Category Archives: Breast Cancer Humour

Night Off

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I decided to take the night off and not do a post.

My husband was supposed to fly to the US for a partners’ retreat in Washington DC but he got some new deal and had to cancel his trip and spend all day in the office. Bummer. Meanwhile plans were already made for the girls and me to spend the long weekend (this Monday is a bank holiday in Britain) at his law partner’s house in Southwest London.

The real reason the plan was put in place, of course, was so that his lovely wife could babysit me in case I had some unforeseen medical emergency and keeled over while Bill was away — which was clearly not going to happen. But still, a weekend in someone else’s house sounded pretty good. No cooking, no cleaning and a little adventure in a new location. Oh, and built-in entertainment for my two girls in the form of twin eight-year-old boys. Thus avoiding another grey Saturday with no plans filled with “Mommy… Mommy… Mommy!!!!!!!!!!!”

Anyhow I’m taking the night off. I thought about doing a post, since I have pretty much done one every day since I started this blog. And I feel a little bit guilty and self-indulgent about this decision, really. I don’t want to let anyone down. But the truth is that doing a post every day is quite tiring. Some days I do something short and quippy and it seems to flow out of my fingers like molten lava, taking only an hour or so. But the heavier posts, such as Breast Cancer for Dummies Part I and Part Deux, took a hell of a long time and were mentally draining to write. I’m starting to get sleep deprived and I am a cancer patient for Christ’s sake!

So, tonight we are lounging on sofas and watching The Voice UK and Britain’s Got Talent. The cheese factor is extreme on both, which really hits the spot. And I’m having a peppermint tea and some oatmeal raisin biscuits with my “cheese.”

I guess that means you get the night off too. But don’t abandon me, because I’ll be back tomorrow. Bonne nuit…

 

 

 

Vag Toupee

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WARNING: If you are a prude this is not the post for you. Take a deep breath and click on the following link, which will guide you to a topic equally fuzzy but more appropriate to your delicate sensibilities: http://www.dailypets.co.uk/.

Okay. Have we weeded out all the nice nellies? Good. Onward.

When I found out I was going to need chemotherapy earlier this year, a lot of jokes came to mind about losing hair in all sorts of places. Losing it on your head is obvious, of course, and people who haven’t been touched by chemotherapy (or alopecia caused by something else, such as an autoimmune disorder) might not stop to consider that there is a great deal more hair on the average (particularly adult) human body than on the head.

Most chemo patients I have spoken to or read about have lost at least some of their eyebrows and eyelashes in addition to the hair on their heads during treatment. And many have joked about no longer needing to shave or wax their legs or underarms in order to optimise appearances in the latest jort or halter top (both of which most people shouldn’t be wearing anyway — ah-hem — whether or not they are currently featured in InStyle Magazine).

I started to consider the possibilities. This could be a good thing, I thought. After years of unsatisfactorily bleaching the brunette peach fuzz on my upper lip, which frankly resulted only in a blonde moustache that caught the sunlight just so, I might be able to cut down my personal grooming efforts by a sizeable chunk every week.

Yessir. Goodbye as well to plucking those pesky industrial-strength eyebrows that once threatened (they’ve given up a little after years of maintenance, sigh) to weave my two prominent arches into something resembling Bert on Sesame Street or the actor, Peter Gallagher.

But what else? Ah yes. The bikini area.

Although initial thoughts of losing my hair “down there” made me cringe, because I don’t fancy resembling a prepubescent girl, it didn’t take me long to find humour in the situation.

“Well,” I joked with my very best friends who were already intimately acquainted with my raunchy self, “if the pubes go I can always just get a ‘vag toupee.'” I laughed at my own joke and started to come up with alternative names for such a prosthesis (although vag toupee is kind of my fave). “I could call it a ‘vig,’ after ‘vag wig,'” I quipped. Peals of laughter. “And if you would rather not have hair but you want something down there you could bedazzle your area and have ‘vling!'” (Umm, that’s “vag bling” for our octogenarian readers).

Little did I know, I was not original. Not even a little bit. That’s right; it turns out the vag toupee has been around for a very very very long time. I mean longer than chemotherapy. Longer than America has been independent. Seriously!

And this brings me to a brief history of the vag toupee, a/k/a the merkin.

The Oxford Companion to the Body dates the use of a merkin, or pubic wig, back to the mid 1400s! Back in the day, women used to shave their pubic hair to ward off crabs. Prostitutes would take it all off to hide evidence of sexually transmitted diseases. In both such cases, a pubic wig was employed in order to hide the evidence and make their goods look, well, good.

But wait, that’s not all!

Today, merkins are used by fetishists and drag queens (everything else on a drag queen is false so why not the muff). In addition, Hollywood employs merkins all the time to cover up inappropriate pubic hair styles (for example, if the movie takes place in the 1950s and the actress has a Brazilian, which is not true to the period), to make an actress’s cuffs match her collar (e.g. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) and perhaps most often, to conceal the labia so that a film doesn’t get the dreaded NC-17 rating, which is somewhat lethal to wide cinematic distribution.

Sort of ridiculous, by the way, that a man can have his hog out in a film and it doesn’t warrant an NC-17 rating, but God forbid a labium creeps onto the corner of the screen and everyone runs for cover. Puh-lease, people. But that’s a blog for another writer. I am not here to protest inequalities between the sexes. After all, men can get boob cancer too!

Total aside — if you have ever seen Last Tango in Paris, that was not a merkin. That was a real bush. It is no wonder the poor actress who played that role was so screwed up after that movie. If zillions of people had seen my vag fro looking like that I would have been screwed up too. Actually I don’t think I could even attempt that look without a dozen merkins, or at least some pube extensions. Just sayin’…

The long and short of it (tee hee) is, I got an unexpected education on the subject of the vag toupee when I started to poke around there (tee hee hee — sorry I couldn’t help it). And when you think about it, the merkin really is a clever little device.

But I am sorry. The word merkin is completely unacceptable. I don’t care what the origin is, and from what I have read it may be a variant of the word malkin, meaning “mop.” See http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=merkin.

Vag toupee is much better.  🙂

Spam spam spam spam…

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My blog has been up for what, two weeks, and the bloody spammers have found me.

When I initially set up the blog, I read that spammers could clog up one’s site with “comments” on posts. I even thought I had set up a nifty software plugin to deal with the issue prophylactically, should they ever find me. But apparently I forgot to activate it (until just now).

So for the last few days I have been filtering some pretty dumb crap on ole killingitblog. I’ve been marking such crap as spam one comment at a time. Not very technologically advanced and about as much fun and effective as swatting flies one at a time with a month-old ham on the counter and the back door wide open.

Well here’s a little bit of advice for all you spammers out there who thought it was a good idea to post comments on my website, which in case you hadn’t noticed, is about breast cancer and shit:

(1) If you tell me that my blog is “one of the best you have ever seen” and that you will “subscribe to it if I will try your pills” it sounds a little disingenuous, dontcha think? What are you, eight?

(2) I am not interested in buying Viagra, whether you ask me in English or in Flemish, whether you spell it with a capital or a lowercase “v.” I do not have a penis, and if I did it would not have erectile dysfunction. Rather, it would be a sizeable, virile, killing it machine. Naturally.

(3) Despite the fact that numerous surgeries are in my future, none of these surgeries involves a sex change or otherwise getting a penis. So I do not need any Viagra. Are you getting this, you daft prick?

(4) I do not need to “get my girlfriend back” so you can stop posting dumb comments on my site as well, thanks very much. If you read anything I have written you might clue into the fact that my female issues, although quite plentiful, don’t involve a long-lost lesbian love. Or getting her back. Although that might spice up my “journey” and increase readership.

Now LOOK: if you have a question to ask me, even if it is just a “yo how r u” or “where u at,” or you have some feedback on an issue (“you swear too much”) or a correction to offer (“your science is all wrong”), please do post a comment on my site. Comments are nifty and I so enjoy sifting through them when they are legit.

But you spammers beware, or I’ll go all honey badger on your ass.

That’s all I have to say about that.

 

 

Belgian Saison In the Loo

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“I don’t know why it should be a crack thing to be a brewer, but it is indisputable that while you cannot possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was and brew.” Charles Dickens, Great Expectations.

Did you know that my husband brews his own beer? Yessir. And he is damn good at it. Must be something about having been a chemistry major at Harvard College and working as a partner at a law firm. He possesses that crucial combination of the knowledge and the work ethic to make a good batch – because believe me it is too easy to screw it up. One false move and you contaminate the beer and end up with something that tastes like metal or bananas. Not good.

When we moved to London from the US last July, we sold our house and with it our spacious and attractive backyard and finished basement, both of which were perfect for his home brewing gig.

Bill threatened to sell off his gear or, even sadder, leave it to fester in storage. I put my foot down. “No way,” I said. You have to keep this hobby — this is not something that you give up. We will find a house with a garden and you will bring your equipment and you will brew. I mean, this was more than a hobby. He liked it enough to upgrade equipment at an alarming rate (and call or email excitedly to check to see if such had arrived at the house while he was at work) and to grow and harvest his own hops at his parents’ house on Cape Cod.

If you brew it they will come.

So he did. Admittedly, he had a few start-up issues. A lot is different here in England. The fittings for the hoses are not the same, among other things. So Bill had to improvise. At times he became very frustrated and used foul language. But if you don’t struggle you don’t learn, I reminded him, and so he worked it out.

He ended up having to order a number of fittings from — get this — a Scottish avionics catalogue. There was a lot of nonsense about male and female ends and tapered threads and what-not. He also had to figure out how and where to order “beer gas” in order to carbonate a batch once transferred to a keg. They don’t call it CO2 here even though that is precisely what it is.

On the upside, the tap water in London tastes fabulous and doesn’t need to be filtered. Of course, despite the fact that it has rained every bloomin’ day for weeks, there is currently a “drought” and a “hose-pipe ban,” which basically means that you cannot use a hose in your yard. Even though I am about to line up the animals two-by-two, for crying out loud.

I knew that things were looking up when Bill went to John Lewis, a well-known British department store, and selected a small fridge to house his keg and CO2 canister (oh, sorry, his “beer gas”).

The first batch was a triumph. Our English gardener tried it and proclaimed he would “pay for the stuff.” In fact, there hasn’t been a bad batch yet.

But recently Bill decided to make a Belgian Saison, a summer farmhouse ale that demanded to be fermented at a high temperature in order to activate the special yeast contained therein. But where oh where to put this stuff?  What was the hottest room in the house?

Well guess what, it is the guest bathroom, which I have taken over because I like to take baths rather than showers ever since my surgery and our master bath has only a shower. The guest bathroom, my private haven where I luxuriate in the tub with rose bath oil while listening to genius salsa mixes on my iPad and contemplate the meaning of life. My haven that happens to hover at around 80 degrees (Farenheit, duh) because it is also home to the hot water heater.

“Um, how long does this crap have to be in here?” I asked. “Just a few days, a week tops,” he says.

Oh sure. That carboy (a huge, ribbed, glass container full of fermenting beer) was in there for weeks, belching away while lovingly wrapped in a men’s extra-large fleece and babysat by a thermometer, which Bill checked morning (noon if it was the weekend) and night. And then he decided to bottle it rather than keg it so now the bottles are in there, fermenting some more. 

Really though, I cannot complain. The beer is not in my way and I enjoy looking over at it from the tub and thinking, “this is something special that my husband has made and makes him happy.” And when it is ready I will get to sample it.

We just have to come up with a better name than Scheisshaus brew, don’t you think?

Day-Glo Orange Surprise

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A few weeks ago it was spring break here in sunny (ha) London. Everyone had big holidays planned. Trips to Mauritius, Dubai, Tenerife, the States. And here I was stuck with no plans except to have poison pumped into my veins. Fun times. Cue violin.

I decided that was unacceptable and with two weeks notice ordered my husband to book a suitable Easter vacation for the family within a two-hour radius of London in case I had a serious medical issue while away and had to be whisked back here.

Because he is wonderful (and because I have cancer and he listens to me a lot more now), he didn’t disappoint. He booked us in for a four-night stay in the Cotswolds at a fabulous Jacobean manse that had been a private home for 400 years until it was converted into a family friendly hotel in the late 1980s. It was about a 20-minute drive from Bath.

After deliberating we decided to take the train to Bath, neither of us having driven on the wrong side of the road (it is not the other side; it is the wrong side — deal with it), and rent a car from there to drive the short distance to the hotel. Actually as an aside we learned from our cabbie in Bath that the origin of driving on the left has to do with how people travelled in feudal times. Since most people were right-handed and held their weapons in that hand, it made sense to have one’s weapon on the passing side. Same with jousting and holding your lance in your right hand. Apparently Napoleon, who was left-handed, and thus made his entire army march on the right (poor buggers), was responsible for most of the rest of the world driving on the right. He really had a lot of chutzpah that Napoleon. If this subject interests you check out this link.

But I’m going to return to my story now.

So we packed our suitcases and set off for Paddington Station (yes, like the bear!). I have always enjoyed traveling by train. And this was a decent train with a clean bathroom. Bonus. I read The Hunger Games while the kids looked at books and chatted and then starting pesting until we relented and gave them our smart phones so they could play educational games like Angry Birds and Doodle Jump. What? Those are educational and stuff. Aren’t they?

The ride was painless. We got to the station, found a taxi and drove to the car rental place. We rented a car with a navigation system (key) and Toonces the Driving Cat (we call Bill that because of his tendency to hit stationary objects while driving and well just because he is Toonces, though he has never actually driven off a cliff… yet) took the wheel. I was a little concerned but not enough to kick up a big fuss and take the wheel myself. He did pretty well. I only cringed and shrieked about five times on the way that he was “awfully close to the left! Ahhhhhhhhh!” and needed to overcompensate on the right. He got mad at me for backseat driving even though (a) I was in the front passenger seat and (b) he practically took the driver’s side mirror off a parked lorry (that’s truck US folks) we whizzed past.

But overall he did great, even navigating several roundabouts (Brit speak for rotaries) without incident. I came up with some special driving music for him, which I think was from the Benny Hill Show. I just love Benny — he was such a perv. We reached the hotel. It was beautiful. I breathed in the country air, delighted and amazed that we had pulled off this trip, that we actually got to enjoy a real vacation, albeit brief, during this screwed-up time.

Our rooms were behind the main house on the second floor of a stone cottage. They had just been renovated and we were, in fact, the first guests to stay there since the renovations had been completed. That day. When we got to reception we were informed the rooms weren’t quite ready but that was reasonable because check-in time was three o’clock and it was only about one-thirty. So we left our bags in the car and had lunch in the main dining room. The food was surprisingly good.

At three we climbed up to our rooms. The place was old and there were odd quirks (yeah that is redundant) everywhere. For instance, the key hole to our suite was on the bottom of the door, so that you had to either lie on the ground or be partway down the stairs in order to open it. We nevertheless managed to get in. The rooms were lovely. All pristine and crisp and very British with twin upholstered headboards in the girls’ room and a wrought iron number in our very generous master bedroom. Fancy tub with sparkling stainless fittings. Groovy details like reclaimed wood door on bathroom that looked like it was from an antique barn. Just reeking with charm. And a splendid spring bouquet with an Easter greeting from Granny (that’s my moms) on the chest.

We felt very welcome. And there was a lot to do for everyone. Kids’ house with nice ladies to watch over little blighters crashing into each other with plastic ride-on toys or to assist older (and ah-hem more civilised) children with crafts and drawing. Wendy houses (read: play houses — origin from Peter Pan; house built around Wendy when she is shot by one of the Lost Boys) sprinkled here and there and a chicken coup, gardens, outdoor sports including cricket, football (soccer I mean) and croquet. There was also a spa with treatment rooms and an indoor swimming pool, an outdoor swimming pool (bit too cold for that though, sadly) and loads of gorgeous flowers, shrubberies (“We demand a sacrifice! . . . . We want… a shrubbery!”) and trees, including a marvellous ancient tree in the front that must have been there for at least a hundred years — probably longer. You getting the gist?

The main house was cozy, casual and charming. I felt perfectly at ease strolling into the sitting room, kicking off my clogs, plopping down on a leather sofa and reading my book by the fire. Random dogs abounded, including the resident dog, Peanut, a spaniel of some sort, I think, who had one of those unfortunate doggie tumours she was going to have to have removed (we were thus soul sisters from the get go, me and Peanut). All large tail-wagging guest dogs made a beeline for Bill and slobbered all over him, knowing as dogs do that he didn’t grow up with pets and was thus a desirable target. He was a good sport though, since none of them ate his biscuits.

At first there were only British families with young children. But on turnover day lots of nationalities showed up and I was hearing Italian, German, Portuguese French and Spanish and some Australian and Canadian accents. I think we were the only Yanks over the long weekend. Fine by me. I like to mix it up. Everyone had kids and there were lots of babies and some (very) pregnant ladies. I enjoyed being around the babies, even though it made me a little wistful.

Meals were a hoot. They had a deal where you could accompany your kids to early dinner (children’s “tea”) in the orangery (like a conservatory) and then later eat a civilised grown-ups’ dinner in the main dining room while the little ones watched a movie in the tv room or were monitored in our bedroom by a baby listening service. This was pretty great. Even if the baby listening service mightn’t clue in if the kids were juggling knives or popping my anti-nausea meds (don’t worry they were fine).

On the second evening of our stay Bill and I were having our adults’ meal while the kids watched a film down the hall. Although I had worn a scarf all day, I had decided that dressing for dinner would include Gabriella (see my earlier post, Armpit Wig, if you are stumped, and no, it isn’t what you think if you haven’t read it yet). I wonder if I confused the staff. Now she has hair, now she doesn’t, and vice-versa.  Hmmm. Anyhow, there I was, with my lovely dark bob, in a printed silk blouse and Joseph cigarette trousers (I mustn’t say “pants” bc it means underwear in England, tee hee) and flats, looking pretty normal. We had a romantic table in a prime spot and the moon was enormous that night, glowing through the branches of that great tree. I sipped a glass of champagne. Bill looked handsome in his Nantucket reds and striped shirt, representing for Massachusetts. All at once I noticed that we were not alone. A pleasant lady from reception was bending over our table, something about an issue with the room below us and could they just pop into our room to check the bathroom.

Oh dear. My first thought was that there had to be a water issue. But the woman was very calm and assured us it would be fine. I said yes of course pop away. When we finished dinner, collected the girls and returned to the room, two dudes and the nice lady were still up there checking things out.

Do you know anything about English plumbing? Well the English are not known for it. Sort of like the shortest book ever written being Italian naval victories. The gist was that during the very recent renovations a pipe had been disturbed and our sink was leaking into the floor and dripping into the bathroom below. “So what if you can’t fix it?” I said. “Well then you might not be able to use the sink,” one dude replied. I contemplated brushing my teeth  in the terlette or the bathtub for the next three days and was not amused. But it worked out fine and they said just to try to limit use and they could triage it until after the weekend when they would open the ceiling below and fix it properly. “Happy to oblige,” I assured.

By this time it was late, and well past the girls’ bed time. I was tired, which I always am toward the end of the day, and as much as I like Gabriella, I wanted her the f*ck off my hot itchy bald head. So no sooner did I bid the plumbers adieu and close the door, than I whipped off that wig and threw her on the bed. Twenty seconds later I had yanked off my shirt and trousers and was standing there in what can only be described as a day-glo orange lace bra and matching boy shorts, a recent purchase to make me feel less like a cancer patient and more young and fun and sexy and normal (well, sort of normal as it was fluorescent orange). 

I turned to my husband, and said in a South Boston accent,* “if they come back knockin’ now they’re gonna be in for a fuckin’ surprise.”

*If you’re from Nepal or something and aren’t familiar with that accent, go right out and rent Good Will Hunting and listen to Matt Damon and Ben Affleck (but not Robin Williams — who, although I dig him, did not have a good South Boston accent).

As it turns out they didn’t come back knockin’. But it would have been epic, no?

During our stay, we explored the Roman baths in Bath, drove completely out-of-the-way on nameless roads that stumped the navigation system to a microbrewery (which of course was closed because it was Good Friday). On the way though we saw rolling hills with yellow flowers and scores of spring lambs with their mommies. We visited Castle Combe, a medieval village where lots of movies, such as War Horse, have been filmed. Bill splashed about in the indoor pool with the girls and I got my toes polished since I wasn’t allowed to get in the pool (germs, ew). And we did a lot of chilling in the main house by the fire or in our room, reading, drinking tea and munching on lemon drizzle cake. It was a fabulous trip.

Although poor Bill was distraught when we were packing up the room on our last day, having discovered in the eleventh hour that there had been a ceramic jar filled with home-baked cookies on top of the dresser the whole time we were there.

But we’ll know for next time.  🙂

Top Ten Reasons Fighting Breast Cancer Isn’t All Bad

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Reason No. 10:  No need to wax or shave.

Reason No. 9:  No bad hair days.

Reason No. 8:  Get to play the “C” card

Reason No. 7:  Can get away with shameless self-promotion

Reason No. 6:  Excessive self-grooming becomes “a medical necessity”

Reason No. 5:  Excessive retail therapy becomes “an emotional necessity”

Reason No. 4:  Wearing leopard print to chemo

Reason No. 3:  Get to find out who your real friends are

Reason No. 2:  Get away with posting pic of own ass on Facebook

And The No. 1 Reason Fighting Breast Cancer Isn’t All Bad:  Bigger tits in 60 seconds (come on you knew it was coming — read Boob Retrospective if you are mystified)

 

What I Wore To Chemo Today

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My treasured friend Susan of 17 years came all the way from America to visit with me today. That visit happened to coincide with my first of four doses of Taxol (see my last post, Countdown, for details on that). Thus, our visit was conducted in the chemo treatment suite in white leather chairs. Susan is the director of the most prestigious public interest fellowships in the law, “a legal Peace Corps” as described by The Los Angeles Times.

Back in the days of good posture and (naturally) perky boobs (see Boob Retrospective — don’t you want to read it just for the title?), I was Susan’s legal assistant at the New York law firm that established the fellowships. We bonded immediately. She has too many qualities to list in the time I have before the fatigue hits me so just trust me on my compact description — she is HIGH QUALITY in every respect. But I do have to mention some specifics: she is both a philanthropist and a fashionista, has a wicked sense of humour, is not afraid to say “fuck,” is a hot ticket, is highly intelligent and has a true gift for friendship. And that just scratches the surface.

Anyhow, years ago, after I had left the firm and was a One L at Harvard Law School, Susan came to speak to the students about the fellowships. A Two L aspiring fellow had called her with some questions on the application process and Susan had told her to come to the talk and meet me (a built-in resource, having been through the process as Susan’s right-hand gal) so that I could help her and any other public interest students so-inclined.

Susan is very fashionable, but always very tasteful, and she had kindly bestowed upon me a number of designer suits that she no longer needed. She figured I would be wearing one at the meeting to please her and make a good impression on the students. Pale blue Armani, perhaps? Crimson Feraud?

Of course when she showed up I was sitting on the floor in a cheetah print mini dress I got at the ten-dollar store and knee-high boots. Oops.

So last night when I thought about seeing Susan after quite a long stretch of not having seen her, I realised that an appropriate ensemble was in order. I mean I didn’t want to embarrass her again and make her feel uncomfortable in the chemo suite, for Christ’s sake. She flew across an ocean. And to top it off I am bald now, which doesn’t help one’s appearance.

This morning I scoured my closet, keeping in mind that I had to allow decent access to my port site near my left axilla for blood draws and administration of chemo. I selected and then rejected several choices as inappropriate, but finally settled on the perfect kit (look it up, Americans, it’s Breeteesh). At this point of course I was late. So pathetic to be late to one’s own chemo. And to top it off the nifty phone apps I downloaded in order to get a taxi to show up at my door refused to work and the cabs and car services were all popping up with “unavailable in your area” messages. Unacceptable. And there was no “FU I have cancer come anyway” button.

At that point I had no choice and gulped down the rest of my flat white (like a latte but better), wiped the cinnamon from the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand, and dashed out the door to get to the tube. It was raining again and so I put on my silver wellies so I wouldn’t soil my outfit. I had not planned to be sloshing about — thought I’d be cabbing it door to door.  Grrr.

I dashed into the tube, which of course crawwwwwled along. Blasted Northern Line. When I finally reached my stop I catapulted myself onto the platform, ran (yes ran) up two escalators and flung myself outdoors to hail a taxi. I was still a good 15-minute walk from treatment. Luckily I found a cabbie right away. He dropped me off in front of the clinic (most people know it’s a cancer place) and then refused to make me pay for the fare. It was lovely, really, and I was touched if not a little surprised. I mean people get dropped off there all the time and I am sure they usually have to pay. It must have been the combination of my elegant attire and — oh — the fact that he knew I was a cancer patient.

So, I was about ten minutes late. Not fatal. But I was concerned about getting a good seat under the skylight. I practically jumped down the stair case and was scolded by a lady not to rush (good point — headline: “she makes it through four chemos only to hurl herself down a flight of stairs at chemo and end up a quadriplegic”).

The staff ushered me to a nice, sunny pod. I yanked off my wellies, hung my coat up and waited for my friend. I hoped that she would like my outfit. I did not want to let her down. Again.

A blond breath of fresh air in a red and gold silk scarf, persimmon sweater and chocolate trousers breezed through the door. Susan had arrived. She saw me. She smiled.

What? You were expecting Rene Lezard? Please, people.

Nothing says “cancer, kiss my ass,” like matching leopard print tops and tails.

We killed it today, Susan and I. Easiest bloody chemo I ever did.

Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker.

Countdown

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Hi folks. It is always a little odd how much I enjoy the day before a chemo treatment. It approaches so quickly… and suddenly there it is. That normal Wednesday every two weeks before the Thursday festivities. Unfortunately the weather continues to suck here. It is cold, rainy and windy and not showing signs of improvement. And here I thought having chemo in the spring would be so lovely — sun on my bald head, showing off my bare legs with the latest in shorts. And so forth.

Anyhow, tomorrow I start the big countdown. For the first four chemo treatments I counted up. But those are over now. And I do believe that NASA would agree a countdown is more appropriate for the final four.

Whenever I go for chemo I try to get inside my head and get psyched up to do battle. If you are taking a drug that has bad side effects, you have to focus on the positive: namely, that the positive outweighs the negative and that this drug is exactly what you need even if it isn’t exactly what you want. So when I settle into my white leather chair tomorrow morning at 0900 London time and 45 minutes later my blood work comes back showing a fabulously high white blood cell count indicating “all systems go,” I will do my battle cry.

It goes a little something like this: “Die, motherfuckers.”

Sometimes I wonder if there is even anything bad in there left to kill. But just in case, we’re going in. And they will never see it coming. I feel almost sorry for them (not).

The really great news is that people say my “new” chemo drug, Taxol, is easier for many to take than my previous drugs (AC). But there are still some pesky side effects to watch out for. I read a laundry list of them once but it started to piss me off so I filed that information sheet and now I am starting to forget. But I do remember that they include joint, muscle and bone pain, tingling in the hands and feet, alopecia (I know I am already bald but I do still have eyebrows and lashes to worry about), nail changes, including discolouration and loss of nails (that sounds pleasant and attractive) and well, lots of other icky stuff. The queasiness isn’t supposed to be as bad and I am very excited about that because I get testy when anything interferes with my meals. I love food and I love to eat. And the thing that bummed me out about the first four treatments more than any other symptom was the combination of queasiness, metal mouth and taste bud changes.

What were we talking about? Oh yeah, the new drug, Taxol. Sorry I am tired and my writing today is rather random. I’m gonna go with it.

My cousin was on Taxol a long time ago when it was experimental and she said the joint pain was so bad she had to walk with a cane for a while. But that doesn’t scare me, because if I need a cane I will get a really badass one with a stainless steel skull on the top and a retractable knife in the base and I will go around clubbing people who make inappropriate comments and picking up trash on my street with the knife in order to beautify the neighbourhood (what you thought I would really stab someone? Come on I am not that mean and the riots are over — for now). She also still sometimes has residual tingling from nerve damage. That does make me a bit nervous, pun intended. Tee hee.

So to ward off these ill effects, today I visited the special doctor. The one who does complementary therapy. I had acupuncture, which helped enormously with my fourth and final AC treatment, and also some homeopathy. Phosphorous. I like the idea of that. The idea of sparks, of flames and of powerful energy banishing unwanted sensations. I am girl on fire, like Katniss in The Hunger Games. As I lay with the acupuncture needles in me, I imagined myself floating above the table, aglow with sparks. Invincible. Ready to do battle.

Ready to kill it.

Now don’t get all serious and depressed on me. Tomorrow I have a funny one planned. Promise.

Work It Out

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I realised yesterday that I hadn’t been to the gym in a week. Lame. Could this be because I have been sitting on my bum writing blog posts every day for the last seven days? Yup.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am loving writing. I am loving having the blog. It is so energising, liberating, cathartic, cleansing, fun and different. And I plan to do it obsessively for the foreseeable future. But all this blogging is going to make for a flat ass and that simply won’t do. I need a nice juicy little behind to match my newbs (well, as much as I can have one without plastic surgery at age almost 40). Who says a cancer patient can’t have it goin’ on?

When we first moved to London in late July of 2011 I avoided working out for a few months. I had the usual excuses. “We just moved here.” “I have so much to do.” “I walk a lot so it doesn’t matter.” “I’m not sure where to join.” Blah blah blah. But all that was load of BS. Finally I investigated local gyms in October.

I did a blitz of the workout places in the hood.

The first place was the most convenient and by far the weirdest. It was a small neighbourhood gym about a six minute walk in amongst the lovely houses of Belsize Park, which is the only reason I can think of to justify the exorbitant membership fee. (No offence if you own this gym or you have worked out there since you were 12 — different strokes for different folks, people.) I walked in. The reception had a low ceiling and the first thing I saw was a cafe. Assaulted by the aroma of coffee and pastry. I don’t need to be smelling that shit when I am in workout mode.

I was taken on a tour. I cannot even describe the different rooms I went into, all on different levels and connected by various narrow stairways and hallways and doors and really just a labyrinth of British bizarreness. No way in hell I would have remembered what was where. And the cardio room, which I sort of remember, was totally 1980s and not my vibe. Even if I had been a good sport about the confusing interior I would certainly have fallen down the stairs at some point and injured myself. And the low ceilings and labyrinth thing and 80s mirrors made me feel like Alice in Wonderland on a bad acid trip. Not for me.

Then I tried the gym in the O2 centre, which had recently been purchased by Virgin. It was large and more Americanised than the little gym. It seemed to have a lot of decent equipment and a variety of classes. But I didn’t get a friendly vibe about the place — it was rather vanilla and commercial. The decisive factor really was that it was too far for me to walk to and I knew I would never haul my ass there, thus resulting in a colossal waste of funds and influx of self-inflicted guilt. Nope.

The third and final gym I checked out was a smallish place across from the Royal Free Hospital, which is an NHS hospital. This gym is housed in an old armoury and the downstairs used to be a shooting gallery. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That’s right; I’m liking it already. And at this point I don’t even know I have cancer. The place has very high ceilings because the building is shaped like a barn. It is not shiny and new but it is clean, has a lot of good equipment and the staff is friendly. (In American staff is singular, people. I like to mix things up to keep you on your toes.)

And there is zero glitz factor. I will not be running into scathes of perfectly coiffed blonde mommies who have come to “glow” after the morning drop off. Thank God. Au contraire, there is a real diversity of people in this gym — different races and from very young to quite elderly and all sorts of physical types, folks with disabilities — you name it.

The manager explains that they are about to get a new German cardio/weight training circuit that will be centre stage. Each member who subscribes to this program will get a personalised chip card, which after an initial set-up, when stuck into each machine, will cause it to adjust automatically to your body. A cylinder of bubbling water in the middle of the circuit tells you when to change machines. Did I mention it also has pretty coloured lights that tint the water while you watch? Oooh ahhh. You are supposed to get a complete workout in only 35 minutes, the time it takes to complete two rounds on the circuit.

Well, folks, after hearing about this I’m sold. The Germans are efficient and know how to make shit and the circuit seems like the ticket for me. Oh, and I can walk to this gym in under ten minutes or take the bus and be there in five if I’m lazy or it’s hailing.

I start working out. The circuit is good. Within a couple weeks, I begin to see results. A couple weeks after that, I find my lump. I keep working out, taking a break only for Christmas holidays (you know what I did over vacay if you read my first post, Halfway Through Chemo… How Did I Get Here?). The day after my diagnosis, my husband plays hooky and we both go to the gym. I am a little fragile, but with him by my side and my body wrapped around those machines I hang tough.

Throughout the month of January, I kill it. Go to the gym and do that circuit regularly, and also throw in some yoga at an airy venue in Primrose Hill. I start to get sort of ripped. I feel strong and fit and powerful. Gearing up for war.

I decide to tell the gym staff about my diagnosis and impending surgery. (The poor manager is so shocked when I tell him he is speechless for about a minute.) The people I tell are super supportive and assure me that they will help me through it, making whatever adjustments are necessary to my training throughout the process.

My last workout is February 5, two days before surgery. It is a Sunday and I walk to the gym from Hampstead Heath where I have left the girls and Bill and two other families sledding and throwing snowballs. (What? That’s totally normal for London.) On the way I spot cute pyjamas and a bathrobe in a store window. I buy them so I can be fashionable while strutting up and down the hospital hallways. Then I go for that last workout. I kill it. I’m good. I’m in a good place.

No question that I recovered from surgery more quickly because of that German circuit. And even though I couldn’t pick up my kids much less carry a grocery bag for weeks after the surgery, I gradually recovered. Now I don’t even remember what I felt like two months ago. Because I am back there, killing it, bald as a cue ball and with my machines set to about half of what I was doing pre surgery.

But it don’t matter. I will keep going back. Through the chemo, through it all. Whenever I can. Because no fucking cancer is going to keep me from getting a little more bootylicious.

Are you still sitting there? Reading this?

Get off your ass and get to the gym. What’s your excuse?

 

Armpit Wig

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If you read my last post, “Cold Cap: From Rapunzel to Rambo,” you will know that I shaved my head in early March after trying out a number of different hair lengths. Hard to believe that I have been bald for that long already. Harder still to believe that I will be bald for my fortieth birthday on May 12. Not exactly what I had in mind when I thought about “fabulous at forty.” I need me a Lady Gaga “do” right quick. After I post today maybe I’ll run out and buy a light pink bob with fringe (that’s Breeteesh for bangs).

Before chopping my hair for the first time after my surgery, I began to contemplate a wig. I figured I would wear scarves most of the time (which I do) but it is nice to have a back-up plan should one want hair.

I asked around. Everyone recommended synthetic hair. Human hair is very expensive and you have to style it (i.e. wash and condition it, blow it dry and then make it be-have, baby), whereas synthetic hair is low-maintenance, requires less washing and will snap back into shape as it dries naturally on its wig stand. You don’t want to blow-dry a synthetic wig. It might melt.

With both kinds there are limitations. But a good synthetic wig can look pretty realistic.

My wonderful, kind and generous friend Kate had flown over from the States to accompany me to my first chemo, after which I felt okay. So we decided to have a “fun with cancer” day and go wig shopping right after treatment and lunch.

We cabbed it to a tiny establishment in Kensington touted as the go-to place for chemo patients desirous of a wig. They had a good selection and a nice saleswoman helped me try on many different styles and colours.

What not to buy became clear pretty quickly. I have a rather small forehead, so a heavy fringe (you should know this word by now if you have been paying attention) didn’t suit me. Also a no-no was anything too dark as it washed me out — not a good look when one is a cancer patient.

I felt a little bit like Goldilocks on the first two tries, except that I wasn’t in a house of bears and I didn’t have curly gold locks and I wasn’t eating porridge. Nothing was quite right. I just wasn’t feeling it. Too short and helmet-y made me look like a soccer mom (not my thing, really). Too long dragged my face down and wasn’t practical. About chin length seemed to work well…

We finally appeared to strike gold, or rather copper, when I tried on a chin-length ginger (that’s Limey for red head) number with great movement. But when they pulled out the same wig in the nice rich brown colour I wanted, it was slightly shorter and sort of poufed out at the wrong place. Foiled again. At this point I had had enough and was starting to get frustrated. Also, I began to feel tired from the chemo and all the decision making. If you think that a trip to the department store to buy new skinny jeans is tiring try purchasing new hair after chemo. It’s really a bit draining.

So we packed it in and went home. Wigless.

The next morning I had more surgery to install a portacath into one of the major arteries in my chest so that chemo going forward could be administered via the port. This avoids damage to the veins in the arm, which can happen after repeated treatments, so lethal is the shit they pump into you. Following that I was too sore and tired to go wig shopping again anytime soon and the next day, Kate had to fly back. So there I was, still without a wig and on my own.

After a few days I felt better and was back at it. I went to a well-known major department store. They sold wigs and hairpieces in two places, on the ground floor and in their posh salon, upstairs. I decided after my initial disappointment and frustration to think outside the box and try some wigs that didn’t really resemble my real hair. Trying too hard to match it didn’t seem to be working out for a couple of reasons. For one, synthetic wigs are mostly straight, whereas my own hair is wavy. They had some wavy ones but they looked pretty 80s and were lame. Also, getting the same colour is an impossibility.

Anyhow, I decided I was approaching it wrong and needed to have more fun with the process. I tried on a platinum blonde Marilyn Monroe (it was pretty hot, actually). “Happy birthday, Mr. President…” I tried on a human hair brunette wig just for shits and giggles, but the hair was very thick — probably of Indian origin — and it just looked weird on me. I liked a dark red one, definitely a contender, even in the red, but not enough to buy it.

I have to admit I have always had a platonic crush on Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. She had great jugs and was such a tease (did the Professor ever get on that?). So something kept drawing me to the red ones.
But I wasn’t quite sure/ready so I noted the style number and went upstairs. When I got to the salon it was the wig lady’s day off so I tried on a couple half-heartedly, including a severe salt and pepper bob which made me look about 50, and another red number. Then I made an appointment with the wig specialist for the very next day.

That morning was a Thursday and I began the day with a visit to my plastic surgeon for a little instaboob (see the end of my blog entitled Boob Retrospective if that doesn’t make sense).  I returned to the store with my husband in tow. The wig lady was good. She was a stylist and had worked in the industry for years, including on fashion shoots, and then developed an interest in helping cancer patients with alopecia when her own mother was diagnosed. She sized me up and pulled out three or four styles she thought would suit me. I tried on yet another red number, shoulder length with light fringe and long layers. Great colour and movement, but not sure. Then she whipped out a very chic, chin-length deep brunette bob. I put it on. I posed. I became European. I became… Gabriella. I envisioned myself strolling down the street in Florence with a large Prada bag and a small dog, nodding to the men who were blowing kisses and whistling as I passed. Che bella…

It was by far the best one I had tried on and, as the wig lady pointed out, it was “me” even if it wasn’t really me. My husband didn’t like it at first, but when I tried on some others and then reemerged with it he came around. So I bid him ciao and set about making my purchase. I got the works. Wig stand, special brush and Revlon shampoo and conditioner for synthetic hair. The wig lady took me downstairs to get the VAT off my purchase — I had to fill out a form that said I’d had a mastectomy and voilà, VAT-free wig. I ought to get something out of this, no?

To celebrate I bought some new make-up and by then I was so high I practically skipped out the door. On the tube I came up with a new MasterCard commercial to sum up my day:

Stylish new wig: £383
New NARS make-up: £85
Bigger tits in 60 seconds: Priceless

I went to the girls’ school to pick up Isabel and her pals and bring them to hip-hop class. I tried on Gabriella in the locker room at the hip-hop place and a friend snapped a pic.

That evening when I got home, I assembled the wig stand and opened the shiny box containing my new wig.

Something was not right.

What was that smell? I looked around the room, inhaled again. I sniffed my armpit. Nope, it was not I. I looked down at Gabriella. Could it be? No….

I picked her up, had a sniff. Oh, fuck. Gabriella smelled strongly of armpit. And not my armpit, mind you. Someone else’s armpit. Definitely female, due to the slight undertone of musky perfume. I frantically turned her around in my hands and inhaled every inch. The offending areas were the crown and down the right side.

The horror, the horror!

My mind was racing. “What the hell am I going to do?” I thought. I tried to think of a tactful way to phone the store and explain that my brand new wig smelled just like armpit, but not my armpit. To a British person. I considered saying nothing and washing Gabriella to see if the smell would come out. But what if I removed the tag and that didn’t work? Then they might accuse me of imparting the armpit smell myself. Maybe they would think I was into something kinky and was wearing the wig in the wrong place. I decided to sleep on it, my buzz from the day having been thoroughly killed.

The next morning I decided to come clean. I called the salon and thankfully reached the wig lady. “Er,” I stammered, “I have a sort of a strange issue that I need to discuss with you.” I explained that although I was thrilled with my purchase, I had gotten the wig home and noticed a peculiar odour emanating from it. I held my breath. “Oh bring it right in,” she responded. “I’ll take care of it.” Phew. She said she would either have it cleaned or get me a new wig, which might take over a week if it wasn’t in stock. I felt hot prickles go up my back as I recalled my experience at the first wig shop where the “same” wig did not fall the same way as the first one. I feared I might never see Gabriella again. And would have to start all over.

But that afternoon I took her back and handed her over. I left. Wigless again. I felt I had lost a good friend.

A week later I got the call. It was the wig lady. Gabriella was ready for pick up. She had gone back to headquarters and been washed and styled by their top stylist. I smiled.

The next day my friend, Susan, a terrific gal and a fellow Houstonian (I was born there), emailed with intentions of visiting that very store and did I need anything? I hesitated. “Well, actually,” I wrote, “my wig is ready to be picked up. But the thing is, you would have to smell it before you leave the store, you know, to make sure that it is really clean and fresh.” I bit my lip. Maybe this was too much to ask of a friend, even a very close friend. “I’ll do it,” she wrote. Hot damn.

She emailed once she had the goods in hand. “So, did you smell it?” I asked. “Oh yeah,” she wrote. “I smelled it so hard I probably got snot on it.” “As long as it is your snot,” I replied. “I’ll do a DNA swab when you get here.”

Now that, people, is a true friend. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

The doorbell rang. It was Susan. She handed Gabriella over. I lifted the lid and took a whiff. Fresh and clean and completely armpit-free.

So the morning after we shaved my head I put on Gabriella and left the house. I went to lunch, alone, at Le Pain Quotidien on Marylebone High Street. Leaving the house with a wig on and nothing under it for the first time was a strange experience. I kept having to remember to move my neck. “Oh God,” I thought. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows I am wearing a wig.” I tried to ignore these concerns and ordered. Then I struck up a conversation with a nice young couple who had a new baby. I reminisced about my girls when they were babies. “How old are they now?” The man asked. “Five and seven,” I said. “Oh you must have been really young when you had them,” he responded.

Dude, you just made my day. Made me feel like we can kill it, me and Gabriella together.