Taking Time

I haven't written in 21 days. 

That's 3 weeks.  

I have been a bit stuck, and quiet which for me is a bit rare.  

I am in limbo. 

I found out on Tuesday that my final diagnosis is Stage 1 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, ER+, PR+, HER2-. I know that is a lot of gobbeldy gook, but in the end it means that  I will be getting 4 weeks of radiation and will be put on a hormone blocker for either 5 or 10 years of my life and will have many of the effects of menopause without actually being in menopause.  For the most part, it's a good diagnosis and it hasn't spread which is very positive. 

In two weeks I will make the final decision on whether or not to do chemotherapy based on the results of a test that has been sent to California which will tell us more about the possibility of recurrence.  I am seriously hoping for good results. I don't want to do chemotherapy. 

In the mean time, I take my time to think and to live. I do what is important to me.  I create art and live as fully as I can.  

But there is one thing.  Emotionally, I am exhausted.  Being in limbo for about 2 months straight is hard.  

I am a woman who some in the business world call a Quick Start. I get a gazillion ideas daily and the ones that stick I initiate as soon as possible.   After I finish that initiative, I get another idea aand want to move onto that.  So when I was diagnosed on June 17, I thought that I would immediately start treatments. I was like hup hup - let's get this underway.   But things take time.  Tests need to be done, and treatments seriously considered.  There is no jumping into an idea quickly unless the treatment plan is clear from the get go.  And that is not my situation.  

So I learn how to take my time.  How not to freak out.  How to educate myself in a way that isn't alarming but healing.  How to deal with friends who can't deal with the diagnosis and vanish from my life.  I am taking classes at the local cancer centre and am doing a few secret projects that keep me feeling creatively inspired.  

For a few days I was feeling guilty about keeping this blog.  There are so many others in much more dire situations, and that along with others telling me how great my diagnosis is left me wondering what my problem is.  My diagnosis is positive and they oncologists feel good about finding it very early.  And just a couple of nights ago,  I realized that was stupid.  I have cancer.  It's important that I don't discredit my experience, because at the end of the day this is a horrible disease no matter what stage and I do believe that it has changed my outlook on life.  For better and for worse.  

Tomorrow is my son's 6th Birthday.  We will spend the day at the beach surrounded by our loved ones.  There is no other thing I would rather be doing.  Taking time out to celebrate his life, and soak in the lake, and enjoy our time together. 

I urge you to take the time to be with your loved ones.  Do what you want.  Take your time. Because right now, it's yours to take. 

Pity Face Superhero: My Dad

Today marks 3 years since my dad passed away after an eleven  year battle with Multiple Myeloma, a form of bone cancer.  I miss him so much. I miss his advice, his wisdom, but most of all I miss his laugh.  

When my dad was diagnosed with cancer, I was in Mexico working at Rio Caliente Spa.  A very special healing place. I had planned to leave early and my dad told me to stay, to get strong because it was going to be a long year ahead.  He was right.   A week later, I returned to find my dad in a ward in Peel Memorial Hospital , hooked up to chemo and chatting with all the men in the room.  His outlook was positive. He told me he wasn't going anywhere.  He said he had too much love to give his family.  He wasn't leaving anytime soon.  

My dad had been told that he live from about 3 months to a year.  He lived for 11 years with the crappiest of cancers.  He had multiple infections, a stem cell transplant, his heart stopped for 6 minutes, and he always came back.  They called him Miracle Joe at the hospital, and he left a mark on all that he met.  

To me, my father was a superhero. Not a saving the day in red and blue tights superhero.  But a man who fought for his life in a most noble and real way.  My father was a superhero at fighting this cancer.   He proved time and time again that you just needed to take care of yourself and go through this treatment and live your life the best that you could.  I know that he had wished that it would have been different, but my dad lived his life to the fullest.  

Three days before he died, I got some time to be with my father by myself.  My dad told he how proud he was of me and my brothers, how he didn't understand my life as an artist, but that he knew I was good by the way people reacted to me.  He told me to always be kind to people and to thank people.  And he told me that he would always be in my heart, watching over me and watching over my son Max who was two and a half at that time.  I left and cried in the car as we drove away, knowing that would be the last time I would have a conversation with my dad.  

Two days ago, I was at the doctors finding out the results from the sentinel node biopsy, to see if the cancer had spread.  Thankfully it hadn't.  The surgeon was so surprised that I had even found this tumour.  The lump that I had found was NOT the cancerous tumour, it was a benign mass 2 centimeters above the cancerous one.  Of course, I will still need to do radiation, and possibly chemo depending upon some other results that are coming within the next few weeks, but that's okay.  It's a relief to find that it hasn't spread.  

Late last night, I thought about all of this, and couldn't help but know that my dad was looking over me with love, and laughter.  Throughout the past two months, I have been blessed with some of the kindest love from friends and family.  

As I left the surgeon, I thanked her for her work.  She had made me feel safe, and taken care of in a very very scary situation.  She gave me hope.  I left thanking her and remembering my dad, how he would often thank doctors even when they gave him bad news.  How he would be grateful for his days, no matter how difficult.  And how he tried to laugh, even when times were super tough.  

So today, I remember my father Jose Pijuan.  

Thanks for the lessons in life, Papa Joe, I miss you so much.  Always in my heart.  

A New Lens

Cancer is hard.  It changes the way you think about things, and it also gives you a new way to look at the world.  

In a short 6 weeks since being diagnosed it has I have learnt that: 

1. Life is truly short.  We need to make sure that we are doing what we want to do, being who we are and that we are surrounded by those we love.

2. Bullshit is not acceptable. At all. Ever. Deal with it. 

3. People are weird, and some people vanish because they don't know what to do or say and the feelings that come up are way too scary.  I wish that I too could vanish from this all, but I have no choice.  When I have talked to people candidly and openly about my diagnosis they seem so relieved.  And generous.  It's important to take the time with people, because if you can get past the fear, and connect, well, that's the best. 

4. You want to do exactly what is important to you. I want to go back to Spain to where my father came from so I can show my son.  I want to continue collecting stories. I want to grow the theatre and dance audiences in my city.  I want to make art that matters. I want to work on a project that gives cancer patients and their families an opportunity to be creative in a meaningful way while in hospital wards, doctors offices, and waiting rooms.  Getting my hands moving  has helped me so much when my father was diagnosed, and now that i am a cancer patient. These are just seeds and will most probably remain that way until after my treatments, but it's important to identify what means the most to you.  

On Thursday night, I went to one of my all time favourite dance events, Dusk Dances.  For many years it has been in Toronto and 3 years ago they brought this event to Hamilton at lovely Bayfront Park.  It's a night unlike any other.  Audience gathers to a band playing, and then a host appears (this year its' the lovely Nina Gilmour as Madame Pink Lady.)  She lets us know that we will be walking around the park to see four dance pieces.  Disclaimer: I have been a host before in 2009 in Vancouver as the fiesty Ms Lula and know many of the performers involved.  The pieces performed were stunning, so human, and so full of love.  The last piece in particular, Incandescent was excellent.  It was choreographed by Meredith Thompson and Kate Franklin and it featured over 20 community members in a modern piece that took my breathe a way.  The night I went, it was a bit cloudy and far in the distance as the dancers appeared on the horizon, we were treated to a few bolts of lightning that illuminated the sky and the dancers beautifully.  To me, the piece was about life and death, about connection with others, and love.  

As i watched it I was moved to tears.  I watched some people that I have strong connections with dance beautifully as I sat and my body hurt from last weeks surgery.  I wanted to move, I wanted to be dancing with them.  It was, for a moment, a little solo pity party, but then as I watched and thought and felt, it occured to me, that I am changed.  I was watching this piece with a very new lens.  

My new lens allows me to truly be in the moment.  It allows for me to enjoy and for me to feel deeper than I had before.  This lens shows me what is most important in life.  It has made me feel more and think less.  And right now, that is a great thing.  

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.  

Wise Words from Gilda

Books and Boobs

The house is quiet.  My son is asleep and my mother and husband have stepped out for an hour.  I am sitting on my couch surrounded by my 2 cats and a dog and I feel calm.  It's a deep calm that has only come upon me in the past 15 minutes as the house settles and everything falls asleep as the sun sets and the darkness comes. 

Tomorrow is my surgery.  I will be having a lumpectomy and a sentinel node biopsy, which in normal talk means that they will remove the tumour and 3 lymph nodes to see if the cancer has spread.  I have been meditating that it hasn't, and hope for the best possible outcome.  

It's been a flurry of activity here the past few days. Friends I've known for ages, and then new ones that I have only recently connected with have been taking care of me, and bringing my little family all sorts of sustenance.  I am so grateful for this community that I am a part of.  I feel full of love, and to feel that the day before surgery, well, that feels like magic.  

A lot of my visitors have been asking how I found my lump.  It's a bit of a mystery to the doctors too, as it isn't detectable on the mammogram.  The response to that question is a bit odd.  The way I found my lump was by reading. 

I read every day.  I sometimes read a few pages.  Sometimes 5 chapters, and sometimes a whole book.  It's part of what makes me focus, an act that connects me to the human spirit, and it inspires me to live honest and true every day of my life.  Reading makes me feel less alone in the world. 

Now, when I read I drink tea. Sometimes I snack and I often touch my boobs.  It's not a sexual thing, because believe me,  after you have a baby and you breastfeed, breasts are not really sexual, they are more like comfort givers. 

The upside of reading daily, is touching your boobs daily and you know what they feel like.  So the moment that a funny little lump appeared, I knew that something was wrong.    Fast forward to today, and the doctors can not believe that I found this myself. If it weren't for the time I spend reading and poking my boobs, I would not have found this lump, and time would have passed and the lump would be much larger and things would have been much different. 

So I feel like I owe the Book Gods.  I will never stop reading.  I will always have a stack of books by my bed side.  I will always tell people to read books, and now, I will also urge them to touch their boobies as they read.  

When i was a kid there was a lot of ads about monthly breast exams.  But somehow they illustrated it in a rather creepy way.  I never liked them and I never really followed the instructions. 

So, to all of the women and men in the world, no matter what age you are, please please touch your boobs on a regular basis.  Read Books. Touch Your Boobs.  It is how i found my cancer so early. 

This time tomorrow I will be recuperating from surgery and the tumour will be out of my body.  To me, this is a thing to celebrate.  I think it will be the perfect time to start reading a new book.  

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.