It's been a long time ...

It’s been well over a year since my last post, and I’m thrilled to say the time that’s passed has been a lot less eventful than the year from hell I last talked about.

So … to catch up a bit …

I’m now in the “I have/had cancer club”. I’m not clear on whether I’m considered to still have cancer or not … I prefer to think of it as a thing of the past, but my oncologist is less willing to use words like “cure” or “had” … she likes “remission”, which sounds a whole lot more dire than I like.  But the “chemo club” membership has long expired – thank goodness.

I feel well!  I found that chemo gives you long-lasting side effects that can be annoying but, at least for me, they are easily managed or accepted and overall I’ve returned to good health. 

I still think it’s a bit weird that I had cancer, that chemo and radiation (that came after the chemo and was a relative breeze) were as do-able as they were, and that life didn’t stop because of the cancer.

That said, I’m a little shocked at how much the fact that I had cancer continues to creep into my thoughts and plans.  I don’t dwell on it, but thoughts of recurrence are not too deeply buried, and can arise unexpectedly. I suppose it takes time for those unwelcome thoughts to become fewer, but I have it on good authority that they never really go away. I can accept that.  Who doesn’t have experiences from their past intrude on their present and thoughts of their future?

And I’m finding a renewed interest in this blog, so perhaps I’ll be back here more often.

The club

I am now part of two clubs I never signed up for.  

The first is the chemo club.  We meet regularly when we go for our chemotherapy treatments.  The members of the club change regularly, although there are some I recognize from previous meetings. We all sit together in a room, waiting for our names to be called for the treatment that will drip poison into our veins - poison that, strangely, is supposed to cure this thing we have in common. 

After our names are called, we sit together in a different room, hooked up to IVs, participants in this strange meeting for however long it takes for our treatments.  For some, it's six or more hours; for others, less than an hour.  We occasionally make eye contact, speak to each other about our cancer, where we are in our treatment, the side effects we've had ... it's all about the cancer.  Then we retreat into sleep, or our books or our iPads and tablets, waiting for the moment the IV bag is empty, the needles taken out of our arms or PICCS or ports and we can go home and try to pick up the rhythm of our lives again.  "See you next time," we say as we smile and wave to those left in the room.

The second club is the cancer club.  I became aware I unwittingly joined this club the first time I went shopping with a scarf to cover my bald head.  Because I was obviously in treatment, I was approached by two women - both well meaning and kind - so they could tell me about their experiences with cancer.  The first woman made it short and sweet - she expressed her support as a survivor of cancer and wished me luck.  It was nice.  The second was more involved - her sister had had cancer twice and had survived, but she gave me too many details about the pain her sister went through to make it a comfortable and comforting conversation. 

Since then, I have been approached by others ... cancer survivors and friends or relatives of cancer survivors.  We are all in this big club together, all touched in some way by cancer, all suddenly tuned in to each other because of our fight against a common enemy.  

I'm not sure how I feel about being a member of these two clubs.  Obviously, I'd rather not have cancer - that would automatically take me out of the running for membership.  Yet there's something nice about other people's need to reach out to assure me that it will be all right - they survived; their sister/mother/aunt/cousin survived; the implication is that all will be well.  And that's nice to hear, because sometimes the fear takes over and the future looks very short.

My membership in the chemo club will end soon and I'm not sorry I won't be going to any more meetings.  The cancer club, however, will be a lifelong membership, whether I want it to be or  not.  I don't have to be an active member - I don't have to reach out to others who are going through what I go through now; I don't have to reassure them or wish them luck.  But I will be a member nonetheless.  And if I'm a member, I might as well put that membership to good use.  I have appreciated what others have said to or done for me and I feel I have an obligation to do the same for others.  I just have to figure out how to show my membership card in a helpful way.

What a year ...

I mentioned earlier that this has been an eventful year.  Unfortunately, eventful has also meant stressful and we - Jim and I - are both experiencing a really bad year.  We've had things happen that affect both of us, and it's easily the hardest year we've had in the 30-plus years we've been married.

It's not just the sale of our house and the move to a different kind of house in a totally different kind of neighbourhood (although the move is a whole story in itself - let's just say we chose poorly when we chose our mover); it goes way beyond that.  It's about potential job loss - twice.  It's about health scares.  And mostly it's about health scares becoming reality.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer on the same day our house deal went through.  On a day when I should have been happy, I was in tears because I'd just read a report that said I had breast cancer.  Somehow, a step got missed and instead of my doctor telling me I had cancer, I received a phone call from my doctor's office that I had an appointment with a surgeon the next day, and would I please pick up the CD with all the test results and take it with me.  It was in the packet with the CD that I found the report that said I had cancer.   

That was back in May, and since then I've had surgery and have started treatment.  Boy, have I learned a lot in the few months since I was diagnosed.  And what I've learned is mostly what I'll be talking about in subsequent posts.  

But it won't all be about the cancer and treatment, though - it can never be all about the cancer.  My life cannot be all about cancer, although right now it takes up a lot of my time and energy.  One of the things I  have learned is that having cancer is, at times, almost a full time job - there's not much room for anything else.  But I have to make room for other things and think about other things because another thing I've learned is that once I start thinking about cancer too much, the fear takes over and cancer is all I think about.  I can't let that happen. 

So here begins the conversation I never thought I would have.

I hate HGTV

This spring we finally got busy and listed our house for sale. It’s something we’ve been talking about and working toward for a couple of years now, and we just reached the point where it was time.

What an experience. It was, at best, disappointing; at worst – horrible. Part of it was our choice of real estate agent, part was being the owners of a 50-55 year old house with all its quirks and shortcomings and the rest was entirely attributable to the HGTV effect.

On HGTV, there are two kinds of properties – those which have been renovated and those which require renovation. There is nothing in between. There’s no room for a home that needs a bit of updating but is entirely liveable, attractive and homey. It automatically falls under the “requires renovation” category.

Many real estate salespeople and home buyers have bought into the HGTV assessment of properties. It’s crazy. A new, attractive laminate countertop must be replaced because it is not granite. The new sink and stylish faucet will be replaced because a new countertop deserves a new sink and faucet. Kitchen lighting must be replaced because the fixtures aren’t pot lights. And the pot lights that are there must be replaced because they aren’t *new* pot lights. The house must be repainted despite the fact that it was repainted in the recommended popular colours less than a year ago because … well, just because. And on it goes …

One side of the HGTV coin is that everyone wants entirely renovated and “move in ready” condition. But it’s move in ready according to what HGTV tells them – nothing less or different will do. Granite countertops and stainless steel appliances only – nothing else is allowed. Hardwood flooring throughout – can’t have laminate.

The other side of the HGTV coin is that if there’s work to be done, real estate agents and buyers consider the property should be had at bargain basement prices because they “have” to renovate. Well …actually… it’s rare that people *have* to renovate. The house may not be tarted up exactly the way they’d like it to be, but that doesn’t mean it’s a dump in need of an overhaul. Newsflash, folks … just because you *want* to renovate doesn’t mean the house is in need of renovation. You don’t get a big discount because it’s not up to HGTV standards.

Don’t get me wrong. I love house hunting shows and home renovation shows and all that stuff on HGTV. They are fun to watch, but they are not real life. They are entertainment. They are staged and well edited to show drama to make them interesting to watch. They should not be taken so seriously or accepted as gospel.

Just think about it … if everyone used their own judgement about what made a house liveable for them instead of ticking off the boxes on the list of HGTV-approved features, our living spaces would be a whole lot more interesting and representative of who we are instead of reflecting what’s fashionable at the moment. Sort of what it was like before we started watching designers and contractors tell us how we should live.

I'm baaaack

Wow - it's been about a year since I last posted.  Time has passed so quickly.

This has been a pretty eventful year for us, and now it's time to start the conversation again.  

Launching

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of attending a university graduation ceremony.  It wasn’t just any old graduation ceremony – it was the one in which my son received his undergraduate degree.  Finally, after years of study and undergoing a change of direction, he was able to walk across the stage and receive that bit of paper that says he accomplished his goal.  It was a pretty proud moment for Jim and me.   

Just a few observations, if you don’t mind. 

There were over 600 graduating students in The Kid’s ceremony – some undergrads, some graduate students and a few PhDs – and it took a long time for them all to file in and find their seats. 

The procession started out much as you’d expect – gowned young men and women following the person in front, watching to see which seat was theirs.  

Then there was that one young woman who walked in, talking on her phone the entire time.  And then more students walked in, talking on their phones during this formal procession of graduates.  It seemed so odd to me that they couldn’t talk before the ceremony started or wait until it was over.  Apparently, it’s unreasonable to expect that phones will be put away for the ten or 15 minutes it took to get them all to their seats.  

The phones didn’t go away at any time during the graduation ceremony:  a surprising number of students took selfies when they were shaking the hand of the university president.  Many of them texted during the ceremony (and my boy was right in there with the best of them – but I’m not complaining because I was texting him back.  He told me afterward that he was texting three different people.).  A young man below me was playing a game on his device. 

I suppose we all found ways to amuse ourselves during boring speeches and long ceremonies back before cell phones were even an idea.  We probably fidgeted and looked around and jabbed our neighbour and tried not to snicker too loudly.  Maybe the smart phones are a good idea – at least they can be quieter than all the shuffling about and snickering. 

 

The most interesting thing to me – and what I found to be touching - was the number of students who, once they found their seats, turned around to the audience to find their families.  Once they found them, they waved, huge grins spread across their faces.   It reminded me of church Christmas pageants, when little kids troop on stage and, no matter what they were supposed to be doing, search the audience for their parents and grin and wave.   

Yes, these were young men and women being officially launched into the world, but at heart, they are still their parent’s children, looking to make sure their parents are watching.  It was pretty sweet.

A matter of perspective

Lately I’ve been watching re-runs of the Mary Tyler Moore show.  I loved that show.  It was the story of Mary Richards, the 30-something single woman who had a life despite being single.  She was a career woman.  She had friends.  She had dates.  She had a great wardrobe.  She was who I wanted to be. 

My roommate and I would make sure we were home every Thursday night to watch Mary and her friends.  We ate dinner in the living room and watched a new show and a re-run and then, after the show wound up, re-runs.  I don’t think we missed a Thursday night while the show was on.  

From my early-20-something point of view, Mary worked with old people.  Lou Grant had to have been in his mid-to-late 50s, Murray Slaughter in his late 40s and Ted Baxter in his late 50s or early 60s.  It made sense – they were experienced, long-time employees of WJM-TV, while Mary was the relative new kid on the block.  

Except they weren’t.  Old, that is.  Ed Asner was only 41 when he started with the show in 1970; Gavin McLeod was 39 and Ted Knight 47.  Wow.  They seemed so much older. 

Fast forward to 2014. 

I was grocery shopping the other day.  As soon as I drove into the parking lot, I noticed it was senior’s day and the parking lot was packed.  Why did they all have to leave their grocery shopping til 5 o’clock when working people were trying to pick up a few things for dinner?  

I found my few things and went to the checkout.  I glanced at the screen on the register and noted a subtotal of $34 and then a red, bracketed number - $3.40, or the 10% discount that seniors receive.  I was shocked. 

The young woman at the checkout thought I was a senior.  Me.  I’m only in my late 50’s (I’ve had to move that number up from the mid-50’s after my last birthday) and don’t qualify for the discount.  Yet, she looked at me – probably older than her parents (maybe the same age as her grandmother?), a little wrinkled around the eyes, silver white hair  - and automatically assumed that I was one more old lady shopping on senior’s day, at a time when working people should be shopping for their dinner.  

Knowing how I judged ages when I was younger, I can see how that young woman came to the conclusion she did.  That doesn't make it feel any better, though.