Better Living Through Chemistry

One thing I have had to come to terms with is the fact that pills are keeping me alive. Many people think that I could control my cancer with diet, or herbal medicines or holistic approaches. Take cinnamon every day, or turmeric or epsom salt baths. Smoke weed. Exercise more, meditate, pray. And yes, okay, many of these things do help in certain ways but none of them will cure my cancer. Then someone will throw a story at me about some guy who was dying and then he smokes pot and gets cured. Believe it or not. I choose not to believe any of those miraculous cures. Why? Because those people are not me.

I know myself better than anyone else. Even better than the doctors who claim to know everything about my disease, when in fact, their knowledge is also limited by the cases they have dealt with in the past. I know what works and I don't need to be told by anyone who is not going through this how to better deal with it. Do people think I am not fighting as hard as I can? Those that know me will know that I am reading up on my medications, that I was never a pill taker before (last ditch effort to get rid of headaches) and that if I could I would do everything in my power to not take dozens of pills every day.

But the truth is, I have bone cancer, a very painful and widespread disease that will likely take my life in the next few years. Do I want that? Hell no. I'm trying my best to beat the odds and be around for many many years to come. However, right now, the pills I take are doing what I want them to do, keeping new lesions from forming in my bones, helping to strengthen my very confused and weak immune system, and keeping my spirits up because I am DOING something to actively NOT DIE.

One of the medications I take is a corticosteroid, dexamethasone. I take it once per week. Most people know that you are prescribed this medication to help your immune system to fight off a particularly stubborn illness or infection. It boosts your body to do what it needs to do. In my case, it is being given as a chemotherapy because it prevents myeloma cells from forming. So yes, I will take it.

But guess what, it has side effects. Like all medications, 'dex' is not perfect. Medications are purified chemicals, derived either from natural sources or laboratory-controlled chemical reactions. They are not naturally-produced inside the body so they will not perform the way a substance that is produced by my own body would perform. Even blood products, like immunoglobulins come from other people, so my body says 'foreigner' and tries to get rid of it. Although, some of it works. Enough for the researchers to say, hey this works and therefore keep recommending it as a treatment.

The side effects from dex are a headache that lasts just the first day, a hunger that comes and goes for two or three days, and two sleepless nights requiring a sleeping pill. I don't mind the side effects because I know that the bad cells are also having major headaches. They, I hope are dying so that I may live.

Other meds I take have side effects too but I deal with each one at as it presents itself and I justify them by not fighting against the side effects because that fights against my health. I work with the side effects so I can put the fight where it belongs, against the disease itself. I use all of the tools I've been given, the meds, the doctors, the chemo, the radiation, the positive attitude, the good friends and the support of my family, to fight this disease. So, even on my worst day, when I can barely get out of bed to pee, when food has to brought to me or I don't eat, when nothing tastes right and I have to take extra pain pills, I'm still winning the fight. How can I stay so positive, you may ask? Because I'm still breathing. Maybe not deeply and sometimes laboured, but I'm still breathing. And that's my miraculous cure.

Just Do It!

I'm fascinated with the documentary about Scientology with Leah Remini and it has given me insight into organized religion. Here's my thought: people spend too much time talking and listening to sermons than actually going outside of their comfort zone and DOING something useful. 

Every church is a cult, using guilt or other such negative reinforcement (like threats of spending eternity in hell), as a method of control. Anyone with questions or ideas that don't gel with the church are not welcome. Why? Because they challenge the notion that maybe there is something wrong with the way the church interprets the bible. And yes, it is an interpretation. 

But my biggest revelation is that people know what they are supposed to do in life to honour God. They need only go to church once to get their minds filled with how to be like Jesus. Then they should go out into the world and do it (or not, that's their choice). But to require themselves to continue to go every week to get the same message drilled into their heads week after week? What does that mean? Well, instead of going into the world and helping the poor, the debilitated, the sinful (if you will), they need constant reassurance that they are believing the right thing. Constant reminding of what they need to do to make the world a better place.

Well, I say spend less time quelling your anxiety and go out and be like God. Talk to an addict, go to a prison and pray with a convict, volunteer on a suicide hotline, donate clothes to the homeless, deliver food to children in 3rd world countries, take in a refugee. 

What? That's too much effort? Those things are uncomfortable? 

It's much easier to just spend an hour on a Sunday listening to what you should be doing instead of actually doing it, right? 

Yeah, I thought so.

Sometimes a Gall Stone is Just a Gall Stone

Once a person has been diagnosed with a cancer, any cancer, they live their life in fear of that cancer's return. Or worse, a new cancer that then spawns a new fear of the return of that cancer. I have had the return of my cancer already and believe me, it doesn't feel good. At all. That's because every time cancer returns, it changes your prognosis. You get put in a different category. The category of "maybe it's not under control" and "what will we do about this now". Because doctors really don't like it when your cancer comes back. It means the treatment they thought would cure your disease has not worked. And for the most part, there is no Plan B. So now we treat symptoms as they arise and we look for new cures that might come up as research into this awful disease continues.

Over the Labour Day weekend I had a severe pain in my abdomen that radiated through my left rib cage and around to my back. It was so severe that I couldn't settle down. I stood, paced, sat, lay down, stood up, paced and repeated. I took extra pain meds. Nothing worked. So off to the Emergency Room we went at six o'clock at night. All that went through my mind was, this is it. This is the day I find out that the cancer has overtaken me and it's game over. Every cancer survivor thinks this, I have no doubt. Every little pain, discomfort, pimple, palpitation, cramp, or otherwise, has us thinking that the big "C" has finally done its nasty turn and made us it's bitch.

At the hospital, the doctors and nurses wander around me with faces that say the end is near. I know I'm exaggerating but there really is a look in their eyes when you tell them you have an active cancer going on. It's hard to explain but it's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. They do bloodwork, take X-rays and watch as the colour returns to my face and my lips go from purple spots to pink and healthy (relatively) looking. No heart attack, they said (not that I was even thinking about my heart). No pulmonary embolism, they said. The pain was beginning to subside. Well, it could have been from the intravenous pain meds they gave me. But then they had to transfer me to another hospital for more tests. They decided that it could be a gall stone. WHAT???? Did I hear that right? I had been worrying and fretting over cancer and they declare my anxiety a non-entity. I was happy in a twisted sort of way, even though I had to stay in the hospital for two nights while they made sure my system cleared out the poisons from the passing of that nasty little stone.

No new cancer. Whew. Big whew. Sometimes a gall stone is just a gall stone.

The Recovery Curve

It is nearly two months since my stem cell transplant for multiple myeloma. I'm supposed to be recovering which, according to the doctors, should take roughly three months to regain a fully functional immune system and six months to a year to feel like 'my old self'. So how do I spend my days when the thing I'm supposed to be doing is 'recovering'? Therein lays the crux.

I'm mathematically inclined, as anyone who knows me well will tell you. I think linearly, I like numbers, I'm not half bad at Sudoku, and I can still remember equations that I memorized in high school. So, it's no wonder that I think of my recovery in terms of a dose response curve. It rises sharply then levels out then trails off slightly. Right now I expect I am on the sharply rising beginning of the curve, heading toward a levelling off, meaning that I expect to get a little better every day until I get to a point where I simply can't get any better. My physical limitations, dictated by my disease, will not let my curve rise any longer. It would be a great analogy of a recovery if it were true.

The problem is that I have setbacks on a semi-regular basis. Like today. I've been doing so well, going out with my family, friends, my partner. Getting groceries, making dinner, sweeping the floor. Doing simple tasks that anyone can do in their sleep. Today my pain caught up with me and laid me out in lavender.

I took my pills an hour early, at around 7:30pm because I was starting to feel the pain in my back getting intense. When that happens, I end up tensing up so the muscles around the broken vertebrae get sore too. I was sitting in my comfy chair in the living room and I couldn't get comfortable. So much for my comfy chair. Richard brought me my pills and I took them. They didn't kick in as fast as usual so we went upstairs so he could rub some Voltaren on my back. His warm hand felt good but he couldn't press at all without triggering spasms of pain. I rocked in the bed. I laid down. I sat up. I paced. I rocked. And I laid down again. Then I cried. There was nothing else to do.

Yes, my back hurt. But my ribs hurt too. They all felt broken. I took another breakthrough pill. Then I paced again. For some unexplainable reason, I wanted my pillow case changed. I became focussed on the fact that the pillowcase smelled stale and the only thing that would make me feel better was a fresh pillowcase. So Richard got one and again for no reason in particular, it felt better to have a clean pillowcase. I sat up, swung my legs over the edge of the bed and started to rock. I breathed deeply. The pain eased. I wanted to shout hurray. Within two minutes, I went from writhing in agony to being able to sit up with no pain. 

Where the heck am I on the curve now?

What they don't tell you about cancer.

There are several things they don't tell you about when you get/fight/beat/recover from cancer. For instance, chemotherapy wreaks havoc on your....wait for it....bowels. Yes, you will have diarrhea and constipation, sometimes on alternating days. Just when you think you need an extra stool softener you'll find yourself reaching for the Immodium. There may even be times when you will need Depends, just in case you pee yourself standing up. If your stomach muscles tense up even just a little, that good old sphincter that keeps in the pee will let loose. It's embarassing and can lead to extra loads of laundry. Believe me, you do not want to let your delicates sit for any length of time while still...er....damp. There's always the nausea, which the doctors have piles of medication to curb it with but that's really one of the more obvious side effects. These are the logical aspects of cancer given that chemotherapy does a number on your entire body. But there are a few other side effects that took me by surprise.

For starters, my skin became so sensitive. No matter where you touched me or how gently, the feeling was like a deep tissue massage. You know, the kind where you just want the masseuse to stop before you start crying from the pain. I would get a pedicure (something I felt helped me feel better about myself as well as a way to keep my feet clean and healthy) and when it came time for moisturizer to be rubbed into my calf muscles, I would just about hit the roof. And yet, the dry skin required moisturizer regularly just so it didn't look like my skin was falling off like a snake's. It was more than just the delicate touch that bothered me. My cats would regularly walk up my body and settle into my lap or on my stomach. But after treatment, those little kitty toes felt like I was being jabbed by a pool cue. Or worse, it reminded me of when I was about 6 years old and my grandfather, who was known as a man who didn't much like children, was visiting. Apparently I was talking too much, I tended to do that, and he said children should be seen and not heard while he jabbed his walking cane into my ribs.

My particular cancer affords me a few other side-effects such as a broken back, blood clots and the notion that I will never be cured and will have to live with this nasty disease for the rest of my shortened life. But there is one that really puzzled me.

That one side effect, the one that surprised me most, was when I realized I had cradle cap. That's right folks, cradle cap, like a baby. The thing about losing your hair is that for a while your head is soft and the hair wears off on your pillow slip (a lot of people suggest you get a silk pillow slip to avoid this shedding) but before the hair follicles are healed enough to grow actual hairs, your scalp goes through some changes. Mine developed a few sores, which ended up creating small patches of acute dryness. Now this became larger patches of dryness, which made my head start to snow. Not a full on blizzard, just some flurries now and then. Other cancer patients, having experienced the same issue, came up with home made remedies, rubbing almond oil on your scalp for two hours, soaking your head in peroxide, regular scalp massages to aid in blood flow, etc. The one that made sense to me was rubbing vitamin E cream on my scalp daily so that's what I did. Or what I have started to do. I'll let you know how it goes.

I don't expect that doctors will tell you everything about having cancer, that would take too long. But if you've read this blog you'll know that there is certainly more to it than nausea and piles of medication. You really do start your life over. Like a baby. With new hair, delicate skin, diapers and an inability to predict the consistency of your stool. Oh and the puking, which leads to eating things that are easy on your stomach like yogurt and Arrowroot cookies.

I guess the moral of the story is, when you get/fight/beat/recover from the nastiest disease you will probably ever have the misfortune of having, you will also have many side effects that make you laugh and cry. Having no hair makes me laugh. Cradle cap makes me cry.

This is what radiation therapy is all about.

They put you on a table like a fish about to be gutted on a narrow cutting board. There is no room for your arms so  they hang down, fins that don't fit nor have any purpose. Your head slips into a plastic form and they smooth your hair down, if you have any, so it doesn't get caught when they strap down your face. Your personalized plastic face frame is lowered down until every millimetre slides into place over your eyes, nose, cheeks and chin. 

You can't move. You can speak but only just enough to issue grunts of agreement, perhaps a barely understood word or two. 

'Are you comfortable?' 

'Mm hm'. 

'We're going to get started.'

'Okay'.

That means they are going to leave the room after they take their measurements. You've been tattooed with small dots that map benchmarks for the machine to be lined up over your body. One between the breasts, one anterior to the umbilicus, one on each hip marking the edge of each ilium. These are the marks that the giant machine will use to locate the areas requiring radiation.

The people leave, the patient remains, the machine begins to move. First it takes an x-ray, confirming the body's position. Then it moves into place for the first treatment, a low metallic drum beats as it stops and focuses on the target area. A hum and then a high pitched squeal as the radiation is released.

In her head she plays video games. Space Invaders, the aliens are cancer cells, the little ship is the radiation and it is taking shots at the cancer, killing some, maiming others but always destroying. 

The machine stops and the people return. They remove the mask and she can breathe easier, instead of through a mesh fog. They take more measurements and leave again. Treatment number  two in another area of the spine.

This time she plays Asteroids. Shooting more cancer cells, causing widespread destruction. They shatter into pieces and she grins as they die. Die cancer, die.

One more visit from the people, the patient remains still. Her arms are tired but they have put a strap over them to keep them secure or they would fall off the table and interfere with the movement of the machine. She opens her eyes as the people measure and she notices that she is up high, at least four and a half feet off the ground. The shortest nurse's chin barely clears the cutting board. She would never be able to gut a fish at this height.

The people leave and treatment number three begins. The radiation beam cuts a delicate path around the spinal cord. No margin for error here.

The woman decides to imagine something different. She fires a phaser at the cancer cells clinging to her bones and they dissolve with a blood-curdling scream. It feels good to kill. She launches hand grenades into the spaces the cancer has left in her and the explosions demolish every cancer cell inside the lytic lesions left behind by the cancer's digestive actions.

Suddenly it is over. The table lowers and the people return. She is human again. The only dissection performed was necessary and has left the host alive. But the cancer is dead and more cells will die as the radiation continues to interrupt their ability to reproduce. She is lifted from the table with slow, strong arms, the nurses are happy with their work. She is put  back together, no horses or King's men required, her hair put back into a pony tail,  her neck brace back on as a choking reminder that she is diseased, her clothes in place, glasses on face rather than a mask. No more mask, this is her own face.

And it is smiling.

Are you talkin' to me?

I've come across my share of rude people. I have held jobs in the service industry, albeit mostly in my youth, but it wasn't until recently that I realized just how much rudeness the average customer service worker must endure.

Last September I took a job, I'd go so far as to say my dream job, that requires some but not much face to face customer service. I do backup reception and happily deal with professors who are dropping off or picking up exams. Mostly I work with representatives from each academic unit, who in turn deal with the end user (faculty member or student) in their respective units. This is my full-time job and I love it. I pore over data on a computer half the time and for chunks of time I am hands on with mountains of paper. Again, I love it. Few people. Just numbers.

However, I also have a part-time job where service probably tops the list of what I deliver to the customer. Sure, they are renting a room for the night and I make sure they get what they need but my interaction with them should leave them feeling good about their decision to choose our hotel.

Most people are nice, many are dog tired from travelling and a few are downright grumpy. All of those I can handle and even justify. Hell, I've been tired and grumpy after driving for hours too and all I want is a clean hotel room with a soft bed so maybe I've been a bit short with the front desk staff myself. Now that I'm on the receiving end, I realize there's a lot I can take from customers like these. They are really good people at heart, I'm just catching them in a difficult moment in their lives. The bulk of travellers in the summer are on vacation so they are in a whole different league of happy (sometimes drunk) but are just as easy to understand and deal with as the tired traveller.

Now let's get to the heart of the matter. The asshole. There are a few and boy do they enjoy making a customer service worker earn their minimum wage. Every last living penny of it.

As a customer service agent, I realize that I must set aside my personal pet peeves so the fact that someone "forgets" to thank me for something I've gone the extra mile to provide bugs me but I let it go. I let a lot of things go. Assholes go the extra mile too and they let nothing go. They do things like peeing on a vehicle in the parking lot because they are too drunk to make it back to their room. Or blocking open a fire exit door to have a smoke outside because they don't want to go back to their room and get their key. Or using that slimeball charm on me to see if they can get more than they deserve. Slimeball charm has never worked on me. So when I ask someone to please let me do my job, the greasy grin on their face often disappears and the real asshole emerges. They get downright nasty. But I know my rights and I can smile all the while I'm telling them what's right and wrong.

Yesterday I found myself dealing with a professor who sounded a lot like the truck-peeing asshole I deal with at the hotel. And I found myself smiling and giving him a kind, respectful explanation of what I was able to do to assist him. He hung up the phone satisfied that he had put me in my place and I hung up the phone thinking exactly the same thing. He expected that since he wasn't getting his way, the minion must be incompetent. I explained to him my workload, priorities and that his request would be dealt with in as swift a manner as I was capable of...and he was welcome to contact my manager if he was unsatisfied with my answer. Of course, putting a manager between us often quells the storm of dissatisfaction. As long as they've been heard and feel they might have sped up the process by calling me, then all is well. After I hung up the phone, I went straight to the pile of paperwork that contained his "request" and swiftly moved it to the bottom of the pile, which is too bad because it was really really close to the top. But of course, now that I've had to take such a long phone call, I need to re-sort my priorities.

Oh and one last thought. The customer is NOT always right. In fact, the customer seldom understands the rules or is informed about the rules or has had the rules applied to them in the past so I have no problem explaining to them how things are going to be. And thanks to the assholes of this world, there are rules rules and more rules to follow. And I can always re-sort my priorities according to the rudeness level I'm forced to put up with.

Because if everyone was kind and respectful of one another we wouldn't need rules, would we?

The Lent Diary - Mar 23

Bubbles.

I love bubbles. Admit it, you love bubbles too. I love bubble baths, bubble gum, soap bubbles floating across the sky, tiny bubbles in champagne, the bubbles that cause milk to froth for a latte or a meringue, the bubbles that form on a baby's lips when they discover the tricks they can do with their own spit. Bubbles are kind of awesome.

One of the best bubbles is the bubble of excitement that forms in your chest when you know you're onto something fantastic in your life. The kind of bubble that makes you feel like your heart is jiggling like jello on a spoon held by a giggling child. Like when Indiana Jones realized that his nemesis was digging for the ark of the covenant in the wrong place because his staff was too long.

The most amazing thing about an excitement bubble is the ability to spread the excitement around.

I have that bubble now. And I can't wait to share it with everyone. But good things come to those who wait. So in about a month I'll be able to talk about it. Until then, enjoy the bubbles you have in your life and if you're lucky enough to have a bubble in your chest that jiggles when you laugh, you are truly blessed.

The Lent Diary - Mar 19

Fear is innate.

There is a certain fear that comes with the survival instinct and another fear that comes in times when all we stand to lose is our reputation.

I recall many years ago (nearly 30 to be exact), I was asleep in a waterbed at a friend's house. In the middle of the night, said friend woke me because she heard a sound. The dog, who was sleeping peacefully beside me woke with a start and began barking at the shadows. Me, I fled. Fight or flight? I fled. I scrambled across the bed to get away from the danger, terrified, afraid for my life. It took me years to find the humour in the fact that you can't easily launch yourself out of a waterbed. I liken it to Fred Flintstone's legs going a mile a minute but his body not moving at all and a xylophone beating out the tune of his feet spinning in mid-air.

It's true that fear is a driving force in most people's lives. We are afraid to say what's on our minds and when we do find the visceral fortitude to speak out, we tend to water down the issue that's been brewing at the back of our minds so it is palatable to those around us, fearful of the judgement to come should it not be well received. Sometimes that fear leads to a better understanding of the issue in our own minds. Other times, it's just a cop out, blaming fear for holding us back.

Last night, I was driving home just after midnight and as I pulled off the 401 and turned onto Montreal Street, a large puff of smoke ran across the road about 100 yards ahead. It stopped part way across and looked right into my headlights and that's when I could see it was a wolf. A very large, grey wolf with a black head, puffy tail and long, white legs. I slowed the car and the wolf dipped his head as if taunting me to charge at him. Then he pushed off with his horse-like legs and disappeared up someone's driveway and into the night.

My heart was racing and the bottoms of my feet tingled. I was ready to bolt from fear for my life, just like the night I tried to leap out of a waterbed. The wolf, on the other hand, seemed not to fear the two tons of vehicle headed his way as much as he feared that I saw him. Out of his element. In the urban jungle rather than the forest where he belonged. He feared me seeing him not as a fearsome predator but as a hungry, garbage-eating critter no different than a rat or raccoon.

I felt the survivalist's fear, he felt the fear of losing face. If only he knew how privileged I felt having seen him at all. And maybe that's what I need to keep in mind the next time I fear speaking my mind, just let yourself be seen at all. Like the wolf, you don't know what people really think of you and it might not be that bad.

The Lent Diary - Mar 16

Menopause sucks.

I don't think anyone would disagree with me. Young people only know the concept and I can't imagine it's a pleasing thought. Men, especially the partners of women going through menopause, would absolutely agree. And we women, well, we know it.

I had become secure in the knowledge that my ovaries had quit and that my poor body had finally done its last turn at trying to get me pregnant. And I was not unhappy with that situation. Months passed where I felt as though I no longer synched with every woman around me. Every 28 days I did a little happy dance because lo and behold I did not have to make a trip to the drug store or clip coupons for an essential item that our government deems "not essential" and therefore taxes up the wazoo.

My wazoo finally had a rest.

That is, until Saturday. Too much information, you say? Well, nobody talks about this. Nobody. My doctor barely talks to me about this. Then again, she's more than 20 years away from having to worry about it herself. This is just a fact of life, like the ones they tried to teach us in "health" class. The thing is, this is a fact women need to know but men don't really need and/or care to know anything about. Unless they need and/or care about the woman/women in their lives.

So, take it from me.

Menopause sucks.

The Lent Diary - Mar 11

The sky is falling!

It isn't often you experience the sensation of your world coming crashing down on top of you. Literally. I had such an experience yesterday while walking to a doctor's appointment. I was enjoying the sunshine as I went down Johnson Street past the library, crossed the intersection at Wellington and headed alongside St. George's Cathedral. I had a smile on my face. That changed in an instant.

As I went past the side door of the church I heard a low rumble coming from somewhere around me. At first I had a hard time placing it until I realized it was above me.The entire section of roof extending from the side door to the front of the cathedral had apparently warmed up as the sun shone and temperatures rose. The buildup of snow, ice, more ice, more snow and again more snow and ice over the last months came down not in one gigantic sheet but broke up into a dozen or more chunks each the size of a king mattress. As this collection of winter's wrath cleared the roof edge, it plummeted straight down and landed with the grinding thud of a long bout of very close thunder.

All in all, this event probably took 5 seconds from start to finish and yet I recall each nanosecond with perfect clarity. I talk about this as a sound because although I looked up to see the ice/snow sheet begin its slide, I quickly turned my back and huddled down beside a car obliviously parallel parked beside the building.

When the noise had ceased I slowly rose from my crouched position to make eye contact with a man across the street who was in the process of picking up his jaw from the ground. He exclaimed, "WOW" to which I replied, "YAH". He wanted to say more but all he could manage was two more wows.

Unfortunately I didn't have the presence of mind to take a picture. I was truly just happy to get away with my life. Although I'm not certain I was ever at risk, the sound alone was enough to cause my adrenaline to hit me within a few seconds.

At the doctor's office, which is right across the street from the cathedral, I was able to explain the thunder they had all heard moments earlier. I'm happy to report that my blood pressure was 138/70 with the high number (systolic) understandably elevated after my very recent experience.

Perhaps the sky didn't fall on me but I did experience the fight or flight response we are told in high school biology class is an innate response that we cannot alter. And unlike Chicken Little, I had a witness.

The Lent Diary - March 9

Things are not always what they seem.

A writer's mind is always working. It formulates ideas then takes them to the extreme. After all, what is writing except exploring the possibilities? Sometimes those possibilities and ideas stem from a real life experience taken a step further. A difficulty with your computer at work leads to a story about an artificial intelligence taking over the world. A scary commute leads to a story about a runaway bus. A weird dream about a loved one who has passed away leads to a spooky ghost story.

There are no limits save the limits you put on your imagination. A deeply logical person would immediately denounce the improbable for the more likely outcomes but the writer goes straight to the improbable and builds on it.

Sometimes though truth is stranger than fiction and the writer can get bogged down in describing the truth. Strange truths are sometimes more difficult to sell to the audience than acceptable fiction. Would you want to read a story about real-life parasites invading the human host or suspend your disbelief for the less credible alien larvae hatching out of the chest of an astronaut? Too close to home must be waved off. Give me the outlandish any day.

My challenge as a writer has been and probably will continue to be that my friends and family might read into my writing some literal truth about my personal situation based on one of my exaggerated writings. A story about a rape might ring a little too true and therefore must have come from a personal experience when in fact, it was simply a detailed research effort including interviews with real victims. After all, every book about writing tells you to "write what you know" but most of the time what I know is pretty boring so I like to take my strange ideas to the next level. That requires research and I think I'm pretty good at research.

The writer, therefore, must be careful when they write and if they are a good writer, they can convince the audience that what they write might have just been a real experience. The truth is, it doesn't always have to be.

After all, things are not always what they seem.

The Lent Diary - Mar 6

Nobody's perfect. Let him who is without sin cast the first stone (John 8:7, paraphrased). Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? (Matthew 7:3, NIV)

These sentiments seem to indicate that we shouldn't criticize others because we are imperfect too and we have committed sins in our lives so how can we justify being critical of others. After all, if we haven't got our own affairs in order, what makes it okay to tell someone else they've got a problem.

But that doesn't really work, does it? When you have a disagreement with someone or you see a particular behaviour in a loved one that irks you, it's important to have a conversation with them and let them know how you feel. If their behaviour is affecting you in an emotional way or there is a more concrete manifestation in your life of their problem, then you have a right to be heard and even to help that person to see the error of their ways. Right?

That's what an intervention is, after all, an opportunity to explore the shortcomings of a loved one because it is now affecting you in a very real and negative manner. Generally, you've recognized that you can't take any more, or that the person is genuinely going to harm themselves so you want to accomplish two things. You want to help the other person and you want to remove the stressor in your own life.

A conversation or intervention doesn't always go smoothly. Let's face it, you are hi-lighting a conflict that the other person may not even realize exists.

It makes sense that when you want to "talk" to a loved one or friend about something that's been bothering you, they might become defensive and immediately point out a flaw in your own character. They are really just pointing out the obvious, that you are not perfect either, that you shouldn't stone them since you are a sinner too, and that there's really no reason to take exception to their issue when you have issues of your own that you haven't dealt with.

Perhaps it's the root of all conflict. You are pointing out something you perceive is wrong with me so I'm going stop you, even if I have to take you to task on everything you represent. Hey, I might even kill you because then this conflict will stop altogether. Wait, there are more of you who feel this way so I need to either admit I might be wrong or kill more of you. I will never admit I'm wrong so, killing it is.

Cognitive dissonance at its best (worst?). Then again, nobody's perfect.

The Lent Diary - March 3

Have you ever had a twitch in your eye? The kind that makes it impossible to see clearly?

I'm certain I don't listen to my body enough. It talks to me, swells up when it wants me to slow down, hurts when it wants me to soothe it, and twitches when it's trying to get my attention. It could just be a simple medical condition.

There are lots of medical explanations for why the muscle in the eyelid twitches. For starters it's called blepharospasm so you know it's a real thing. They don't make up Latin-derived medical terms for no reason. It can occur when you haven't slept enough, are worried or stressed, have dry eyes or pink eye. It can also indicate a more severe condition like Bell's palsy or Parkinson's disease.

Too often a benign symptom can signify the tip of an iceberg you don't want to uncover. Like the bruise on a shy woman's face. Or an elderly person using their favourite antique nickels for bus fare. There's more of a story there. Much more.

I don't know why I currently have a twitch in my eye but I'm sure there's more to it. Maybe warm compresses will help or going to bed early will solve it. Or maybe I'm worried about something.

Regardless of the underlying cause, my eye is trying to tell me something. My blurry eye that spasms every few seconds and prevents me from seeing the snowstorm outside is trying to get me to see more clearly.

And maybe it's time I listened.

The Lent Diary - March 2

Everything is relative.

March came in like a lamb, that is if you compare weather on the first of March to the weather during the rest of winter here in Kingston. We've certainly had a c-c-c-cold and snowy time of it for the last few months. Everyone is ready for a change. People want warmth, heat, sunshine, and fewer layers of clothing to wear every day.

But come July when there is nothing but warmth, heat, sunshine and those few layers of clothing are sticking to our sweaty bodies, everyone will ask for something cooler. Gee, can't we have a break from the humidity, it's hard to breathe. I get eye strain from the bright sunshine when I can't find my sunglasses. Good gawd my leather seats are flippin' hot in my car. Air conditioning, please!

Too much of anything is bad. It grates on the nerves and although we humans wish for what we don't have, we forget that there is sometimes bad in what we desire. How can that be? If I want something good, it must be inherently good or I wouldn't want it. Right?

I want ice cream but not the brain freeze that comes with it. I want to buy brie and the good crackers but then I can't afford milk. I want to put hot peppers on my pizza but then I get heart burn. I want to hit the snooze alarm but then I'll be late for work. I want the positive but keep the negative please.

It is a human failing that we forget to temper the extremes in our lives. We really should learn to take the good with the bad and to realize that enjoying something that we want can come with a price. If we can keep a perspective on it, the price is an easy one to pay.

After all, everything is relative.

The Lent Diary - Feb 27

Mr. Spock is dead.

It's not the first time he died. At the end of the movie Star Trek: Wrath of Khan, as any half-decent Star Trek fan knows, Mr. Spock sacrificed himself to save the ship by shoving his hand inside the dilithium chamber to re-align the crystals which gave himself a lethal dose of radiation. He acted logically in the emotionless way we've come to know Vulcan characters and yet he acted in the most human way possible, by putting the needs of the many ahead of the needs of the few (or the one).

I was devastated. It was the early days of computers and pre-internet so keeping that secret from the public was pretty easy. I went into the theatre completely blind to the outcome and it sent me reeling. Spock can't die. Spock. Can't. Die.

The Star Trek universe has been, for me and many others, an ideal to which I hold a lot of my standards. For instance, acceptance of differences comes from the way in which people of various backgrounds on earth as well as those from alien cultures was and continues to be portrayed on Star Trek. There was a fictional Russian at the helm of the Enterprise while the world sat arguably at the peak of the Cold War. An Asian beside him was entrusted with steering the ship while memories of the Second World War still lingered in the minds of the audience. And a woman, yes Lieutenant Uhura at the right hand of the Captain in a position of strength and control. Did I mention she was black? So much diversity in one show. I believe that's why it couldn't survive more than 3 seasons. I can imagine the network saying, "We gave you an inch, Gene Roddenberry, and you took a light year."

Star Trek was everything the world was not at the time, but strove to be. Bringing alien cultures into the Federation of Planets to coexist peacefully is the ideal of the sane. Why then do we still alienate our own human brothers and sisters? We are now at 45+ years past the original series and no closer to the Star Trek ideal.

The representation of what was and what could be was embodied by Mr. Spock. He was half-human, half-Vulcan. A mixture of what was (separation) and what could be (co-existence). He fought his natural tendencies and accepted his internal differences. He was zen before we knew what zen was.

In the non-Hollywood world, the real world, Leonard Nimoy was an actor. He was just a man. And now, because he's gone, we will no longer have any new experiences from his version of Spock. And I feel cheated. I feel like I did at the end of Star Trek: Wrath of Khan. Spock can't die and by extension Leonard Nimoy can't die.

Unlike in the fictional Star Trek universe where Spock was resurrected by a planet gone amok (see what I did there), Mr. Nimoy is gone forever and I am left to ponder why I am so deeply affected by his passing. The character will live on in a new actor but the original flame has gone out.

Mr. Spock is dead.

The Lent Diary - Feb 25/26

Today was garbage day. This means making sure that the garbage and recycling are out to the curb before 6:00am. It's only once a week. How hard can it be? And yet, there I was this morning at 5:30 putting on my warm coat and boots to drag two bags of garbage out to the curb and then come back for the grey bin. And I was cursing.

There's no doubt that there are things in life that are just not fun to do. What's fun about scooping kitty litter? What's fun about breaking down cardboard boxes so they fit into the recycle bin? What's fun about ironing wrinkled clothes?

Yet, we need to do these things to make our everyday life more enjoyable. If you never put out the garbage, how disgusting would your house be after a few weeks? This is what I like to call negative motivation. It isn't a task that makes me happier by doing it, it's a task that would make me unhappy if I didn't do it.

So today, on garbage day, I am contemplating how much of my world is driven by negative motivation and I'm going to work toward finding the positive in everyday tasks so that when something as mundane as bagging my newspapers for recycling comes up, I'll find it a much more pleasurable experience. 

Then maybe, just maybe, the next time I put out the garbage I'll be whistling instead of cursing.

The Lent Diary - Feb 24

Today is a day of contradictions. The good and bad (or at least the uncomfortable) are living side by side today.

It's "Orange Day" at work. A made-up day where everyone is encouraged to wear orange and have a bit of fun with it. I have a bright orange tee shirt to wear so it'll be fun to stand alongside my work mates and get our picture taken and posted on the wall of fame.

It's also the last day for a colleague who is having knee surgery tomorrow so while we will have a bit of orange fun today, I'll be worried about her and keeping good thoughts in my head on her behalf so the universe might smile on her when she needs it most.

I am also proud to spend time at my lunch hour today with a good friend who just announced she is going to be a grandmother. First one for her and I couldn't be more excited for her.

The lunch hour gathering, though, is for the funeral of another friend's mother. She's been looking after her ailing mother for quite a long time and this loss will be bittersweet for her. I've no doubt she will feel a sense of relief for her mother's sake not to be suffering any longer but of course the pain of losing a parent will linger for some time. Forever, possibly.

My own mother used to say that you have to take the good with the bad. Words she doesn't live by herself but still wise words nonetheless. I'm sure she meant it as advice to get through days like this, when the world seems to be pushing us toward a kind of emotional equilibrium. It'll be a day to smile and to worry, to be joyful and to mourn. And perhaps the joy will be a bit diminished but so too will the sadness be tempered and maybe that's just exactly how we're supposed to get through life.

So go out there and enjoy your day but if something happens to put a damper on it, keep in mind that while the good could have been better, the bad somehow wasn't as bad as it could have been. And that's okay too.

The Lent Diary - Feb 23rd

I'm watching snow being blown off the roof of the building across the street. It's unnerving because it warns of the -33 degree windchill outside. I know I'm dressed well enough to stand at the bus stop for at least ten minutes before I might curse the bus for being late, but I still don't want to go out there.

The other day I wore 4 layers, the top one was a jean jacket. I also had a hat, two scarves and my warm fleece-lined mittens. Just about every inch of me was covered. My skin was never cold but my core body temperature dropped. That and the fact that my socks were wet led me to arrive home shivering and unable to feel my toes and the tips of the fingers of my right hand.

I wanted to change my clothes and make dinner like I do every night (okay, most nights) but all I could think about was getting warm. I flopped into my recliner, put a pillow under my feet and wrapped myself in two blankets.

My partner came over and felt my frozen feet, took my socks off and rested my feet against his warm legs. He had just stepped out of a hot shower so his skin was steaming. It was a heavenly feeling, his heat seeping into the bottoms of my feet. It was then I realized my fingertips were tingling and I set about warming them in my armpit.

In a matter of ten minutes I felt human again. The scariest part of this was that my brain fogged over while I was cold. I couldn't think, I couldn't string a sentence together and all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball. This is how people freeze to death. They think they can preserve their body heat by pulling themselves into a smaller space. Yes, the laws of physics state that if you compress something into a smaller space, both pressure and temperature rise. This is not the law of cold bodies.

After half an hour, with my warm feet tucked neatly under the blankets, I fell asleep. I was exhausted. More exhausted than I had felt in a good long time. The human body is an amazing thing but when it needs to recharge, you must let it.

Lesson learned, layers works in the winter but not when the wind is blowing at -33 Celcius.

The Lent Diary - Feb 21/22

It's the weekend, which is usually a time to relax and enjoy the fruits of our labours from the week past. Huh, right. The weekend is a time for catching up on all the things we didn't have time to do through the week. The main problem is the list keeps getting longer and the weekends, well, they just stay the same. Fourty eight hours to accomplish what you couldn't in the previous 120. That means groceries, meal planning, cleaning, organizing, laundry, dishes, snow shoveling, gas up the car, sew the ripped shirt, fix the broken earring, clip the cat's toenails, run errands for Mom, call the sister you haven't talked to in a week or more, clip coupons, take a photo of the 18 feet of snow in your driveway and email it to your friend in the southern US, open mail, pay bills, water plants, bake cookies, clean the cat litter, vacuum carpets, work on those winter projects that you never have time to work on, et cetera, et cetera.

Oh and when you're done all that, relax and make a cup of tea, read a book, knit a toque and watch a movie. And if your spouse is around and feeling chatty, talk to them.

Me? I rearranged the furniture in the living room on Saturday afternoon. Then I napped. Weekend accomplished.