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.

Spring. Finally.

 

I never count spring as having arrived until the cherry blossoms on our tree decide to bloom. They bloomed last night. This is the first day of their admittedly short life. 

On the upside, spring has finally arrived. The cherry tree has spoken. 

Dexter behind the camera

Last night I spent some time on the telephone with my young friend Dexter, the 16-year old writer and filmmaker I've been mentoring since the fall of 2019.

Early that October, I'd met his mother on a cross-province train ride to a book signing in London, Ontario. She and I liked each other very much, and she told me that her son was an aspiring writer and filmmaker. I told her to bring him along to the signing the next day. Dexter and I hit it off like a house on fire, and I asked to see some of his work, which was excellent for his age.

Over the past two and a half years, I’ve been reading and critiquing his short stories and his screenplays, providing feedback and a sounding board, helping him take himself seriously as a young artist. He's made some ambitious short films during that time and, in fact, he won his first film award last year.

The film he shot this past weekend—which we debriefed last night—was done from an excellent, very short, very tight screenplay. When I first read it, I was struck by his evolving confidence and maturity. As a mentor, it was a moment of the purest pride to see the growth and progress of his ambition, skill, and vision.

For my own part, I’m also the product of mentors—life mentors, of course, but also literary ones. The gift of an older writer's time, skill, patience, encouragement, and nurturing is one that I’ve been honoured to pay forward with Dexter.

But honestly, the best part of this whole process is how much fun it is to work with such an unambiguously talented young artist. Calling him a “great kid” obviously has a shelf-date, because, even at 16, he’s showing signs of being the real deal, even though he is, absolutely, a great kid. But we should also remember his name, because he’s going places.

Caitlyn Jenner Never Fails to Disappoint

 

Last night, Caitlyn Jenner made her debut as a Fox contributor on Sean Hannity. She praised Ron DeSantis, and she praised Florida's "Don't Say Gay" law. She reminded Hannity that she was "trans, but not a trans activist," hinting that there was more anti-LGBT opprobrium from her to come. This morning I double-checked her "inspirational" 2015 ESPY Award speech—for which she receieved a standing ovation—because I could have sworn it was about the vulnerability of LGBT kids, and how they shouldn't have to "take" abuse from adults for who they were. Turns out it was about that, which makes her sickening descent into what she has become even more monstrous. Obviously that was the baggage she carried into her new life from her old life as a rich, bigoted, white Republican ex-jock. The sad thing is, she could have checked that baggage and never picked it back up again. She could have been a leader, and a lioness-protector. As long as I live, I will always harbour the deepest and most profound dislike of bullies, especially adult bullies of queer children. I come by that dislike honestly, and from first-hand experience. And unlike Ms. Jenner, when I say that kids shouldn't have to "take it," I mean it.

Shaw

 

"Here are some snapshots if you'd like to see them: Shaw helping Brian string Christmas lights along the edge of the roof of our house, then calling me outside to witness them being switched on. Shaw shovelling the snow, or cutting the grass without being asked; me bringing him out a glass of lemonade, or a bottle of water. Shaw inviting friends and girlfriends over for Sunday dinner, paying particular attention to whether or not they were showing Brian and I the correct level of respect. Shaw playing his ubiquitous, omnipresent acoustic guitar while I bustled about upstairs, or wrote in my study, the music drifting up through the air vents, never a distraction, always a comforting and peaceful reminder of his presence."

—from "Other Men's Sons" (2001)

Valentine, directed by my friend, Australian film director Jamie Blanks, was released on this day in 2001. I stayed with Jamie and his then-girlfriend (now wife) Simone at their beautiful rented condo in Vancouver while I was doing the interviews for the Fangoria article. I suppose 21 years ago is a very long time, but it seems even longer, and even more dizzying, when I remember how much fun it all was, writing for the world's premier horror film magazine, running around film sets with a notebook and a tape record, jumping on planes, working with friends in the particular innocent of that last, halcyon pre-9/11 cultural moment, after which nothing would ever be innocent again. I'm grateful for the memories.