuck it through to the end and exited the theatre shamed by our infantile inability to appreciate "culture".

I have made peace with my lack of enthusiasm for classical music and opera. The door to the magical room where classical music feeds the soul is closed to me and that's okay, let others enjoy it.  The constant struggle the Vancouver Opera and the Vancouver Symphony have with keeping up ticket sales tells me I am not alone. Try to get an overpriced ticket to an Elton John or a Rolling Stones concert and you will see where my generation is spending their entertainment dollars. Opera has been crossed off my list. Now, does anyone know a place that serves good tripe?

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Longing for a No Fly Zone

You know the way salmon always return to the same stream where they were born and fight their way

back up it to spawn and die? Well, instead of salmon think of flies and instead of a fresh, rushing stream think of my apartment.  I am living in the midst of a mass return and die off of flies. It is as gross as it sounds.
When we came to view the apartment as a possible rental for us in January there were dead flies everywhere, hanging from fly strips, on the floors and windowsills, behind closed blinds on the skylights. Many, many flies. The apartment had been empty for a while and my first thought was that perhaps the previous tenants had died in the apartment and their bodies had not been discovered for days. Hey, it happens, but I think the rental manager has to disclose that. She wasn't offering up any tales of dead bodies so I chose not to bring it up but a couple of  small but highly suspicious stains on the bedroom carpet kept the thought firmly in my mind. Trying to see through the fly issue, we agreed to rent the apartment as long as the management cleaned up the flies and checked for any sources such as dead rodents and the like.  An exterminator came and gave the space a thumbs up, no rodents, no human corpses in the walls and so the cleaners came in and did their job. There was a bit of an ongoing dead fly clean up after moving in but I dealt with it, having been assured it was a one time thing.

Fall has now  arrived and with it a wave of dopey, slow moving flies. They fly around the windows outside, banging and banging into the glass or just crawl slowly across the panes. Up to four at a time get trapped between the screens and the closed windows, seemingly desperate to get inside. I avoid opening those windows. They find their way in from who knows where and buzz in the corners of windows searching for a way out. I have killed a dozen and vacuumed up double that amount and that's just this week. Twice a fly has bombed into my head as I sat reading. It's as if they are on their last legs, having lost all sense of direction or ability to manoeuvre. They just seem to know they need to be back in our apartment... to die. There is a particular corner of the living room that seems to be the final rest stop and requires my constant vigilance to keep the bodies from piling up. I keep several fly swatters around the apartment and the insides of the windows are smeared with the aftermath of my attacks. It is a particular type of torment, walking into a room to do something and having that sound, that intermittent buzz and tap of a big, fat fly noodling around a window frame, assault me.  It doesn't last long when I have a swatter in hand.

Making a mountain out of a molehill, you say? Perhaps, but I have lived in many different homes, some of which did have dead animal carcasses under the porch or in the crawlspace and I have never experienced a fly-festation as this. The common house fly is known as a filth fly (think about THAT) and "depending on species, they may seek moist, dark piles of trash, rotting carcasses or manure in which to lay their eggs." That comes straight off the Orkin.com pest control website and does NOT instill a sense of total confidence in me that I do not not have rotting corpses, human or animal in my walls. Or manure. My house is clean, there are no teenagers leaving food to rot under the bed. No compost bucket left to moulder on the counter, I'm pretty tidy. So all I can do now is stand ready, swatter and vacuum poised, to break the cycle of life for the fly kingdom which has decided to come back home, and let them know who lives here now....and hope that the previous tenants really did move out.