From the current issue of Winterplay magazine, a Christmas memory or two

 

Bring Christmas on

 

The Hero M.D.  and I received the very best early Christmas present yesterday.

The post-op pathology report from my surgery in November was off-the-charts good. My margins are clear: of the 25 lymph nodes examined, none of them had a trace of cancer. There was no metastasis and no perforation. The tumour was entirely removed. The operation was an unequivocal success. I am, for all intents and purposes, currently cancer-free.

Or, in the words of my brilliant and kind oncological surgeon, Dr. Chadi, I am "macroscopically free of disease," meaning that if any cancer remains, it is undetectable to the naked eye.

No one is going to say "cured" for another four or five years, but I am as close to that now as it's humanly possible to be. In January, I will have one final operation that will allow me to fully return to unfettered public life.

It is only hitting me now, in small degrees, that the shadow on my life since Friday the 13th of May, 2022, has lifted. I am also coming to realize the degree to which I had restricted myself from thinking about any kind of assured future. That's the nature of this cancer beast.

The next four years are going to involve medical vigilance in case the cancer returns, but I'm OK with that, because I'll be living the entire time, and not taking any of it for granted.

Bring Christmas on. I'm ready for a joyous one. May yours be similarly joyous.

I'm home from the hospital (again)

Someone missed me, clearly. Not just tonight, but during this whole process, which has often separated, for hours, a senior Labrador who can't manage stairs very well anymore, and his dog-parent, who's spent increasing amounts of time upstairs, lying down, when the chemo-related fatigue kicked in. This evening after getting home from the hospital, what I really, really wanted was a shower. But what I really needed was to spend two hours with him downstairs, stroking Beckett's fur, touching his face, talking to him using my special "Beckett voice" while we waited for the Hero M.D. to come home. Eventually he ambled over to his bed, whacked his tail on the floor a couple of times, then fell asleep. It was good communion.

The last words of Elijah McClain

This afternoon in Aurora, CO, the amended autopsy report on the death of Elijah McClain was released. The 23-year old Black man was injected with ketamine by paramedics following his restraint by police. McClain was stopped after purchasing a bottle of iced tea at a corner store.

Someone had called the authorities, reporting a Black man wearing a ski mask and waving his arms. According to his family, McClain wore a ski mask due to a blood condition that often left him feeling cold. Police put him in chokehold, applying pressure to his carotid artery and injected with the powerful drug against his will.

Seven minutes later, he went into cardiac arrest. Less than a week later, he was taken off life support and declared dead.

I ask forgiveness in advance of my Black friends and readers, and indeed any African American person reading this, who may experience pain at reading yet another example of this ghastly assault on the humanity of POC, particularly the young men.

This is not intended for you. It's intended for people like me, people who might otherwise have sighed and said, "What a tragedy!" then move on to the next news item.

Every time I leave the house, particularly at night, I'm aware of the privilege of my invisibility—in spite of my queerness, my age, or anything other component part of my most visible identity. I can buy iced tea, or Skittles, anytime I want, at any hour.

I could wear a ski mask if I want to, and if I was stopped by the police, I could clarify my position, perhaps even take the upper hand with a slight change of tone, or a different voice, or a veiled comment about lawyers, or that I have connections in the media. Truth be told, I might not even have to. All I'd have to do is take my ski mask off and let the police see my skin colour.

For now, I'm haunted by this transcript of Mr. McClain's final words, the vulnerability of him in face of the all-powerful authority figures who ultimately doomed him.

His words break my heart, and, ironically, even the fact that I have the luxury of having my heart broken by the terrible humanity and fragility of those words is, itself, a form of privilege. I can afford to be horrified and appalled instead of feeling what can only be a ghastly, 400-year old unhealed wound, barely bandaged by an awful sort of familiarity—a familiarity I can only imagine, but never claim to truly know.

No community should have to absorb tragedy after tragedy in the hopes that it effects change. And the job of the change shouldn't be on them— it should be on us.

September morning, over coffee

 

I woke up this morning inexplicably missing my parents. I don't dwell in the past, as a rule, but this journey upon which I've been forced to embark has many detours and side-roads that usually come at night, in dreams. For some reason, I've lately found myself immersed in memories of my mother, and how she loved Christmas, and how, when I was very young, before I started to become an actual "person" who could objectively be liked, or disliked, or argued with, or found "difficult" or "complicated," we had this perfect communion, she and I. All of the early lessons I learned about morality, or kindness, or always putting others first (a tricky lesson—very good for a child, a less useful baseline for an adult) came from her. She had cancer in 2001, but she died from a heart attack, effectively beating cancer at its own game. She was an intrepid woman, and she would have had some wisdom to share right about now. My occasionally very difficult relationship with my late father notwithstanding, there have been so many times in the past four months when I have imagined how great it would have been to be able to pick up the phone and call him, and discuss what I'm feeling, and what I'm going through. None of this is that sentimental business about wishing you'd told people how much you loved them, or "saying the things you needed to say." We did all that, for better or for worse. Articulating feelings, thoughts, impressions, or opinions was never lacking in the Rowe family. But among the great gifts of being sixty is the vast gulf of time between the pain of the past, and the reality of the present, a reality in which you know who you are, and you can (finally) see, and embrace, the fragility and humanity of people who, at one time, held so much power. And this morning, what I wouldn't give for the feel of my father's old Viyella shirt against my face, or to catch a whiff of my mother's Je Reviens perfume, a final touch of magic dabbed on before she left the house with my father to look impossibly glamorous for other people. Or for the scent of her Christmas cookies in the oven, the ones with the almond frosting, that always heralded a time of light in the darkness, of beauty, of colours, and of a brief moment in time when everything was, literally, perfect. Nothing is ever perfect, and yet, sometimes, it just was.

Chemo Round #7

Chemo session #7 (aka "the one officially past the halfway mark when it's done") got underway a half-hour ago, about three hours later than expected, but the nurses were slammed and I know that if anyone wishes thing were running on time, it's them.

The Hero M.D.™ did some food shopping for me at Daniel et Daniel this afternoon, because I mentioned to him that the (very excellent) food shop and Princess Margaret would probably be closed by the time I get out of here this evening.

My incredibly cool nurse Michelle is a horror fan, and we spent some time chatting about books and movies. I think I got her to give Mike Flanagan's Midnight Mass another try—like many discerning viewers, she was initially a bit put off by everyone telling her she HAD to see it. That said, I think I was able to stir those embers a bit, and, like I said, she has great taste so it's a natural fit.

I'm in a ridiculously good mood this afternoon—in the time I've been here today, no fewer than four "end of chemo" gongs were rung, and everyone within hearing distance clapped, all over the hospital. A truly joyful sound, and one I look forward to proving in December when I'm finished with Round #12. I'm already planning my colours for that session. How to evoke Christmas, I wonder? (I don't really wonder—watch me.)

Speaking of colours, I ought to try wearing pink and purple together sometime. I've always wondered what it would look like if a strawberry-frosted birthday cake was hosed down grape Kool-Aid. #fuckcancer #hardtokill

Chemo Round #6

"Pink is the navy blue of India," as Diana Vreeland famously pronounced in 1956 to the legendary fashion photographer Norman Parkinson upon his return from Mahabalipuram, shooting for VOGUE. My cheerful chemo cap has attracted the best sort of attention from the staff and my fellow patients here at PMH this afternoon. This is chemo session #6. It may be the last one, or there may be one more, depending upon forthcoming test results. My conscientious team considerately scheduled a seventh session for just after the CT scan in a few weeks. If we're where we want to be then, we'll cancel it; if not, I have another cozy pod waiting for me. Everyone is in a remarkably good mood today, probably in anticipation of the Labour Day weekend. For me, it brackets the entire summer—a summer of self-care, introspection, gratitude, the love and care of friends, and, of course, the loss of approximately half my hair. I may not have gone anywhere on holiday this summer, but at least I've "been to me," to quote the famously insipid 1970s ballad made famous by Mary MacGregor (and Priscilla, of course.) For now, I'm snuggled up in room 4 of the Purple Ward in full sunlight, feeling groovy and listening to New Country as the machines pump life-saving chemicals into my body for the next hour and a half. If I squint, it feels like I'm in a good hotel under a warm blanket as the afternoon sun pours over me like gold, or at a spa. I did have a chuckle earlier when my day nurse, Ahmed, noted that I'd put on weight. "We have excellent dieticians here," he said delicately. "If you need some help."

Chemo Round #5

 

Chemo session #5. Listening to Sinéad O'Connor with my headphones. Feeling strong in this beautiful place full of such good, good people. Surrounded by love at home, and in life. In the home stretch. Onward and upward. Also, #fuckcancer

Chemo Round #4

 

Chemo round #4 was a bit slow getting started today, due to a backlog from the long weekend, apparently. It didn't matter, I got in, and here I am getting my treatment.

A dear friend asked me recently if it (the cancer) felt "more real" when I was a the hospital for tests and procedures, and dealing with doctor and nurses. I had to think for a moment, and then I told her, no, it doesn't seem "more real" here. It's "real" all the time, 24/7.

What being at Princess Margaret feels like is that I'm doing the work to get better: every jab, prod, inopportune question; every use of any word that would normally make me flinch, but which sound merely matter-of-fact coming from the medical professionals, just feels like climbing that hill in the service of reaching that blessed, dreamed-of summit.

I've been in business class airport lounges that have a higher stress level that the "chemo daycare" waiting room at the hospital, surrounded by people who are ostensibly fighting for their lives. I may be projecting, but 25 years of journalism has made me a pretty good observer, if I may say so myself, and what I've observed is...calm. Resigned calm, I'm sure, in some cases, but calm nonetheless.

We're all just getting on with it.

To the right of me this morning, a husband asked his wife what she wanted him to bring her from Tim Hortons. "Do you want a double-double?" he asked her, clearly something she'd had before and enjoyed. She made a moue with her mouth and said, "Heavens no, not this morning. Too sweet." Off he went to bring his love her bounty, to make the morning sweeter, even if the coffee shouldn't be.

To the left of me, a father and son, who reminded me of salt shakers made by the same company 30 years apart, discussed an upcoming fishing trip in broad, blue-collar Canadian accents—the kind of near-melodious yawing that is often imitated by television actors and comedians, but which they never entirely nail. The son tells his father about a relative who has stocked her private fish pond so densely that you see the fish before you see the water. Maybe we should fish there this fall when you're better, the son joked. "She's crazy as hell," the old man wryly says of his relative with the overstocked pond. "And that wouldn't be fishing as we know it."

There are others who orbit the waiting room. A young man pushes a wheelchair in which is seated a woman whom I at first take for his mother, but a closer look reveals a young woman, her smooth scalp a testament to the ravages of chemo, her body as delicate as a hummingbird swaddled in a lilac fleece hoodie and leggings.

If you merely look, you see a man pushing wheelchair; if you look with your heart as well as your eyes, you see love in every gesture—a gentleness in the way he pushes slowly not to jar her; and for her part, she leans up against the rails of the chair, every gesture calm, knowing he's there to protect her, and whatever the bogeyman of cancer is doing to her, he'll stand between her and everything else.

When we think cancer, we often just think pain and illness. When you're in it, and you're looking, you see so much more: a universal vulnerability, infinite tenderness abounding, kindness and a degree of resignation that never loses its hopefulness.

Unlike many of the people here, I have always preferred to travel to the hospital alone. My loved ones (not the least of which my husband) have been solicitous and caring beyond measure. I have had countless offers to travel to and from chemo sessions and appointments, but I've always demurred. I learned early in my life, and the hard way, that I prefer to face ordeals on my own terms. I like arriving and leaving in an Uber with my own thoughts and my own impressions in my mind until I have to reconnect with other people. It's the ultimate "alone time."

All of that said, I've lately come to realize that my "independence" around this stuff has been bought and paid for by the people I love, the ones who allow me to the luxury of feeling "alone," because I absolutely know I am not, because they're there.

I don't know what it would be like to go through this truly alone, and I don't want to, and I suspect that's something I share with the other units-of-two huddled together in the waiting room, all of us waiting for our pagers to go off because it's time to sit in the chair and be hooked up to the machines so we can keep climbing that hill.

Chemo Round #3

 

Chemo round #3—maybe halfway done? We were a little late getting started today, but Princess Margaret isn't the worst place to hang out while you're waiting for your procedure to begin.

An elderly couple were in the lounge with me, waiting for the husband's chemo. The wife asked me if I could help her husband out of his wheelchair and onto the sofa where he could rest. I gladly agreed. He was almost weightless in my arms. He didn't look at me while I was helping him, and I instinctively knew that, for him, this was a matter of his dignity—even at his age (or perhaps particularly because of it) the notion of being lifted out of his wheelchair by a fellow cancer patient, and a stranger at that, was something with which he was not entirely comfortable.

His wife was grateful, however, and I noticed that she was likewise tentative and fragile in her movements.

I read my book, she read her book, and her husband dozed quietly on the sofa while we waited for our pagers to go off, announcing that our "beds" were ready.

As I watched them, I tried to consider what it would mean to have been married as long as they obviously had been—decades and decades—and to be this fragile, this vulnerable, and for one of them to be going through this cancer treatment. The Hero MD has been terrific, and I'm fairly strong, so it's less of an issue for us. But I was deeply moved by the gentle, measured, rickety, well-worn marital ballet of these two older people who loved each other as much as they obviously did, and who were facing the unthinkable with grace, and with unshakeable intertwined devotion.

Half an hour later, our pagers went off nearly simultaneously. I looked across the room to where the man was waking up from his nap, and his wife was gathering his belongings. I asked her, very quietly, if she'd like me to help her husband back into his chair. She said, "Would you please?" I said that of course I would. He trembled a bit as I helped him off the sofa. I told him, "It's OK, you're not going to fall," and got him into his chair. This time, he looked at my face and smiled, and said, "Thank you, I'm glad you were here." I told him I was glad, too.

If I'd helped him, he'd helped me too.

Cancer is the great equalizer. It makes one tribe out of disparate tribes, and it makes fellow travellers out of strangers. As G.K. Chesterton wrote, we owe each other a terrible loyalty.

Chemo Round #2

Chemo round #2. There was a curtain on my cubicle today, and I asked that it be drawn, for privacy and also to avoid the distraction of seeing everyone coming and going in front of my sight line. I wanted to focus on the experience. The pellucid sunlight poured in through the large window, turning what might have merely been white medical sterility into a cocoon of brightness that was surprisingly soothing, like an aircraft high above the clouds. Midway through my procedure, I heard the sound of a gong echoing down the corridor, accompanied by a cacophony of cheers and clapping. A purely joyful sound. Someone had finished their l final round of chemotherapy and were sent home for the last time. Unsurprisingly, it moved me deeply, and I teared up a bit—not only in anticipation of that happening for me, but also in the spirt of shared joy of triumph over illness that seems to run through the veins of this blessed hospital like quicksilver. I'm glad I had my dark glasses, because my eyes were a bit sore afterwards, and the sunlight was so bright. I don't know who hit the gong that hard, but I hope it felt wonderful, and I hope they felt all of our love. Today's angel was a nurse named Margareta who had that quality I admire most in a nurse—the ability to take care of a patient while allowing them the dignity of autonomy. There's a lot of that going around at Princess Margaret, thank God. So now I'm home resting, with my carbuncle of a portable chemo thermos—Flo #2, so named in honour of my friend Jen McCarthy, who named hers "Flo." No negative effects yet, and feeling strong, though the side-effects may kick in later this evening. But if they do, I've got the drugs to knock them into next week. #fuckcancer

Aiden

Two-year old Aiden McCarthy was found wandering down the street alone in the aftermath of the Highland Park massacre on the 4th of July. Only later did authorities realize that he was alone because both of his parents had been slaughtered by a man on a rooftop with a legally-purchased assault rifle.  Even amidst the shrill, nauseating obscenity of the gun rights advocacy in the wake of yet another mass shooting, I have to wonder how the image of this little boy, who very likely saw his parents murdered in front of him, perhaps even while holding his hands or carrying him in their arms, doesn't set everyone with a pretence to having a heart, or a conscience, on fire. All we ever hear from conservatives is "What about the children?" Well, what 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 the children? It's time someone forced these fucking people to answer their own favourite damned question.

Cherry trees

I woke up this morning to a young man in our cherry tree, picking the cherries. I have no idea how young he was (at my age, almost everyone is "young") but he was certainly agile enough to have shimmied up the tree and made a safe perch for himself in the crook of one of the branches.

Apparently he'd rung the doorbell or knocked, but we slept through it (thank you, magical gummies) so we hadn't given permission. Still, no part of me wanted to reprimand him for "trespassing." He looked so natural, and so happy, up there that all I wanted was for him to be safe and not fall.

I waited for about five minutes, then went out to introduce myself and tell him how pleased I was that he was making use of fruit that would otherwise lie fallow, or feed the squirrels (not that there's anything wrong with that, either.)

There was something so perfectly "summer," so perfectly natural, so organic, and so perfectly beneficent, in his presence there. Youth is, among other things, for being limber and deft and athletic enough to shimmy up a stranger's cherry tree and harvest. I was glad for his presence, and honestly felt blessed by it.

The goodness of the day continued apace with the magnificent news (and complete surprise) that my best friend, whom I have not seen in two and a half years is not only in this part of the world, but that we will see each other in a matter of weeks when he flies up to Toronto from his film set in Ottawa for a visit. Next week is set to be a fairly medicalized one, so having a reunion with Ron to look forward to is yet another gift that fell out of the morning sky, entirely unexpectedly.

I got a haircut this afternoon. I'm not anticipating hair-loss on this chemo protocol, but they tell me it can get thinner and drier, so I thought I might get a jump on the whole mess. Joe, who cuts it, has been my friend for longer than I've been married, so a check-in with him is really a visit with an old friend at least as much as it is an exercise in making me presentable.

After the haircut, I took a cab downtown to get something to eat. The cab driver was a New Country fan, and we drove down Yonge Street incongruously blasting Paul Brandt and Brad Paisley and I took in the signs of summer at every turn, particularly the wonderful ease and speed of the youth as they move through the month. Like the boy in the cherry tree this morning, I was unaccountably and powerfully moved the rush of life all around me, and it fed my soul in a way.

At the restaurant, I re-read May Sarton's Journal of a Solitude and had a brief check-in phone conversation with my family in Nova Scotia, which always anchors me to who I am, who I love, and what my history is.

When I arrived home, I took Beckett out to the park. The temperature has mellowed and the humidity was gone, so it was intensely pleasurable to be outside again. We went to the top of the hill brow overlooking the Riverdale Park bowl and parked ourselves there on the grass. I combed his fur with my fingers and we both watched the dogs and frisbee players below as the sun started to set.

To my delight, I was joined by an old friend I hadn't seen in awhile. She's a woman I've always admired for her intelligence and the dryness of her delivery. I hadn't known that she was also a cancer survivor, and we had one of those marvellous talks I'm growing used to with women who are either survivors themselves, or in treatment as I am, where useful and practical information and advice is shared as naturally as our mothers' generation shared recipes.

It's almost 9:00 p.m., and I'm wondering why today feels like one of the best days I've ever had.

One of the surprising side-effects of this cancer has been the shredding of several layers of numbing "protection" between events and my reaction to them. Tears seem much more at the ready, but so is laughter, so is tenderness, and so is pure wonder at the beauty and preciousness of life, and how lucky I am to be in it.

I'm not high, or drunk, or even especially tired, so I have to assume that the good feelings I have right now are legitimate, and that everything between the young man trespassing in our cherry tree and Beckett and I watching the sun set at the top of the hill was as good and wholesome and nurturing as it seems to have been.

Today's lesson? Look for the gold in your waking hours. It's most likely there, but if you're not open to it, you'll walk right past it, lost in self-indulgence, or self-pity, or even just clueless, harmless ambivalence.

There's so much beauty out there, and it's all free.

One perfect morning

 

I woke up early this morning, around six, and lay in bed in a very pleasant semi-daze while the Hero MD slept beside me.

In spite of yesterday's horrific seismic events courtesy of SCOTUS, and the fact that they continue to haunt me today in a way that Trump's election in 2016 did, I had a good sleep. I've been pounding back water—two litres at a time—to remain hydrated and flush the chemicals out of my body. It seems to be working. While yesterday I couldn't remember the word "hibiscus" at the health food store, I felt clear-headed and rested this morning.

After awhile, I realized I wasn't going back to sleep, and I decided to get up and take Beckett to the park. I got dressed and went downstairs. He looked at me from his dog bed as if to say, "What are YOU doing up at this hour...?" I told him to get his leash, and that we were going for a walk. Wryly he lumbered over to the where his leash was kept and brought it to me, still with that "Seriously? Is this actually going to happen?" look on his face. I sighed, because I hadn't had any coffee yet at the Labrador was shedding attitude.

I always forget how graceful early morning in summer is, particularly in our neighbourhood. The trick is getting that sweet-spot hour before the sun starts baking everything. This was that hour. I could smell flowers everywhere. There were birds in the trees speaking their own morning thoughts to each other, and everything was very, very green.

At his age, Beckett is no fan of the heat—any heat—to we didn't get very far. He did his business and smelled the tree trunks and fences and flowerbeds, but when he was done, he was done, and he trotted home at a much quicker pace than he'd set out. But it was lovely nonetheless to be just another early-morning Cabbagetown dog walker, nodding at other dog walkers whose names we never know, even if we know their dogs' names.

After I fed him and gave him some fresh water, I decided to treat myself to a muffin and a cup of coffee from the Epicure deli on Parliament Street, one of my favourite go-to spots in the neighbourhood. It's run by a wonderful family with a knack for hiring really lovely young staff, and the food is superb.

For the first time in my life, I was the first person in the shop as they were opening up. The AC felt wonderful on my face, and the shop had the same fresh, rested feeling that I did. I selected a blueberry muffin and a small coffee with cream and sugar, because, literally and metaphorically, I've felt deprived of cream and sugar for the past month.

On the way home, I was remembering that the Hero MD and I first moved to Cabagetown in the fall of 1984. We had just met that summer and we fell in love, hard. We got engaged that Christmas Eve, and started this whole marvellous travelling circus of life.

We've lived in other houses, in other places, but this neighbourhood always felt like home, and never more so than this morning, for some reason. Maybe it was the early morning warmth, maybe it was the silence, maybe it was the sweet anonymity of being just another anonymous person walking down familiar streets without wearing my history, but remembering everything.

From the moment I was diagnosed with cancer this spring, I made a promise to myself to not build up any false hopes, or create fantasies. I promised myself that I would deal in facts, and build on those, and work with them, and make them work with me. Reality has always been my most reliable friend. If I can "own" the difficult parts, then I've paid for my right to celebrate the joys.

Still, this morning, I allowed myself to just revel in my sense of bien-être and to take it heart. To feel good, and to feel OK about feeling good; to feel optimistic about feeling good, and to run with that. God knows what the future will hold—success, I hope, but I know that harder days are coming.

That said, I felt an impossible-to-ignore spark in me this morning, in all that early-summer beauty, and it spoke to me. It put me back in my body, and it turned up the light in my soul. I feel good, and I feel optimistic. Even if it's just a chimera, I'll take it. It's good to be alive on a morning as beautiful as this one.

And Beckett is awake again, and he wants a bite of my blueberry muffin.

Chemo Round #1

 

My energetic home-care nurse, Zaid, has just unhooked me from the odious portable chemo pack, so I am officially finished with round #1. In honour of my friend Jen, who disliked hers equally, and nicknamed it "Flo," I have nicknamed mine "Flo 2," and I'm going to enjoy my two weeks off before she's reattached after round #2.

This round of chemo itself was painless, and there was no nausea during or after, though I'm told this is not likely to be the case as it ramps up over the course of the next five sessions. That said, I have some powerful nausea meds on board, and have no compunctions about using them. The "Chemo Daycare" facility at Princess Margaret was really pleasant—large cubicles or small rooms on a sunny floor with big windows. My nurse, JoJo, was attentive and caring, which never hurts. 

On the way out, feeling a bit stoned, I fell into conversation with an older woman who gave me advice on how to handle what was to come. This generosity of my fellow patients has been a gift. On the way home, a friend introduced me to her neighbour who had done her own stint at PMH, and advised me to invest in fig newtons, or all things, which she swore by in order to keep the nausea down. 

This theme of kindness and generosity, and gentleness, especially from women my age or older, who are either in my predicament or have survived it, has been the most life-affirming part of this otherwise unpleasant process. I am drawn to their language, and am struck by how well I speak and understand it, and how it resonates. 

Too, the wall of love from friends, "live" or virtual, has been ridiculously buoying. The messages here on FB and IG, the flowers, the cards, the caring—I feel all of it in a real and tangible way, and the gratitude I feel makes me a bit weepy at times. 

Last night, my glorious next-door neighbour brought over a bowl of fresh salsa that his wife had just made 15 minutes before. Dear God it was delicious, and while I'm sure other food has gone down better over the course of the past six decades, I'm at a loss, just now, to remember what that food might have been. Maybe love is the magical ingredient she used.

Not for the first time I'm recalling, and drawing on, the wisdom of Fred Rogers. When he was a boy, he said, he would see scary things on the news. His mother told him, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping." 

Lucky me—I've not needed to look. The helpers found me all on their own. And I'm so beyond blessed by them

Wind-sprints

 

This afternoon I stopped by the Rosedale United Church office to pick up a pair of sunglasses I'd left there when I did a "Christmas memory" reading last December. It's the furthest from home I've ventured since getting home from the hospital last week.

On the way out, I stopped by the chapel, a place I utterly adore in its pristine Protestant simplicity. The nave was dark, except for the light streaming through the brilliant stained-glass windows.

The church dates from 1914. In the warm months, it smells wonderfully of age—the olfactory patina of a century of summer sunlight gently baking into the wood. It's a sweet, nutty scent I associate with the old Canadian churches of my childhood and, therefore, in part, with childhood itself.

I'm used to Rosedale being full of light and music, full of people, including people I love, but there was something beautiful and holy about the embracing silence and the dimness. I was suddenly awash in memories, and I put them in a good place in my heart. They'll come in handy in the coming months.

Outside, waiting for my Uber, I watched a sixteen-year old boy in a green t-shirt and black shorts do wind-sprints from one end of Whitney Park to the other. Back and forth he raced, almost flying.

He could have no way of knowing how beautiful he was in that moment, in his youth and strength and unselfconscious disavowal of barriers.

He pumped his knees higher and higher with every stride, effortlessly gathering speed. At one point it seemed as though gravity was deferring to him, releasing him into the air, more than that he was merely running.

He shouldn't know any of those things. Part of the beauty of being sixteen is the not knowing.

I smell Toronto summer in the air this afternoon, even if only traces of it on such a cool, misty afternoon. But it's coming. I have been loving this moment since 1982, my first summer in the city.

Watching the boy, I was remembering the summer of 1983 when I trained for the Toronto Marathon, racing myself through impossibly green neighbourhoods just like this one, and in endless circles around the track at the athletic centre at the University of Toronto. I felt immortal, and the future just rolled in front of me like a flat highway with no traffic.

I hope the boy in the green t-shirt felt a bit like that sprinting through Whitney Park this afternoon. That would be as it should be, and all would be right in the world.

Venerating the Sacred Labrador

Since my mobility has been excellent since my operations last week, I decided to try to take Beckett for a walk and see how far we got. Amusingly, his 12-year old arthritic Labrador's gait is the perfect step match for my own post-op ambulations, so we were in sync.

It was unseasonably cold all day after yesterday's terrible storm, but by 4:00 p.m. the light was gleaming, so out we went. The winds and rain yesterday had ravaged all but the hardiest foliage, but there were still traces of hardy lilacs and some apple blossoms on the tree, here or there. The air was damp and delicious and cool, almost autumnal, but floral instead of spicy.

On the way home, through Riverdale Park, we came upon a group of South Asian young people who were celebrating. Earlier, we had seen balloons in festive marigold colours of orange and yellow festooning their picnic table, and an arch they had constructed. The women were wearing beautiful long dresses, so it was obviously an important celebration. The table had been laid with a cloth, upon which were placed dishes of delcious looking Indian food.

One of the young women caught my eye and smiled, and asked if she could pet Beckett. Since Beckett loves to be petted by women—since he was a baby, he has loved the pitch of women's voices, and responds to it like it's a drug—I told her that of course she could pet him.

Her hand was painted with a beautiful, intricate lace of henna, and her nails were laquered pale pink, almost white, and were very long through Beckett's fur. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, and let her pet him. One of the young men took a picture.

Another young man told me that they were celebrating the baby shower of one of the couples there.

"I saw the decorations earlier," I said. "This was clearly the party to be at this afternoon." He laughed warmly, flashing beautiful white teeth. "Next time you must come one hour earlier, my friend!" he replied.

I told him I regretted not having done so, and was surprised to realize I actually meant it.

Six or seven more of the young people came over to meet Beckett, and he was in heaven, basking in the all the attention, and the rhythmic, gentle scrape of the young woman's nails in his fur.

A cloud moved away from the sun just then, and the entire park was bathed in glorious spring dusk sunlight, gold and orange like the marigold balloons. I caught a sudden whiff of exquisite jasmine perfume on the breeze from one of the women in the flowing dresses.

I remembered all the Victoria Day Sundays I'd spent with dogs in this park—Harper, Simba, and now Beckett— and for the life of me couldn't remember one as lovely as this one, or a scene as poignantly optimistic, full of life and possibility.

Cancer

A week ago, I received the news that I had colon cancer. I spent five nights at Toronto General and had three surgical procedures, one under general anaesthetic. I’m home now, and resting, and very happy to be back in my own bed. Next week, I will be referred to the oncology department at Princess Margaret Hospital, arguably the best cancer hospital in Canada, for further treatment, possibly chemotherapy and/or radiation. After that, it will be back to Toronto General for more surgery.

Great news, though: there has been no metastasis, which is going to make it much easier to isolate and fight.

When you hear you have cancer, the floor drops out from under you. Suddenly, everyone and everything you love becomes even more precious. You can't know this exact, specific feeling until it happens to you.

The day after the diagnosis, I attended a children’s birthday party in the park hosted by dear friends, which was ridiculously joyful and lovely. After that, I took a leisurely walk through Cabbagetown and photographed the things I found most beautiful—flowering trees, blossoms, green grass, blue sky, Beckett, our house, our garden, my husband's face.

The radiance of those things was almost unbearable that day.

I’ve tried to analyze my feelings about this diagnosis, but one overwhelming feeling comes to the fore again and again: I feel gratitude.

I’m grateful for the sharp-eyed radiologist who caught this when she was looking for something else, and had the skill to ask, “What is this shadow on his colon?”

I’m grateful for the doctors, and especially the nurses, who looked after me all week. I’m in awe of the diverse, multicultural, multiracial makeup of the hospital staff, literally an amalgam of the best and brightest from all over the world who've come to Canada in a tributary, dedicating their youth, their strength, their intelligence, and their skill, to healing, especially my favourite nurse, Muuna, who has an angel's touch.

I’m grateful to live in a country where an essential five-day life-saving hospital stay is a matter of logistics, not bankruptcy. I’m grateful to those true friends and family who have generously shared colon cancer survivor stories with me, and sustained by with the bulwark of their love. They’ve boosted my morale beyond measure.

I'm grateful for the tidal wave of insight into what's truly important, and what couldn't be less important, that crashed over me from the moment of the diagnosis, and in the rich waters of which I am still borne aloft.

I’m grateful that I’m going to be mentioned in the community prayer at Rosedale United Church this Sunday, because they're wonderful people, and I’ll take all the help I can get, and gratefully.

I'm insanely blessed, no question about it.

I’m also under no illusion that the road ahead is going to be easy, or painless, but I’m also determined to fight this with everything I have and come out the other side.

If this page goes “radio silent” at certain points in the coming months, don’t assume the worst. It'll likely just mean I'm off fighting for the thing that means the most to me in the world: life, and the great privilege of living it.

On the 89th anniversary of the start of the Nazi book burnings in Berlin

 "Where they burn books, they will, in the end, burn human beings too."

—Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)

Today is the 89th anniversary of the start of the Nazi book burnings in Berlin that went on until October of 1933. Books were burned for being "un-German," "unpatriotic," and unwholesome by the standards of Nazi ideology and purity. Notably, "decadent" works by Jews, foreigners, and homosexuals were consigned to the flames.

Of particularly chilling significance in 2022 was the burning of 20,000 books on homosexuality, lesbianism, and transgender studies from Magnus Hirschfeld's Institut für Sexualwissenschaft (Insitute for Sexology) which had been raided four days earlier on May 6th.

As we witness sweeping book banning in the United States, particularly books dealing with LGBT issues, themes on race, and feminism, as well as the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the banning of transgender-affirming healthcare for minors, it admittedly feels to some of us like howling into a storm with winds so strong we can barely hear ourselves anymore.

These screams are a notch higher, and more desperate, than the unheeded ones in 2016, when all of this was predicted in the final months of Donald Trump's presidential campaign.

This. Is. Actually. Happening.

For the love of God, folks, let's wake up. Burning books is the most symbolic of acts, and it's a bellwether of terrible things, whether the books being burned are literal or metaphorical. They knew that in 1933, and we know it in 2021.

VE Day, 77 years later

On May 8th, 1945, Europe was liberated from the fascism that threatened not only Europe, but the world. By the end, untold suffering had been inflicted, and the number of the the Nazis victims' was so great that it could only be rounded off to the nearest six million, give or take. Why then, 77 years after VE Day, has fascism stirred back to life, this time in the countries that committed their militaries to defeat it? The easy answer is, people forget. And a lot of people enjoy hatred, especially hatred of difference. The irony of course is that the Nazis packaged and sold that hate as "patriotism" and "morality"—exactly how it's being sold today, right under the noses of people who would bristle at being called stupid, or oblivious. It's almost as though WW2 never happened, and the stories of horror and virtue that came out of it were nothing more than a late-night drunken rant in a bar, the name of which no one can remember. Please, please remember. This is how it occurs: one law change at a time, a scapegoating here or there, a culture war, the demonization of the press, and the recasting of history as "your opinion." You know whose opinion it was everything was going to be fine? Minorities in Germany in the early 1930s. Never forget how wrong they were.