Phase One: Finito. Terminé. Fertig. Done and Dusted. Yipppeeeeeee!!

Well, Phase One is finally over. Halle-freaking-lujah! After 33 treatments to my melon and 49 of those monstrous Blue Pills, This Gal is glad to be over my recent Fiesta-of-Fun. Doc Radiation advised me that I would probably continue to feel tired (sub text: haggard, exhausted, butt-draggingly burnt out) for a couple of weeks yet and I suppose that makes sense. After all, that's a whole lot of nuking and chemical sh*t that my body has ingested and endured over the past nearly 7 weeks, and as the central nervous system is a wee bit slower to cleanse and purge all that toxic crap and those dead cells, I have been resting (read: sleeping) for the past few days. In fact, as I look at my Uber busy social calendar (HA!), I see a whole slew of appointments (I'm a popular gal) for all the hot spots in the area: a wonderful Tuscan trattoria called Dormire; Schlafen, a new German brew pub; and a rooftop bistro by the name of Dormir. ;-) Hmmm there's a theme here. It's about both sleep AND food! Wish I was hungry though. Oh I suppose I should mention that my appetite has not yet returned. It will be interesting to see what happens when I start the six-month chemo maintenance program and how my appetite is affected. After all, the side effects from the past almost seven weeks was the result of double the effects of both radiation and chemo; in any event, I digress, as usual. Suffice to say, my calendar is full of appointments with my current best amiga -- Sleep.

So, on Wednesday I took the mask home -- because Drew and I have plans for it -- and I posted the shot below on Facebook. Not surprisingly, I received a couple of "ugh - shades of Hannibel Lecter" and "ooooh ......scary looking." Scary looking indeed.

Methinks that what is scary is that I don't believe that anyone ever envisions themselves strapped into a mask like this for 33 days and having their head blasted with radiation in an attempt to shrink a cancerous tumor in one's noggin. And that includes Yours Truly. Just never thought about it. Why would I after all? So while the mask is indeed scary looking, the process that the mask represents and everything behind it is far more frightening.  But I am through that part of it now. Yee HAW!

On a lighter note, Drew and I are either going to capitalize on the whole creepy Hallowe'en thing and dress The Mask up with googly eyes and bloody bits and creepy ass sh*t (that's Drew's domain), or make it our own homemade Chia pet ("ch-ch-ch-CHIA!"). Part of me prefers the latter, just for sh*ts and giggles. And really, who knew these babies were still around?

A Google search revealed that Barack Obama is a particular favorite ("discuss"), but I am leaning towards somehow turning that mask into Homer Simpson or everyone's favorite bonehead these days -- Justin Bieber (what in God's name is wrong with that dude?) -- because the more ridiculous, the better. Perspective, right? If turning it into something gut-bustingly funny helps me deal with what it represents, then that's a good thing. That, or Drew will turn it into something beautiful, enchanting and inspiring which will be even more of "Ma Vaffanculo!" to this whole thing.

I also got tired of having bad hair days -- a perverse irony when one only has a half a head of hair -- so Drew and I went to the same barber shop (Drew's spot and my new spot for the next few weeks) and shaved our heads on Thursday. Drew did it for the second time -- my man! -- and this time, I went full-tilt-boogie. Yup. It all came off. Bzzzzzzz. And as Drew so aptly put it, we are now officially boycotting shampoo. Just because. Best part is, this time around, I didn't weep or get choked up or emotional. In fact, I was giggling as I just couldn't believe I was looking at myself with no hair. Frankly, I have grown accustomed to the sight of Me-Without-All-My-Hair and it just is what it is. That's not to say that I'm not looking forward to my hair growing back -- of course I am. I simply grieved the loss of my hair a couple of weeks ago, accepted it as part of the process and moved on.

Once I see how long it will take for the hair in the absolute bald spots to grow back -- the radiated spots are completely bald and the hair there takes much longer to grow back than hair that falls out because of chemo -- then I may contemplate a temporary henna tattoo. It will either be something beautiful and spiritual like "Each day is a gift" (which I truly believe and something for which I thank God every day), or something a little more radical like "F**K Cancer" in Urdu or Dari or Chinese (traditional). Haven't decided yet.

Next steps include an MRI on August 9 -- this is The-First-One-After-The-Treatments -- and where the Docs will have the first peek at the 2,500 or so images of Il Tumore to check out what state It is in. In other words, I'm remaining hopeful that this first phase of the Nuke-and-Chem-O-Rama was all worth it. Think positive, Cancerella; think positive. Then, on August 21, Drew and I meet with Doc Radiation, Dr Ferragamo and Dr Neuro-Oncologist (He-Who-Drilled-The-Hole-In-My-Head) to review said MRI results and until then I am going to Zen out, meditate and take the advice of my dear uncle and not think too much about it all. Speaking of family, my freaking AWESOME cousin and his wife shaved their heads as a tribute and to show support. Words cannot describe how unbelievably touched both Drew and I are over this unbelievably selfless, generous and incredible gesture of love, kindness and support. There have been few times in my life when I have been absolutely and completely gob-smacked and this is one of them. Overcome with gratitude and love and emotion.

And it just reinforces to me -- again and again -- what really matters. Love. Family. Friends. Health. The small wondrous things in life. Everything else? i.e. stuff? Doesn't matter. Not one iota. Means absolutely nothing in the end. Things cannot comfort you in your hour of need, or ease your worry or pain or suffering. And as awful as this experience is, there is always a bright side to things. It just opened my eyes that much wider to what I have always intuitively known and felt anyway -- about what matters in life; about what is worth complaining about. And please know that I do not say that to sound holier-than-thou or judgmental. It's all about perspective. For folks who -- God bless them -- have never been through anything traumatic, it's all relative. It's the whole question of how can one experience or define true joy if one has never experienced true pain? I am waxing far too philosophical here. Suffice to say, that each day is indeed precious and time with family and with friends, love and health are the only things that really matter to both Drew and to me.

So that's all the news that's fit to print today and this week, dear family and friends. Will keep you all updated on what happens next and in the meantime, thanking you all again -- profoundly and from the bottom of my heart -- for your love, support and kindness, for your cards, calls, texts, emails....and for reading this blog. Seriously, I could not have gotten through this first phase without each and every one of you and for that, I am, and will always be, eternally grateful, as is Drew, my amazingly dedicated caretaker, the love of my life, my gift from God! Thank you for the gift of your love and friendship.

Grazie per viaggiare con me,

Cancerella, Balderello e I Due Gatti
xoxoxoxo

T Minus 2 - Reprise + Full circle

Greetings dear family and friends. It's been a rather eventful few days and thus, the MIA from This Gal's online Gazette-cum-Comic-Book (at times). My I-Am-10-Pounds-Thinner-Wish-It-Was-For-A-Better-Reason physical self and my I-Am-Feeling-Rather-Sloooooow (Sometimes Slow Witted) intellectual self joined forces to protest this sudden burst of activity and essentially I was confined to a prone position most of yesterday in order to recuperate. Ah yes, the undeniable link between mind and body. The end of Cancerella's 33-Day-Plus-Carnival: Phase One cannot come soon enough. Two more days and to that I say thank GAWD.

I am so glad that the end of The-Laser-And-Eradicator-Merrymaking session is nearing its end, as I must admit that I have never felt so haggard. It's a weariness that permeates to the very core of my being. I suppose it makes sense, really, as both the radiation and the chemo are attacking both cancer cells (f**kers) and my healthy DNA, plus the fact that enduring these treatments simultaneously means double-plus-bad the side effects. Add to that, the radiation boost treatments are true to their moniker. They are kick-ass (i.e. kicking my skinnier, flabbier middle-aged ass), targeted beams aimed directly at The Tumaaaa, whereas the other treatments were of a broader scope. Still tiring on a cumulative level, but these boost babies are longer and much more intense. On a lighter note, I envision an intergalactic super shero with a high-powered laser beam gun thing-y (hey, I'm Canadian; we don't do guns ;-) ...) and she is nuking Los Tumor Cerebral. Yeah. Nuke those bad f**king cells. Por favor. Muchas gracias.

I'm so looking forward to waking up in a week or so and feeling a little more energized, with a little more appetite and just feeling less bleary and befuddled. On a positive note, no more headaches (YEAH - no steroids!) and oh, did I mention, only two more days? Ah yes, I did. Something to celebrate! On that happy note, a few high-level updates for y'all.

On Wednesday, Drew and I drove out to see The-Doctor-Formerly-Known-As-Dr-Mint-Green-Shirt-Now-Known-As-Dr-Ferragamo and to add to the delight of seeing him - not only is he entertaining, but also a damn fine doctor - he was actually wearing his blue suede Ferragamo loafers! Ooooh la la.

More importantly, though, my CBC (complete blood count) results came back normal - Hurrah! - so basically that means that I can enjoy an outing at Tarjaaaay or in other words, I can be around other normal people - recognizing that "normal" is a relative term - as my white blood cell counts, hemoglobin and platelets are all good. Thank GAWD for that (reprise). Something else to celebrate. So, I will see Dr. F. and the kind neuro-oncologist, the Doctor-Who-Drilled-The-Hole-In-My-Head in five weeks' time and before I see them both, I will have another MRI - one of many over the next couple of years. The MRI will advise all of us what shape The Tumaaaa is in; i.e. to what point IT has shrunk - the whole goal of this six-and-a-half-week-fun-fest, so I'm just waiting for the call as to when I will don yet another mask, get hooked up to an IV, be given a button to press if I start hyperventilating from being claustrophobic, then rest comfortably for two hours (HA!) in The Big Tube again. Fingers, toes, eyes crossed that the results will show that Le Tumeur, Il Tumore, IT has shrunk or at least been held at bay. Will cross that bridge when I come to it and will remain hopeful until then. Or as my dear uncle said to me late last week on a call: "Don't think too much." Good advice, that.





Initially, the plan was to have this past weekend be a celebration of the treatments being over and possibly heading to one of my beloved's favourite spots for his birthday. We did in fact celebrate his birthday on Thursday (his actual birthday) with a dear beautiful friend and had a delightful time. Simply and utterly delightful. One of life's many blessings - good friends, good food (or so they told me), good times - the stuff of which memories are made. Merci mille fois, JF, pour une soirée parfaite. Je t'aime beaucoup! Oh, as a sidebar, here's one of the many many reasons I married this man. Seriously, is he not gorgeous? Still makes my heart flutter.

And on the note of this past weekend, Drew and I attended a fabulous barbecue with the dear folks with whom I work; i.e. our team. Truth be told, I was feeling mildly apprehensive about going - and I do mean mildly, with the primary reason being that I was concerned about keeping my energy levels up. On the handful of outings I have taken over the past few weeks, the last few grains of sand have filtered through to the bottom of the hourglass at about the two-hour mark.

To a much lesser extent, I must admit that I was feeling a wee bit anxious about the hair thing. Goofy, I know, but it's the first time I've been at an event with a larger group of people I know. It was akin to exposing myself on an entirely different level and after all, there's a first for everything. In the end, my anxiety was all for naught. Hat came off, I did not feel at all awkward - despite what the radiation has done to my funky Mohawk - and I am so thankful to all the wonderful people who were there for making me feel comfortable, supported, loved, "normal" as it were. And the best part is, the hourglass kicked in at four hours - incroyable! It was truly a delightful, lovely event and Drew and I are so thankful to our unbelievably gracious hostess and host and to each and every one of my esteemed, caring and considerate colleagues and friends for their grace and kindness. Another of God's many blessings.

On that happy note, This Gal needs another nap. Only two more days. And yes, I know I have now said that three times. What can I say, but the finish line is within reach and ringrazio Dio for that. Thanking each and every one of you - as always - for your love, cards, very funny postcards (!), texts, emails, phone calls, FaceTime calls and never-ending support, compassion and encouragement. I love you all from the bottom of my heart. Truly, utterly, completely (as opposed to "truly, madly, deeply" - ah yes, those one-hit wonders Savage Garden. Remember them?)

And I have taken the liberty of mildly tweaking Racherella's sign-off (thanks R!!). Hugs and tanti baci.

Stay Tuned as Cancerella Comes Back Soon From Being Gone Fishin'

Cancerella, Beauderello, e I Due Gatti
xoxoxoxox

Finish line moved out just a wee bit ....

This past Friday, I gleefully skipped over to my regular "OK, I Am Going To Put Your Mask On Now" session, with the thought of looking forward to the Light Show Behind My Eyelids cum Hallucinations - as always - except this time I was thinking "WOO HOO! Only five more of these powwows left!"

So, when the nice technicians - one of whom hugs me - sweet right? I mean after all, they were the same techs who nuked my boob 18 months ago, so they've seen me in my semi-naked glory - said "We are taking photos today", I was a bit befuddled. All I could hear in my head was Shaggy from Scooby Doo. "Huuuhhh??" You see, they take photos on Mondays, not Fridays. Naturally, I asked "Hmmmm, just out of curiosity, why are you taking photos today?", to which they responded "It's for the eight boost treatments". Now, dear readers, I know these treatments have left me a little thrown off balance - literally and psychologically - and not operating at my usual energy levels - again physically and intellectually - but I can assure you that the detail of how many treatments I was receiving was very clear to me. Six weeks. 30 days. 30 treatments. NOT 33.

On my way out, the nurse asked if I wanted to see Doc Radiation to talk about The New Number and at that point, I was simply bone weary  - on every possible level - and politely declined and said I would look forward to meeting her on Monday, our usual rendezvous day. When Drew and I got home, I started Googling "boost treatments" but by that point, I was starting to see double and drool (not true - added that for dramatic and comedic effect ;-) ...), so I gave up, thought "she has a reason for this", and listened to Drew's reasoning which was that Doc Radiation is, and always has been, very thorough - true dat. The only hiccup in this scenario is that I had to order more of The Big Blue Pill, and F**K is all I say to that. Oh, that and UGH, underscored by F**K. I want my appetite back, please and thank you; I'm down 10 pounds. My blood pressure is 94 over 48 (a wee bit low right? No wonder I feel dizzy) Shit. I find the smell of barbecued chicken (YUM) and my favorite pasta dish revolting. Sad but true. I digress, but this is one of the realities of this regimen, one which the neuro-oncological community cannot agree is completely effective (specifically, on the chemo end of things). I digress again. Apologies all, but I have a pounding headache today which I have managed to successfully dodge throughout This Fun-Fest. You see, the radiation kills tumor cells, these dead cells must be cleared up, and in the meantime they take up space and cause swelling. Turns out that the central nervous system is not as good at clearing up dead tissue as the rest of the body. So, I will probably have to take steroids to reduce the swelling if the headaches keep up and good old Tylenol doesn't help the thump-thump-thump stop already. Steroids always make me think of those neckless gronks in the gym. To each their own. I was on steroids for a few days last year and had every possible negative reaction imaginable. OK, this officially concludes this session of Cantankerous Cancerella Carping. And for the record, I am allowed from time to time. So there. ;-)

 

So, like I said, I had to order more of The Blue Pill, the drug that kills the DNA of the cancerous cells, along with some healthy DNA (hmmm, sense a theme here?) and doing that in the US of A ain't easy, my dear friends and family. I won't bore you with details, but it took me most of Monday (yesterday) but SUCCESS! More of the dreaded chemo pill is arriving this Friday, all wrapped up in shiny paper, tied up with a bow and lovingly addressed to Yours Truly; that, or in a plain brown UPS box. So there you have it. Nine more days. Oh yes - I got a little off topic there but most importantly, the reason I am having 33 treatments vs. 30 is because of the amount of Grays (Gy) which is the unit of measure for the radiation. In short, spreading it out over 33 treatments vs. 30 is actually less toxic. Something to celebrate - truly. I adore Doc Radiation. She truly does rock. In the end, extending the proverbial finish line out over a few more days will be a good thing; it's still within site - just a wee bit further out. All about context and perspective and it's all good.

Also wanted to share something I came across on the American Cancer Society's web site; that the pressure to always maintain a positive attitude can be unrealistic. This statement gave me great comfort because there are times when I do feel discouraged or sad. And so, the thought that I am not alone and that forcing myself to say "Hip Hip HOORAY!" every single day, that this is just not realistic, came as a relief to me. Having said that, I have always seen - and still do see the world with a glass half-full perspective and so I continue to thank the good Lord above for that view on life. And the truth is, I know in my heart of hearts that people mean well - I really honestly and firmly believe that. And that is the God's honest truth. If this experience, my first cancer experience and especially the loss of my dear brother last year reinforced to me and really taught me, it's not to judge people. First and foremost, it's not my place - or anyone's place for that matter - and as I said, I really do believe that people operate with the best of intentions (with the exception of those folks that are on the ends of the statistical bell curve. As with anything, there are always exceptions to the rule, but for this discussion and this audience, the truth is that I believe everyone falls under the 95th percentile!)

The reason I bring this up is that the other day I was chatting with someone about my hair loss - which by the way when it comes to radiation is a different story than chemotherapy in that it takes longer for the hair to grow back and in some cases (God forbid) the hair doesn't grow back (will cross that bridge when and if - GOD forbid! - I come to it). This person - again, well-meaning said "No big deal. It will grow back." Now, I know this person meant well and yet, there was a part of me that mused about the fact that they were not thinking about the emotional trauma of having one's hair fall out. That it is not quite as simple as just stating "It will grow back." Please do not misinterpret me, dear readers - I am not judging this person, nor am I angry; not at all. Like I said, I am sure they thought they were offering the whole "RAH RAH!! No biggie! Just a little detour in the road!" kind of back-slapping, go get 'em, stay positive kind of encouragement. But it got me to thinking. That there are folks that just don't know what to say because it's The Big C. Or believe they are offering encouragement. Or believe they are being empathetic. And I get that. I really really do. And I am so eternally grateful for all of the support and love and neither Drew nor myself could get through any of this without the outpouring of love and support from our network of family and friends - it is so vitally important, for both someone suffering from cancer, and for Drew, my beloved caretaker and soul mate. And for that, thank you a thousand-fold, a quadrillion-fold!

So, dear friends and family, I hope you will take the time to read some of the great resources for friends, family, co-workers on how to deal with people with cancer, like Yours Truly. And again, please know that I am so grateful to each and every one of you - from the bottom of my heart - for supporting and accompanying both Drew and me on this journey. And I hope you will find the links helpful in providing you a little more insight into the feelings and experiences that I may not be expressing as fervently, or as succinctly, or as capably as I would like. From the perspective of someone dealing with The Big C, I certainly found them very enriching, encouraging and regenerative.
http://www.cancer.org/treatment/understandingyourdiagnosis/talkingaboutcancer/index

And with that, I bid you all a fantastic day. It's hotter than Hades here; hope you are staying cool where you are and enjoying your summer. Hard to believe it's mid-July already. Thank you all again - profoundly - for all your love and support, for your texts, phone calls, sweet, funny and touching cards, your FaceTime calls, your friendship and for being there for us. We simply could not do this without you. Grazie mille. Merci beaucoup. Vielen dank.

Con amore,
Avec amour,
Mit liebe (somehow the German doesn't sound quite as ... ummm ... well, you know! Entschuldigung - that means "apologies". Wow, intense language!) :-)

Cancerella, Buderello and Les Deux Chats
xoxoxoxo

Buon compleanno, cara Mama

On this day in 1925, an 8-pound baby girl was born to Candido Longato and Giuditta Mason Longato in the idyllic village of Casacorba, located in beautiful northern Italy; a region renowned for its charming towns, rolling vineyards, Roman landmarks, simple yet exquisite cuisine and boasting the gorgeous Dolomite Mountains, Adriatic beaches, the City of Light and Bridges - Venice and more.

This girl - Augusta was her name - was the youngest of eight children and was born into a relatively economically well-off family - by the village's standards - in that her father owned a plot of land, a single family home, and animals, all of vital importance in a small village where people lived and survived off the land. With the rise of Benito Mussolini and his Fascist movement, followed by the death and destruction wreaked by World War II, the situation in post-war Italy was grim to say the least and many people were leaving their beloved land to embark on a search for places where hope and prosperity were the cornerstones of the reigning ideology. And so, in 1951, Augusta packed her few worldly possessions, bid tearful farewells to the family she adored, boarded a ship in Genoa and sailed to Canada to join her childhood sweetheart, Vito Tonin, who had been in Canada for almost three years waiting for her. There, in a pretty town located within easy reach of Toronto, Augusta married Vito and they settled down and proceeded to start a family. A boy came first, born in December of 1952, then a boy in August of 1960 and then a girl (Yours Truly, named after maternal grandmother) in December of 1961.

Augusta Longato Tonin was my beloved mother.

My beautiful mother was the original domestic goddess. She crocheted, knit, embroidered and did fine needlework. She was an incredible cook, a master at canning and preserving, and a master gardener; roses were her special love and she nurtured them to their exquisite delicate glory. Our house was immaculately clean (I came about my cleaning compulsiveness honestly!), but most of all, my mother loved to sew, and a talented seamstress she was. Her (now) classic Singer sewing machine was a cabinet model and she spent hours sewing everything from drapes to dresses, suits to sheets, trousers to tea towels. She even sewed coats. Yes, coats. And beautiful ones at that. In fact, she made me a beautiful camel hair coat that I remember to this day. One of my fondest memories is of a Sunday afternoon in February when I was about 8 years old; one of those days when the sun's rays are blindingly brilliant, the sky is absolutely clear, and the sound one's boots make on the snow - squeak-squeak-squeak - all add up to the supremely perfect winter's day.

My mother was making me a dress for a wedding that we were attending later that spring and I can still remember the gentle whirring sound of the machine, the smell of the sewing machine oil and the color of the dress - light green. She stopped, turned to me and declared: "If you grow up and you don't have a passion for clothes, you are not my daughter!" Then, she winked, smiled and gave me a hug. To this day, when I go on a shopping expedition, I remind Drew that I am paying homage to my mother's legacy. ;-) (She made the coat she is wearing in this shot - gorgeous right? I love vintage clothes. Sigh)

On a side note, at one point, folks raved about Martha Stewart. Puh-leeeeease. A resounding PFFFFFT is what I say to that. Or more aptly, in the brilliant words of the Knight from Monty Python's classic flick The Holy Grail: "I fart in your general direction!"

Beyond her skills as a domestic diva, though, more importantly my mother was an amazing woman, loving and passionate, and a wonderful mother. She insisted on learning how to drive, which in those days and especially for most Italian women was just not the norm. She was an equal to my father - also not quite the norm in those days - a loving wife, a gracious and hospitable hostess and she was fiercely protective of my brothers and me. She loved her family with every fibre of her being, and desperately missed her family back in Italy. Very often, we would make trips to Niagara Falls to visit her nieces and nephews - daughter and sons of her eldest sister (18 years her senior) - my dear beloved cousins, and the only family my dear mother had in Canada, so given her love of family, they were very precious to her and I have very fond memories of those visits.

All was well until 1970 when my mother was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Heavy sigh. I have foggy memories of that whole experience, except I do remember that only two weeks after surgery, she was back on her feet and the doctors were incredulous at her lightning quick recovery. As I've been told, my mother's response was "I need to take care of my family. No time for any of this!" She settled back into her life as mother, wife, domestic goddess, aunt, friend for four more years and then, I distinctly remember her beginning to act peculiar. In fact, one of the symptoms/tell-tale signs of a brain tumor is changes in behavior. My mother was just not herself, and sadly, the brain tumor had re-occurred, this time in an area of her brain where it was a little more complicated. The surgery on this second occasion left her a completely different woman, unable to care for herself and seemingly oblivious to what was going on around her. I remember my father's pain at seeing his beautiful wife reduced to such a state, and while I was young, I could feel things were just not the way they were supposed to be.

My dear father started working nights so that he could care for my mother during the day. By the time my brother and I came home from school and my oldest brother from work, my father would leave for work, and thus someone would be with her around the clock. It fell to me to bathe her, feed her, care for her personal needs, put her to bed and make sure she was comfortable. In fact, I slept in the same bed with her to make sure she slept well, that she had everything she needed, that she felt safe and cared for. We collectively cared for her in this way for about eighteen months, and while some of those memories remain painful for me - painful in the sense that as I have gotten older I understand the heartbreak of watching someone so dynamic, so beautiful and especially so precious, reduced to such a state - I am thankful for the fact that I was able to spend as much time with her as I did, even if it was not under ideal circumstances, and even if I was only 15 when she passed away. Mercifully, she wasn't in any pain and when she slipped away peacefully only 7 months after my father did, as she had long since drifted into her own state of mind and thus, did not suffer. While I am glad that she felt no pain, I miss her to this day, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of her and I love her more with each passing day and year.

To my beautiful mother up in heaven, I raise a glass in her honor and wish her a buon compleanno. Ti amo, cara Mama.

Giuditta
xoxoxo

True confessions...finale. I swear!

Evening all and happy Thursday. Feeling pretty good physically, still a little tired and appetite is blecchhh but all in all, not feeling so bad. Had an awesome massage today which just felt so, so good and was much needed. Have also been cleaning out, organizing and de-cluttering our closets (for charity) and at the same time, cleaning out, organizing and de-cluttering my mind (more on that in a bit - stay tuned!). And the home stretch is within sight: 24 down, 6 to go (Nukey-Fun) and 8 more of La Pillola Grande Blu. (Not our kitties but this just cracked me up!)

Yesterday Drew and I drove out to meet with Dr. Ferragamo aka the Doctor-Also-Known-as-Dr-Blue-Suede-Ferragamo's-And-Formerly-Known-As-Dr.-Mint-Green-Shirt. We usually meet him at the brand new hospital which is a bit closer to where we live, and which is airier, more comfortable and just cheerier - as "cheery" as hospitals and cancer centers can be, that is. This time, we were meeting Dr. F. at his fourth-floor office in a medical building next to the hospital where they drilled the hole in my head (and where I now have that awesome tattoo - seriously, it's my tat of honor) - which is a one hour drive from where we live. So, when we received a call from his office saying that he had been called away on an emergency and could we kindly reschedule, we were just mildly annoyed, as we were a mere 10 minutes away. We advised the receptionist - a trainee - that we were showing up regardless, which we did AND we paid the freaking co-pay for the visit. Ah yes, the US health care system. "Give us your money. Now give us some more. More. More. More." And no "please" or "thank you" either. Harrumph. I digress.

His colleague - not stylish at all I might add ;-) - was seeing both Dr. F's patients as well as his own, so to say it was beyond chaotic is putting it mildly. After an hour of waiting to see the other doc while relaxing (NOT!) in a semi-claustrophobic, bland space, we decided to forfeit and reschedule for three reasons. One, it was lunch time and it was important that both Drew and I ate for health reasons. Two, I didn't have the energy to go through the motions with a doctor I didn't know and didn't care to know, frankly. Three and more importantly, as I looked around the waiting room, I have to confess that it was beyond depressing. Remember, dear family and friends, these docs are oncologists so the folks they are treating all have cancer and are taking chemo, many of them larger doses than Yours Truly. One middle-aged gentleman was in a wheelchair and his wife who was clearly his caretaker looked weary, shoulders slumped, furrowed brows and just an air of zappy negative-energy frustration about her. She looked mildly pissed off (lots of heavy sighs) - not at him I'd venture to say, but just at the situation in general; the whole "F**K cancer" scenario. (I so hope that doesn't ever happen to Drew; that he becomes tired and frustrated in that manner. I so feel for the caretakers and the partners, as this journey is just as stressful and painful for them emotionally as it is for us dealing with The Big C physically, psychologically, emotionally). The other patients waiting in that non-inspiring, beige, tight space looked wan, weak and simply dejected, and there was a woman with a heart-breaking look of despair in her eyes. It just churned up so many different emotions that my instinct was to get out of there as quickly as I could, as it was starting to become oppressive. I just couldn't imagine ever looking like that - hopeless. It was so sad.

So, at this point, I'm just waiting to hear how my blood work came back, which was the main reason for taking the trek out there in the first place. I also hope never to have to meet Dr. Ferragamo at that office again. Far too depressing.

Been giving a little more thought to dealing with this second round of cancer and the concept of "making friends" with it. I did a Google search of "making friends with cancer" and came across a book, written by a cancer survivor - Dawn Nelson - and her view on making friends with The Nefarious Beast. I was so encouraged to read that many of the things Dawn suggested, I have already acknowledged and strive to focus on, each and every day. Now, having said that, I do allow myself days when I feel a little sad and that's OK. I came across a fascinating article on the American Cancer Society's website, and the effort needed to constantly be "UP! Woo Hoo!! Positive!!" and put on a happy face is actually quite exhausting. And I must admit, that's true. I'm so glad for the time to be at home so that I can reflect, rest, enjoy the love and support of all of you dear fine folks and just be able to stare at my semi-bald head. :-) All kidding aside, I just could not imagine having to expend energy to put on that happy face at work at this moment, as that would be too Herculean an effort and thus, I'm so so grateful for the opportunity to rest quietly at home. Another blessing. Here is a link to the highlights of Ms. Nelson's book. Just a few bullet points if you are interested in reading it ...  http://www.softeeusa.com/friends_cancer_main.html

At the end of the day, it all comes back to perspective. I remember an extraordinary high school English teacher who had a profound influence on the way I think and write. To this day, I quote her and am grateful to her for her ahead-of-their-time methods, choice of books and continual intellectual discussions - remarkable for high school. In fact, while the class was touted as "English", it was actually more "Philosophy" and she was instrumental in instilling in me the notion of questioning things. Of reading someone's work and trying to get into their minds - what were they thinking when they wrote this? What did they mean by this? And of not focusing on one piece of data as the truth as that in itself is irrelevant except where it fits into the larger context, the grand scheme of things. She had a favorite quote and forgive me while I paraphrase, but it went something like this: "Without suffering, how can one know joy?"  Again, it's all about perspective. For me, they are at opposite ends of the same spectrum, with apathy at the center and varying degrees of suffering and joy extending outwards to their opposite extremes. And think about it. How can one truly define joy if one has not experienced pain? It's all relative. I read another fascinating quote that states that "Suffering teaches joy" and my point to all of this is that I think I have reached the stage where I feel a renewed sense of peace and joy. When I finally confronted my pain, I realized the extent of my joy. I still need to work on dealing with the fact that This Tumor will still be with me but I will find a way to deal with that in the days and weeks to come.

Speaking of My Nefarious Tumor, I did want to tell all of you dear folks that when Drew and I met with Dr. Neurosurgeon back in April to review the results of the biopsy, he did say that surgery was an option but very dangerous because of where my tumor is located; that there were many risks. So, I made the conscious choice then not to take that path as the thought of having to be dependent on IV's and constant care and needing to learn to walk and talk again and possibly be incapacitated just to live longer? Thank you, but no thank you. For me, that's not a life worth living. The point is that the life I have right now - with its current trials and tribulations - is blessed with many beautiful things. The things that matter - the gift of living another day, seeing the beauty of fireflies, listening to birds singing, feeling the warm gentle embrace of the man I love, getting a phone call from a dear friend, feeling good physically and feeling at peace emotionally. And the latter I say because I think the baby butterfly has started to emerge from its chrysalis, ready to begin this phase of yet another new journey. And that is a good thing! Life is good. Truly.

The finale of the true confessions. Thank you so much for reading, for listening - as always. Love you all and thank you again for your love and support and for taking the journey with us. Means the world to us ....and thanks to LAP for the apropos sign off.

Viaggio con me (con noi),

Cancerella, Buderello e i due Gatti
xoxoxo

True confessions ... part deux ....

Buona sera tutti. In quintessential Canadian fashion, I am going to kick off this post by talking about the weather - a favourite hobby of our kind, eh? Hope you are all enjoying a lovely summer, wherever you may be. The humidity here has lifted a wee bit so the heat is a bit more tolerable, mercifully. Heat index hit 106 F (41 C) the other day (yoiks) and we had a bing-bang-boomer of a thunderstorm the other night to cap it all off. Drew took a delightful little viddy of the aftermath, with the orange skies and all of the glorious fireflies and their lit-up bums drifting up into the evening sky. The birds were performing quite the symphony as well and it was all very beautiful and magical - one of those moments that makes one just stop, listen, savor/savour the beauty and take in the simple splendor and awe of nature. http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=3dZZZh4Mf9Y

Well, I must say it was a delight to have a four-day respite from having my head nuked. It was nice to feel a little clearer in the old melon and not having to stagger about, seemingly mildly incoherent and suffering from an eerily increasing case of short-term memory loss (Oi. That scares the shit out of me, truth be told). Other than a blocked right ear (another normal side effect from radiation - who knew? Just glad I'm not having headaches and thus not having to take those God-awful steroids!), the only other new wonder (!) to report is that (drum roll please) the hair on the top of my head is now starting to slowly fall out!! Woo hoo! Another new day has arrived. This Gal is considering a visit this weekend to see my new favorite barberella - Michelle - to discuss going Full Tilt Boogie. That's right, folks. Sitting for a precious 10 minutes while Michelle buzzes off what's left of my remaining half-inch-long strands (my hair needed color/colour anyway - faaaar too much grey). There is a part of me that is truly excited about displaying my naked (GASP!) gourd for the entire world to see and admire. Perhaps a tiara will be in order, then a trip to Wal-Mart, because no one cares there. ;-) And, WTF, right? I literally have nothing to lose. Ideas for tats welcome! ;-)  Other than that exciting news, Phase One is within the sight lines of the finish line. Only 8 more Head-Bolted-In-Mask-And-Radiated and 10 more of Le Grand Azure pill. Yippee!

So, I have been very introspective these past few days. Truth is, I finally confronted some nagging questions that I had been neglecting to address; specifically, the grade of my tumor/tumour. My logical self (ironic, as this is left brain AND also where The Tumor has set up a home!) confronted my emotional self (right brain and unaffected - physically - by It). My emotional self, in true form, was akin to a little girl chanting "La la la la la la la I can't HEAR you!" or more precisely, "I don't want to hear you."

Now, some of you may be wondering why in God's name did I not know that critical piece of information? Well, I did. In a manner of speaking. Truth is, the original pathology report was delayed and so when I met with Dr. Surgeon after the biopsy, he was a little cagey when asked about specifics. His style is unlike Dr. Ferragamo's, in that Dr. Surgeon is very mild and gentle and speaks in very general, ethereal terms. At the time, there were still some reports pending from Sloan Kettering and in the meantime, the treatment options were exactly the same, regardless of the grade (true, dat). He told me that there were elements in The Growth Thing that were grade 2 and others that were grade 3. When I asked him point blank about life expectancy and all of that sad, awkward shit, he looked panicked - truly - and did not answer the question directly. He said "Gulp! Oh my gosh - a LONG time!" (Note: he didn't actually say 'gulp' but he stammered and flushed crimson; thereby, in essence, constituting a 'gulp'). In retrospect and from reading numerous forums and blogs, I understand that this is an onerous question to answer. Truly. Everyone's story is different, and Hope (yes, proper noun!) and a Positive Attitude (another proper noun!) are crucial factors and gladly, I am guilty of both. YEAH! What I did know was that IT was not a Teddy Kennedy glioblastoma kind of raging, fast-growing "you have 12 months to live" kind of killer son-of-a-b**ch tumor. Thank God for that, because that is an entirely different scenario.

Now, before I delve into further detail, I will tell you that I have also been doing an incredible amount of research and there are over 120 types of brain tumors/tumours, so naturally, there are innumerable variables. I get that. Although advances have been made, the brain remains an elusive challenge. When we met with Dr. Ferragamo, he didn't really get into specifics about grades etc. and quite honestly, by then, I was a little numb. Drew and I had seen so many doctors by then - including Doc Epilepsy - and had to deal with THAT whole drama - i.e. "sorry you have to leave your car parked in your driveway for a few months" and having to sort out how in God's name I was going to get to work and all that shit; how do I adjust my life without being able to drive for a few months, especially living in a place where EVERYONE drives and there is virtually no public transportation. Doc Radiation was the one who told me that I had an astrocytoma and when I looked it up online, I learned that there are two different grades - both 2 and 3 - with different prognoses for both, as would be expected. Then, I started the treatments and I continued to delude myself that I could continue to work through all of this, while sorting out the details of my leave yadda yadda yadda. Suffice to say, now that I have had some time to rest and de-clutter my mind, I finally allowed myself to confront these fears head on, because I know all too well that avoiding this kind of thing is simply not healthy. Avoiding it or pretending it's not there or not talking about it does not make it go away. Only by facing this head on can I learn to deal with it, create my own new reality and gain some measure of peace, both for me and for Drew.

There you have it. Another confession.

So. Yesterday, I met with Doc Radiation, as I meet with her every Monday. And I asked her. Point blank. "Doctor, what is the grade of my tumor?" And she too, looked a little panicked but she did tell me: "You have an anaplastic astrocytoma." From my research, I know that this is a Grade 3 brain tumor. So, my first reaction was to say "F**k." Then, I said "Sorry for swearing." (I need to go to confession for swearing 18 million times). Then, I started crying. I suppose I started crying because somewhere I knew it all along anyway and just needed to release all the pent-up fears, crap, anxiety that I had been bottling up these past few weeks. I had a chat with the social worker after that and she suggested something to me that was quite extraordinary and mind-boggling (and my awesome pal RM suggested the exact same thing tonight when she called me) and that is, that I should make "friends" with The Tumor. Now while that may sound strange, I need to find a way to make peace with The Thing, as the radiation and the chemo will shrink it, but it will continue to live on in some fashion: dormant, dead, sleeping, whatever. And I need to come to grips with that. So this is what I am now pondering. More on that later as I have already droned on long enough. Wanted to end this post on a positive note.

We had a dear friend come for a visit on Saturday and that he came by on a weekend was gift enough. Our friend, the sweet gentle soul that he is, brought this beautiful flower arrangement and a lovely card that brought a tear to my eye. My pal LK took me for brunch last weekend and for retail therapy at Tarjaaaay, because she is a kind, generous soul.

Yesterday, I received three cards in the mail from kind, thoughtful family members who are having masses said in my honour for my quick healing. My "I love the colour of the sky in her world" pal KL sends me a card every week that makes me smile and always brightens my day (and I need to model her latest gift!). My bestest pal CM sends me cards signed by her whole incredible family and is the most amazing support and friend anyone could ask for, while my awesome pal RM calls and texts me regularly and has me giggling hysterically. Mia fantastica, migliore amiga CIF calls and tells me stories that make me gasp for breath because truly they are laugh-out-loud funny and my dear, loyal pal MS and my Uber cool pal LAP are hosting me for a weekend at MS's cottage. My dear cugino calls me regularly just to say hello, a dear aunt reaches out nearly daily with support and love and empathy, my dear brother is always there for me and then there's Drew ....

Why do I tell you this, dear family and friends? Well, this experience has truly reinforced and brought to light what really matters in life, regardless of one's situation. Love. Family. Friends. Kindness. Small sweet gestures. Laughter. The gift of each day. Truly - all that matters. I thank the good Lord above for the incredible, incredible family and friends that we have. Drew and I are so so blessed and we could not get through any of this without you. Thank you all - from the bottom of our hearts - for accompanying us on this journey and we look forward to the day when we can celebrate with each and every one of you and raise a glass to life, love, happiness and conquering adversity.

Tonight's sign off is simple and sweet...

With all our love,

Cancerella, Buderello, and The Two Cats
xoxoxoxo

True confessions...part one...

Hello all and hoping my American friends had a glorious Independence Day. Drew and I just laid low and watched the larger-than-life fireworks display on TV that happens every year over the Hudson River in NYC. Incredible fireworks, simply gob-smackingly awesome. Usher did the musical choreography this year and it started off on a very promising note - lots of shake your booty type hip hop tunes - and then denigrated into an I-Am-Usher-Love-Me-Then-Love-Me-Some-More-Self-Promo-Fest. Whatever. The fireworks were out of this world. It's hotter than Hades here but no complaints because the hammock is back up - just waiting for the scorching heat to pass a little so I don't scorch my already scorched-from-nuking head. I digress, as usual.

So, a couple of updates, the first of which is that I am currently enjoying a four-day respite from lying on that table, cushion under my knees, having my head enclosed in that mask and then having beams of high-powered external radiation fired at my head. It always makes me think of that scene from the Rocky Horror Picture Show - near the end of the flick - when Riff Raff and Magenta come back as the King and Queen of Transsexual Transylvania and shoot Dr. Frank-n-Furter with their laser beam super-duper weapons. Odd, I know, but there you have it. (One of THE best flicks ever!)

Oh, did I mention that I have my eyes closed the entire time the f**king cancer cells are being zinged and zapped (along with some of my normal brain cells) and that when the machine is nuking me, I see the color violet dance across my eyelids? I don't believe I have mentioned that tidbit before. In fact, I mentioned it to Drew and he (who is master of much info - I swear to God!) said it was probably because the zaps were getting close to my optic nerve. Sure enough, it's that AND it's also a hallucination. Wow, right? Hallucination ...cool. And legal. Maybe next week, I'll see another colour/color. In any event, I'm hoping this little break will lift some of the fog - even for a day or two - that seems to be squatting and making itself at home in my gourd. Really feeling the fatigue from both the radiation and the chemo, and operating at what feels like about 60% brain function. Forgetting stuff. Feeling dizzy, mildly off kilter and just kind of thick, like I should be drooling. The joint pain is still there, but it's an annoyance I can handle. Now heading into Week Five of the Dome-Love-Drug-Nuke-Festival, so only 10 more radiation treatments to go and 12 more of Le Grand Azure Pill. The latter, I will enjoy not taking for four weeks before having to ramp up the dosage for the next six months. Been reading up on some of the side effects. Sigh. On a brighter note, perhaps my eyebrows will fall out this time and I can experiment with some creative approaches - thoughts?

I spent most of the past two days reading cancer forums and other blogs - i.e. other folks who have/had brain tumours/tumors - and not only were both super enlightening, very educational and extremely comforting, but they each raised a very good point; specifically, that although we all "count down" the radiation treatments - "RAH RAH!! Only X more to go!!" - the truth is, the end just cannot come quickly enough. It's like "Oh ... shit ... I STILL have two weeks to go??" As I was reading all kinds of great information from folks who are going exactly through what I am going through, I came across the link of a young man's blog. This young man, now aged 31, was 29 years of age when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor and although he was able to have surgery to remove most of it - unlike me who cannot have surgery (f**king tumor is like the Borg and made itself well at home) - he also went through the same regimen of the 30-day radiation/42 days of Temodar, followed by one year of the higher dose (holy shit, I really reeeeeeeeeealllly hope I don't have to take this shit for a year). He chronicled his reactions, his musings, his questions, his doubts, his fears and his confrontation with The Big C. I was so moved and completely drawn into this young's man life and his brutal honesty. So, it got me to thinking that I should probably open up a wee bit more and share with you dear folks what is going on in my head - if you are interested, that is. :-)

The first time I was diagnosed - i.e. with breast cancer - it just all seemed so different to me. Now, please - I am in no way diminishing the fact that I had cancer. It just seemed more straightforward. One day I found a lump in my breast, went to my doctor, had a biopsy and found out it was a Stage 2 tumor. Then, I had surgery and the tumor was gone, followed by seven weeks of radiation - yes seven. Oi, talk about exhausting - have I mentioned that before? And I kept working. I really don't know how I did it. At the time, I had no choice, however; a story for another day. And I also remember a number of folks telling me that I needed to be happier and more positive around the office. I do hope and pray that these same folks never have to go through what I am going through, because it was all I could do to just stay upright, much less try to even utter a sentence and be happy girl. I digress, as usual.

So, when the radiation was over and the fog miraculously lifted one week later (hallelujah!), I clearly remember thinking: "YEAH! This is behind me now and I am ready to MOVE ON!", or so I thought. In any event, I'm not really sure - in retrospect - that I ever afforded myself the opportunity to confront the thought of CANCER head on. The lump was just a foreign object in my boob and then it was gone. This time, though, it's completely different. This cancer is totally different. For starters, it's in my brain. And I have always lived in my head, as it were. The classic right-brain/left-brain stuff, plus the Myers-Briggs stuff (remember them?) that says I fall into 25% of the population that thinks big picture, random thoughts, context and global stuff, vs. the other 75% of the population that operates in the here and now, linear thinking, details details details, and thus thinks I'm as flaky as a Crisco pie crust (I'm an ENFP - some info below - really interesting stuff!)

That's why I gravitate to those folks who think like me, because there just aren't that many of us. I don't mean that to sound pompous; au contraire. Just trying to establish some context. 

So, cancer sets up a home in my brain - my most coveted spot - and it looks like the diagnosis is one where the treatments are going to hold it at bay, shrink the tumor, but that I will have to somehow learn to live with it, because unlike the breast cancer where the docs just removed it, this cancer is sticking around, smaller (hopefully) and held at bay, but a semi-permanent resident. So that's what I'm reflecting upon now. Defining myself in this new reality. Confronting it head on. And yes, the thoughts of mortality are in fact a little more distinct. I don't say that for sympathy, or for any cluck-cluck-cluck "stay positive - you'll live to be 80!" kind of response; a shortened life span is a harsh reality of this kind of cancer. This same young man wrote so beautifully in his blog that people tend to use the metaphor of people stepping off a sidewalk and getting hit by a truck to illustrate that life is ephemeral in nature. He goes on to say that he visualizes himself tied to the railroad tracks, like in old Western movies, and that although he knows the train is coming down the tracks - just not sure when - he chooses not to focus on the train, but rather on the sky, the breeze, the sun, the chirping of the birds, the clouds and all the other beautiful things. I feel good about the fact that I am already at that point, appreciating the here and now.

I have so much more to tell you folks - if you are interested in the outpourings of my emotional and psychological being. At this precise moment - i.e. right now - the details of the treatments seem just a detail. Tomorrow, it may be different. I need to come to grips with the fact that I will not be in the same position as I was when I had the breast cancer and be able to say "It's GONE!" It will be different and I just need to figure that part out, who I will be ... every day is literally an adventure and a journey and I look back to even one year ago and I feel like a completely different person. I read a quote from a cancer survivor who put it so simply and so aptly: "When staring cancer in the face, you learn who you are."

Thanks for accompanying me on this journey. Stay tuned... more musings on the way. Love you all.

Cancerella
xoxoxox

GI Janerella ventures out with the new do

Hello all and to my Canadian friends and family, hoping you all had a glorious Canada Day yesterday (and good weather)! Hubby and I were celebrating with you in spirit and wore our favourite Canuck t-shirts to the Nuke-Fest yesterday to display our maple leaf pride. By the way, I looked up "Canuck" and turns out, when the term is used by Canadians, it is considered affectionate, friendly and patriotic, but when used by others, it is considered a slur. Who knew, right? I just always thought it was a friendly term, period. Hmmm. There is your use(ful/less) piece of trivia for the day!

So, This Gal is getting used to the new do and I tell you, it is very low maintenance, which is very cool, both psychologically and physically. It is almost at the point where it "wipes clean with a damp cloth", and as I'm borderline obsessed with cleaning, it's all good. A dear friend took me out for brunch on Sunday and I actually took my hat off in the restaurant (GASP!). I had a couple of looks and you know? I don't give a shit. First of all, I don't know these people and thus don't care what they think; secondly, if they judge me, that's their issue, not mine. I have become much more at ease with that whole thing in the past few years; the whole "if people judge me, then it's a reflection of themselves, not me." And moreover, who gives anyone the right to judge anyone else? In fact, I read a fabulous quote that another dear friend posted on Facebook today and the timing was perfect:

• "Don't take anything personally. Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality....when you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering." 

And that's all she wrote on that. :-)

I didn't post the past couple of days because frankly, I have just been wiped out. I had a treatment on Sunday which is not the norm, and so I only had a one-day break, and that was Saturday. Again, this is not the norm, but because of the four-day Fourth of July weekend, the center will be closed and the Doc didn't want me to only have three treatments this week (radiation is Monday through Friday). So the good news is that I will have a four-day break this weekend, which will be nice, because it's been a struggle to just stay upright these past few days. Add to that, the side effects from the chemo just seem to keep multiplying - YEAH! - and the latest is joint pain. As a side bar, thank GOD for the internet, blogs and the plethora of information available online these days. I cannot even imagine what it must have been like for my poor parents who went through this shit 35+ years ago and not having easy access to information, and their having to call the doctor to ask "what the f**k is this all about now? Should I be concerned?"

So, I read up on all the side effects of The Big Blue Pill (again - there are a few) and in addition to the tinny taste thing (check), the bionic smell effects (check), some hair loss (check - evidently, that IS a side effect - mixed information on that one), fatigue (more the radiation though), the (ahem) not (ahem) going thing (check), one of the other side effects is joint pain. So I've been waking up with a sore right shoulder and the pain radiates down to my right elbow and hand and all the way down my right leg, knee and foot. So much for staying active, which is what the doctors recommend. Really? I was out for two hours on Sunday - brunch and then a mini-excursion at Tarjaaay - and I came home and slept for four hours - and I'm supposed to stay active? I digress ... in any event, that is the latest fun reaction. The good news is that it dissipates by early afternoon; again, a normal reaction. And after all, it could be a lot worse, so I do have much for which to be thankful. All that to say, I'm now halfway through Week Four, with the bulk of the Nuke-Chemo-Fest behind me, and the home stretch of Phase One is within sight. Woo hoo!!! Then, the fun of Phase Two begins after a four-week respite, with bigger doses of The Big Blue Pill! Dr. Ferragamo did not get into too much detail on this past visit other than to say "Everyone reacts differently" (the boilerplate response) but I have been doing some research and will pester him (nicely, of course; after all, the man wears Ferragamo loafers) on our visit next week. (Oh, and I can't WAIT to see what he will be wearing next week!)

That's all the excitement for now, dear friends and family, other than it's been mucho humid and rainy here. We even had a tornado watch here yesterday, which is very rare and mildly scary. It bypassed us, mercifully, but the rain has been rather relentless, so sadly, the hammock has once again had to take a brief sabbatical - bummer; I love that thing - it is soooo delightfully relaxing. On a super positive note, the fireflies are out in full force; I will have hubby take a little viddy of them floating about tonight with their butts all lit up, and I will upload it in the next day or so. They are so incredibly awesome and absolutely magical to watch. Magical. Oh, and here is an arrangement of some of the flowers in our garden - two types of lilies, Russian sage (smells unbelievably fragrant), and my favourite/favorite -- daisies. Seriously, are they not just the happiest flowers on the planet? They always make me smile. Such simple beauty.

Wishing you all a great day, my dear friends and family and sending much love and many hugs your way. Thanks as always for your love and support, and especially your sweet, rah-rah comments about the new do's! And now that my hair is gone, the scar from my biopsy is visible (cool, right? It's like a mini-tat. Seriously) and the access to my brain is that much closer, I thought the sign-off today was that much more apropos. Love you all, and especially my darling, sweet amazing hubby, who has been at my side through thick and thin and is also my nursemaid, my chauffeur, my never-ending support - I could not do any of this without him ... he is an absolute Godsend ....!!

Kiss my astrocytoma (which is hopefully shrinking with all the shit I'm going through!)

Cancerella (aka GI Janerella), Balderello, and the Two-Ever-Oblivious-Yet-Ever-Affectionate-Felines
xoxoxoxo