The Surgery

The cancer has been removed.  They took out a lump with surrounding tissue that was about the size of a clementine.  I like the idea of removing a small orange from my body.  I am not sure why, but I like that image.  Definitely better than a golf ball, way more organic for sure.  

Yesterday when I went to Juravinski for my care I was totally overwhelmed with love for those nurses and doctors.  From Sheila, the nurse who has been working there for 35 years and will retire on Monday, to the anesthesiologist who had kind eyes and wore the hot pepper surgery cap, to Dr. Susan Reid, who was kind, funny and had a voice like Cybill Shepard, a bit raspy and so calming.  

As I went toward the operating room, I walked by surgeons who wore something that looked like bicycle helmets and was told that they deal with more intense surgeries that involved cutting bones and that the helmets were actually visors to prevent the icky stuff of bodies from getting on their faces.  Well, that just about put me over the edge and I started talking a mile a minute, and I didn't quite realize it but I was FREAKING out!   

We opened the doors to my operating room, and there were 5 or 6 women, who all surrounded me quickly and began the process of getting me prepped.  I told them that I felt like this was some sort of coven of amazing women, and that I loved them.  I was given some ativan for anxiety and the last thing I remember was a mask being put on my face. 

I awoke about 4 hours later and the first thought that came into my mind was that they had made a mistake in the surgery. 

"Uhm, excuse me? Hello? I whispered in my gravelly voice. "Am I cross eyed? I think I am cross eyed?'

"Nope.  Your eyes are just adjusting. It's something that happens after surgery." smirked the short haired nurse. 

"I really think I am cross eyed.  My son would like that.  He's five."

As I started coming to, I asked a lot of questions.  Is the cancer gone? I am alive? Can I drink some water? When can I have chocolate pudding? The bells around me would go off and I would be reminded to take deep breaths.  I drank water and continued to breathe.  

Soon enough I was wheeled from the Recovery Room to the Same Day Surgery where I was reunited with my amazing team of my mom Carmen, and my husband Dave.  We hugged, and I cried a bit, and we all felt relieved. 

I know that this surgery is a mild one for sure, but it really made me think about life.  As the mask was put over my mouth and nose, for one moment, I thought, this could be my last moment.  Who knows what could happen?  And for one brief moment, before I fell asleep, I just felt love.  A very calm and simple love.  

Information and Care

This morning I had an appointment at Wellwood.  Wellwood is an excellent cancer care centre in Hamilton that takes care of things other than the medical diagnostic bits. They take care of people on the whole, offering yoga, tai chi, meditation, together with support for cancer survivors, their families and caregivers.  

A few days after I was diagnosed, I starting searching for a place where I could get information. You see, I am an information junkie.  For those of you who know me personally, you know that I have worked in bookstores for over 20 years.  My house is full of books, too many books, maybe, but that's okay. Because I love books. To me, they are friends, sources of information, as well as inspirations.  I have books on lots of things.  Books for kids, books for creativity, books on books and books with information.  It's the way that I figure out what i don't know what to do.  I read, and read and read.  I look for places to go, for things to do, I look for resources.  

I was told by a handful of friends, that Wellwood had those resources and more. So off I went. 

The first time I visited I drove up to the new building on Sanatorium Rd. I sat outside and cried in my car.  I just didn't want to have cancer.  I really felt like, it just wasn't fair.  I have a 5 year old, and an amazing husband, and I have a lot of art to create. Cancer should happen to old people, not to people like me.  Of course, I know that cancer hits everyone, regardless of age, gender, religion.  This stupid horrible disease gets everyone. 

When I walked in, I was greeted by a wonderful woman.  She sat me down and talked with me.  Not about the specifics of my diagnosis, but about how I was feeling.  She told me about the center, and more than anything, she made me feel better.  She calmed me and reminded me to breathe.  At the end of our talking, I found myself sitting on the floor in their library surrounded by books.  I was in my happy place.  Books about coping, books about health and books about cancer. Of course. I signed out a few books and left feeling hopeful. 

Today's stash of books on cancer along with a pillow for my post surgery healing!

This morning I went for a reiki appointment.  I was a bit skeptical at first, because I am someone who likes hard, deep massage, not little fluffy touches. I am slightly allergic to hooky dooky new agey music, but I am aware that I need to be open to as many options as possible. When the session started my monkey mind was active and negative.  As she placed her hands on my eyes, my arms and my hands, voices in my head were telling me how this is such a waste of time.  By the end of the session, I was calmed, with visualizations of blues behind my eyes and energy flowing. On my face was a smile. 

Before I left, I went to the library.  I returned some books and took out some new titles. I talked with another one of the workers at the centre. She gave me more information, about programs and groups, and she did so in a way that wasn't scary or overwhelming.  

After I left, I was struck by the amount of care I had felt in this centre.  The kindness of those who worked and volunteered there.  I do still wonder why this cancer found me, hadn't I had enough hardship in the past few years?  But now, I realize that it isn't personal, and that even though it hits us all, that there are resources, and places, and most importantly people who can help.  

Early Morning

I seem to wake everyday between 3:30 and 4:00 am.

It's the time of day where everything is quiet. 

For the first few minutes I am at peace, and as i begin to wake up and remember my situation my brain starts racing. 

And Breathe. 

It goes from thought to thought.  Some of my thoughts this morning look like this: 

Never in my life did I think that I would have cancer.  

I have been around those with cancer.  I helped my father when he was sick with multiple myeloma.  Been a support for some of my dearest friends.  You see, I am good at taking care of others.  I am not good at being taken care of.  

I think about the language of cancer. Of the battle, of how we are going to kick it in the ass.  And how I feel confused about that language within my own body.  

I think about this slow growing tumour.  Sometimes I feel it, and I wish it was out of my body, not in it.   

I think about my dad a lot.  About how wrecked he would be if he were here.  But also about how much I miss him.  I remember the time i had my wisdom teeth out and how he made me chicken noodle soup.  

And i think about how strong people say that I am.  But none of this feels strong. It feels scary. It feels overwhelming. 

I try to stay positive. I listen to the sounds outside my window.  The birds begin chirping.  At first it's just one bird, and then they all start to chime in, as if it's their daily song to wake up to.  And then they start to quiet, the same way my brain does. 

My thoughts begin to slow down.  

I breathe. 

and I close my eyes. 

And try to find peace from these early morning thoughts.