Hello dear readers. Apologies for my long silence. Many of you have quietly asked about my health (thank you!), and I am happy to say that almost a year after my treatment finished, there is no sign of cancer. I've had two breast MRIs, one in September and one in March, and they are clear. Apparently, my breast tissue is dense, which means that mammograms are less likely to pick up tumours, so I am prescribed MRIs instead. (I can't say either is comfortable, though they are unpleasant in different ways.)
People told me that it would probably take at least a year to start to feel like myself again. Somehow, I wanted to imagine that this wouldn't apply to me, but apparently it did. The fall was especially challenging, after going back to work. My brain wasn't working well, a combination of chemo-induced brain fog and poor sleep. The anti-estrogen drug I take, letrozole, to help prevent cancer recurrence, causes more frequent and intense hot flashes. And the zoledronic acid, to prevent the osteoporosis also associated with letrozole, caused such painful leg cramps at night that I started to dread going to sleep. For a few weeks in October, a hot flash would wake me at night and then when I stretched, a leg cramp would set in so severe that I couldn't stand. Eventually, I discovered that topical magnesium cream or spray relieved the leg cramps, and oral calcium supplements of 900 mg per day prevents them. Not having nightly leg cramps helped my sleep somewhat. It has improved more since I began taking the letrozole at bedtime rather than in the morning, though I still don't always get a good, solid sleep.
Struggling with limited energy and brain function, I requested, and was granted, a course reduction for the winter term. So I taught only one course instead of two; I don't know how I could have managed two. I am pleased that I had enough self-awareness to ask in October rather than waiting until I crashed part-way through the winter term. That gave my Department lots of time to hire a fabulous graduate student to teach the course I gave up. It was well-worth the salary cut.
I have also been working to change a life long habit of working to deadline, because I just can't count on having the adrenaline rush to push me over the finish line. I have surprised myself with my success in that change, though I do miss the thrill of completing things "just in time." In the Myer-Briggs personality scheme, I am categorized as an "INFP," and the "P" dimension is characterized by a tendency to wait until the last minute to decide or finish things (because we like to stay open to any new information that could arise.) But apparently INFPs are also adaptable.
(Does this —>
sound like me? I think so.)
I was just starting to feel my energy return and my brain was operating more like normal when I broke my (left, non-dominant) arm, on Easter Saturday. After 13 years, I impulsively decided that the 65-year old pear tree really needed to be pruned. Given the size of the tree, you might question my judgment and whether my brain really was working properly — I certainly have. I was on the stepladder to cut a branch, and as I tried to shake the cut branch free from the other branches it was stuck in, the ladder toppled and I landed on the ground, with my left arm under my torso. It was an "oh shit" split second as I tumbled. It turned out that I broke both bones near the wrist. The radius now has a titanium plate; the ulna was shattered into a few pieces that will heal on their own (I hope). The cast and splint are off now, but my wrist is quite stiff, with limited range of motion, and I still have some numbness in the middle and ring fingers and at the base of the palm. Apparently, it will be 6-12 months of recovery. I hope the numbness fades, if only to improve my typing accuracy. (Many thanks to my dear friend Kelly, who drove me to and from the ER that fateful day, and also to KGH for my surgery, which was two weeks later.)
I did a lot of one-handed gardening this spring.
~~~~~~~~~
One of the challenges in putting my
life back together is that my best friend Liz, who was a pillar in my
life for 35 years, is gone. (If you are a regular reader, you may remember that I wrote about her on my blog after she died on February 20, 2022.) I miss her so much. Her husband, Doug, organized a celebration of her life on May 16th, which would have been her 59th birthday. Doug decided the gathering would be small and intimate, the way Liz wanted it, by invitation only. That meant that the room was full of people who loved Liz, and that loving energy was palpable. Doug rented a room at The Vancouver Golf Club, where he is a member, with floor-to-ceiling windows and views of stunning dogwood trees in bloom. I'd forgotten how lush and beautiful it is in Vancouver in May (though the 33 degree heat was hardly "normal.")
Doug started things off with a clip from one of Liz's favourite TV shows, The Big Bang Theory, so we began with lots of laughter. Liz and Doug laughed together a lot, and Doug wanted Liz's celebration of life to be full of laughter, in her honour. His wish came true, though there were also lots of tears, including some of mine.
Doug told the story of their life together, beginning with how they met, when Liz was 17 and he was 20. Few of us knew that story—we just assumed they had met at UBC, where they were both students. I'm smiling as I type, remembering how Doug described Liz's beauty, and how smitten he was. The two of them were such an incredible pair, so complementary. The whole that Liz and Doug created together was definitely larger than the sum of the parts. Doug also put together a slide show of photos from Liz's life, and I marvelled again at my great fortune to have known her for most of my life.
Consistent with a celebration, Doug omitted Liz's difficult and dark times. In her later years, she sought and created beauty and joy in everyday life, and expressed her appreciation to everyone who did anything for her. It struck me that just as the roots of a tree, growing in the darkness, mirror the tree branches stretching for the light, Liz appreciated laughter, beauty, and joy so much because she also knew darkness. This also made her very wise. (Did I mention how much I miss her?)
There were other precious gifts from my brief trip to Langley: a lovely lunch and afternoon with my sister, Maureen, and the generous hospitality of Virginia, a friend through Liz, and her husband, Greg, who live close to Doug's place.
Liz loved sunflowers, so Doug gave us all a package of dwarf sunflower seeds to plant in her memory. One has sprouted in the pot on my back deck, but I fear the squirrels have gotten the other two. (The seedling is now protected by wire mesh.) Doug also gave us a card with her photo on one side and one of her favourite sayings on the back.
"What counts in life is not the mere fact that we have lived. It is what difference we have made to the lives of others that will determine the significance of the life we lead." Nelson Mandela
By this measure, Liz's life counted for an awful lot.
~~~~~~~~~~
Unlike Liz, who suffered claustrophobia on planes, I've always loved to fly. My favourite seat is by the window, so I can see the view below, whether the landscape or the reversed view of clouds, below me instead of above. The mere fact of tons of metal, people, and baggage soaring above the Earth's surface always seems such a wonder.
I made my first trip to Vancouver in grade 11 (1978) for a school trip. Another trip in 1983, to visit a friend. Then my year-long dietetic internship in 1987. Then another several other plane trips before this one, along the many times I travelled by ferry to Vancouver during the 2-1/2 years I lived in Victoria in the early 1990s. On the plane, I reflected how fortunate I've been to have flown across the country so many times, to see the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies, the fields of grain on the Prairies, the lakes and vast forests of Ontario, Quebec, and the Maritimes. Such a privilege. I remember chafing under the stay-at-home orders during the pandemic and reflecting that people living on low-incomes rarely get a chance to escape their everyday lives through travel.
This trip in May was haunted by the unseasonal heat, the out-of-control forest fires in Alberta, and the memory from late September of frantically scanning news videos for images of my Port aux Basques friend's house. (It was torn down last month after being irreparably damaged in Hurricane Fiona. At 82, my friend has moved to a new home, away from the ocean. No one will be allowed to rebuild on the street where she lived for over 60 years because of the risk of another disaster). My grief for Liz in the past year has been accompanied by eco-grief for Earth, and sadness at how slowly we are responding to the climate crisis. Some days, I struggle to hold it all. Of course, I don't have any answers. I know that I won't ever simply hop on a plane again without a second thought. I know that it seems more important than ever to seek joy and beauty every day.
OH! - and speaking of joy! I had my first swim in Lake Ontario last evening! The water was on the cool side (though not Atlantic Ocean cold) and I loved the contrast of the cool water and the hot air breezes. I swam for about 20 minutes, until my arm with the titanium plate began to ache. After yesterday's scorching heat, the temperatures for the next two weeks are forecast to be below average, so I'm extra happy I seized the moment yesterday. Another thing to remember — don't put off doing the things that bring joy. Life is short and unpredictable.
Thank you for reading, and for all your love and concern.
