The Pink Ribbon Sorority

I was interviewing Dr. Craig McFadyen today for an article for Waterloo Region Openfile.ca about the Grand River  Regional Cancer Centre. I have personal experience with the Breast Cancer Diagnostic Centre, so I post this blog in honour of the women of the Pink Ribbon Sorority, and all the patients I saw at the centre today. God give you strength and courage.

The Pink Ribbon Sorority 

As I combed out my hair after the shower that morning, I contemplated the fact that if I needed chemotherapy and my hair fell out, that my hair was going to grow back gray instead of my “natural” brown, and that was really going to suck. Given the fact that I was facing a potentially life-changing event, it seemed an odd thing to cross my mind, but there it was. You see, in 2006 I became a member of a unique sorority. Membership is automatic when certain conditions are met. It is not optional, but it may or may not be a lifetime membership. In 2006,  I joined the Pink Ribbon Sorority when I discovered a lump in my breast.

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with “the Girls”. They developed early, and like a pretty friend who’s had too much to drink at a party, commanded all the attention. I lost count of the number of times that people conducted whole conversations with “the Girls.” People assumed an inverse relationship between my cup size and my intellect; I am a smart woman-it annoyed me.After years of groping and constant back pain, I had a breast reduction.

           

I didn’t want to deal with the lump at first.I ignored pain in my nipples for a couple of weeks, even though I’d had no sensation in my nipples since the breast reduction. When the lump became visible in the mirror, I had it checked. I went to see the nurse practitioner at the doctor’s office, who sent me for an ultrasound, which located the lump and called it a “fibroadenoma”. The nurse practitioner advised that they were usually benign, but the radiologist had suggested further investigation was warranted. While the breast reduction had alleviated some of the unwanted attention, it had left me with scar tissue which made a definitive diagnosis of the lump difficult. I was referred to the Waterloo-Wellington Breast Screening Centre for a detailed examination. This Centre was a kind of “one stop shop” where a woman could receive an ultrasound, a mammogram, have the results read by the radiologist and see the surgeon the same day. It was designed to streamline the diagnostic process, and the associated stress and uncertainty. 

            I decided at the outset that I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone until there was something to say. My family members are all world-class worriers. If my mother, for example, didn’t have anything to worry about in the present, she would go back and re-worry the past. My husband tended to go immediately to worst case scenario and I didn’t want him spending the insurance money prematurely. My family would worry themselves sick until I had a diagnosis, and I didn’t feel that I could carry them, too. My close friends were dealing with their own share of problems (including two friends whose mothers were fighting breast cancer) and I didn’t want to burden them with something that might or might not be a problem. I’ve always supported everyone else and shouldered my own burdens- it’s just my way.

            Random thoughts flitted through my brain periodically as I waited for a definitive diagnosis. Was it cancer? Who would take care of my family if I needed treatment? Could I sew well enough to alter my clothes if I needed a mastectomy? Would God really give me my daughter only to take me from her? And then there was the gray hair bit-bald I could handle; gray not so much. There wasn’t any logic to my musings; I’ve always tended towards the morbid and the dramatic.

            After my referral to the breast screening clinic, I told my husband, my mother and my in-laws. I told them out of necessity since they were watching my toddler while I went to the various appointments. They handled it better than I expected, but reacted much as I anticipated. It added to my stress but had to be done.  Chocolate and wine helped.

            The morning of my appointment at the clinic was harried. My daughter slept in and my husband decided at the last moment to drive me, as I was walking out the door to the appointment. Since we still had to shoe my toddler and wrestle her into the car seat, I arrived at the clinic 10 minutes late and frazzled. As I stood at the reception, health card and ultrasound films in hand, another woman stood quietly waiting to talk with the receptionist. As the  receptionist hung up the phone, the woman leaned forward and said “it was okay. It was fine!” The receptionist’s face lit up and she thanked the woman for sharing the news. She was obviously well known to the staff-I wondered if her results had always been “it was fine.” Somehow, I didn’t think so.  That small exchange broke the dam on the nerves that I’d been keeping at bay-now I was scared.

            There were two waiting areas. One had coffee, a television and a few chairs. It was right beside the reception and was designed for short stays. A couple of men and a few women sat there. This was the area for the routine screenings and for companions.

            I was ushered to the other area. No explanation was needed when I walked in; this was the area for women who had Found Something. We were all there to find out what the Something was. Four or five women sat in pink flowered hospital gowns, idly flipping through the usual assortment of magazines, or making small talk. I donned my gown and joined them. The gown was designed to provide access and privacy at the same time…and there were pictures inside the dressing room explaining how to put it on properly. It was perky and flowery and I hated it on sight. Periodically, the efficient and cheerful staff summoned one of us for an ultrasound or a mammogram, and then we returned to wait for the surgeon. As the wait for the surgeon lengthened, we contemplated sparking a fashion revolt or possibly a new fashion trend by leading a parade to the cafeteria in our pink-flowered hospital gowns, but thought better of it.

            My turn came for the mammogram. I’d never had a mammogram before, and I was dreading it. I’d heard all the horror stories and was really not looking forward to squashing “the Girls” like a panini. Even though I’d had a breast reduction, “the Girls” are formidable, and they only compress so far.  Deirdre, the friendly, professional woman who shepherded me through the day, was also efficient. She explained that pain was not acceptable with the new digital mammograms-if it hurt there was a problem. She also explained everything every step of the way. By the time I had worked up a stress, the mammogram was finished, and I was sent back to wait with the others.

            For the most part, we were alone. One woman sat with her daughter, one brave man sat hand in hand with his wife in a sea of women. The rest of us were unaccompanied. As the hours dragged on and we waited for the surgeon, the room grew quiet and introspective. A cheery voice heralded the arrival of the surgeon, and the atmosphere changed. The tension was palpable.

            One of the nurses directed us one by one into the exam rooms. The woman who had been waiting with her daughter was the first to finish. As she left, she smiled at all of us and said “good luck.” Her face was unreadable; her daughter’s was relieved. Suddenly, it was my turn.

            The surgeon breezed in and asked me about my family medical history.  I don’t have a family medical history-at least not one that I have access to.  I was adopted in an era when records were sealed-I have no idea what’s swimming in my gene pool. After flipping through a couple of pages, he advised me that nothing had been found that required further investigation and I was free to go. He would send a letter to my doctor. He was out the door and on to the next patient before I had a chance to ask any questions.

            In the space of a few minutes my ordeal was over.  “It was okay, I was fine.” I was not to become a full-fledged member of the Pink Ribbon Sorority this time-I could keep my family, my health, my life…my hair and my “natural” brown colour. Odds were, for at least one woman in pink today, her ordeal was just beginning.  Cancer is the great equalizer. It doesn’t care who you are or what you do. Fame does not shield you; wealth affords you no protection. It will touch all of us one way or the other.

            I donned my clothes and hurried out the waiting area. All of the seats were now occupied on the Found Something side and the people had spilled over to the other side. As I left, I caught the eye of a woman in the telltale pink flowered gown sitting holding hands with her husband. Her face told the tale. I mouthed “good luck” to her, and she smiled, but it didn’t quite make it all the way to her eyes. Her husband nodded at me, and seemed grateful for the acknowledgement. As I waited for my husband and daughter to rescue me and take me home to my life and my future, I said a prayer for the Pink Ribbon Sorority. Sometimes, all we have to offer is prayer.  

The view from Working from Home

This post is inspired by the post by Heather Rigby over at Babble.com.http://www.babble.com/toddler/toddler-development/questions-for-parents-from-SAHM/

I thought I'd contribute a few of my own:

You know you work from home  as a writer if:

1. You know to the nano-second the broadcast length of every DVD in your child's collection, but have no idea what most of them are about because you haven't actually watched them. You also know what DVD is required to meet the required word count for an article. For example, a 1500 word article may require the "Phineas and Ferb Christmas" plus the "Suite Life on Deck with Hannah Montana." A 500 word article might be doable in a "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" or "Enchanted."
2. If your child will be in residence when you are planning on conducting a phone interview, you warn all of your interview subjects in advance that your child is at home, and apologize in advance for any interrruptions that may occur.
3. You have continued a phone interview with a subject, in your best engaging and interested professional voice while: A-taking the back off a sticker. B-changing the DVD (see item 1 above) C-pouring a glass of milk D-cleaning up a puddle of milk after small child was tired of waiting and tried to accomplish (c) by him/herself
4. Made threatening "mommy faces" to small child to chase them back to the living room while continuing interview in best professional voice (and taking notes).
5. Live in fear of a Skype two-person interview becoming a three-person interview when the small person peers into the webcam and announces "who dat? Who dat in your compooter mommy? Can we go to the park now?"
6. Often START your work day at 7pm when your partner has returned from work and can take a turn wrestling the kid(s) to bed while you make a large pot of coffee and work into the wee small hours.
7. Try to schedule as many interviews by email as possible to avoid items 1-5 above.
8. Have perfected the art of writing 1000 words in the 2 hour window that you have between start and finish of summer camp.
9. You have taken a child to a last-minute interview with a bribe of Build-a-Bear or junk food  if they behave. You also charged up the iPod in advance and let them play any level of Angry Birds, even the ones you already had 3 stars on.
10. Have a spouse who has grown accustomed to the look of panic when s/he arrives home and you discover that it's dinner time and nothing is planned.

These are just a few of my random thoughts. Have I missed any?

Back in the Day

Brace yourselves, gentle readers, I have a confession to make...I used to watch Pro-wrestling. I even attended the occasional live event.

I worked in Customs at Pearson Airport in Toronto in the 1980s. Wrestling had made a remarkable resurgence, and I got to know the wrestlers on a first (real) name basis. Hulk Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage, Big Boss Man, Andre the Giant, Hillbilly Jim, the Bushwhackers, George the Animal Steele, Miss Elizabeth, One Man Gang, Brett "the Hitman" Hart, Jim "the Anvil" Niehart, Brutus "the Barber" Beefcake (sigh, in acid wash double sigh)...I cleared them all at one time or another. This post is in honour of Randy "Macho Man" Savage, who passed away in a car accident today.

Sunday afternoons around 1630 hrs they'd start arriving. (That's 4:30pm for non-24 hour clock people) As soon as their afternoon match in Dayton, Ohio or Detroit, Michigan or Columbus in  was over, the wrestlers would pile on the puddlejumper commuter planes and hopscotch across Lake Ontario to Toronto for the 1930 hrs show at Maple Leaf Gardens. When mountains with feet starting arriving in the Customs Hall, you knew the wrestlers had shown up. Half the time, they weren't sure where they were, or who they were fighting. Often, their combatant for the evening's match was standing behind them in line.I remember the British Bulldogs running into the customs hall at 1900 hrs (7pm) because of weather delays. They were scheduled to fight in the 1930 hrs card, but luckily, they were part of the Royal Rumble that night and had some time to meet the handler with the bulldog who was standing in for Matilda before they made their grand entrance. (after he was alleged to have set his snake loose in the customs hall, Jake the Snake Roberts was banned from bringing his own snake in, and had to borrow one for his Toronto matches.)


The wrestlers were a funny bunch. If the fans recognized them, they would go into their wrestling personae and put on a small show. The Customs officers quickly learned that things went more smoothly for everyone if "yes, you knew who they were, and no, you didn't really care." For the most part, with very few exceptions, the wrestlers were respectful and friendly, and tried their best to sign autographs and pose for pictures with their fans. It got a little tense when the "good guys and the bad guys" were in the hall at the same time sometimes, especially when they had travelled together.

We got to know them on another level, because we saw them coming and going so often. For many of us, the wrestlers knew us by name. For example, Brett Hart noticed and commented once when I cut my shoulder-length hair to a much shorter cut. Andre the Giant and One Man Gang, both of whom had to duck to exit the customs hall were quiet gentlemen who never failed to say please and thank you. Hillbilly Jim would often come through customs in his overalls, while Iron Mike Sharpe was always in a suit. George the Animal Steele and Miss Elizabeth travelled virtually incognito.

Working the midnight shifts on Sunday nights sometimes had unexpected bonuses. For example, in the height of the Hulk Hogan-Macho Man battle, we knew weeks ahead who has going to win when-we'd seen the script, but were sworn to secrecy. They often travelled together, sitting side by side in the deserted departure lounge at midnight.

We could occasionally turn the tables on the wrestlers, much to their amusement. The Ultimate Warrior was my friend Janie's favorite wrestler of the time, next to Hulk Hogan. He was entering  the customs hall one evening, and Janie grabbed the rope by her desk and did a fair imitation of his "shaking the ropes" move, just as the deputy chief of the airport arrived to greet a VIP. The Ultimate Warrior cracked up, and Janie just shrugged and processed the VIP. He was a fan, and ended up with an autograph from the Ultimate Warrior.

One of my best memories of those times, though, occurred about 1am one morning. We had a lull before the next drug flight (jargon for a flight from a drug source country that required special handling, and there was a drug lookout on the flight so the RCMP were in the hall) and a few of us were going up to the cafeteria for a break before the next round of mayhem. As we walked along the empty departures area, we noticed the Bushwhackers walking towards us, on their way to catch the red-eye to the next night's fun. Approximately 6 uniformed customs officers and 2-3 RCMP officers paused,  and then we all started to do the "bushwhacker stomp" in perfect unison towards the gob-smacked wrestlers. They paused a minute, and then bent double, laughing so hard they were gasping.  As we drew even with them, they joined us for a couple of steps, and with a "good fun, that" they went to catch their flight and we went to grab our coffee.

I changed jobs and moved from the terminals. Wrestling became more and more about T and A and extreme stunts, and less about the professionals.Owen Hart died.While it holds a special place in my heart and was a big part of my life working in Customs, I haven't watching it in years.  .

So RIP Macho Man. You will always be part of my Customs memories. Thanks for being a good entertainer, a great person to your fans, and a friendly and polite person to clear through customs. Nobody could rock pink leggings, sunglasses and headbands like you. "Ooooh, Ya."

Politics, Elections and Why I will be voting

Politics is in my DNA (next to the Montreal Canadiens). I am a third generation political junkie, I have 2 degrees in Political Science with a specialty in Canadian government and spent much of my academic career trying to understand Quebec separatism since I was an anglo in Quebec during the FLQ. I am a happy camper during election campaigns. This one scares me.

My mother likes to remind me of my first political involvement. We were living in Vancouver, and Trudeau-mania was sweeping the nation. A mob of teens was standing on a corner near our house shouting "North, South, East, West, Trudeau, Trudeau he's the best!" I stood on my front lawn and sang along. I was 5.

I remember winning a school-wide quiz in grade 4 or 5, because I was the only kid in the school to correctly identify a picture Mayor Jean Drapeau. We had moved back to Quebec by then. My parents had been talking a great deal at dinner about the fallout from the FLQ and Expo 67. If I wanted to say anything at dinner, I had to follow politics, because it's what we talked about.

My family are hard-core Liberal supporters. In what was no doubt a rebellion, by high school, fuelled in large part by Joe Clark's Red Tory views, I had become a Progressive Conservative. My grade 12 History teacher, Mr. De la Frenier, treated his students like adults and let us debate him if you could substantiate your point. He was Liberal. I was Conservative. We had many spirited debates. I was 17 when the Clark government fell and I was devastated that I couldn't vote.I still have the letter I received in response to the impassioned missile filled with youthful optimism that I had sent to Joe Clark to encourage him. I met him when I was in university and still have the autograph. I cleared him through customs a couple of times. To this day, I don't believe he got the respect he deserved, and considering what followed, his policies were more sound than he's ever been given credit for. Truth be told, though, I've always championed the underdog.

Through high school and university I was a passionate member of the Progressive Conservatives. I served on the executive of the campus association, I worked on election campaigns at municipal, provincial and federal levels, and I was on two Grossman leadership campaigns. I have a photo circa 1984, taken by a professional photographer from the floor of the first leadership campaign when Larry Grossman was defeated by Frank Miller. I am decked out head to toe in Grossman garb, I have a six-foot fishing rod sticking out of my pocket because I was the "flag point" for rallying the supporters on the floor, and I have a walkie-talkie stuck to my ear. The photographer caught me as the vote tally came in leaving Larry on the final ballot, and my smile is radiant.

I have worked at the staff level and the riding level on a number of campaigns, and learned some things about strategy and dirty tricks along the way from the likes of John Laschinger and Hugh Segal. I still have a handwritten thank you note from Laschinger-and since I used to run Grossman's autopen, I can tell the difference. I also learned some things about the workings of the Conservative party, and after a series of deceitful events, I cut up all my membership cards, including my PC Canada card, and haven't been a card carrying member of any party since the late 1980s.

I believe that the Government of Canada has a responsibility to protect the members of society least able to do that. I believe that our First Nations people, our seniors, our mentally or physically challenged, our children and our poor deserve respect and assistance. I believe that affordable health care should not be tied to income level. I believe that an education shouldn't put you into thousands of dollars in debt. I believe that professionals who immigrate to Canada should be able to practice their profession without having to start over and deliver pizza to feed their family. I believe foreign-trained doctors should be expedited, not forced to jump hurdles.  I believe that there are ways to be fiscally responsible without cutting social programs. I believe that Canada needs to return to a role of mediator and peacekeeper on the world stage.  I believe that corporations need to be better corporate citizens and I believe the Government has a fiduciary responsibility to make policies that protect citizens from excessive profit at the expense of common sense.We have only to look to the US and the Fanny May and Freddie Mac mess to see the wisdom in THAT.  And I believe in the tradition and institution of Parliament. It may not be perfect, but it's what we have.

As much as I disagreed with much that Pierre Trudeau did, his "government has no business in the bedrooms of the nation." resonated with me. As much as I disagreed with Jean Chretien, his stance on the Iraq war against George Bush Senior was the right thing to do in my mind. Considering what Mike Harris did to Ontario after Bob Rae, "Rae days" did not seem like such a bad idea.

We currently have a leader of the Conservative Party who is seeking a majority in the House of Commons. Stephen Harper's government has been found in contempt of Parliament for the first time in history, his supporters and inner circle have been charged with elections violations and document tampering, and who prorogued Parliament twice to avoid non-confidence votes. While I don't particularly like Michael Ignatieff, his comment in the English debate to Stephen Harper that Harper shuts down anything he can't control resonates with me. Under Harper, creative artists, writers and musicians have seen changes to copyright legislation that would change fair use guidelines to cut into our increasingly small copyright royalties. He has cut arts funding and ensured that literary magazines strangle. Most creative people in Canada do not support the Conservatives. This is a leader who wants the press to call the government the Harper government rather than the Canadian government. This is a man who stated that "ordinary people don't support arts funding", painting the whole creative community as elites who drink champagne at black tie galas. I don't know many of my colleagues who go to black tie galas-we couldn't afford the babysitter if we did and many of us couldn't afford the ticket to go in the first place.

Under Harper, Ontario and BC now have HST. And despite his campaign ad to the contrary, cutting the GST had no impact on my family and my business. Adopting HST did because my fee for services increased by 8%, because I now have to charge HST on my business services. In this electronic age, I cost more than my colleague with similar qualifications in another province. It could make a difference in my getting a job.  Under Harper, a national daycare plan was scrapped in favour of $100 a month, which only lasts until a nanosecond after your child turns 6. You tell me where I can pay $100 a month for daycare, and I will move my family there.

If Harper has made these policies with a minority government, God help Canada if he gets a majority. While he takes credit for the economic recovery, much of what saved Canada was the stringent financial regulations that were put in place by the Liberal governments which preceded him. 

I am very torn in this election. I know I will not vote Conservative. What I don't know yet is how I will vote.  I like Jack Layton and I normally vote NDP, but our local candidate isn't very strong. I don't like Michael Ignatieff, but we have a strong Liberal candidate. I like Elizabeth May, but there are huge parts of the Green Party platform that I am not comfortable with. I will vote, but I may be standing in the ballot box before I know how. Right now, it's a battle between my head and my heart.

What I do know, is that there is a lot of truth in the saying "absolute power corrupts absolutely." I hope we don't find out just how much truth there is. 

Grief

It's a funny thing, this business of grieving. There is no timeline, no right or wrong way, and no warning when a wave of grief will hit you.

I've been catching up on overdue filing and purging old paperwork because "Hoarders" is starting to look a little too much like my basement and spare room. As I sorted through a pile of papers, I found the last birthday card my Mother-in-law sent to me. She always dated her cards. I also found last year's St. Patrick's Day card. She was the only person I know who sent St. Patrick's Day cards. I'll miss that, and so will Dave.

I also found the copy of the eulogy that my cousin Glenn gave for his brother, Murray on Labour Day weekend, 2010. For various reasons, I was not able to attend the service in Field, BC, and I have yet to forgive myself, although I did give a valiant attempt to find a way to do it before giving up as reality and obligations trumped my need to say goodbye in person.  While I blinked back tears at the St. Patricks Day card, Glenn's comments about Murr opened the floodgates and picked the scab off the grief that had diminished.

We all grieve in our own way. There is no timeline, no "proper" way. There is only loss and pain and finding our way through to the other side. The only way to get through it is to go through it, and the journey is personal.

Tears remind us of the loss, but also of the love. Tears remind us that, even though finite, we loved and were loved by a special person.  Tears remind us that sometimes now is all we have. Grief and loss never goes away; over time it diminishes to a sad acknowledgement rather than a raw open wound. And the time it takes is whatever it takes for whoever is grieving.

I need to remember that sometimes.

Building a snowman

Sometimes the universe throws you a bone. I've been preoccupied and stressed lately, trying to build a marketing strategy for myself, while dealing with my husband's continued grief over losing his mother and the new challenges we are facing with our daughter. My throat goes into spasm when I'm really stressed, and I've been trying to ignore it, although it's painful and makes eating a challenge.

Mother Nature is playing a game of "now you see it, now you don't" with Southern Ontario. The last couple of days have been positively balmy, with temperatures well above 0 Celsius. When I picked my daughter up from school on Wednesday, she grabbed a mittful of snow and asked:

"Mommy, is this good snowman snow?"

My daughter had not yet learned to build a snowman. Oh sure, she'd stacked piles of snow up and made a reasonable facsimile, but she hadn't yet learned how to roll the snow from tiny to big snowball, how to stack it properly, and lift the head without knocking off the middle piece. The sun was shining. We had swimming lessons but not for a couple of hours. I made a split second decision and told her to go in the backyard, I was going to throw the stuff in the house and I'd meet her there. She looked at me suspiciously for a second to see if I was kidding, and then sprinted for the backyard.

I didn't even bother to change into mitts, so I made a snowman in my good leather gloves. I showed her how to roll the snow, and then she went off to try her own hand at it while I finished my first snowman in about 40 years. I'm a bit out of practice, but my daughter was delighted with the finished result.

mom's snowman

Kid's first snowman

We stayed out until my daughter's snowpants were soaked through, my leather gloves were soaked through and our cheeks were rosy and our noses running. For the first time in a week, the spasm in my throat released.  After a while, I stood on the deck and watched while my daughter carved a den out of the side of the big pile of snow. She was focused and attentive to detail, and made a great job of it.

When she was satisfied with the results, we headed inside to have cookies and hot chocolate before heading out to swimming lessons.

Sometimes, you just have to forget about everything for a time and help your kid build a snowman.

Feeling like a Mamma bear

I'm feeling very Mamma Bear the last couple of days. Choices that my daughter's birth mother made have come home to roost and will have a profound and lifelong impact on my daughter.

We knew about these choices. We researched the implications. We accepted the risks, and we adopted our amazing little girl. The clinical evaluation is a far cry from the reality of the challenges my daughter will now deal with.

We started to notice behaviours over the summer. Given her genetic history, we acted immediately. The pediatrician expressed amazement that we had noticed and acted on it so early. I know my kid. I know what she does and now I know why. It is what it is, and we'll deal with it.

I'm struggling with rage right now. I know the birth mother was terrified that no one would adopt her child because of her drug use. She thanked us again and again for accepting her baby, while we thanked her again and again for giving her to us. The choice to make an adoption plan is never easy, and it's what will get me through this rage. She made bad choices, and then made a loving choice for the future of her child. I'll get back to grateful, but I need to be mad just a little longer.

My protective instincts have kicked in and I'm on Mamma Bear high alert. I will educate myself, and then I will educate others, and advocate for my kid.  She wondered a bit about the big words the doctors were using because we were talking about her. I told her all it meant was we all have different ways of coping with life. I stress eat and write. Grandpa buries himself in work. Grandma worries. And now we know what she does. It's not wrong. It's not weird. It's just her way of coping with life and we will just explain that to other people.

Nothing has changed. My wonderful child is still my wonderful child. My instincts were right and now we move forward, coping and adapting to whatever comes. But don't mess with Mamma bear.