The Cancer Institute offers classes and education on every step of the process. This education starts with a volunteer led tour of the facility so you can find your way through the myriad of clinics, treatment areas and other services such as the wig shop. People are always sitting on the couches waiting for their tour along side of the reception desk where I checked in for my appointments after flashing my red ‘club card.’ I looked at their faces and they shared the same look of being pole axed. However I could not bear to look at the young mothers with babies in stollers.
There was quite a big class for chemo school, and mainly people older than 70 years old. I was told that, unless I went chemo school, and naturally I did not want to go, I would not get chemo. The nurse practitioner walked us through the process for chemo, and it was helpful to know what was going to happen. At the class there was an older man who attended all alone. My mini medical pitbull J was with me taking copious notes. He said in the class, “They have been telling me all this stuff about cancer and that I need chemo. I don’t know what they are talking about and what cancer is this?” The nurse practitioner told the man to wait after class and he would help him find some answers. Talk about floating alone in a scarey ocean.
At the rehabilitation class I attended I heard information that I had not learned before. Women gain between 10 – 30 pounds during breast cancer treatment. There is no clear information why exactly this takes place but it is a combination of emotion, chemicals and drugs and the body’s reaction to the assault it faces. Or maybe it is the reduced activity that is normal reaction to feeling poorly. A volunteer told the group that after a year, she found that the weight had gradually been lost.
Cancer related related fatigue is another side effect of cancer treatment. Some people report levels of fatigue to the extent that they are exhausted after simple daily activities like tooth brushing or dressing. Whatever the level experienced, the only way the fatigue begins to dissipate is through exercise. One woman told me that hearing that was about the most debilitating information she had heard. She said, “Imagine being told to exercise when you are experiencing the worst case of flu you have ever had?”
I couldn’t exercise to the extent that I liked to do. I complained to the nurse practitioner and the doctor that after my hour walk in the morning with my friend, I could not weight train or run. The doctor and the nurse practitioner literally laughed in my face. Luckily I found their reaction funny.
The other lingering effect of chemo was on my nails. My finger nails were affected first and then my toes started to show the effects. The nails become ridged, with pits and black lines. Chemo ended in September and by February my finger nails were clear fo black lines and ridges. I needed to trim my nails back nearly to the quick because, after the lightest contact, they would disintegrate like rotten rubber right off the finger tips.
My toe nails were simply grotesque. There was a kind of horrific thrill to look at them. I wanted to share this part of my journey with my daughters but they drew the line at this. Finally by February I could glimpse normal nail growth at the base the toe nails but it was a slow process. And, also a helpful reminder that I really did have cancer and I went through 7 months of treatment.
I understood the purpose of chemo was to kill free floating guerilla cancer cells in my system. It also gave me the best complexion I have ever had. Not something I recommend of course, but buh bye rosacea. I got many compliments on how great my skin looked. "Oh, thanks." I’d say modestly, "but I owe it all to A/C." (The chemicals in my chemo cocktail.)
The other aspect of chemo is all and I mean all of the body hair vaporizes…..pfft…gone. Of course the pubes were nekkid and sad but I was interested to discover the importance of nose hair. Bend over to tie the shoes without it, and drips ahoy!
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Hair today, Wig tomorrow
About three weeks after the first chemo my scalp began to hurt. Even the wind blowing my hair hurt. I had gone back to work after about 5 days and since every person I know or every have known was aware of my breast cancer I did not have to keep up an act.
One day at work I touched my hair and a great clump came out. Like the tongue continues to seek the hole in the tooth, I kept reaching up and finding more and more hair come away. I rushed into the bathroom and ran my hand along my hair and a great freaking slath of hair was in my hand. Suddenly I could see myself seated at the lunch table, lean over to slurp soup, and a hunk falling on my plate. EEEEEK!
I called F. and told she needed to do the shave. I went to see her and she gently, gently shaved my head, from the back to the front to reduce the shock. I was sad but at least I had a wig I liked.
My friend Judy gave me two wigs and when I showed them to J. and F. their faces were absolute pictures. Ha!
'No fucking way!' was the mildest comment. They were set to make me buy a wig when we tried out the FREE wig shop at the Cancer Institute.
J. and visited the wig shop. I must have tried on about 50 - 60 wigs until J. was satisfied. Of course I had to wait for F.'s verdict before I know I could keep it.
The wig is a ear length, long-banged, red wig. Initially people noticed but after a while, like new glasses, no one really noticed.
So from June 2007 until December I wore the wig. My head was cold continuously. There is a surprising amount of warmth generated by our hair. My hair never started to grow until the end of November, a full 2 months after the end of chemo.
My husband Pepsi has a charming way of dealing with the changes to my appearance. For the breast with the slice out of it, he says it is like a giant winking eye. But he reserves his greatest enthusiasm for my bald head. He slavered over the shape and feel of my bald head. When my hair finally started to grow in he moaned over the new growth and maintains if he had my hair he could win in politics. So lucky to have a husband like him.
Head shaving was a contraversy with my family. J. and Pepsi both decided to do this out of sympathy. I just stared at them. Get serious. It is bad enough I am bald. The idea died.
One day at work I touched my hair and a great clump came out. Like the tongue continues to seek the hole in the tooth, I kept reaching up and finding more and more hair come away. I rushed into the bathroom and ran my hand along my hair and a great freaking slath of hair was in my hand. Suddenly I could see myself seated at the lunch table, lean over to slurp soup, and a hunk falling on my plate. EEEEEK!
I called F. and told she needed to do the shave. I went to see her and she gently, gently shaved my head, from the back to the front to reduce the shock. I was sad but at least I had a wig I liked.
My friend Judy gave me two wigs and when I showed them to J. and F. their faces were absolute pictures. Ha!
'No fucking way!' was the mildest comment. They were set to make me buy a wig when we tried out the FREE wig shop at the Cancer Institute.
J. and visited the wig shop. I must have tried on about 50 - 60 wigs until J. was satisfied. Of course I had to wait for F.'s verdict before I know I could keep it.
The wig is a ear length, long-banged, red wig. Initially people noticed but after a while, like new glasses, no one really noticed.
So from June 2007 until December I wore the wig. My head was cold continuously. There is a surprising amount of warmth generated by our hair. My hair never started to grow until the end of November, a full 2 months after the end of chemo.
My husband Pepsi has a charming way of dealing with the changes to my appearance. For the breast with the slice out of it, he says it is like a giant winking eye. But he reserves his greatest enthusiasm for my bald head. He slavered over the shape and feel of my bald head. When my hair finally started to grow in he moaned over the new growth and maintains if he had my hair he could win in politics. So lucky to have a husband like him.
Head shaving was a contraversy with my family. J. and Pepsi both decided to do this out of sympathy. I just stared at them. Get serious. It is bad enough I am bald. The idea died.
chemoville capers
Who knew people would be keen to accompany me to chemo?
As I mentioned daughter J. did a sexual puppet show at the foot of my bed.
My number two daughter F came sporting a white off -the- shoulder blouse that revealed her extensive tattoo glory, white blonde hair (she was channeling Marilyn Munro at that time) bright red lips and such chirpy energy I had to tell her to be quiet. The oldies could not stop staring at her and I don't blame them.
One friend rubbed my free arm and encouraged me to relax.
And another friend who was formerly an intensive care nurse, was a complete angel! Just the right voice, the right touch, and the drink the moment it was needed. She was so wonderful.
The nurses in daycare are constantly changing because the environment is so gruesome and the pressure so intense around avoiding errors.
I had one male nurse who managed to cord my veins through improper cleansing and hurried treatment. The fat asshole would not listen to me that my veins are small and rubbery. He just kept jabbing in my arm. Toward the end of his attempts I dropped the Miss Nice Compliant Patient regime and barked at him to get someone who knows what they are doing. One bad poke is all anyone gets now. Take that as you will.
At the start of chemo I was given steroids and anti nausea drugs before any of the joy juice gets infused. I could feel my face swell and my sinuses start to fill immediately.
The treatment itself is painless. As the stuff went into my body the anti nausea drugs kicked in and all I felt was thick, thick, thick. There is a terrible taste and my body and brain were out of sync. And the knowledge that I had to do this three more times. In fact, I was lucky. The cancer I had did not have the gene to replicate itself. So only four chemos instead of months and months of chemo to irradicate the cancer that can just grow again in anothe place.
As I mentioned daughter J. did a sexual puppet show at the foot of my bed.
My number two daughter F came sporting a white off -the- shoulder blouse that revealed her extensive tattoo glory, white blonde hair (she was channeling Marilyn Munro at that time) bright red lips and such chirpy energy I had to tell her to be quiet. The oldies could not stop staring at her and I don't blame them.
One friend rubbed my free arm and encouraged me to relax.
And another friend who was formerly an intensive care nurse, was a complete angel! Just the right voice, the right touch, and the drink the moment it was needed. She was so wonderful.
The nurses in daycare are constantly changing because the environment is so gruesome and the pressure so intense around avoiding errors.
I had one male nurse who managed to cord my veins through improper cleansing and hurried treatment. The fat asshole would not listen to me that my veins are small and rubbery. He just kept jabbing in my arm. Toward the end of his attempts I dropped the Miss Nice Compliant Patient regime and barked at him to get someone who knows what they are doing. One bad poke is all anyone gets now. Take that as you will.
At the start of chemo I was given steroids and anti nausea drugs before any of the joy juice gets infused. I could feel my face swell and my sinuses start to fill immediately.
The treatment itself is painless. As the stuff went into my body the anti nausea drugs kicked in and all I felt was thick, thick, thick. There is a terrible taste and my body and brain were out of sync. And the knowledge that I had to do this three more times. In fact, I was lucky. The cancer I had did not have the gene to replicate itself. So only four chemos instead of months and months of chemo to irradicate the cancer that can just grow again in anothe place.
I went back to work as soon as was feasible to retain some measure of normalcy in my life.
Wasting Away in Chemoville
Please sing the title to the tune of 'Wasting Away in Margaritaville'.
The day for my first chemotherapy treatment sped closer and closer. My feeling of mounting dread can be best described as someone being dragged to the electric chair. Instead of a jolt of electricity, I was to be given a lethal dose.
People kept giving me helpful suggestions:
· Fight with all of your might.
· You have to go with the chemo for it to work.
· Positive thinking will heal you.
I found this sort of cant irritating. What about the others who died? Didn’t they fight? Were they negative? The power of prayer is really not a proven power except in the minds of believers. The chemo either is successful or the cancer comes back in situ or worse. It is a crap shoot.
J and Alison accompanied me on the first chemo treatment. So did Pepsi my husband. I got dressed to the absolute nines as armour. It was just a gruesome and surreal as I anticipated.
I arrived in the area called ‘daycare’ and waited for my chemo nurse. Quite a number of people were seated in chairs that looked much like old fashioned beautician chairs. Instead of a hair dryer, there was the machine that dispensed the chemo.I voted to lie on the bed instead of sitting up for fear I would fall over.
My veins weren't too thrilled either.As soon as they tried to get a needle into my arm, the vein would roll away. The nurse struggled and found a vein in my left arm. The right arm cannot be used for blood pressure, blood tests or even heavy lifting because of the removal of the sentinel node gland for fear of triggering the dreaded and permanent condition of lymphadema…fluid fills your arm and it blows up like a baloney.
The nurse explained that there were two drugs..a and c…I don’t know the names…I refused to learn…I will not become medicalized. Much checking takes place. I had to verify the name on the bags of poison and mine were the same.
The nurse held the orange bag aloft and dramatically announced…this is what will make your hair fall out. Not to be outdone by Nurse Sensitivity's drama I burst into tears. Truthfully, it was not the hair loss….it was the fact I had to allow this gross orange poison flood my system.
The people in the ward are mainly seniors in the plus 70 age range. Cancer is mainly an older person disease. I saw many topsy turvey wigs and rather lost looking people. Some were so ill it was painful to see them.
That brings me to the energy at the Cancer Institute. When J. and I went for one of my first appointments were were waiting in the 'Sunshine Cafe.' I felt a wall, a miasma of terror, angst, dispair surrounding me. Yeah, I was upset but not like that. I looked at J. and saw that her eyes were widely dilated. I asked, 'Can you feel that?' She said, 'You must never come here along.'
Time dripped by as the chemo was infused into my body. Takes about 2 hours. I made it through the first chemo thanks to my husband Pepsi, my friend Alison, and my beloved mini medical pitbull J. She helped pass the time by conducting a puppet show at the foot of my bed. Sexually suggestive, naturally.
Only three more to go.
The day for my first chemotherapy treatment sped closer and closer. My feeling of mounting dread can be best described as someone being dragged to the electric chair. Instead of a jolt of electricity, I was to be given a lethal dose.
People kept giving me helpful suggestions:
· Fight with all of your might.
· You have to go with the chemo for it to work.
· Positive thinking will heal you.
I found this sort of cant irritating. What about the others who died? Didn’t they fight? Were they negative? The power of prayer is really not a proven power except in the minds of believers. The chemo either is successful or the cancer comes back in situ or worse. It is a crap shoot.
J and Alison accompanied me on the first chemo treatment. So did Pepsi my husband. I got dressed to the absolute nines as armour. It was just a gruesome and surreal as I anticipated.
I arrived in the area called ‘daycare’ and waited for my chemo nurse. Quite a number of people were seated in chairs that looked much like old fashioned beautician chairs. Instead of a hair dryer, there was the machine that dispensed the chemo.I voted to lie on the bed instead of sitting up for fear I would fall over.
My veins weren't too thrilled either.As soon as they tried to get a needle into my arm, the vein would roll away. The nurse struggled and found a vein in my left arm. The right arm cannot be used for blood pressure, blood tests or even heavy lifting because of the removal of the sentinel node gland for fear of triggering the dreaded and permanent condition of lymphadema…fluid fills your arm and it blows up like a baloney.
The nurse explained that there were two drugs..a and c…I don’t know the names…I refused to learn…I will not become medicalized. Much checking takes place. I had to verify the name on the bags of poison and mine were the same.
The nurse held the orange bag aloft and dramatically announced…this is what will make your hair fall out. Not to be outdone by Nurse Sensitivity's drama I burst into tears. Truthfully, it was not the hair loss….it was the fact I had to allow this gross orange poison flood my system.
The people in the ward are mainly seniors in the plus 70 age range. Cancer is mainly an older person disease. I saw many topsy turvey wigs and rather lost looking people. Some were so ill it was painful to see them.
That brings me to the energy at the Cancer Institute. When J. and I went for one of my first appointments were were waiting in the 'Sunshine Cafe.' I felt a wall, a miasma of terror, angst, dispair surrounding me. Yeah, I was upset but not like that. I looked at J. and saw that her eyes were widely dilated. I asked, 'Can you feel that?' She said, 'You must never come here along.'
Time dripped by as the chemo was infused into my body. Takes about 2 hours. I made it through the first chemo thanks to my husband Pepsi, my friend Alison, and my beloved mini medical pitbull J. She helped pass the time by conducting a puppet show at the foot of my bed. Sexually suggestive, naturally.
Only three more to go.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Chemo, radiation, mini medical pit bull
I cried when I was waiting for my surgery. This is considered extreme behaviour in surgery terms. Medical people cluster around you to ask what you are crying about. I told them that I did not want this to be happening, not at all. They agreed that no one would want this.
The physician that gave me the anaesthetic looked like the Magician in the tarot deck. First, he touched my hand to introduce himself. I found his touch cool and soothing, and yet somehow powerful. When they had strapped me down on the operating table he inserted the needles lightly, lightly into my arm, with an apology, in case it hurt. Later a nurse whispered that I was lucky to have him because he is the best. I think so. When you think someone is powerful and yet very kind, it reduces your fear and anxiety.
When I woke up in recovery, a nurse rushed to me to ask if I had any pain. Yes, I said. It was a little painful but mostly I like the hospital dope. Hey, I almost never get it. And so I got something for the pain. Quite a few times. Those recovery nurses were so gentle with me that I sent a thank you with a picture of Sgathach. I really felt no pain all day. Or the next day for that matter. My breast was a little bit sore but my breast area is not that sensitive. I guess it comes from not wearing a bra for so many years.
Right after the surgery my husband told me he was leaving for Australia for two weeks. So while he was gone I waited to hear the results of the tests on the cancer and how far it had spread. It was a tough period. My intestines did the polka of fear to such an extent that I had to get medication to simmer the skinny little dancers down. I was so upset, and maybe this is too much information, but I could not stop pooping my pants. I thought I could go back to work but the weakness persisted so that I had to wait for a full month to return. Well, that and the shitty pants of course.
Finally, my posse went back to the surgeon for the verdict. When he came into the tiny room he said, oh, yeah, you guys. So, here’s the scoop: Stage 1 – 2 invasive breast cancer, no involvement of sentinel node (they took it out anyway). Hurrah??
A month after the surgery, treatment can’t start any sooner anyway, I heard from the Cross about my appointment with the oncologist. The woman was simply calling to book the appointment with me but I was so freaked out that I could not hear her. I had to get her to repeat herself several times until the blood in my ears stopped pounding so loudly.
My posse and I headed to the Cancer Institute to hear the news. The way the oncologist explained things to us was that based on my data, age, type of cancer, stage, etc. I was recommended a treatment plan that came from a data base of women in similar circumstances. There is a huge data base of women in Canada and USA that the doctor drew upon. Gruesome news, though. Four treatments of the dreaded chemotherapy, and an unspecified number of weeks of radiation.
All the information he gave us was recorded both by cassette which I cannot imagine every wanting to hear again and by my beloved J. who was my scribe throughout. She went to every appointment with the cancer book and took exceptional notes.
She would listen, write and ask the most penetrating questions. I felt awe, pride, love and a little frightened of her. She certainly caused the medical personnel to stand back. They were not slipping anything by her that would hurt her mom. My mini medical pit bull.
I would like to add that my jaunty tone in no way conveys my emotions. As I write this I am trembling and crying.
The physician that gave me the anaesthetic looked like the Magician in the tarot deck. First, he touched my hand to introduce himself. I found his touch cool and soothing, and yet somehow powerful. When they had strapped me down on the operating table he inserted the needles lightly, lightly into my arm, with an apology, in case it hurt. Later a nurse whispered that I was lucky to have him because he is the best. I think so. When you think someone is powerful and yet very kind, it reduces your fear and anxiety.
When I woke up in recovery, a nurse rushed to me to ask if I had any pain. Yes, I said. It was a little painful but mostly I like the hospital dope. Hey, I almost never get it. And so I got something for the pain. Quite a few times. Those recovery nurses were so gentle with me that I sent a thank you with a picture of Sgathach. I really felt no pain all day. Or the next day for that matter. My breast was a little bit sore but my breast area is not that sensitive. I guess it comes from not wearing a bra for so many years.
Right after the surgery my husband told me he was leaving for Australia for two weeks. So while he was gone I waited to hear the results of the tests on the cancer and how far it had spread. It was a tough period. My intestines did the polka of fear to such an extent that I had to get medication to simmer the skinny little dancers down. I was so upset, and maybe this is too much information, but I could not stop pooping my pants. I thought I could go back to work but the weakness persisted so that I had to wait for a full month to return. Well, that and the shitty pants of course.
Finally, my posse went back to the surgeon for the verdict. When he came into the tiny room he said, oh, yeah, you guys. So, here’s the scoop: Stage 1 – 2 invasive breast cancer, no involvement of sentinel node (they took it out anyway). Hurrah??
A month after the surgery, treatment can’t start any sooner anyway, I heard from the Cross about my appointment with the oncologist. The woman was simply calling to book the appointment with me but I was so freaked out that I could not hear her. I had to get her to repeat herself several times until the blood in my ears stopped pounding so loudly.
My posse and I headed to the Cancer Institute to hear the news. The way the oncologist explained things to us was that based on my data, age, type of cancer, stage, etc. I was recommended a treatment plan that came from a data base of women in similar circumstances. There is a huge data base of women in Canada and USA that the doctor drew upon. Gruesome news, though. Four treatments of the dreaded chemotherapy, and an unspecified number of weeks of radiation.
All the information he gave us was recorded both by cassette which I cannot imagine every wanting to hear again and by my beloved J. who was my scribe throughout. She went to every appointment with the cancer book and took exceptional notes.
She would listen, write and ask the most penetrating questions. I felt awe, pride, love and a little frightened of her. She certainly caused the medical personnel to stand back. They were not slipping anything by her that would hurt her mom. My mini medical pit bull.
I would like to add that my jaunty tone in no way conveys my emotions. As I write this I am trembling and crying.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Surgery and shock
Monday, April 16, 2007
Subject: Bearer of bad news
Heather had a mammogram last week which detected something and today that something was confirmed as Stage 2 breast cancer. She scheduled for a mastectomy within the next two weeks. I’d have a few choice words for the situation but it might not make it through your internet security.
She asked me to pass the word along – she’s gone home tonight for a good cry and to be in the ‘boozum’ of her family – but I know she will be needing all of our good wishes and tender mercies over the next few weeks.
Yours in shock and sorry but basically optimistic! Alison.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
1:30 pm.
Went by my favourite shoe store today and dropped in. Saw a pair of boots that are multicoloured stripes that begged me to wear them, especially to see a breast cancer surgeon. I debated but after I talked to the sales people I bought them and put them right on my feet. Ready for anything…nearly.
My posse and I met with the surgeon. There was so many of us in his tiny examination room that he stepped into the room, paused, and then nearly stepped out again.
The surgeon explained that I had choices. Mastectomy or lumpectomy. Lumpectomy is a gamble that you will get the mastectomy anyway. But I took it. Lumpectomy it was.
The procedure is done by day surgery and with the current infection rates at the hospital, I was happy about this.
6:30 pm.
Subject: Room for much optimism
Saw the surgeon today…quite cute, a member of the Off White Blues Band…but I digress. I am having a lumpectomy next Wednesday…only a day procedure. After about a month I start treatment at the Cancer Institute. Not sure what that will be right now, but for sure radiation.
So, in light of the bad news of cancer, this is the first step toward treatment and toward healing. I feel quite upbeat and will let you know how matters progress. Heather
My daughters J. and F. dealt with the news of my breast cancer quite differently. F. was in Hawaii when I called her. She sobbed into the arms of my sister which was good. Her boss felt I had ruined her holiday with the news. F. said it did ruin her holiday but she would have been devastated if she didn’t learn until she got back. I don’t know if I did the right thing or the wrong thing.
J. decided to shave her head, quit her job and care for me immediately and have a baby. Not too sure what order she planned. And, she was quite determined that I needed to have a power war cry like Zena the Warrior Princess.
Oh, I did try. I gave a few half hearted shrieks and bellows but nothing that schmecked with any sincerity. When I think of a protective spirit I saw my grandmother Nellie brandishing the Scottish woman’s weapon, a broom, to vanquish the interloper.
I found a Scottish warrior princess and J. photo shopped a broom in place of her sword. Her name is Sgathach. This is pronounced with much guttural throat clearing and sprayed spittle. She became my emblem and my daughter was comforted to know I would fight the cancer.
Subject: Bearer of bad news
Heather had a mammogram last week which detected something and today that something was confirmed as Stage 2 breast cancer. She scheduled for a mastectomy within the next two weeks. I’d have a few choice words for the situation but it might not make it through your internet security.
She asked me to pass the word along – she’s gone home tonight for a good cry and to be in the ‘boozum’ of her family – but I know she will be needing all of our good wishes and tender mercies over the next few weeks.
Yours in shock and sorry but basically optimistic! Alison.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
1:30 pm.
Went by my favourite shoe store today and dropped in. Saw a pair of boots that are multicoloured stripes that begged me to wear them, especially to see a breast cancer surgeon. I debated but after I talked to the sales people I bought them and put them right on my feet. Ready for anything…nearly.
My posse and I met with the surgeon. There was so many of us in his tiny examination room that he stepped into the room, paused, and then nearly stepped out again.
The surgeon explained that I had choices. Mastectomy or lumpectomy. Lumpectomy is a gamble that you will get the mastectomy anyway. But I took it. Lumpectomy it was.
The procedure is done by day surgery and with the current infection rates at the hospital, I was happy about this.
6:30 pm.
Subject: Room for much optimism
Saw the surgeon today…quite cute, a member of the Off White Blues Band…but I digress. I am having a lumpectomy next Wednesday…only a day procedure. After about a month I start treatment at the Cancer Institute. Not sure what that will be right now, but for sure radiation.
So, in light of the bad news of cancer, this is the first step toward treatment and toward healing. I feel quite upbeat and will let you know how matters progress. Heather
My daughters J. and F. dealt with the news of my breast cancer quite differently. F. was in Hawaii when I called her. She sobbed into the arms of my sister which was good. Her boss felt I had ruined her holiday with the news. F. said it did ruin her holiday but she would have been devastated if she didn’t learn until she got back. I don’t know if I did the right thing or the wrong thing.
J. decided to shave her head, quit her job and care for me immediately and have a baby. Not too sure what order she planned. And, she was quite determined that I needed to have a power war cry like Zena the Warrior Princess.
Oh, I did try. I gave a few half hearted shrieks and bellows but nothing that schmecked with any sincerity. When I think of a protective spirit I saw my grandmother Nellie brandishing the Scottish woman’s weapon, a broom, to vanquish the interloper.
I found a Scottish warrior princess and J. photo shopped a broom in place of her sword. Her name is Sgathach. This is pronounced with much guttural throat clearing and sprayed spittle. She became my emblem and my daughter was comforted to know I would fight the cancer.
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