It’s DONE.

Although it is not one hundred percent certain (what is, in life?) that I will never need chemotherapy again, there is a good chance that I won’t. So I’m calling it. Emily: 8; cancer: (I’m not even giving it a capital “c”) ZERO.

Today’s festivities were pretty good. I got off to an auspicious start, arriving at chemo early (so rare) at a few minutes before 9:00 am. And prior to that I had time to get my ensemble sorted the way I wanted it. Bonus. On the way, I had a nice chat with the driver of the car service to which I treated myself today. He said I should be sure and let my husband have a say in the size of my newbs. Um, thanks for that very valuable input, dude. Maybe I should just turn it over to the readers — vote now or forever hold your peace. But I refuse to go with anything that makes me fall forward.

Then my bubble was temporarily burst when reception informed me that my appointment was for NOON today. What? I can’t tool around like this for three hours, I said. And then be here until 5 or 6. I have chirren to see and zucchini bread to bake (oh, sorry, courgette for you Brits). Calls were made. Things were juggled. And soon enough I was heading down to the chemo suite to kill it for the eighth and final time. I even got a pod with its own domed skylight. Hotsy totsy.

Bill came to see me. I let him come even though when I got dressed this morning he said I “could not wear” the outfit I had on. “I most certainly can,” or something to that effect but maybe with some profanity was my response. I wore it. He got over it.

I think maybe he changed his mind when we got down to the chemo suite and saw the reaction that other people had to my look. They liked it. They smiled and laughed and it made them feel good. See it wasn’t just for me. It was for them and for you too. Because I want people to be happy and I want people to laugh. I like to share the love. And one cannot, under any circumstances, take oneself too seriously. It is just so boring.

Are you curious? Hmmmm? I will give you just from the chest up…

Do you think Gabriella is jealous?  If you don’t know Gabriella then you need to read Armpit Wig.  I think she is jealous since she is Italian and all. But she will just have to get over it because Candy Floss (that’s Breeteesh for cotton candy) and I are having a love affair and it isn’t going to end any time soon. I put her on at 8:30 this morning and I didn’t take her off, even for one instant, until 7:15 pm.  Gabriella may be chic and classy but Candy Floss is a little bit naughty and I DIG that about her. Tee hee.

Ooh la la la la la la la la. 😮

Gabriella is a bit of a snob. I mean I picked up Candy Floss in the same joint, only on the less posh ground floor and not upstairs in the fancy salon, so Gabriella feels that Candy comes from the wrong side of the tracks. But Gabby can be kind of a beeyotch so I just tune her out when she gets like that. She wouldn’t even look at my outfit this morning because it came from Top Shop. Whatever. Like I would wear Prada, Gucci or Bottega Veneta for my final chemo treatment.

I suppose you’d like to have a look at the rest of the ensemble, no?

Rubberized leggings and a feather skirt are surprisingly comfortable and practical, I have to say. You learn something new every day. Actually the leggings are so comfy I plan to live in them for as long as possible until it (if it ever) gets hot again here. That could be all summer. I still have them on. And I have to give props to my friend, Gohar, who grabbed the top off the rack at the very end, pulling the whole thing together. She even grabbed the right size without looking. Brava.

After my bloods came back and all the premeds were in, the nurse hung up my last bag o’ poison and it started drip drip dripping away. A three-hour driiiiiiiiiiip. That’s when my oncologist showed up. He said he got about five texts that he had to get his booty down and see me forthwith (or something to that effect). I really need to dress like this more often. Shameless attention seeking is one of my favourite pastimes and I have definitely gotten worse now that I am a cancer survivor.

What? You can’t see the rubberized leggings? Well, all right keep your panties on and let me dig out another pic.

Last night after I got home and laid out the outfit on my bed, I heard wardrobes closing and opening and came into my room and found Isabel with the skirt on and she had also put on one of my fluorescent bras and stuffed tube socks into it. I started to laugh and then she bent over and the “boobs” tumbled right out on the floor. “See, easy come, easy go,” I thought.

I had two special guest stars besides my husband at my final chemo and both are fellow survivors. Dee, who gave me that great cookbook (The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen) and Paige, who has come to most of my chemos and always somehow manages to bring me a flat white from Gail’s that stays hot during transport. It’s the little things in life… but having good friends like these to support me through this is a big thing and a true gift. Having these ladies with me on my last go was just what the doctor ordered.

Dee even brought me that numero ocho cupcake.

Yeah I know. It’s been ages since my last post. So unlike me. But I really needed to party and I happened to be partying in Paris this past weekend so I just didn’t get to it for a few days. Sue me.

There’s nothing like a semi-spontaneous trip to Paris to let cancer know who’s boss. I have this lovely American friend, Alicia, who finds herself in Paris going on nine years now, having married my French friend, Olivier, who used to work at the NYC law firm with me. The happy couple invited us to Alicia’s fortieth birthday party a couple months ago, and it seemed rather unlikely that we would attend given that the event was to be five days prior to my final chemotherapy session on June 7.

Nevertheless, I entered it into my iCal and waited to see what would happen. What happened is that I’ve been feeling pretty decent. So two weeks in advance of the festivities I booked an apart/hotel (this is an apartment-style hotel with kitchenette) in the 16th arrondissement near their flat and some Eurostar tickets and started counting down the days.

Last Friday evening the girls and I and Agnieszka, our nanny, cabbed it to St. Pancras, had an early dinner at Le Pain Quotidien, and hopped on the train. Bill was slammed on a deal (or two) and planned to join us the next morning.

The apart/hotel was located a stone’s throw from my old haunting ground. When I was sixteen and a student at Choate Rosemary Hall, I lived with my friend Greg (you know Greg from One to Go) and his family in a grand apartment on Avenue Raymond Poincaré, an address we passed on foot half a dozen times during the course of the weekend. I wonder who lives there now. Just about next door are the Ugandan and Tanzanian embassies.

The apart/hotel wasn’t quite as grand as the old apartment. My husband would comment later that night that it was “a part hotel, a part shit hole,” which we both thought was wildly funny and erupted into uncontrolled bursts of snorting and laughter. So mature are we. But it was fine and convenient, slept five and we didn’t plan on spending any time in it so whatever.

It was fairly late upon arrival and not easy to calm the girls down after our exciting train trip. But finally they succumbed (at about midnight) at which point I decided to turn in myself. What greeted me in the mirror after removing my clothes and make-up was the same body and visage that I face every day. Yet somehow it was different in Paris. In different (fluorescent) lighting.

It occurred to me that the last time I had been in Paris was for my tenth wedding anniversary in October of last year. For that trip, only months earlier, I had long, wavy brunette hair and real boobs, and was blissfully unaware of the tumours in my right breast and all the physical transformations that would accompany their annihilation. My biggest physical concerns at that time were the hollows under my eyes and that bit of tummy that just wouldn’t budge after child number two.

I looked at this spectre, bald and disfigured, and thought to myself, how the fuck did this happen? Sometimes you have to get out of context to digest something. You have to see yourself, literally, in a different light. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I wasn’t sad. I just felt terribly odd to be back in Paris like this. After a few moments of shock and awe, though, I got over it, fetched a glass of water and hit the sack.

Saturday morning, Agnieszka and I rallied the girls at a reasonable hour and set off on one of the most memorable travel days I think I have ever had.

Traveling with young children is a different experience, obviously, from tooling around as a carefree adult. You have to worry about how far they can walk, when and what to eat (children are not pleasant when their blood sugar drops) and what will interest them. Luckily I had a loose plan in place. A plan is good but flexibility is key. And good weather helps tremendously. Saturday was sunny and warm. The perfect day.

First we decided to breakfast at the Brasserie Trocadéro so that we could gaze at the Eiffel Tower. I learned on this trip that for a child it is never too hot and sunny for hot chocolate, particularly the dark, syrupy version that is served up at French brasseries. I also learned that it is not overkill to have hot chocolate with a pain au chocolat (that’s a chocolate croissant for my American readers — even though it is decidedly not in the shape of a crescent). Right: Isabel and moi at the brasserie.

After breakfast we descended into the métro to travel to the belle epoch Grand Palais (originally built for the 1900 World Fair) to see Daniel Buren’s Excentrique(s) exhibit. For this exhibit, Buren stretched coloured translucent plastic film within hundreds of circles of different sizes, each one touching the next, and all supported by vertical columns. The effect of the installation is determined by the light coming through (or not if it isn’t sunny) the glass domed roof of the building. The sunny day allowed light to pass through the coloured film and reflect the circles on the ground.

In the ticket line, Isabel spotted her art teacher from the American School in London, making me look like a cultural genius, even though I cannot take credit for the idea, which was Alicia’s (well she does live there), and validating my choice in the children’s eyes. We explored and ran around a bit in there until we started to get warm (do not do this on a hot sunny day in the afternoon when the sun has had all day to heat up the interior — the morning was fine though). Then we headed across the street to the Petit Palais (free admission to all) for refreshments in the lovely interior courtyard café. To the right, Isabel, Charlotte and Isabel’s art teacher.

It was at this point that I received an email from Bill indicating that he had arrived in the City of Lights but that he would have to confine himself to the apart/hotel to work on a document for several hours (insert sad face). Such is the life, at times, of the corporate lawyer. You have to hand it to the man for coming to Paris in spite of this. Alas, I sighed, we must forge ahead. So we exited the PP and headed toward Les Invalides. The walk across the stunning Alexandre III bridge with its gilt-bronze winged horses, Art Nouveau lamps, cherubs and nymphs is one of my favourites in Paris. It is just so fancy. Saturday’s walk was interrupted slightly by graffiti and rubbish on the ground, but I ignored these unfortunate side effects and focused instead on the two brides having photos taken on the other side of the bridge as a moderate wind whipped their trains and veils around. Girls and I on Alex. III bridge above.

After a few cartwheels on the esplanade (Isabel, not me), we headed into the métro again and set off for the Luxembourg Gardens. I so love the Jardin du Luxembourg, which is second-largest public park in Paris, and houses the Senate, among other things. We had to take two metro lines and an RER (another train) to get there, and the children managed beautifully. We headed into a main entrance flanked by ice cream carts and headed straight for an outdoor café for a late lunch. It turned out to be a very late lunch. Upon sitting we were politely informed that the kitchen had temporarily suspended orders due to the size of the crowd and that we could have a drink and wait about twenty to thirty minutes and then order food.

We acknowledged this and the children entertained themselves by drawing on the backs of paper placemats while sipping juice and sparkling water. I had a citron pressé (fresh lemon juice) which made my mouth pucker, so deliciously sour it was. Finally it was time to order and the children shared a juicy cheeseburger and fries (what, potatoes are a vegetable) while Agnieszka and I chose the Salade Atlantique which had smoked salmon and prawns on a bed of lettuce and cucumber and a creamy rosé dipping sauce.

After lunch we traversed the centre of the garden, stopping to observe children guide colourful toy sailboats around the fountain filled with fish. The afternoon sun was beating down by this point, so after ten minutes we sought refuge in the dappled shade on the other side of the garden, watching children take pony rides (Charlotte wanted to have one but then wasn’t sure so we decided we would do one next time) and then braved the paid playground for half an hour of structure climbing, sliding and running. The pic is of the beautiful Luxembourg Palace, also in the garden.

I sat down on a bench next to a man and a woman (and their generously sized backpacks) to watch Isabel tackle the rope structure. When another woman came along and there wasn’t space I asked the man to please move the bags so she could sit down and his response was some obnoxious comment directed to the recently arrived mother. I almost had to whip my scarf off in protest but it would have been wasted on this French asshole so instead the new woman and I just chatted about what a jerk he was and that was even better. It is good to speak the language when you visit a place. It so enhances the experience and allows for personal connections and observations that are otherwise elusive.

After the children tired of the playground we headed back to the entrance to try the artisinal ice cream (which was recommended as the go-to ice cream place in the park by the nice French lady on the bench, thus allowing me to avoid protracted discussions over which disgusting fluorescent chemical pop to choose from a cheap souvenir stand). I just about passed out after translating forty flavours for the kids and Agnieszka, finally instructing the kids to choose any flavour they could think of. Isabel said “Rocky Road and Cookie Dough.” Um. I had to laugh and explain that those are American flavours and that the artisanal ice cream man was unlikely to have those flavours. They finally settled on chocolate and mint chocolate chip (in a cup, thank you very much). Agnieszka and I decided to be adventurous and tried lavender, rose, blueberry and melon in cones because we don’t cry (much) if we drop ours in the dirt.

At this point Bill surfaced from the mustard-walled confines of the apart/hotel and made plans to find us in the park. Agnieszka went off to explore the area and the girls and I finished our ice creams while a four-piece band started to play nearby. We listened to them until Bill found us. There is nothing like the smile that takes over a child’s face when she sees her father appear after a long absence. Isabel revealed her mouth full of crooked teeth, adorable despite resembling an assortment of ivory stalagmites. Charlotte flashed her pearly baby teeth and flung herself onto her father from the ledge she was standing on, smearing his pants with the tawny dirt that covers the floor of the garden.

I had forgotten this aspect of the garden. The fine dirt that gets all over no matter what. I lived across from the Senate on rue de Vaugirard for about five weeks in the summer of 1998 when I worked as a summer associate in my firm’s Paris office. So the garden was another old haunting ground of mine. I lived in a tiny but charming apartment on the top floor of a walk-up building, on the ground floor of which was an ancient doll repair shop. I had meant to check if the shop was still there but we didn’t have time. I’ll have to look next time. I hope they have stayed in business. I like to think of the old broken dolls being brought in, one missing an arm, one an eyelid, and then after a brief stay leaving intact and fresh again. It is nice to think of something old and broken being wanted, being loved, and getting new life.

I remember inviting my fellow summer associates for a dinner one night at this apartment at which I served rotisserie chicken, Le Sueur canned peas and carrots (for some reason I just love French canned peas) and a baguette. And wine of course. I didn’t cook anything but it was great and we were young. Or maybe it was great because we were young. I also remember during Bill’s visit that summer, lying in the grass in the garden together between the rows of perfectly rectangularly pruned trees and spotting an odious character whom one of our law school roommates had dated and literally pressing my head face down into the grass and soil to avoid detection. And going for a jog in the garden one weekend afternoon while all the French sat around smoking and being French, except for my friend, Cédric, whom I convinced to come jogging with me (I don’t think he had ever jogged before, much less in the Jardin du Luxembourg).

Anyhow, after we did a loop of the garden en famille we chose a table at the very same café and had a beer before meeting up with Agnieszka and heading back to the hotel on the metro. We all got cleaned up — it took some doing to get rid of that tawny dirt — and Bill and I headed to our party while Agnieszka and the girls set off for an Italian restaurant for carbonara, bolognese and risotto.  Our girls, out on the town for a 8:30 pm dinner in Paris.

I wore the exact same ensemble I wore to my fortieth birthday dinner: little black dress, black hat with white flower, “holey” tights and old Gucci rock ‘n’ roll stilettos. I wasn’t planning on walking anywhere, only when we got to reception at the apart/hotel no one was there. My guess is the dude was in the can. But anyhow we waited in vain for a few minutes then decided to walk to the cab stand at Place Victor Hugo. I tottered there with a hand on Bill and we found a cab and made it to the party, fashionably late.

Alicia looked ravishing in a raspberry satin dress. She told me about all of the guests and made me feel like a very special guest myself, which was lovely. Olivier, her husband, was quite the host, passing delicious hors d’oeuvres and fetching drinks for guests. I think I ate about 25 hors d’oeuvres and had three glasses of champagne. They were small glasses though. We had a very nice time but at about eleven I was tired so we said good-bye and left.

Instead of doing the practical thing and going back to the hotel, however, we decided to walk for ten minutes (again in the darn stilettos), go into the metro (see metro action shot right) and return to the Brasserie Trocadéro for a late dinner, because Bill hadn’t eaten as much as I had. We also ordered a half bottle of red wine. And then another half bottle. That makes, let’s see, two half bottles. We enjoyed the light display on the Eiffel Tower at midnight and then again at 1:00 am (the last one apparently, before the lights are turned off and the Eiffel Tower goes to sleep). At this point we decided to join the monument and returned to the hotel. By the time we got to bed it was almost 2:00 am. Oops. But a cancer patient needs to have fun too.

What a killer first day in Paris. Stay tuned for days two and three.

It is now 20:58 London time. That means 8:58 for those of you who can’t read military/24-hour time. Oh and if you can’t you should learn it because it is a useful skill. That and my seven-year-old can do it so I think you can too.

So anyhow I put the kids to bed and one of them is blissfully asleep. The other is at least lying quietly in bed. I finally get some alone adult time to deal with the pile of crap that I haven’t dealt with, sip some ginger-lemon tea (which I was off after three AC treatments but now that I no longer associate ginger with anti nausea remedies am back on occasionally) and relax.

But wait, there’s a fly in my ointment. It’s the fucking dude who thinks it is a swell idea to play his guitar at this time, either outside or so close to an open window that he might as well be. He just “did” Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door. He definitely got that one lyric down. Other than that I can’t say much for his playing. Or singing.

Let me be honest. I am a nice person. A tolerant person. But I do not want to listen to mediocre guitar-playing outside my window at nine o’clock at night. I am tired and I want peace and quiet. I am taking a train to Paris tomorrow evening with the kids, for crying out loud and this noise is not helping me think or chill.

I wonder if it is the hot guy next door who has been doing weird things to his bicycle wheels every time I pass by. I don’t care if he is hot. He is still pissing me off. In fact, if he is hot it makes me even madder because then he probably feels entitled to be a public nuisance due to his hotness.

I may have to get medieval on his ass. I mean, we are in the old country here. I think I will boil me up a cauldron of oil and get a big ladle and dump the shit on him from the top floor. Either that or take a considerably large pair of hedge clippers and go out there, bald, of course, or maybe with a doo-rag on looking all gangsta with my stank face on, and snip those sorry guitar strings in two (and whatever fingers happen to get in the way in protest).

I suppose I could also just go out there and see if I can spot him and politely but firmly ask him to stop playing. Or to go inside or shut the window. But what if the answer is “no?” I don’t think that would be good for my mental health or his physical health. So instead here I sit blogging about it. Lame.

It’s sort of fun, though, to focus my energy on the idea of killing something else tonight.

Like, OMG. I only have one chemo to go!

Speaking of which, don’t you just love the overuse of the exclamation point in emails and texts? If you are guilty of this don’t be offended just own up and let’s move on. But seriously, there is very little written in an email or text that is important/exciting enough to warrant an exclamation point. An earthquake, of which there have been quite a few as of late, unfortunately, or at the very least the purchase a brand new Chloë bag might qualify. But let’s don’t exaggerate, hmmm?  We are no longer teeny-boppers.

Okay, back to my favourite subject: me.

I am sort of sorry I used the title “Party in the Chemo Suite” for my last day-of-treatment post because today was a real fête of international proportions. My friend Greg arrived from Geneva at about 9:30 straight from Heathrow and I have to say he looked terrific. We figured out that we had not seen each other in 11 years, since he and his fantastic wife visited NY in May of 2001. A few months before the world changed forever.

There are some friends you don’t see for some period of time and you drift apart. Interests and circumstances change, and the next meeting is awkward or lacklustre. Like that friend you made at day camp and played with all the time and then you saw them on the street years later and couldn’t remember their name and hadn’t much to say to them. “Yeah, great to see you. We should, um, have lunch some time… ” Or not.

There are others, however, who are friends forever. Lifers. Greg is a lifer, as is my friend Mark, about whom I posted in Fabulous at Forty. We get together and it’s like we just had lunch the day before. Their presence is natural, comfortable and welcome. Like a favourite cozy sweater. This is not to be underestimated in a friend.

Interesting that two of such friends for me are dudes. I guess there are a lot of people who don’t have a lot of — or indeed any — friends of the opposite sex. This has never been the case for me. I like dudes. They think differently and there is none of that catty, bitchy, “your ass is smaller than mine and where did you get that hand bag beeyotch” going on between us. I can’t tell you how little I like that crap. Someone’s ass is always smaller and hand bag newer and more exclusive and I really don’t give a shit. As a matter of fact I think that this experience has made me admire the beauty in other women to a much greater degree because I appreciate the delicacy of the situation, given that I am now and may forever be, somewhat disfigured. More on that later. I also think I have always kind of thought like a dude in some respects even though I am very much a chick. So maybe I am just checking them out because that’s what dudes do. Admiring the goods.

Anyhow, Greg chatted to my mom and me for two and a half hours before leaving for his lunch meeting. His visit was a gift and I can’t wait to get our families together so that our four little girls can play together while they try to speak/understand each others’ language. I have a feeling it’ll work out just fine. Unless one of them has a new hand bag… or a smaller ass than another.

Just as Greg was leaving, my beautiful friend and fellow survivor, Ruth popped in. Looking all glam. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a photo. But believe me, she was having a particularly good hair day (my mom mentioned her hair not once but thrice — perhaps because I haven’t any and it was nice to see somebody with). Ruth was in to chat to some folks about the importance of exercise (see Work It Out if you want to know my thoughts on that topic). After she left, my oncologist came down to see us, which always cheers me and makes me feel well-looked after. I started to think about getting a visitor’s register. But it’s a little late given I have only one more chemo to go.

The meds finished going in about 2:00 pm and then I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist and after that some acupuncture. By this point it was 4:00 and we had been there for seven hours. A full day’s work. Having missed the (direct, outdoor) sun we walked to Marylebone High Street and shopped for new bar ware and books for children’s birthday presents. Then stopped for an iced tea (with no ice — what is it with Europe?) and lemon tart at an outdoor table at Le Pain Quotidien. Deelish. And NO taste bud issues. Hallelujah.

In the cab home I turned to my mother and remarked, “so is this what you expected when we moved here? Flying over for shopping trips on the high street with your bald daughter who is wearing an Invincible T-shirt?” Not exactly, eh? And yes I totally went out there bald. I don’t give a shit anymore. It was hot and I did it.

The thing is, I don’t feel like a cancer patient and I don’t really worry that people will look and wonder, which is what I worried about in the beginning (remember that first time I wore my wig to the same establishment and was terrified people would look at me and know I was wearing one?). I am comfortable like that now. It’s oddly liberating. So much of dealing with cancer or any other condition that has visible physical manifestations is worrying about making other people uncomfortable but if you are comfortable with yourself it comes across. They might wonder but they fear the unknown less than if you look sad and tired and unsure. Of course, this is London and if you can get away with it anywhere it’s here. I would probably not do this anywhere. But you get the point.

I’ll have some hair soon anyhow. So the next big decision will be whether to give the ‘hawk a proper try. I’m a bit wary of shaving my head again for fear that I will irritate something given my myriad of dermatological issues. However, I might just have to take that risk.

Oh come on, don’t nay-say. Don’t kill my buzz, so to speak. It’s a killer look. G’night. xx

Well here we are and it’s that Wednesday night again. The Wednesday before chemo. How do those two weeks go by so fast? In a way it’s good but it is also just another reminder of how life goes by too quickly. Alas.

My moms is in town again. She flew over to help me kill it a seventh time. Seven’s a lucky number, you know. But apparently eight is even better. Go figure. Some asshole on the flight over told my mom all about how chemo is stupid and unnecessary and there are alternatives that work just as well. This was super helpful considering that I have already had six chemos and am about to have another. And then another after that. So my mom up and moved her seat. I dig that.

Lose the loser. And that asshole was a fellow survivor. What is wrong with people?

In other news, guess who else is coming to town? My French “brother,” Grégoire. I lived with his family when I was sixteen years old when I did a trimester abroad during my junior year in high school. We have kept in touch all these years and he now lives in Geneva with his wife and two daughters similar in age to my girls. He’s in town for a meeting and wanted to hang out so we’re hanging at chemo.

I am starting to think that the party is just wherever I am.

Anyway he won’t want you to know this but we used to arm wrestle and I used to beat him. It wasn’t very nice of me and all but I couldn’t help it. He was a sixteen year old French boy so I had an advantage. Obviously he has forgiven me. Probably because he knows I could stand no chance of winning at present. But just let me work out for a few months after my treatments are over. Then we’ll see.

Here’s a thought: I wonder what it will be like to have hair again this summer. I have gotten so used to being bald that now with the weather finally warm here in London (and today was glooooooorious), I said “fuck it” and left the house bald. Seriously. I up and went out with nothing but some SPF 50 on my head and walked the girls to their swimming lesson.  No one seemed to even give me a second glance. And the girls were okay with it because they are used to it too. That sort of thing would never fly in the burbs. Can you just picture me strolling into the grocery store all bald with my cart. I don’t think so.

I have to go to sleep now. Running out of steam. Have to save my strength. Because tomorrow we are on again, boys.

Lock and load. Cuz we’re gonna kill it.