Author Archives: KIBAdmin

About KIBAdmin

Born in Houston, Texas May 12, 1972. Grew up mostly in northeast (Connecticut) went to Choate Rosemary Hall (1990), Georgetown University (BSL 1994) where I majored in French Literature and Harvard Law School (JD 1999). Law clerk 1999-2000 for federal judge in New Orleans. Worked as a corporate associate at a large NYC firm from 2000 to 2004 at which time moved to Boston area. Began design studies at the BAC in Boston in 2009. Currently living in London with husband, Bill (fellow HLS class of 1999) and two fabulous daughters, Isabel (7) and Charlotte (5).

Fabulous at Forty

Posted on by
2

Last night was the second night in a row that I stayed up past midnight. And had more than one — scratch that two — scratch that — who’s counting — drinks.

The horror… what would my doctors say? Actually this is England and they would probably tell me to party as long as I feel up to it. One of them once told me to drink less than he did and I should be fine. Really.

Oh relax, I didn’t have a drop tonight and I am going to bed by 11:00 pm. I promise. And tomorrow I will go right on that all wheatgrass, seaweed and flaxseed diet. Gag.

Seriously though did you hear that they think they might be able to cure a certain type of aggressive breast cancer with something innocuous extracted from celery? Yes, people. Celery. And parsley. Like oh great I get chemo and radiation and future sufferers get parsley. What’s next? Probably sage, rosemary and thyme would be my guess.

But I digress.

Back to yesterday night. And the night before that. So I mentioned in Upchuck that my law school roommates were in town and then my best college friend flew in Friday morning. We had an impromptu get together chez nous on Friday evening and that is why I stayed up so late and it was worth it.

Saturday was the day of my birthday party and I had exactly one day left to shop for a new dress. So I didn’t, of course. I decided on an old classic. Speaking of old classics I did at one point yesterday consider wearing my prom dress to the cocktail hour of the party. Just for shits and giggles. I tried the thing on and it still fit and everything. Even with my newbs! But then I didn’t want to deal with a full wardrobe change and it’s a damn good thing because it turned out that the bathroom was up a flight of stairs, across a little ways, and down another flight of stairs. Not good for wardrobe changes. If you’re Chinese and have a small wedding don’t get married here. The stairs will kill you.

Instead I settled on another classic, the little black dress. I have a couple good ones and this one is The Row (what, the Olsen twins are really good designers) and it’s a simple short sheath. Say that three times fast. I wore it with Wolford tights with big holes in them (sort of like fishnets on steroids) and my favourite old (we’re talking well before kids) Gucci stilettos that are a little bit rocker. I forgot to have someone do a full-length shot so you will just have to envision the full deal.

One can always refresh something old with something new. So, because I didn’t have a new frock, I wore my “new” circa 1990 perspex and rhinestone collar and cuff (yes my cuff does match my collar), which I found at Liberty’s vintage section and just had to have. To top it off I threw on the little black hat borrowed from my lovely friend, Carine, and that H&M flower I debuted in Party in the Chemo Suite. Voilà, dressed for dinner.

Something old, something new, something borrowed and something I bought at H&M. It’s not a fucking wedding, people.

Pictured with me is my husband, Bill. Isn’t he handsome? And he’s not afraid to wear lavender. I love that.

It may look like we’re in a tube station from the ceiling but we are actually in the wine cellar, which is a much more appetising place to have dinner.

Don’t be disappointed about the prom dress. Even though I decided not to do it, I wanted the evening to have some little twist. So I settled upon a wardrobe change for my head, which required a lot less work and a much smaller plastic baggie to hide under my seat. Sometime between antipasto and dinner, I came back likah dees (it was an Italian restaurant): 

Let them eat cake. Actually it was brioche, not cake. But Marie Antoinette was a beeyotch either way.

The thing is, after this I no longer fear that my hair may grow back mostly white. My mother has lovely silver white hair and has never dyed it. I have not gone this route, covering them roots as often as practicable. But I have to say I dig the all-white look. It’s kind of killer.

You can’t see the curly tendrils that went down my back in this pic but man this is a great syrup (that’s Cockney rhyming slang for “wig,” you septics — oh that’s Cockney rhyming slang for Yanks. If you don’t know what Cockney rhyming slang is you are now really confused. Ha ha!). My friend Carine also lent me this wig. The French know how to adorn their heads, I say.

The people in the restaurant must have thought I was a nutter. I mean I came up and down the stairs (apples and pears — more Cockney rhyming slang) three separate times, once in my black hat, once in the Marie Antionette wig, and once — after I got hot and threw the wig at my friends and made them try it on — completely bald. But I have to hand it to restaurant staff; they totally rolled with it.

This is me, Marie, with my Mark (the college friend I was telling you about). He wore a bow tie special for the occasion. Even tied it himself! Aw.

By the way someone asked me if my necklace was real diamonds and if it was a present from my husband. Are you serious? That would be a LOT of diamonds. Lloyds of London would have to insure my neck if I went out in that shit. Not to mention we would have to be gazillionaires to afford such a thing. It does catch the light just so though, no?

Anyhoo, the evening was a real hit. I had a fabulous time and I think everyone else had fun too. My husband made a speech and I almost cried but managed to reabsorb before actual spillage occurred. The food was great. And I felt very lucky to be among old and new friends to celebrate after a hell of a few months.

Speaking of new friends, here is a pic of my very good friend Susan and me (the Susan from Armpit Wig). You can guess why I seated myself next to her. Vavoom. 🙂 Oh calm down, I did the seating chart the day before and it’s not like I knew she was going to wear that dress.

In all seriousness though, surrounding oneself by beauty is a very healthy thing to do. And for me this was a beautiful night. It was perfect. It was unforgettable. It was killer.

I hope I have this much fun at my fiftieth.

Party Dress and Party Hair

Posted on by
7

I was thinking back today to my thirtieth birthday party in Manhattan. It seems like ages ago. Bill and I were working as M&A associates at large NY law firms at the time and we hadn’t any kids. We decided to have a small party in our 800 (on a good day) square foot apartment on 26th Street and Sixth Avenue. Back when the Chelsea Flea Market was just across the street, now long since displaced by another high-rise apartment building.

Here I sit ten years later, faced with trying to decide what to wear to my fortieth birthday party this evening (celebrated a week late so it wouldn’t be two days after chemo). For the past couple of days I have half-heartedly shopped for dresses but for some reason I just haven’t been in a shopping mood. I ain’t feeling it.

That doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to my party. Au contraire. I am totally in a party mood. We are dining at an Italian restaurant (Zafferano) in Knightsbridge. We’ve hired the private dining room in the wine cellar for a small group.

Anyhow, in weighing my “hair” and dress options for tonight I couldn’t help but think back ten years ago to that thirtieth birthday. To a younger, different, cancer-free me. I love any excuse to dress up, so I took the long brunette extensions I had used for my wedding up-do (you realise that those Oscar-worthy do’s involve extensions don’t you? No one has that much hair…) and had a hairdresser create a high, slicked-back ponytail for the occasion.

I wore a knee-length beige, slightly see-through, ruched Diane Von Furstenberg dress with spaghetti straps. I might still have it somewhere. That and a groovy vintage gold-tone necklace from a secondhand shop on 23rd Street. I know I still have the extensions, but that concept wouldn’t work out so well at present, would it?

So what should I wear? An old dress or a new dress (and if new time is running out… the party is in fewer than four hours)? If old what will still look good? There are a number of dresses from before but I haven’t tested them all with my “interim set.” And what about the matter of my head? Do I go bald and beautiful or scarf it or maybe try the little black hat with a flower? Or should I bring Gabriella (read Cold Cap: From Rapunzel to Rambo if you don’t know Gabriella) as my second date?

Decisions, decisions. Whatever I choose I will let you know. I really need a killer ensemble.

Because I plan to party hard tonight.

 

Upchuck

Posted on by
3

Tuesday afternoon I got a call from the school nurse that my older daughter was in her office complaining of a stomach ache. It was right before my younger child was about to be dropped at home by the school bus, so I couldn’t leave home and come to the school. Had to tell the older child to sit tight and take her regular bus home. She was a good sport. In the English spirit she kept a stiff upper lip and made it home mostly in one piece.

I gave her a mild dinner and by the end of the night she was doing fine and happily went off to school the next morning. The Force is strong with that child.

Yesterday morning I was scrambling to get ready for a breakfast to benefit breast cancer in Clapham (southwest London) where it is très français, hosted by my beautiful and effervescent new French friend and fellow survivor. The phone rang. It was the school nurse again.

This time it was the younger child, who had thrown up on the school steps after the bus ride to school. She tends to get motion sickness from time to time (like the day after we arrived in London last summer when I had the swell idea to take the kids on the double-decker Original London bus tour, during which Charlotte threw up right on me at point-blank range and when asked why she didn’t warn me, responded: “the throw-up was the warning”). Anyhow, I didn’t think much of it, particularly since Charlotte told the nurse she felt fine après puke and wanted to stay at school.

She made it through school all right but of course she was not fine. Duh. She had the same 24-hour tummy virus her sister had had the day before. At Charlotte’s swimming lesson, she started complaining of tummy pain and then had to be carried half way home (thank God my law school roommates are in town visiting and had come to the lesson, since I could not have carried Charlotte and my purse and the backpack with swimming gear all at once).

Once we were home, my friend bathed the child to help spare my ailing hands (dry and hyper-pigmented with two very slow-healing boo-boos — a mess). These people flew all the way to London for a few days without their four kids and they voluntarily came to a children’s swimming lesson and then had to carry and bathe a 45-pound kid (that’s three stones and a pebble). Or maybe they just really wanted to see me bald in person.

After the bath, Charlotte put herself to bed at 6:00 pm — when I went to check on her and offer her some plain pasta for dinner, she was already fast asleep. I thought maybe I hadn’t heard the last of her but I went downstairs to hang out with my friends and get Isabel some dinner. Charlotte didn’t make a peep during the entire visit. “Think she’ll go twelve hours?” My friend asked. “Maybe,” I said.

The minute they left the house, of course, my husband, who had come home early to hang out, heard crying and raced upstairs. Sure enough, Charlotte had woken up and vomited all over her bed. I mean all over. It was on her pyjamas, pillow case and pillow, stuffed animals, duvet cover, bottom sheet, side of the bed and rug. And it was some nasty smelling vomit, too. Really acidic. The worst, I do believe, I have ever smelled. Thank goodness parents are immune to their own kids’ vomit.

We started the tedious process of removing all offending items from the room and balling them up in preparation for washing. Bill carried the bulging wad of ickiness downstairs while I somewhat creatively remade the bed, throwing in a waterproof zip-up pillow case, which was leftover from being a maternity patient, on the fresh pillow for good measure.

When this was finished and Charlotte was safely tucked away it occurred to me that I didn’t mind at all. I didn’t mind cleaning up the throw-up. When you are a parent you don’t really mind these things. You clean up seemingly infinite poop and pee and puke. I might have whistled as I worked had it not been getting late.

I’ll tell you why.

Because I was well enough to help her myself. I wasn’t lying in bed downstairs while all of this went down. I was right there on the front lines, wiping her face, picking up chunks and opening the window to air the room.

Please understand: I know that I need help. I needed help yesterday at swimming when I couldn’t carry Charlotte and was trying to save my hands by not doing a bath. I need help all the time and have learned to ask for it when needed and accept it when offered. And I am not a person used to getting a great deal of help — or at least I wasn’t until now. You become accustomed to it because you have no choice.

There was just something about taking care of my child, changing her bed and making her clean and comfortable and safe that made me think: Boy am I fortunate to have been able to clean up that puke. I reflected on all the times we did it in the middle of the night when she was a little baby and a toddler. Padding into her room together to assess the damage and then stripping the crib and starting midnight laundry.

Those aren’t bad memories. They are priceless. They are killer.

And they made me think of all the moms and dads who are ill who are not able to care for their own children. And how hard that is.

I am sending them all my love right now. Won’t you join me?

All Dressed Up and No Place to Go

Posted on by
10

Sometimes I like to sit in front of the computer when I am supposed to be writing a blog post and play with Photo Booth. If you don’t have a Mac then maybe you don’t know what I am talking about. It’s just an application that allows you to take still or moving pictures of yourself with the camera that’s built into the top of the computer screen.

Just now I took about twenty pictures of myself pretending to be Angelina Jolie. I wonder if she ever gets tired of holding her lips in that position. I know I’m exhausted after about three minutes. Good Lord. I think I have a Charley horse… (look that up you Brits)

 

 

 

 

 

 

I got sort of a late start this morning but finally got it together and now I am somewhat presentable. The thing is, once I was all dressed and got my scarf and feather earrings and little black flower on I really didn’t want to do what I had set out to do, which was to buy a dress for my belated birthday dinner. So I’m not going to.

There are days like today when I don’t really know what to do with myself. I don’t have a doctor’s appointment, a meeting at the kids’ school or a social event. And none of the errands I should probably run is urgent. Not knowing what to do with one’s self can be rather paralysing.

To combat this feeling, I just did what always seems to work well for me in a situation like this.

I ate lunch and started thinking about what to eat for dinner. Planning a meal always gives you something to do. It’s something to think about, and unless you are one of those people with a perfectly stocked cupboard and fridge at all times (and if so you can sod right off), then it gives you somewhere to go, as well.

I will make a nice, healthy (do not use the word healthful, please, because it is soooo irritating) meal for my family and this will make me feel like I have accomplished something today. (Except if the kids won’t eat it and I get mad and yell at them and feel like a bad mother. But let’s hope that doesn’t happen…)

So now I have to go to the fishmonger and try to find a fish that is high in Omega-3 fatty acids but not in mercury. I’m a little nervous because I have never been to this fishmonger before but I know from my husband and our lovely nanny that he and his associate are sort of, well, mean. I’ve been told that they have tattoos and look like they might have spent time in prison. Honestly, I don’t really care if they’ve spent time in prison as long as they sell me some fresh fish and don’t make me cry.

I hope they aren’t too gruff. But… I haven’t had to whip off my scarf in public in protest for bad treatment yet and my opportunities are running out now that I have only two chemos left, so this could be it. Maybe I should see this is a golden opportunity.

Of course there is a little wrinkle in my plan. This fishmonger is in an alley and there might not be anyone else in the alley to witness the scene should things turn ugly. I am damn well not going to waste an impromptu bald head reveal outdoors on a windy London day in a flipping mews, people, without even a decent audience.

Maybe this is just a stupid plan. Maybe the fishmonger won’t be grumpy to me at all. Maybe I should change my tune. I need to regroup and come up with a new plan.

Hmmm…

Okay, instead of provoking a scene I will go to this fishmonger and will attempt to make him smile. Place your bets now, ladies and gentlemen. I think it’s a long shot but you can count on me to give it a try.

I am going now. I will report back in an hour (for me, an hour, for you, as long as it takes for you to read to the end of this sentence). What do you think my odds are?

**************************************************

Okay. I’m back. I pussyfooted my way there, because I know you are waiting with bated breath, and maybe because I wasn’t sure I was up to the challenge. I stopped at the make-up store because I desperately needed that pink chunky lip liner and more mascara. Plus I got one of those annoying “it’s your birthday come claim your gift” emails from the beauty store and I figured I might as well actually claim my gift for once. It was shimmering, tinted body oil. I will be the most shimmering, glistening cancer patient ever. Super. At least it wasn’t a hair accessory.

Then I went to the bakery and bought two scones and some raisin, caraway and rye bread because they all looked so delicious and I cannot be too healthy in one day (I already inhaled my scone).

Then there I was at my final destination, the fishmonger looming ahead. I squinted down the alley and tried to size the dude up. He was big and bald (okay so that’s maybe a plus) and yes, rather gruff looking.

I chirped hello and asked for 750g of organic (whatever that means) salmon. “Tops or tails,” he asked (gruffly!). Oh dear, I thought. This isn’t going to happen. He really isn’t going to smile no matter how nice and charming I am. “Um, tops, please,” I responded. “I just love your fish,” I continued. “I brought some home the other night and my seven-year-old daughter said it was the best salmon she had ever had.” GOTCHA.

It was just a little smile, but it was there. I wish I had photographic proof but I didn’t feel like pushing my luck. You trust me, don’t you?

So I’m back home now, obviously, considering I am typing at the computer. I stopped at the grumpy fruit and veg stand in the same alley as well on the way home and made that dude smile too. And he is also known to be cranky.

Now I’m well-fixed for my Moroccan pesto salmon with organic brown rice and fresh beans from the farm (beans that don’t seem to exist in the US so not sure what I am doing with them yet).

Sounds like a meal like that ought to kill it pretty good, no?

Why I’m Lucky

Posted on by
Reply

Yeah, I know. This is a loaded title. There are just too many ways and too many things I can think of. But I am going to start with a couple of ideas and maybe soon there will need to be a part deux, trois and even quatre.

I am tolerating the Taxol pretty well. For you newcomers or those who just, ahem, haven’t been keeping up to speed (tsssk tsssk), that is the chemo drug that I am currently on. Sure, I have a couple of irritating little side effects, but nothing the honey badger can’t handle. One of them is zits (or as the English like to say, “spots” which is what I thought one found on a dalmatian). Yes. I broke out. Ridiculous. Hair loss, then a break out. My young and gorgeous gal pal and fellow survivor pointed out to me at lunch the other day that it’s like going through puberty in reverse. Throw in that I had to give up my boobs and that something else (if you catch my drift) hasn’t shown up in a while and she’s really got a point.

So I decided I didn’t need to be dealing with that bullshit (the pimples, people) and went straight to the dermatologist (okay full disclosure I also had some irritating little rashies developing on my hands and head… so it was a multi-purpose visit) who promptly put me on something to curtail that unwanted effect. It’s working. Part of feeling good is looking good, right? Balk if you will, but to me this is important. To the dermatologist too. Which is why I love her.

When you think about it, it is not at all surprising that one might erupt on the outside given what’s going on on the inside of one’s bod at the moment, no? No.

So what else? Bone pain. Not bad, just a little. Not enough for me to run out and buy the cane (read Countdown if this isn’t ringing a bell) but enough to remind me I have bones and they hurt. Just the legs so far. I don’t even need Tylenol (sorry Brits — Paracetamol). Just a little homeopathic stuff and I can deal. In fact I’ll pop one right now… excuse me. There.

And for some reason it hurts under my finger nails, especially my right thumb. I took off my fingernail polish yesterday to investigate and lo and behold there was some brown discolouration under there. I had read that this could happen. In fact your entire nail can fall off. (Ew!)

Oh — sorry. I am rambling and you are confused. This is where the “why I am lucky” part comes in, in case you were wondering what the hell the title was about since all I have done thus far is bitch about insignificant side effects. I’m getting there…

Today I visited the nail salon to get a polish change on my fingernails and a pedicure. I wanted to see if there was more brown discolouration under my toenails and get new polish on all the nails to strengthen and protect them. I do a lot with my hands (cook, mow the lawn (really), give my kids a bath, you name it), so it is pretty annoying to feel weakness and vulnerability in that area.

So I was chatting to the aesthetician about all of this when I noticed a woman watching me and slowly approaching. Call her Greta. I would say she was about sixty-five. Short white hair, blue eyes, one eye completely dilated. Attractive.

Turns out she was a fellow breast cancer survivor and had heard me talking about it.

She was about six months out from treatment, having gone through a mastectomy, chemotherapy and radiotherapy. But unlike me, she did not have an easy breezy time of it. She ended up in the hospital for three weeks during chemo because her white blood cell count didn’t rise as it should have despite her having had immune booster shots (as I do) after every treatment. Her right eye was dilated because she had developed a serious infection in that eye and they were now watching it closely — the outcome unclear. She had a prosthetic breast and hadn’t had a reconstruction because her body couldn’t tolerate it after chemo. She had had a hell of a time. But there she was, out and about, standing before me. Dealing. And she was lovely.

She was also both empathetic and encouraging, without any preachiness or gloom, unlike previous “mentors” I may have unwittingly had (see Assaulted at the Global Festival: Things Not to Say to a Cancer Patient for that story). She didn’t tell me how I was going to feel or prescribe anything except courage, basically. I really liked her. I hope I see here there again.

She made me feel like I am having a cake walk. Just an inconvenience. Just a few months out of my year so that I can kill this piece of crap and get on with my life, thank you very much.

I’m not Job, sitting on that dung heap. No sir. I’ve had way too easy a time of it.

I’m lucky.

…

Posted on by
Reply

Okay I really AM taking a night off tonight. Happy Mother’s Day to all you ladies in the US. UK Mum’s Day came and went weeks ago… so to me today is just the day after my fortieth birthday. Catch y’all tomorrow.

Killer Birthday

Posted on by
3

Well, it is late and I had a wonderful 40th birthday. Pictured is my special Fornasetti lacquer tray, a birthday present from my husband, which I admired long before I knew the significance of killing it. I’m fixin’ to mount this puppy right above the opening between the kitchen and the dining room. I think it will fend off anyone or anything that doesn’t belong in my house. Yeah?

This is my Izzy with me, my little hip hop diva.

Peace be with you.  Good night.

All Star Mom

Posted on by
6

Sometimes it’s the little things in life. Like today, I ran around like a headless chicken, powered without a doubt by the steroids pumping through my veins from yesterday’s chemo and today’s four tablets, two after breakfast and two after lunch. Though there are some undesirable effects of such, one good thing is that the ‘roids seem to give me some energy and the Friday after treatment I usually feel relatively “normal.” Or at least I think I do — sometimes there is the new normal.

It was a busy day. There was no school because of “portfolio” conferences in which the kids get to show the parents what they have been doing in school. We did ours on Wednesday and it blew me away to see what the kids had accomplished. My second-grader can sit down, draw a map of the world, label the continents and the oceans and even a good deal of the countries. There is something mind-opening about living across an ocean from where one started that allows a young child to understand geography in a more sophisticated way. Dang. Made me want to brush up on my geography which hasn’t been honed since around the time the Iron Curtain fell. Lately I have been looking at maps of the world. Now I know where the Middle East is. Sort of.

My pre-K gal can look at a bunch of objects and tell you how many there are (within reason – like not in an idiot-savant way when there are about 278 sesame seeds on the floor) without counting them. Seven cardboard cookies on a plate. No “one, two, three…” Just bam, “seven!” Cool. I am pretty sure she is going to be into math. She didn’t inherit that from me. But I am more into that now too because of the new way they are teaching things. So all you parents who have your panties in a twist about the new math just pipe down. It’s good for some of us folks who thought we sucked at the subject but have since discovered we just needed to approach it from a different angle. If you are shaking your head now, then run off and do your times tables the old-fashioned way. See if I care.

Back to today. We started off the morning by going to Primrose Hill Park and for the first time I didn’t protest when Isabel climbed to the very top of the rope structure. This is a contraption not atypical for an English playground, but a bit high by litigious American standards. However, Isabel’s younger, smaller classmate was perched at the summit when we arrived and it just didn’t seem right to rain on Isabel’s parade.

And in fact she was just fine. She is, after all, part monkey, the way she powers across the monkey bars quick as a flash as if she weighs one pound.

By lunchtime we had already checked off the boxes for fresh air and exercise, having walked/scooted to the park and walked/scooted back from the park. And yes, I do make my kids wear helmets when they scoot, another Americanism. There are loads of things I have embraced about London life (such as using the word “loads”) but helmetless scooting ain’t one of them. Nah-ah.

After lunch (I made panini on my panini press — oh how Martha Stewart of me!), we went to St. John’s Wood, home of the American School in London (our school) and numerous ASL families. I dropped Charlotte at a classmate’s house for a play date and had a quick cuppa (that’s tea, people). Then Isabel and I hightailed it to ASL for her piano lesson. No sooner did I deposit her with her lovely Finnish teacher, who when we arrived was sight-reading a complicated Mozart sonata that made me wish I hadn’t given up lessons at fourteen, than I spun on my heels and made for the local shoe store. See, I had to buy Isabel a pair of Converse All Stars for her hip-hop performance tomorrow, and I had so far failed to do so, leaving exactly one day to accomplish my mission.

I had been schooled by Isabel on acceptable colours and then Charlotte piped up and said she wanted a pair too, and why did I have so many pairs of shoes when she had only two or three pairs. I explained that my feet haven’t grown in about 28 years, but this information was met with a blank stare. “I want shoes.” Ok. Only fair. So there I was amidst a gaggle of Converse, without either kid and thus without any of their feet. But I totally scored. I bought Isabel the pink pair and Charlotte the purple pair. And when I reunited with each child, lo and behold the damn things fit perfectly. Did I mention that Converse run large (just in case you weren’t adequately impressed)?

Oh and did I happen to clarify that I made this successful round trip between the school and the shoe store in the half hour it took for Isabel to have her piano lesson?

Now, I do realise that this rather mundane story does not rise to biblical or even Cinderella proportions. Nevertheless, it did make me feel pretty great to get it right, the day after chemo, with so little time, and be met by my kids with round grateful eyes. Both wore their Converse home from the play date and out to dinner that night.

To celebrate, my good friend and neighbour and I took our kids to a local restaurant and had half-priced Coronas with limes (not the kids, who had vodka — just kidding — they had appletinis). I popped a couple of anti-nausea meds and decided, what the heck, to wash them down with the Corona. Damn, I thought, this is livin’.

Let me evaluate my day: I got some fresh air, packed in a good deal of brisk walking, found activities for my kids to do and got them there on time and last, accomplished my mission of the day. All that and no cooking and no dishes. The whole thing made me feel like an All Star Mom.

I like days like this. They’re killer.

Party in the Chemo Suite

Posted on by
14

I’m coming to you live from the chemo suite, people. So inspired am I.

Today there are a lot of drawn curtains (lame — I like to spy on my fellow sufferers and make faces at them) and someone is hacking up a lung (makes you want to run out and get a big juicy steak, doesn’t it, and eat it off the floor). Unacceptable. What this place needs is a couppla disco balls. Maybe a conga line. The choreography might get a little complicated with all of us on a drip, which hangs from this metal coat rack thingy on wheels, but it’s nothing me and Paula Abdul couldn’t work around.

My blood work came back and I am — naturally — good to go.  White blood cells up from my immune booster that I jab into my stomach the day after every treatment. Actually I kind of enjoy that. I should have been a nurse (well I do share a birthday with Florence Nightingale and that’s about all we have in common) or maybe a torturer.

Now they are pumping me full of steroids and then antihistamine (like Benadryl) and anti tummy upset and lots of sodium chloride mixed in to flush the line, all to ward off any unpleasant reaction to the Taxol. A lot of people are allergic to Taxol, which is derived from the Pacific yew, by the way. Did you think that everything “natural” was good for you? Don’t be a dumbass. What about poisonous mushrooms? One bite and you’re dead.

I don’t care for the Benadryl. Although it doesn’t put me to sleep (this is because I am defective and cannot nap during the day no matter what they do to me), it makes me a little sluggish, so I am chugging a flat white (I described this in What I Wore To Chemo Today so you had better catch UP), which my awesome friend Paige brought me from Gail’s, my fave coffee shop and bakery. I am also chugging tea. It’s England so everyone drinks tea constantly — it’s really true. And water. This makes for a lot of trips to the loo wheeling my coat rack to and fro. But it’s good to take in fluids. Flush the system. Stretch the legs. Sashay around in my absurd outfit.

Ooh goody. My machine is beeping. That means the bag of sodium chloride is empty and it will soon be time for the poison. Linda, Uma, Katniss? Get ready, girls. Get your gold cuffs and your Hattori Hanzo and your bow and arrows because we’re gonna fire it up, beeyotches.  (Read Chicks I Dig Vol. 1 if this makes no sense to you).

Speaking of artillery, does anyone know where I can get me one of those long leather (nylon would do as well) belts with bullets in it so that I could incorporate that into my outfit? Can you get that shit on Amazon?

So the stuff is going in now, slowly over three hours. I thought I just had a tinge of metal mouth, which I did not experience two weeks ago. It is one of my least favourite side effects so I am plenty pissed off about it. These things can be cumulative. But I ate my lunch and that tasted fine, so maybe I am imagining it. Grr.

My bum is falling asleep. I need to do some gluteal clenches while I’m sitting here. One… two… three…….. Might as well multitask. And this really is the ideal environment for that. I mean, what else can you do? Sit here and think about cancer? Bo-ring. So I write and I talk incessantly when there is someone to listen, and I visualise the chicks I dig doing violence to any remaining cancer cell.

I imagine one trying to flee from Uma’s sword. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, MF. You have met your maker and she happens to be hot. Hot and lethal, that’s a great combination. Oh, sorry, she just eradicated your ass, as lickety-split as she plucked that eyeball out of Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah’s character in Kill Bill), the other eye having been plucked out by Pai Mei, who trained both Driver and Kiddo in martial arts the likes of which I could really get into. It was kind of mean when Kiddo then stepped on the eye-ball and squished it. But I respect that decision.

This is Elle Driver when she is about to try to inject a comatose Beatrix Kiddo with some red shit to kill her for good. I would pluck someone’s eyeball out too if they were standing over me with red shit. That looks just like chemo medicine numero uno, which was that same colour and some really naaaaaaaasty stuff.

On a separate note, Hannah is killing the ole one-eye look, dontcha think? Let’s hope that’s a look I don’t have to rock, but given my retina’s tendency to misbehave I have had to wear the occasional eye patch after a procedure. If it ever happens again I’m going to commission a Louis Vuitton eye patch with my initials on it. Not really, but it would be hilarious to see the salesperson’s reaction. All horrified yet awkwardly trying to be polite, as I stand there looking earnest amidst a sea of shoppers who just want the latest Neverfull. But I digress… blame it on the Benadryl or the chemo or whatever. Though Florence Nightingale did say “I attribute my success to this — I never gave or took any excuse.” So just blame ME. I don’t care.

Three hours after the Taxol drip started I’m outta there. Now I’m back home.

So do you want to see today’s outfit? Come on, do ya? I’m afraid it was not possible to top the last one but I made a valiant effort.

I know, the pic isn’t great quality but I was pretty far away from the computer so deal with it. I like to think of this look as Coco Chanel meets sixties biker chick (the boots have buckles and zip up the back). Badass from the neck down but sort of classy from the neck up. Classy badass. It’s the new thing. My fabulous new French buddy lent me the cute black hat. It has that je ne sais quoi, non? The flower is one of my recent acquisitions from H&M. You don’t have to pay Chanel prices, dear.

Well, now that I have killed it for the sixth time I have to make my meds chart so I don’t do the wrong thing. I have so many pills and fluids in me you could shake me and I’d rattle and slosh. But I am doing fine.

Because today I am one step closer to putting this puppy to bed.

I’ll leave you with one more quote from Florence Nightingale: “How very little can be done under the spirit of fear.” A lot, however, can be done under the spirit of KILLING IT.

So take that, MF.

 

Why Laughter Really is the Best Medicine

Posted on by
8

Approaching life with humour is not something that I learned to do. It is something that I have always done, from the time I was a wee one. I cannot take any credit for being that way. It was Mother Nature’s gift.

In fact, I do not know how one can learn to see things through that lens if it doesn’t come naturally, but I suppose it must happen. Maybe on the heels of a life changing event, such as, a-hem, a cancer diagnosis. Any of you who were born all serious and buttoned up who later learned to see the funny in things please pipe up and tell me how that came about (and how it’s working out for you).

Now don’t get me wrong. Not everything is funny. Some things are just plain ole horrible or sad or grotesque or infuriating. And that’s life. But a lot is funny that might not appear to be on the surface. Living life that way is all I have ever known and it is sure one helpful tool when the gauntlet has been thrown down.

Some things would be funny to almost anyone, such as the time my mother and I were in an argument about God knows what (I was a teenager so…) and as things really hottened up I noticed that she had a glob of sour cream on her eyebrow, at which point I burst into laughter and the argument was over.

Other things are funny to one person and absolutely unfunny to the next, such as the time one of my good college friends, Jen, was looking to see if her roommate was in the Georgetown Kinko’s (now FedEx for you youngsters). Squinting to combat the glare, she approached that window slowly but surely until she misjudged and walked right into the plate-glass, slamming her forehead into it, clapping her hand to the area and yelling “ow!” Having seen this unfold (and after making a snap determination that first aid was not required), I fell right on the sidewalk when my knees buckled due to uncontrollable laughter. I know my mother would not have found this funny. But I did. Sorry, Mom.

A third category is things that are probably not very funny to most people, but are to a select few of us weirdos. Like the fact that after brushing off (so to speak) hair loss, deciding to shave my head, and embracing my new look, I promptly got, on the back of my head, simultaneously, a case of the shingles and a red bumpy rash due to being immunosuppressed by the chemotherapy. So I went from being bald and badass to bald and rashy and rather un-badass in a matter of days. Lovely. But to me, kind of funny, because what can you do?

Things brings me to a public service announcement: If you are over a certain age, had the chicken pox as a child and have not been vaccinated for the shingles, you might want to get on that. Shingles isn’t tons of fun, but I was lucky and mine was not that bad, considering that one description I read (on the internet — oops) indicated that the site felt like a hot ice pick was being inserted into it intermittently. That might not have been funny to me either.

So back to humour. Humour is why I am actually looking forward to my sixth chemotherapy treatment tomorrow. When I strode in two weeks ago in my ridiculous leopard-print outfit (see What I Wore To  Chemo Today if you haven’t read it yet), I made a lot of people laugh. And that made me laugh, and made me happy. Then it really wasn’t so bad to be there. It lightened the mood, made us forget a little bit why we were there.

The only thing that isn’t funny about the whole thing is now I feel a mounting pressure to come up with an equally groovy outfit to wear to chemo tomorrow, and I don’t know if I can deliver! So I am going to distract myself by making some cancer-killing roasted Roma tomato soup from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen, an excellent cook book that my friend Dee  got for me. Whether you need to kill it or just cook up some tasty meals (don’t let the c-word in the title put you off).

Ciao for now.