Brandy's Cancer Bash

For my friends

2011-09-19T09:58:00.001-07:00

This morning, I realized that I’ve begun to recognize the signs. There’s the fight, the expression of it, the spirit. Then submission to treatment, whatever works—how ever one’s body is ravaged and
rebuilt it doesn’t matter, as long as there is still life. Then silence, with an occasional note to friends and family that s/he is still here with us, still fighting. More silence. Perhaps only one week passes, or two, or maybe a month. I’ll check in on his or her Facebook page if there is one. I’ll see comments from friends and family on the wall, words of encouragement and support. But there will be nothing from my friend, who’s been fighting the most awful of fights. Then, all of a sudden, I’ll get the email from Karine at Young Adult Cancer Canada (YACC). The subject line always tells the receivers to open the email when we have some quiet time, and we all know. Another one of us has passed.

It’s not a club that you ever want to be in, but if you must, belonging to this club will be life-changing. Of the 20 of us cancer survivors and patients who attended YACC’s Retreat Yourself 2009, four have passed away—one in five of my cohort in the last two years since the retreat.

Emilee, age 32.
Ann-Marie, age 25.
Caio, age 23.
Earl, age 23.

When you are part of a group that spends some concentrated time together, you walk away with memories of the fun stuff that happened in that short time, like sitting around the camp fire telling funny stories or the talent show where we all made asses of ourselves and have the pictures to prove it. You carry the memories of the bonding and confiding about your innermost thoughts and fears in a safe space. You don’t think that the person sitting beside you during meditation or circle is going to die soon. You think that everyone’s made it, everyone’s here, and everyone’s going to beat the odds and be here for a very long time.

But of course, that’s not true. It hasn’t been true in the two years since I attended the retreat. I have the good memories, and I cherish those deeply. But when I wake up to one of Karine’s emails, I have fear—who’s next? Will it be me? Will it be someone I love? . . . I have sadness because look, this is what is particularly sad about young adults getting cancer—they are young, they are just starting their lives. And now, when one of them dies, all that potential, all that spirit and drive—gone.

And I have survivor’s guilt, big-time. I am sitting here with my infant daughter, watching her play and kick and learn how to grab. She sees me sitting beside her, and she beams with joy and love. I tell her that her older brother and sister will be home from school later on, and we’ll all play with her. I know that when my kids come home, we are going to look at craft books and make some felt toys. And I told them at breakfast this morning that I’m going to teach them how to use my sewing machine by making cloth napkins. I get to have this life. But my friends who have passed, it’s over for them. And their loved ones—their life partners and parents and siblings—they will never experience life with them again. They must face a new reality of how to live without. Thinking of that kind of loss brings me full-circle back to the fear I first experience when I see an email from Karine in my inbox.

Having had cancer and having friends pass away from cancer, I cannot stress enough how fragile life is—and how that fragility is to be understood and appreciated. Most people my age aren’t faced with their mortality, and they are blessed to not think about dying until an older person in their family passes, probably when it is “their time” to do so. This is one of the reasons I often compare cancer diagnosis and treatment to going off to war. You don’t know how you will change, how you will come back, or even if you will come back. You don’t know how many friends you will see fall. But you know that if you survive, you will never think of life in the same way ever again.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Vancouver

We got moxie

2011-08-04T21:36:00.001-07:00

See this cute baby, cancer? She's laughing at you. You came into my life four years ago, determined to destroy me. But through some twists and turns and lots of moxie, I kicked yo ass. We are all laughing.

I have to give cancer credit for one thing, though, as it has continued to give me pause for reflection. Undoubtedly, I am grateful for the path that I've been given. Four years after my diagnosis, I am with my soulmate and THREE kids! Last year on this day, Anton proposed to me in Maui, and birds came to bless us on the balcony (no joke!). I felt like Cinderella. We got married in April, and three weeks after that, baby Moxie was born. Our little miracle.

As much as I have to celebrate, being a young adult cancer survivor is certainly not without deep sadness. In June, we lost a good friend to this horrible disease. Caio, as everyone knew, was a beautiful pure soul. I think of Caio and his husband Miles everyday, and I feel anger, sadness, and loss. But I also feel love and inspiration. Miles and Caio were what I think everyone wishes for--fairytale love, child-like love, all love. You were just happy when you were around Miles and Caio. And now, I feel so sad for Miles, as he lives everyday without his beloved. Thinking about Miles and Caio, I know to never take for granted each moment I have with my husband and children. I feel the urgency that at any moment, this life could be taken away. Cancer has given me this urgency, in spite of my youth.

So you see...cancer has taken a lot from me. But in place of what has been taken, so much more has been given. And now, I get to live each day with so much moxie and a whole lot more.

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Vancouver

Plaster Princess

2011-04-29T11:24:00.001-07:00

How many people get to celebrate three years in remission with a baby? At the end of today (exactly two weeks after my remission anniversary), we will have a little baby girl--our miracle and our princess.

I always do belly casts of my pregnancies ever since my BFF Lisa gave me a belly casting kit (I'm such an expert now, I just buy plaster). We are off to the hospital in an hour, but Anton and I spent some time this morning belly-casting Moxie. She's the only one that got to be casted right before she's born.

Here's a picture of Moxie's cast, on the left, next to Chloe's cast. The difference is remarkable. And while Moxie is being born at 36 weeks today, Chloe was born at 37 weeks (and I think Chloe's cast was done at 35 weeks). According to the sizing ultrasound we did two weeks ago, Moxie is even going to be as big as Chloe was, around 7.5 pounds. So imagine how squished she felt in there with the tram-flap mesh...and how things were mega difficult for me! But we will both get relief very soon!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

A royal birth

2011-04-21T20:38:00.001-07:00

April 29th is a special day. And it's not because I give a crap about the royal wedding--cuz I don't. But it's the day our baby is scheduled to be born. As I mentioned previously, this month has been pretty heavy with meaning and thought, from reflection on the third anniversary of my mastectomy to the question of when to have this baby, given the literal confines of my reconstructed body. Lots of hoping for the best, but realistically, it also means fearing the worst. I can't help it. I'm not one of those people that can turn a blind eye of denial to my fears. One example is that in preparing the house and our lives for a new baby, I have also factored in the possibility of losing her. It has only been one year and one week since we lost our son, Veo, to birth defects. So when I began unpacking all the new baby stuff we got, I didn't take some of the stuff out of the original packaging, or if I did, I collapsed the boxes and kept them safely in a pile in case I'd need to return the stuff to the store. Luckily, a friend of ours also gave us a ton of baby stuff, so if we don't end up using it, we can return it to her or donate it. But I just can't give the stuff a place, or count on having to use anything, just yet. I'm too scared to be that confident.

On Tuesday, when we found out the date scheduled for surgery, we were also told that what everyone had been planning all these months might not happen. When we found out we were having a baby, we began having appointments with both the OB and the plastic surgeon who has been involved with my case for over three years. The two of them were eager and happy to team up for this delivery, especially since it has never been done before. My plastic surgeon said she was especially excited because more and more of her breast cancer patients are young woman, who still want to and are capable of having kids post-cancer, and she wanted to see this experience through so she could tell them what to expect if they wanted to carry a pregnancy even if they've had a Tram-flap reconstruction. So the two doctors watched me grow and documented how my body has responded to the pregnancy over the past 35 weeks.

The last week and a half has been a rush to schedule a mutual day when the two doctors could do the surgery asap because my body is in quick deterioration from the strain of the baby's weight on my abdomen. But of course, it's not just about their schedules. They also have to find a time when the operating room is available. Their receptionists have been talking to one another; the docs have been talking to one another. On Tuesday, at our appointment with our OB, she nonchalantly told us that our plastic surgeon might not be able to make it at all. We were in shock. And no alternative was discussed. So the past few days, we've been tortured by waiting and unknowing. It feels to me like those horrible days when I'd wait and wait to hear word about when I was going to start chemo, or when I'd wait after getting some sort of blood test or scan done to tell me if my cancer metastasized. I emailed the surgeon's coordinator to see if I could get info from her. But nothing. I emailed her again to follow up, but all she said is that she hasn't been able to talk to the doc about it, and she hopes I have a nice long weekend. Then I thought, fuck, it's a long weekend! Everyone is off til fucking Tuesday! Does she really think I'm gonna have a nice long weekend when I'm worried out of my goddamn mind? I see the OB on Tuesday anyway, and then it's just three more days til the surgery.

I'm starting the process of accepting that things aren't going to go as planned, or at least I'm trying to accept that. I have to hope for the best, but now, even more so, I'm fearing the worst.

However, my body has been through so much, and despite all that, I'm still able to walk and mostly function as if nothing ever happened. There is something to be said about that. So things don't always go my way, so what? It's silly of me to expect that they would go my way, after all that has happened.

What do I dream of? Having a healthy baby girl, and having the strength to make it through the surgery and recovery process. What am I grateful for? My two happy, healthy, beautiful children...my endlessly loving, patient, handsome soulmate husband...my friends and family...and the fact that I can still laugh, even though I cry sometimes too. I guess my gratitude ends up trumping my fears. I don't regret how I've spent my time. And if I end up having more time to spend, I will cherish it all the more.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Vancouver

Freaking. Out.

2011-04-13T15:21:00.001-07:00

So...I can't seem to escape April being my uber-high stress month. Three years ago, on April 15th, I had my bilateral mastectomy and Tram-flap reconstruction. Two years ago, my husband at the time said he wanted a divorce. Last year, I gave birth to our son Veo, and he died because of all his birth defects. This year, Anton and I are having a baby! This, of course, is a monumentally joyous occasion, unlike the last two years, but I'm still losing my mind, just a little.

With my mastectomy, I totally freaked out. I obsessed over my death for a few months before, working out and away all these morbid fantasies with an art therapist so I could calm my wild mind. I got depressed over the thought of my kids growing up without their mom, and all I could imagine was going under and never coming back again. But obviously, everything turned out fine, and not only did I come back, but I've been cancer free for almost three years (as of Friday).

Now, I'm starting to do the freaking out thing again, and I keep thinking about how at least with the mastectomy, the surgeons have done it so many times before and knew exactly what they were up against. With this c-section, they don't have an exact idea since it's never been done before. I try not to think about the scenario where they take out the baby, see the mesh and the damage, and say to themselves, "Now what?" or "That's worse than we thought." I think about how the worst would happen, and I'd be leaving my new husband with a new baby, and there would be three kids without a mom. I try not to think like that; I focus instead on the excitement of having a new baby--a baby who's a little pioneer on the landscape of having a baby after breast cancer.

But at night, when everyone is sleeping--that's the hardest time. I'm alone with my thoughts and my body full of pain. I look at Veo's tiny footprints on our shelf where I honor the people who have died--those who have made an impact but whom I have never really met, like my Vietnamese grandmother and Vietnamese half-brother.

I need to remember that with heartache and loss come motivation and inspiration to survive and to be grateful for what we have now. I have a husband who brings me laughter and love every single day we are together. I have two kids who impress me with their imaginations and wonder, and who make me feel good about being a mom. And I have a baby inside, fiercely kicking and living up to her name, Moxie. I like to think she's trying to tell me something along the lines of, "Don't worry, Mom. I'm a fighter, and you are too. And we'll all be together soon, safe and sound."

Growing Pains

2011-04-11T14:59:00.001-07:00

Here is me with my eight-month-old baby belly! Eight months! Not that huge, thanks to my Tram-flap mesh.

This pregnancy has sure been a ride. The last trimester has been increasingly difficult and painful. I knew that no one, including the doctors, knew what would happen to me as the baby continued to grow. But what I didn't anticipate is that the doctors could not really understand what it feels like, and hence, were at odds about what to do with my pain.

First, I started having burning sensations in the lower part of my abdomen, which is where the sutures for the mesh are. It felt like my flesh was tearing, and in fact, that's exactly what has been happening. The pain comes and goes, but now when it comes, it's pretty intense, like somebody stabbing me from within.

Another issue is walking or sitting or moving from one position to another. I feel like my pelvis and joints are locking up, and I get stuck mid-air, afraid to move because I know how painful it will be when I complete the movement. But obviously, I can't stay like that, so I take a big deep breath, and just move (and scream).

So my family doctor prescribed me hydromorphone for the pain. I asked her about how it would affect the baby. She said that the baby would go through a little bit of withdrawal for a week during which she would be cranky, but it wouldn't be that big of a deal, since we had to weigh the circumstances of the intensity of my pain because me being in pain isn't good for the baby either.

For a few days, I took the pills, and it helped a little, but my OB wasn't happy about that. So I took Tylenol with codeine instead when I had pain at night, and that gave me a tiny bit of relief. Now, I've become used to being in pain and don't take medication that much.

Everything is compressed. There is no room. My OB noticed the appearance of my belly, which is like a muffin, with a band where the mesh is, and then a roundness at the top where the band is not. Breathing is always difficult in the last couple months of pregnancy, but it's even more so now. And my doc gave me Ativan because I've been feeling claustrophobic within my own body and having panic attacks.

Now, my plastic surgeon has ordered me to bed rest because the weight versus the constriction has become a bit worrisome. And my OB is considering moving the delivery date up at least a week early. I asked the OB if they will put me under general anesthesia after they deliver the baby via c-section in order to repair the mesh, and she said she doesn't know. The part where they don't know what they are going to see scares me a bit, but I trust that they are the best experts to do the job.

I have all the usual pregnant mom instincts like nesting and feeling restless, but I also have new fears, especially not knowing how the surgery and recovery are going to be. However, when I feel the baby move, whether in a small or big way, I am happy that she seems okay, if not a little concerned about how much space she has in there. We are in this together, she and I, and I can't wait til we have our own space.

Location:Vancouver, BC, Canada

Is Breast Cancer Caused by a Virus?

2011-01-25T09:54:00.000-08:00

Anton and I saw these short films on YouTube a couple months ago, and they blew us away. To think of the possibility that breast cancer could be caused by a virus (like HPV causes cervical cancer), and that if so, there could be a vaccination and a cure!...And to wonder why the medical field hasn't encouraged research into this--these ideas nag at us. But please watch these videos, spread the word, and think of ways that you could possibly play a role in increasing research into a breast cancer virus.

(If you're having problems viewing the videos here, just click on the YouTube icon on the bottom righthand corner of each frame.)

Alive

2011-01-19T21:06:00.001-08:00

A week after we told the kids that they were getting a new sibling, Chloe asked, "Is the baby still alive?" Her innocence and concern tugged at my heart. She's thought of Veo, the brother she and Mylo lost inexplicably. And now she's worried about her baby sister. I told her that yes, the baby is alive. She and Mylo smile, ask questions, make up stories for and about their baby sister. And yes, Chloe, the baby is alive. We are all alive.

Rabbits

2011-01-18T22:50:00.000-08:00

It's soon going to be the Year of the Rabbit, which happens to be my year. Rabbits are creative, compassionate, and sensitive. And our baby girl will be the same. Yes, we are having a baby!

Soon after Anton and I got engaged in Maui in August, we found out that we were pregnant once again. We faced this new blessing with a lot of fear, as we had been devastated by the loss of Veo in April. But as soon as we saw all my doctors, we were reassured that we would be well taken care of. The genetics department at Women's Hospital took charge of extra screenings and tests, to see if this baby would have the same defects that Veo had. We also had more appointments with my family doctor, obstetrician, and plastic surgeon, all of whom have been keeping a close eye on me.

We kept the pregnancy mum, especially from Chloe and Mylo, because Veo's death was so hard on everyone. We wanted to make sure we would spare the kids those horrible feelings and confusion they experienced with the loss of their baby brother. And with each test that I took, each ultrasound that we waited for, we held our breath. Luckily, everything has turned out okay, and we have now just been able to share the miraculous news with all our friends and family!

Baby Girl (yes, we found out!) is kicking me full force now, and I savour each movement I can feel. But it has been a difficult challenge on my body, and today when I had a check-up with my Ob/Gyn, she said, "Yes, it's going to be a long pregnancy." There is, of course, still the issue with my TRAM-flap. If you look at me, you probably wouldn't recognize that I am over five months pregnant. I just look like I went on a carb binge. The metal mesh is not budging, and I'm not sure how or where baby is growing, but she is. It does make walking and moving and turning in bed a less than comfortable experience. But I just have to take it slow. And it seems, for whatever reason, that the epilepsy I had as a child has returned somewhat, and I've had three seizures since November. I've seen a neurologist and had two EEG's, but there's not much we can do at the moment but be careful. And then there was a kidney infection which left me hospitalized in Los Angeles for five days. Whatever. I can take it!

The doc wants me to come in every two weeks instead of once a month. She and my surgeon are closely watching my growth, to see when it will be the best time to do the surgery to take baby out. It's going to be a complicated C-section, as they will have to cut through my mesh. At the same time, I will likely get a hysterectomy because of my increased risk of getting other reproductive cancers. Am I sure I want to do this? Absolutely. I've got two beautiful children and a baby on the way, and I feel that after all that, my family will be complete. I want to be around for a long time to see them all grow up.

Yesterday, I had my six-month oncology check-up, and I am happy to say that I am still in remission. I am half-way to the five-year mark, when we can all breathe a huge sigh of relief, because at the five-year mark, my changes of recurrence go way down!

I'm finding that almost three years after having had my mastectomy, I'm finally at a point where I can move forward with more confidence, with less fear. I have to remember: I have survived so much, and I am a better person in the end. I have learned so much in the past three years that I can teach my children, and other cancer patients and survivors who feel so alone. In November, Anton and I have the privilege of attending a young adult cancer survivor conference in St. John's, Newfoundland (see my links to the right for info on Young Adult Cancer Canada). To say that the weekend was amazing and inspirational is an understatement. So many of us came together as a family, remembered those who were lost this past year to cancer, and motivated each other to be there for and to reach out to other young adults with cancer. One of the main issues for young people with cancer is the feeling of isolation: you have cancer but you're young--you're not supposed to have cancer. You're supposed to be starting a career, having kids, getting married. Now what? At this conference, we learned how to cope and thrive, and to help others do the same. It gave me and Anton a lot of hope and comfort.

Now we find ourselves in this new year, with new promise for positive energy and happiness. We have survived, we will survive, and we will be here to help others do the same. Cancer is always a curse, but it can be broken. When the curse breaks--when the patient breaks the curse--the only thing left to receive are the blessings.

One day, I was reflecting on all that has gone on over the past three years. It all seems like too much. But when I ask myself if I would do it all over again--if it meant that I had to do it all in order to get to where I am today, with my kids, with Anton, with this new baby that will complete our family--without hesitation, I say, "Absolutely. Yes."

Certainty

2010-08-04T09:26:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've come full circle, yet instead of the fear that paralyzed me three years ago, I am full of positive new energy, drive, hope, and love. The last time I was in Hawaii, it was 2007, and I had just been diagnosed with cancer. H and I went to Honolulu to celebrate our third wedding anniversary. As I am thinking about it now, there was love but also sadness and uncertainty...about life and where it was going to lead the two of us, especially with a terrifying cancer diagnosis. We visited a Buddhist temple at the suggestion of two friends whom we serendipitously ran into at the airport. Our afternoon with Roshi was a grueling examination and exploration about that which I am most deeply attached to: pain, loss, fear. And during the next three years, I would be faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges that would bring me face-to-face with those attachments. In order to survive, I had to experience pain, loss, and fear...and then let it all go.

Here I am, three years later, in Maui celebrating year one of what I know for certain is going to be a life-long relationship with my soulmate. I am cancer-free and healthy. My illness has let go of me, and I have let go of a lot of the pain that has come upon me throughout my treatment and recovery, my divorce, and the loss of our son in April. I still mourn Veo's death, particularly because this would have been the month he would have been born if he had not had that fatal birth defect. And I sometimes still have those unanswerable questions: did my cancer treatment somehow cause that defect? Was it my fault? But a comforting thought came to me yesterday as I was standing on the balcony in Glendale with Anton: the name of our baby boy, Veo Liam, is an anagram for "I am love." Even though I am a self-professed word nerd, we did not name him with this significance in mind. When I told Anton my realization, we both fell silent, smiled, and hugged each other, and it felt to me that at that moment, Veo had come to us to bring the two of us even closer together.

As I sit here on our first morning in Maui, with Anton still sleeping, I am full of reflection about how I got here. And to me, it all comes down to the fact that there is nothing else like this moment.

Universe, can you please cut me some slack?

2010-05-29T18:51:00.001-07:00

April 15, 2010 was the 2nd anniversary of my bilateral mastectomy. It was also the day that our son, Veo Hieu Liam Worrall-Soriano was born and then died. Veo had a birth defect called anencephaly, which causes the skull to not form and therefore, the baby would never have a chance to survive. I was admitted to Women's hospital to give birth to Veo and to say goodbye. When labour was induced, I felt the familiar pains of childbirth, but with the added pain of knowing that all the dreams we had for Veo would never come true. Each contraction that passed through me was another permanent wound. I knew that before long, we would be able to hold Veo, but only for a little while.

Throughout our stay at Women's, the staff--from the nurses to the social worker to the spiritual counsellor--helped us in every single way they could, and we will always be so thankful for that support. But as we came home, we felt the immense sadness and void fill up the space around us. We spent time together, just the two of us, and we also thought about how we would help Chloe and Mylo deal with the loss of the baby brother they were so excited to have in their lives.

Even though they are only 5 and 6 years old, my children have gone through so much in terms of death and loss and illness, starting with my cancer diagnosis in 2007. When they were 2 and 3 years old, they watched me transform from a healthy young mom who could easily fulfill all their needs into a sick, bald woman who spent a lot of time in bed. They watched me give myself white blood cell booster injections, and they watched me recover from my surgery, with drains hanging out of me. They watched me get better again. Then they endured their father's and my separation, trying to cope with now living between two households and understanding why grown ups behave the way they do. Now this--a baby that they never saw but hugged through my belly, a baby whom they had all these plans to play with, a baby for whom they drew pictures and made up stories--this baby they wanted--he was dead. Why? My heart broke when Chloe asked me, "Mama, can we have a baby that doesn't get sick and die?"

It's been over a month since Veo's birth and death, and we're still feeling the loss. Chloe and Mylo have resumed their lives as usual, but now and then they ask me about Veo. They ask to see the tiny footprints the hospital gave us, they ask to burn some incense for him. The hospital gave us teddy bears to give to the kids, and the funeral home gave us a stuffed elephant--all as reminders of Veo. Every night the kids are with me, they hug those stuffies and remember their brother.

Now, I sit alone in my apartment. The kids are with their dad. Anton is going to be by his mother's side as she takes her final breath. It is quiet, but I'm feeling very unsettled.

Yesterday, I had a check-up with my oncologist. She wants to give me a full-body PET scan to make sure I am truly cancer-free. However, in order for me to have that done, I have to not be pregnant. And now, more than ever, Anton and I really want to have a baby. A fear struck me this morning as I thought about the PET scan: what if it shows I have cancer, and I have to go through chemo or whatever, and then I can never have kids again? I really want to say, forget the PET scan until we have the baby we want so much. But I know--I have to make sure I am good to go.

I fucking hate cancer. It keeps getting in my way.

Why can't we have this life we want so much--to be with Chloe and Mylo and their baby brother/sister, to live quietly and in the service of society? The last three years of my life have been devastation upon devastation. Yes, there has been so much that has gone right. I still have two amazing children, and I am in love with the most amazing man. Why, then, does life keep dishing out all these challenges that make me want to scream?

Ups and Downs

2010-03-31T15:48:00.000-07:00

Good news: I tested negative for the BRCA-1 and -2 genetic mutations, which nixes my increased risk of ovarian cancer. However, a variant did show up on the results, but it's apparently one with a database so it's being tracked in other patients as well.

Now the other news.

We met with the OB/GYN last week for our monthly check-up. She said she talked to my plastic surgeon, who's insisting on a C-section so that she can assist in the repair to the mesh. That means that I have to have the baby at another hospital than originally planned, which means adding another OB/GYN to the team. Coincidentally, turns out that that doctor is the same one I had when I was pregnant with Mylo. Unfortunately, we later found out that she's on vacation for the whole summer, and our baby is due to be extracted from my shell in August. So now we're being juggled among doctors, but I'm sure it'll work out. I'm thankful that I have a team who's the best in Canada.

Then we were presented with yet another challenge yesterday. I had just pulled into the school parking lot to drop off the kids when I got a call from the OB/GYN's office. They received the results from my serum screening (or Triple Screen, as it's called in the U.S.) and they wanted me to come in to talk about the results. My heart immediately sunk, as I knew from past pregnancies that this test was to check for risk of Down's Syndrome and neural tube defects (most commonly, spina bifida). I calmly took Chloe and Mylo into their classrooms, read a book with Chloe, and rushed off to go home. I contacted my family doctor and told her that I got the call from the OB/GYN, and she responded that she would get the results herself and get back to me. Within an hour, she asked me if I could come in and see her right away. I was struck with the same feeling I had when I got the call to come in and discuss the results of my initial biopsy two and a half years ago.

Anton tried to remain calm, but I knew what was coming. Before she went over the results, she told us that these numbers aren't conclusive, and that the next step would be to get more tests done that would give us more definite answers. Then she gave us the numbers: 1 in 5 chance of neural tube defect, 1 in 25 chance of Down's syndrome. I accepted the news. I nodded my head. I listened as she explained all the numbers and terms to us on the report. She told us about the amniocentesis, which I knew about as well. And then I lost it. She consoled me and sat with us as long as it would take. We went home, exhausted, and it was only noon.

When we got home, we Googled, talked, and cried. I just couldn't believe that this was happening. It's not so much the idea of having an "imperfect" baby that worries me; it's more of the idea that the baby might be born suffering. Neural tube defects are more than just spina bifida. Some cases leave the babies paralysed, mobility challenged, blind or deaf, or can even lead to stillborn deaths. I know--we shouldn't let our minds race before we get more conclusive results, but still, how can we reign all this in?

A couple hours afterward, we went to the OB/GYN to talk to her about the results. She told us what we already knew, and then talked about the amniocentesis and genetic counselling. There was no question--we would do it as soon as possible. Just one problem: the mesh in my abdomen. How would the needle pass through that to get the amniotic fluid? The doctor was confident that the technicians could find a pocket that would allow the needle to pass through, but the idea of someone having to stab me multiple times with that needle before getting the right spot didn't sit well with me. So when I got home, I emailed my plastic surgeon.

This morning, I got my appointment for the detailed ultrasound and the amnio--it's not until the end of next week because Anton and I are off to LA to visit his mother, who is very ill. So it'll be more than two weeks before we know the condition of the vaboose. Also, just as I suspected, the plastic surgeon wants very much to communicate with the people performing the amnio before they just go in there and try to do their thing. I'm happy that I was proactive enough to call her and inform her of the situation so that she could contribute her expertise to the procedure. It's quite difficult and stressful being someone whom medical professionals are not used to dealing with.

Another call I made this morning was to my oncologist. You might wonder why, since this seems to be entirely a prenatal issue. Well, in my desperation to find a scenario that it's actually me who has something wrong, not the baby, I looked up alpha fetoprotein (AFP--the protein that indicates risk of Down's syndrome and neural tube defects), levels and any possible relation to cancer. Sure enough, increased levels occur in men and non-pregnant women when there is presence of liver, stomach, testicular, and ovarian cancer and lymphoma. This is wacky, but I really started praying that I have cancer and that the baby is okay because that would mean I could get treatment and get better, and the baby wouldn't be born with some incurable defect from which s/he would suffer. So I left a message for my oncologist to get back to me so we could see if that's a possibility.

Also, I want to know if my cancer treatment, particular the trial chemo I had, has something to do with this. I was told many times that it's pretty possible that I'd go through early menopause cuz the chemo would fry my reproductive system. Obviously that didn't happen, but perhaps the chemo has been a contributing factor to this situation.

I woke up this morning with the same feeling I had for the first month after I was diagnosed in summer 2007. I wondered if I had been dreaming--that this shocker was some kind of fear that my subconscious was dealing with. But then I saw the copy of the report on the couch, and I knew that it was real.

I ask myself why things keep happening, why just when things seem to be going right, we get another life-changing challenge thrown at us. In my most cynical moments, I think that I'm the universe's favorite joke. In my most spiritual moments, I feel that the universe thinks I can handle it, that if there's anybody to lay these challenges on, it's me. And lucky me--I have a partner who's on the same wavelength as I am in terms of dealing with all this, and I have two kids who show me constantly that there is so much happiness and joy in life. After I told the kids that the baby might be sick, Mylo kept hugging my belly all night, "to hug the baby" as he says. This sounds so co-dependent, but I feel like I'm only as strong as the people around me, and the people around me, including my children, are the strongest. Being strong means being able to cry, and being able to tell those around you that it's okay to cry. Being strong means believing that no matter what, it WILL be okay.

Something

2010-03-13T09:13:00.000-08:00

"I'm sure it's nothing. I'm sure it'll be okay." How many times have I said these words to myself and to those around me when it comes to cancer scares? I'm saying that now. I've been having a consistent pain in my leg for two months now, and my oncologist wants me to get an MRI to get it checked out. I was pretty happy and surprised that she's taking that action because they don't just hand out MRI's to anybody with a leg pain in Canada. But she wants to figure out what's going on with my leg, and this is the best and safest way to do it now, given the pregnancy. Still, I'm sure it's nothing...right?

Anton and I met with the ob-gyn again for our monthly check-up. She got the notes and recommendations from the plastic surgeon who did my TRAM-flap, but she has other ideas about how this pregnancy will progress and how to deliver the baby.
The problem is, none of my doctors have any experience at all with a woman in my situation, who is pregnant after having had a bilateral mastectomy and TRAM-flap reconstruction. So everything that they think about the situation is theoretical. The plastic surgeon believes that since I don't have abdominal muscles, I can't push out a baby and will therefore have to have a C-section, which would require cutting into my mesh. The ob-gyn would rather me have a vaginal birth and use a vacuum to suck out the vaboose, which kinda freaks me out. I know it sounds superficial, but I don't want my baby to have a cone-shaped head (I also know that it won't stay cone-shaped for long, but I can't hold off on taking pictures until the vaboose has a round head again). We meet with the ob-gyn in a couple weeks, so we'll find out more then.

We're off to a young adult cancer survivors retreat today, specifically for couples. It's good to get connected with folks who've gone through similar situations, especially because it's so easy to become isolated. Even though young people are resilient, it's quite difficult to just "get over" cancer. Thankfully, there is this space to talk about what's still there, even when the cancer is gone.

Letter to a Perv Stalker from a Cancer Survivor Who Wants to Feed His Genitalia to a Cage Full of Angry Pitbulls

2010-02-15T09:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Jackass Scum-eating Perv(s),

Here's what I have to say to you. Assholes like you bank on the fact that oftentimes, your victims/subjects will become paralyzed with fear, repulsion, and shame and not say anything about all the violations you have engaged in using their names and images. You get off on this god-like power of creating a fantasy world that other people get off on--a cycle that feeds your pathetic ego. And now, you've gone the extra step and linked this sick fantasy that you created about me to my real world and words. What the fuck are you trying to do? But more importantly, do you even have a clue as to whom you're fucking with? I don't think you do, jerk-off.

I'm calling you out, motherfucker. You want to take my pictures and create these stories about me--obviously, it's difficult to stop you, as I found out. But I will find out who the fuck you are. And when I do, maybe you won't think this game has been worth it when your ass is in jail and you're having things done to you that you write I want done to me. Lube up, motherfucker.

I have a ton of friends who are more than willing to help me track your ass down and take the steps necessary to prosecute you. This world would be better off with one less sexual predator trolling the internet and the streets.

So yeah, keep fucking with me. It'll make it even sweeter when the day comes when I can mail you your balls and miniscule penis in a ziploc sandwich bag.

What's this have to do with cancer, you might ask. This is what: I've dealt with a lot of shit in my life, and thanks to cancer, there's little I fear anymore, including you, you pathetic sonofabitch. You might have picked on someone who was dying, but because of that, I'm living more than ever now. And honestly, that really fucking sucks for you.

Brandy

Our Little Tiger (definitely not Tiger Woods though)

2010-02-14T16:05:00.000-08:00

Cancer really amplifies everything in life and makes you think twice about every option. One of the hard questions that was asked during my oncologist visit was how would I feel about potentially giving birth to another child that I might not be around to raise very long. It's probably the question that resounded in my head most of the time during the weeks we spent visiting specialists and gathering as much information as we could about the situation. The fact is that the rate of recurrence of cancer within the first five years of remission for triple negative breast cancer survivors is much higher than for other survivors. But once you make it past the five-year mark, the chance of recurrence plummets dramatically. I'm nearing year two. And I feel awesome. I beat the odds of not being able to conceive; who says I can't beat the odds of living a cancer-free life for the next 70 years?

One huge pro of our situation: we are here in Canada, where I receive top-notch health care from the best medical specialists. I have an art therapist, a lymphatic drainage massage therapist, another registered massage therapist (for my shoulder pain due to the lymphedema), an acupuncturist, an oncologist, a high-risk pregnancy ob-gyn, a plastic surgeon (for my breast reconstruction, who's also going to monitor my pregnancy because of the TRAM flap surgery I had), and other medical resources that ensure that I have the best possible health I can. And the beauty of it all is that I only pay a small amount for all that (mostly for the massage therapy, acupuncture, and counselling, but I get reimbursed for that too), thanks to universal health care. On the health side, I have tons of people looking out for me.

As for the "what if's"...my answer to those devils is that no matter what happens, Baby Worrall Soriano is going to have two parents and two siblings who will always love him/her, and an army of aunties and uncles to guide him/her through this crazy world. We are rich in friends.

We see the ob-gyn this week, and we'll be able to hear the baby's heartbeat. And the week after, it's off to the oncologist to get a check-up on the fight against Monster C. In the meantime, I'll also make appointments with my lymphatic draining massage therapist to help me with my lymphedema, and with my acupuncturist, who luckily for me, is specialized in cancer and fertility!

Happy Year of the Tiger!

Eye of the Tiger

2010-02-13T15:17:00.000-08:00

Sorry, world, for not posting anything in seven months. Lots has been going on. I feel as if a lifetime of stuff has been crammed into a year. On February 11th, it was a year ago that I got my latest reconstruction surgery (ie, saline implants). It's been a year since the break-up of my marriage. So perhaps now is a good time for reflection.

Last April was probably the lowest point of my life ever. I fell into an abyss from the thought of having to rebuild my life yet again. It seemed as if my bad fortune was endless. But as you know, things started looking up when I was featured on Entertainment Tonight Canada. After that, I had a new sense of empowerment and confidence--something I hadn't experienced in years, perhaps even before my cancer diagnosis.

Toward the end of the summer, I made a trip to Los Angeles to be in my friend Irene's wedding. I hadn't been to LA since before my bilateral mastectomy--almost one and a half years. It was great to reconnect with friends and get some southern California sunshine. But something else was written in the stars. Irene's brother, Anton, and I started hanging out, partly because of all the wedding preparations. And we really connected...really REALLY connected. :) It wasn't long before we realized that we were meant to be together (god, this is starting to sound like the ultimate cheesy romantic comedy, but hey, it's the day before Valentine's Day, so deal with it).

In the meantime, my divorce was in full-swing, and with new love shining bright (sorry, I watch Days of Our Lives sometimes, so...you know), I had even more confidence that I could start a more promising life. But one shocker was that I happened to get pregnant. I consulted with my doctors, and I was told that it would be risky for me to carry a pregnancy given my cancer history. I've been in remission for less than two years, and the recommendation is to wait five-years post-treatment to carry a pregnancy. Typically, the hormone surge during a pregnancy would pose a higher risk of recurrence for a breast cancer survivor. However, little research has been done on the particular type of breast cancer I had--triple negative breast cancer--so it was a big question mark for me. Proceeding out of caution and also with the idea that I had to be as healthy as possible and be around for the two kids I already have, with a heavy heart I decided to terminate the pregnancy. It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make in my entire life, and it was in the midst of all else that was going on.

I had an non-hormone IUD inserted during the procedure, as that is the only safe type of birth control for me. A few weeks later, I had an incredible pain in my pelvis. I went to the docs, and it was discovered during an ultrasound to check the placement of the IUD that I had ovarian cysts. They were non-malignant, but the pain I experienced was from one of them rupturing. The recommendation was that I go in for another ultrasound after a few weeks to see if the cysts would resolve themselves.

All along, I went to LA to visit Anton, and he came to Vancouver to visit me. Things were still going relatively smoothly with the divorce, and the kids seemed to be faring quite well with all these changes. So I went back in for another ultrasound in December, and right after that, went back to LA to visit Anton one last time before the holidays. When I returned from LA, I heard several messages from my doctor, asking me to make an appointment and come back in asap. I did so, and I found out that the IUD had been falling out slowly. I asked the doc if it were possible that I'd gotten preggers again, and she told me it was unlikely since the cervix would do its thing in response to the IUD still being there, despite not being in correct position. So I didn't give too much thought to it. I made an appointment to come back in when I returned from Pennsylvania after the holidays to get another IUD inserted.

However, while in PA, I discovered that I was indeed pregnant. Quite a shocker. Talk about going against all odds. I couldn't believe that this was happening again. I'm not a religious person, but I felt somehow that some higher power was trying to tell me something.

When I got back to Vancouver, I let my doctor know the news. It just so happened that I was also having my next six-month appointment with my oncologist. Anton came to Vancouver and went to the appointment with me, and I filled the doc in on what was going on with my body for the past four months (I had noted with some degree of disbelief that I had been pregnant TWICE during several of my friends' pregnancies in recent months). She asked what our decision was, and we had no idea. We wanted more information on my health and our options before making a decision about this pregnancy. So she set up appointments for us with a high-risk ob-gyn, a specialist in a fertility clinic, and I met with my plastic surgeon to ask her about the mechanics of experiencing a pregnancy with a TRAM flap. She also ordered up blood work, ultrasound, and x-ray.

The consensus among the doctors was that the pregnancy shouldn't increase my risk of recurrence because my cancer was hormone receptor-negative (look that up if you wanna know what the means). However, my risk of recurrence is still higher than usual because of the subset of cancer I had, but that's whether I'm pregnant or not. The plastic surgeon told me that I would have to have a c-section because I have no abdominals with which to push out a baby, and that they could just cut through the mesh in my abdomen (god, I'm like a fucking robot). And the fertility doctor told me that my options were very limited should I want to have a baby in the future because the success rate given my history is low. He said that just because I've been getting pregnant, does not mean that I'm fertile...I'm just lucky. And that if I'd been planning on having children in the future, I should go with this one now. Basically, this is a miracle baby.

My ultrasound, x-ray, and bloodwork all came back with positive news that I am cancer-free. So that piece of information was out of the way.

Weighing all this information and all the pros and cons that come with having a baby, Anton and I decided, after much considerable thought, to go ahead with having this baboose. Chloe and Mylo will have a sibling! I'm continuing to see the high-risk ob-gyn, and the plastic surgeon is monitoring the progress of the pregnancy because I'm the first TRAM flap patient she's had who's gone through a pregnancy post-surgery.

Things have been moving along. However, yesterday provided another cause for pause. I actually didn't want to bring this out into the open because it's quite personal and traumatizing, but because of the decisions other people have made, I have no choice but to address this disturbing issue.

In recent months, it had come to my attention that highly sexually explicit material on the internet had been associated with my name and image without my consent or knowledge. I took steps to make sure these sites were taken down, and I thought that this could be something left in the past. However, I discovered yesterday that this violation has been continuing even up to yesterday. The person or persons putting these disturbing stories and images of me out there has went so far as to link this crap to my real blogs. I'm trying to move past the gut instinct I have to curl up in a ball and think about how I feel like I'm being raped over and over again on the internet in front of countless people, but instead, focus on how I can get my life back once and for all, and have this bullshit be over with. I feel like if I air this shit, instead of hiding from this pervert like I had been, then perhaps he or she will cut the crap. I'm trying to get on with my life, and I need for these jackasses to knock it the fuck off. These actions not only endanger me, but also my family and friends.

So. There is a lot going on, yes? But I know I'm strong, and I know I am able to not only make it through all these challenges, but be of service to others. I'm starting a writing workshop business, and I'm finishing my memoir. And I hope that my stories--my TRUE stories--will have some relevance and provide reflection to other people. Cancer, divorce, sexual predators--weak. By the end of the year, all that will be under my foot, and my new family, my kids, and I can be happy and secure with our present and our future.

My Dream Come True...and then some

2009-07-04T00:39:00.000-07:00

Celebrity Makeover Part 1

2009-07-02T23:51:00.000-07:00

Here it is--what y'all been waiting for! Yeah, it was kinda weird to watch myself on national tv, and in high def no less (who knew I had so many freckles? I didn't.). And what was extra weird for me was seeing how emotional I was. Maybe it was just so shocking and surreal at the time that I had no memory of what I was saying or how I felt (other than the shock). I'll admit it--I teared up a bit. Yeah.

And in other news...my fab friend Victoria Namkung, who is journalist to the stars, posted an entry on her amazing Las Angelenas blog about my makeover. Thanks, Girl!

Black Humor Thought of the Day

2009-06-29T18:26:00.000-07:00

This image just popped into my head: Cheryl Hickey, at my door, saying, "This whole year and a half of crap that was your life?...It was all a ploy for ET Canada's "'Celebrity Makeover'!" Or worse, Ashton Kutcher pops up around the corner and screams, "You've been PUNKED!"

Oh well. Either way, I still got to look pretty and take home shoes.

Starring....Me!

2009-06-29T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was a star...at least for one day. I have to say, it was pretty sweet--probably one of the best days I've had in the last year and a half. If life for celebrities is like this all the time, sign me up! It was exactly what I needed (and more) to pick me up from the gutter I was drowning in.

My celebrity makeover extravaganza began at 9 in the morning at Holt Renfrew in downtown Vancouver. My buddy Chris dropped me off, and I was promptly whisked upstairs to the store, which wasn't yet open. Rebecca, my stylist, put me into a dressing room with four armfuls of clothes. Thus began my dream come true.

Here I am, looking frightened. It took a little while getting used to putting on clothes and having a small crowd of producers, hosts, Holt Renfrew people, and camera crew giving their opinions about what I was wearing.

I kinda knew right away that this dress was a keeper. It's a Tory Burch dress with Prada heels. I never thought I'd be using the word "prada" so casually, but yeah, I guess I am.

This dress was pretty dope too. But it kinda made me feel like my Meemaw (godmother). I think it was the texture of the material that reminded me of Meemaw's muumuus (try saying that five times).

I almost took this outfit home. It was a freakin' leather pleated skirt! Talk about hotttt...

Jenn really liked this outfit. It was her favourite. It was nice enough, but perhaps too nice, if you know what I mean. And I wasn't really going for "nice"...

Here I am getting my hair cut off. Cut it off! Cut it off!

Makeup and nails. Between the haircut and the makeup and manicure, I ate lobster sushi and drank champagne while getting a pedicure. Oh yeah...

Weeeeeee! I'm pretty!

Here's Mr. Fussypants attacking a stray hair that was resistant to his industrial hairspray. My photog is in the background. He was nice too.

Do you like that necklace I'm wearing? It can be yours for $900.

Surprise! My buddy Chris shows up. The expression on his face means, "I thought I was looking at a mannequin, but holy crap! It's Brandy!" Yep.

This cowl neck thing I'm wearing here was super comfy and soft. Kinda like a Slanket, except way more expensive.

You might be surprised to know that I hadn't had much practice straddling a chair until that day.

What do you do when you have a buttload of people working on you? Stand very still.

My. Shoes. Are. Awesome.

Me and ET Canada host Cheryl Hickey talking about the radness of the makeover.

My lying, scheming friends and me. Without their deception, none of this would have been possible. Thanks, guys!

Jenn would make a lovely ET Canada host, doncha think?

And I do believe that Chris should give up his job as English prof. and switch careers.

Me, Cheryl, and my super stylist, Rebecca.

Make Me Over

2009-06-23T23:22:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I haven't been able to complain about during the past four months, it's been boredom in my life. Actually, there are a lot of things I can complain about, yet at this moment I find myself slightly smiling. A grin, perhaps.

I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop, even though I've had about 50 pairs dropped on my head already. And I tell myself to NEVER say that it can't get any worse, because frankly, it can.

Now that I'm all out of cryptic aphorisms, I will report some exciting yet extremely odd news. I was nonchalantly chilling with my buddy Chris, waiting for our buddy Judy to show up to go out to lunch, waiting, waiting, waiting...Now, Judy isn't the type of person you would call "flaky," but she was being kinda flaky today--which I found to be odd behavior. Actually, she and Chris were both acting goofy, but I blamed Chris's jetlag for his goofiness.

Anyway, after waiting for Judy for almost 90 minutes, the doorbell rang. And who is standing on the other side of the door but a cameradude, a producer, and Cheryl Hickey, of Entertainment Tonight Canada! Freakin' WEIRD. Like, not something you expect to happen to you on a random Tuesday afternoon, while waiting for your friend to come to your house so you can go get lunch at a Korean restaurant (which was a total set-up, obviously, and so after Cheryl and the gang departed, Chris and I went for schwarma on Main). So yeah, Cheryl is there at MY house--which, by the way, is totally chaotic from remnants of my craft-fest on Saturday night--telling me that I'm going to have a "celebrity makeover" tomorrow--complete with clothes, hair, make-up and photoshoot! What?! Yes!

Um, okay.

So there you go.

It's the middle of June, the middle of 2009, and it's time for a whole new me (with some of the good-ol'-me thrown in for good measure).

One Year Later...

2009-04-15T23:54:00.000-07:00

It is 11:55 pm, April 15, 2009. It is the tail-end of the one-year anniversary of my double mastectomy. I didn't even realize it was the one-year anniversary until I was at my therapist's today, and she asked me how long it had been since the mastectomy. Then it dawned on me and I said, "Exactly one year ago today." People celebrate all sorts of anniversaries, but this particular anniversary is extra-special.

Okay, give me a moment. One year? Has it really been one year already? I vaguely remember the terror that I had on the eve of April 14, 2008-April 15, 2008. I didn't sleep a wink and took my last bath at 3:30 am. I watched the sun come up as I walked with Henry and my parents to the hospital (we live practically across the street from it). We crossed Fraser, passed through Robson Park, waited for the pedestrian-controlled light to turn green, crossed Kingsway, passed the Thankga Buddha store, and walked down into the outdoor parking lot of the hospital. I held Henry's hand as we waited for the the doors to the surgical daycare unit to open at 6:30 am. And if you want to hear the rest of the story, you can go back one year on this blog.

And that's what I've been doing tonight. I've been going back through my blog. I laugh in some parts, I shudder at others, and I almost cry and can't finish reading some entries. It's just a little something that I started writing for my friends and family when I was diagnosed in July 2007, but it became something bigger. I still get media requests for interviews about my blog, that has somehow touched other cancer patients, survivors, and those who love them. I found some purpose in what I had been going through, and one of those things was to educate the audience about what it can be like to go through cancer treatment at a young age, to be a mother to two young children, a wife to a successful man, and a professional woman getting another graduate degree--to be a cancer patient during a time when your life is just starting to make sense and come together. And then, you're not so sure about any of that anymore because now, you could die a lot sooner than you ever thought you would. The thought that I struggled with on a daily basis: I finally have all this--and now, NOW?, I have to leave it all?

A year later, I'm still struggling with that question.

Let's get this straight: as honest as I am in this blog, I frankly don't report EVERYTHING. I mean, who would? There's lot of stuff that we go through every day that is just too lame or annoying or tiresome to tell anybody. Plus, I respect the privacy of my loved ones who might not exactly enjoy being showcased here. But I know some of you might have heard that Henry and I have been going through an extremely rough patch in our marriage. And you could be asking yourself, What's this have to do with your cancer? Well, if it had nothing to do with cancer, I certainly wouldn't be talking about it. And if I even thought that it had nothing to do with cancer, then I'd say I was in complete denial.

The truth is, cancer took a toll on us. It's funny--I hear so many "success" stories--those that involve The Journey and The Reawakening or The Enlightenment. And I'm not saying that I haven't had those kinds of moments in my own journey during this past year and a half. But if you're looking for a certain kind of success story where everyone lives happier than ever post-cancer, this isn't it.

It's the one-year anniversary of the cancer being gone, and I'm celebrating it alone. In a way, that's fitting. Cancer is a really existential experience. You go inwards to places that you never even thought of, so far in you almost disappear. It really is one of those things that unless you've gone through it, you have no idea what I'm talking about. And that kind of experience is really difficult on the caregiver. Here is this person that you're trying to help and take care of, but they are so sick--so dying--that you can't reach them, that nothing you do will save them from that end. Truth is, we all come to an end. But to witness it day after day after week after month, for a whole year--that's another kind of torture and existential experience that is not understandable to someone who has not gone through that either.

For me and Henry, our experiences didn't match up. You might think that from the way I describe these experiences, that they share similarities, and in recognizing that, the two parties could help one another through the suffering. I can only speak from my experience obviously, but that was not the case for us. What happened? It's not that neither of us didn't care about the other's suffering. I feel that it was just the enormous sense of helplessness, from all around, that did us in. And during the months after the surgery, we tried very hard to rebuild our lives, but that pain and suffering ran so deep in each of us, that it was too late for damage-control.

It's a bitch--facing death at the age of 31. You look at your husband of three years, your children who are 3 and 4 years old. And you're just stunned, breathless. How? Why? Two simple questions that take the wind right out of you. And you see it in his eyes, in your husband's eyes--that mixture of courage and fear. He has to be strong for you, but truthfully, he's scared shitless. What do you do with that?

I can't tell you the story from that moment to this one. It's too painful for me to try to piece together the remnants that I still carry. Henry and I have faced moments like the one now, here, in the present, way too many times--much more than a couple of our age ever should have to. And it's that tightness in the chest, the way you look through your tears into the light bulb on the ceiling, and you know that if you survive this moment, you can survive anything. And you will.

gravity

2009-03-04T10:27:00.001-08:00

gravity is something my current boobs defy. they are swell (in various ways). the skin graft is still healing, so they're not the prettiest pair you've ever seen...yet. in fact, chloe saw them and said, "mama, your boobs look funny!" but then again, i'm not sure if she said this because she had gotten used to seeing them flat and sans nipple, or just because they look funny. i like them though. here's a picture of me and my boobs (kind of):

12 days and counting

2009-01-30T14:32:00.001-08:00

It's only 12 days until I get boobs, again. This isn't like the first time I got boobs, when I was about 14 years old (late bloomer), praying to God every night (still a believer back then) to give me boobs--any boobs--so the junior high ridicule would stop (it didn't). I stared at my flat chest in the full-length mirror in the bathroom, rub the small nubs and do some ritualistic chant after my Christian prayer. Eventually, I got boobs, but dammit, for all that anxiety and work and concentration, all I ended up with were barely-B's? Well, beggars can't be choosers, so they say. But this time, I get some choice.

I met with my plastic surgeon a week and a bit ago. She took a look at what I gots, and she said that full B/small C cup would probably be the way to go. For some reason, I felt bashful and didn't pipe up that perhaps I wanted to go up a size or so...I thought, heck, she's the expert, she knows best. So she showed me a saline implant that would be about my size, and I said, "Looks good to me." I don't know why I felt like I didn't have a say in this; it wasn't the way the doc was acting or anything. I think it was just some weird thing of mine. I didn't even talk about what kind of nipples I would like (mental note: remember to tell her I like them pointy when I go in for the surgery).

Anyway, I agonized over this for a good part of the morning after my appointment. I kept thinking, "What's wrong with you, girl? It's now or never...get the big boobies you want, dammit!" So I sheepishly sent the doc this email from my iPhone:

Hello Dr. __:

I was just in to see you this morning concerning my surgery scheduled for February 11th. You had talked about giving me saline implants to make me a full B/small C cup. I was giving this some more thought, and I was wondering if I could get more volume to make me a full/bigger C/small D? I just keep hearing my girlfriends say in my head, "Go for the gusto!" so I thought maybe now's not the time to be bashful, especially since I know very well that you only live once.

Cheers,
Brandy

A few days later, I got this reply:

Brandy,
No problem. Dr. ___ has ordered you bigger implants.
Sincerely,
Ms. Assistant

So I'm like, great, big boobs! But a part of me was a little weirded out that the size of my boobs was just decided over email, just like that. Oh well.

And here's some other weirdness...I thought of how Chloe and Mylo have gotten used to see my nippleless chest, with the big scars and mottled tissue. I think it's kind of cool how that's their normative view of the female body, but I guess I'm just going to go back to being the stereotype in less than two weeks. As much as I enjoy the radical feminist notion that I had a chance to subvert the female body ideal, I pretty much have grown up with that ideal and desire to achieve it if I am able to. That admission makes me kind of sick, but I have to acknowledge that. But I'm still grateful in a way that I exposed my children to my body images issues rather than hid it from them, and that we were able to communicate about it. Chloe still asks me now and then if my boobs feel better or if they still hurt (her words), and we talk about it.

I just read a really good book called Lopsided: How Having Breast Cancer Can Be Really Distracting. I think there's this new trend in cancer memoirs to talk frankly about how one deals with the pain and self-pity rather than giving life advice on how to buck up and accept the journey. I found this book to be humorous and heartbreaking, and it really spoke to my experience.

Another book I'm reading is Lymphedema: A Breast Cancer Patient's Guide to Recovery and Healing. It's useful in its clear explanation of the illness, and gives great advice on self-massage and exercises to help clear out some of the lymph. Even Henry is reading it so he can see how to give me a massage. Fun for the whole family!

So I think I need serious makeover. Henry said to me the other morning, "Now that your hair is getting longer, you should do something stylish with it." It's not as mean as it sounds; he was saying, like treat myself to a salon appointment or something. But I don't know. I'm tired. And I guess I'll have to buy new clothes and bras when I get the new tatas. That's exciting!

So FUCK YOU CANCER, Brandy's almost back in town.

update

2009-01-23T14:52:00.000-08:00

just got the call that the biopsy is clear--no cancer! yeah. just the old body doing its usual mostly-harmless weirdness.

Bludgeon

2009-01-23T11:45:00.000-08:00

Here I am again, waiting for biopsy results.

I've talked to some of you readers in the past couple months who said that you look at my blog and when you don't see an update, you're happy because it must mean I'm doing well. Well, yes and no. It means that I'm hiding, and that I have nothing that I think is exciting enough for people to read, and that I'm doing okay otherwise. But the funny thing is, despite me not giving a daily or more regular update on my blog, I've got a million unposted entries in my head. I often walk around in life with a picture of the blog and what I would write if I sat down to do so, but they just kind of evaporate into the rot of my brain before I reach a computer.

So, since I mentioned the biopsy, let me talk about that. When I saw the doc about the lymphedema on my right arm, she also checked out my left armpit, which I told her was sore. Sure enough, she felt a lump. So then she told me to get an ultrasound, which I did this week. When I got the ultrasound done, the radiologist was concern about the images, and she ordered me to come back in a couple days for a fine needle aspiration, which is a way to get samples from the lymph node. So I had that done. I watched them stab the shit out of the poor lymph node, sticking in the needle and wriggling it around like crazy (don't worry--they administered freezing to the area, so I didn't feel anything). They got a few samples they were happy with. They thought the image of the node changed a bit after they sampled it, so the doc said it could be a hematoma, but I'm like, how in the world would I have a hematoma on the lymph node? Anyway, I gave my doc a heads-up on the results coming in, so she said she'd get the results on Monday and give me a call asap.

As for my lymphedema--last week was a pain in the ass, or arm, I guess. The compression bandaging was awful, excruciating torture. I really, honestly wanted to cut off my arm. I really wanted to just be over with it, and get a hook. One of my professors from UCLA has a hook arm, and I always thought it was pretty cool. I want one of those. Better than having this arm that's going to cause me pain and discomfort for the rest of my freakin' life. Anyway, the massage part of the treatment was actually good and relaxing. It's a gentle massage that's used to move the lymph fluid so that it doesn't pool as much in the arm. After each massage treatment, my RMT would bandage my arm in a compression wrap that looked like a cast. That pretty much sucked. When it's bandaged like that, I can't really use my arm at all (except maybe as a bludgeoning weapon). Then after five treatments, I went to a medical supply store called Regency in Burnaby to get fitted for a custom sleeve that extends to a glove. I'm supposed to wear this every day, forever. While I'm waiting for the custom to get made (it's gonna take a month or so), I got an off-the-shelf sleeve and glove, which I wear all the time. And I also bandage on top of that for extra compression. So I'm learning how to manage wearing these things and keep typing and doing stuff around the house. It's a new challenge.

I have my moments when I just keep going at life, things are fine, I'm doing okay though still battling fatigue and chemo brain. Then I have my moments when I wonder how much of Chloe and Mylo's growing up I'll be here for. But I can't go there. I just need to be in the Now. Speaking of, here comes Mylo now, wanting me to see a robot he made. Oh, there he goes again. They're too fast to keep up with, but I try.

A New Year for Moving On

2009-01-09T17:10:00.000-08:00

I've been in hiding mode again. I've got a bad case of denial. It's actually bizarre. Lately, when I see people I haven't seen in a while, they kindly make a comment about how good I look, especially when they see my full head of super curly hair. I look healthy, robust, normal. And I realize it's quite a contrast to how I looked a year ago--bald, sickly, at death's door. I also thank people for their kind comments, but inwardly, I feel embarrassed. It's kind of the same reaction when I see pictures of myself from last year--I cringe. I feel sick. I feel repulsed at how I was. That probably doesn't make sense to most people--why would I feel embarrassed? It wasn't my fault. But to remember my vulnerability and sickness--it's the opposite of empowerment. Again, this is quite a contradiction, I realize logically and intellectually. But my honest reaction is that I just don't want to see myself as that seriously ill person.

Nonetheless, I have to deal with life as a cancer survivor. Currently, I have lymphedema. On Christmas eve, I noticed that my arm was swollen, but I thought it would just go away. My arm has swollen a bit in the past since the surgery, but it would go down if I put my compression sleeve on and kept my arm raised a bit. This time, it didn't go down and in fact kept swelling. After almost a week of this, I went to the doctor. She ordered an immediate ultrasound because she wanted to see if I had a blood clot. It was a scary moment, because I thought it was no big deal--just a nuisance to have a big arm. But now, I was dealing with a potentially urgent situation. So I got my ultrasound, but luckily, there was no clot to be seen. Still, my arm was huge. And now, it was starting to feel sore. The doc said that was because blood vessels were breaking from the pressure of the lymph fluid building up.

I went back to the doctor after the ultrasound. What's difficult is that lymphedema is still one of those conditions that's not well understood, and therefore, treatment options are still very limited. But while I was there, I also told my doc that I'd been experiencing pain on the left side, which was the side that didn't have cancer. I've been having throbbing pain in my armpit, which is the axilla lymph node area. She felt under there, and there was indeed a hard round ball under my pit. So I'm having an ultrasound for that in a week and a half. It's probably scar tissue, but now, we have to make sure--for everything. Thank god my doc is on top of things and tells me she'd rather be on the side of paranoia than not worrying about things.

Lucky for me, I have access to one of the few registered massage therapists who specializes in manual lymphatic drainage massage. So I'm starting a daily treatment on Monday for five days, during which I will receive a one-hour treatment on my arm, followed by a wrap to try to get the swelling down. Next Saturday, I'm going to get fitted for a custom compression sleeve that will extend down to my fingers. Hopefully, this treatment will work.

And I finally got my reconstruction surgery scheduled for February 11th. The original plan was to get implants and nipple reconstruction, but now with my lymphedema, I'm not sure about that. I have an appointment with the surgeon two days after my ultrasound, so I'll have the opportunity to discuss that with her.

I'm wondering if this is normal--continuing to deal with cancer even after it's supposedly gone. Will I ever be able to live without having to think about cancer? Is it possible to move on?

Cranky Old Lady (me)

2008-11-17T13:03:00.000-08:00

Big sigh. Life is okay.

It's funny how even a routine exam is tense. I went to the optometrist this morning, and I just kept thinking, "Please, don't let her see anything weird." An eye exam, for crying out loud. And yes, it was fine. I have a dentist's appointment next month. And my annual check-up on Wednesday. I don't want to go to these appointments, but I will. So I think I might have a slight phobia of doctor's appointments. But I still have my head on straight; I still go to the doctor when I should.

My physical recovery is a bit more frustrating than I had anticipated. My right shoulder, neck, and pec area is all knotted up from scar tissue and bad posture from overcompensating. I have this weird twitch and sensation where my abs used to be--kinda feels like a baby moving 'cept I'm pretty sure there ain't no baby in there! And the fatigue...and the chemo brain. But I'm moving as best as I can. I go to massage therapy and acupuncture. At least I don't have to spend an arm and a leg to pay for this stuff.

I've gotten a bit of a response from my last post regarding the health care systems in U.S. and in Canada. It's been an interesting and healthy (no pun intended) discussion, I think. But all in all, I remain pretty firm in my stance that the U.S. health care system is pretty shitty. My disclaimer is that this is my opinion based on my 29 years in the U.S. and the past few years here in Vancouver. (ie., I'm not a doctor; I'm not an insurance agent--I am a patient and a human being who needs health care.) The matters of choice in health care, the way doctors diagnose patients, how insurance companies operate, etc.--all that has been brought to my attention by a number of people in both the medical and insurance fields. Still, none of that flies with me. I'll pay the high taxes here in Canada and be happy about that because I know that the taxes are for the most part going to good use. I think that because I haven't been shafted by companies or governments that want to profit from illness, I feel more compelled to actually donate time and money to organizations, like the Cancer Agency or the Breast Cancer Foundation. However, if I were forced to spend my efforts, while ill, on fighting insurance companies about claims, I probably wouldn't think to be as generous.

Yes, in the U.S. you have choice. For example, just this weekend, I spoke with my father. He was in the midst of helping my grandparents select a new insurance company because their premiums were going up. I suppose you could say they have a choice in doing this. But seriously, who wants to be thinking about that, especially when you're over 80 years old? I dunno--I don't want to think that shopping for health care is like shopping around for a tv--where can you get the best deal?

Anyway, just my two cents, people! Life and health should not be a commodity--socialism or not.

I'm Brandy the Ex-Pat

2008-11-10T04:42:00.001-08:00

The election is over. Those of us who have been holding our breath, waiting for change to come, can finally exhale. There's so much promise in what has happened, and even yesterday, as I was watching the kids play, it dawned on me that the first president they will remember will be a young black man named Barack Obama. That is our world now--certainly not the same world I grew up in, where I myself was teased because of the color of my skin, because my mother was someone different from the rest of the small town, being Vietnamese and Buddhist. This is a new world.

Yet this realization is coupled with another that I had last week. As I sat here in Canada, listening to everything going on south of the border and in particular, the debate over the health care system, I had so many emotions. There was even one woman being interviewed on CNN, who was a cancer survivor, saying that she opposes universal health care. Her fear was that if health care were available to everyone, then she wouldn't be able to get treatment and other appointments for her cancer because everyone would be flooding doctor's offices. I was so angry hearing this woman say this that I wanted to throw something at the tv. But then again, I didn't want to bust my tv, so I didn't. And then I just felt sad--very very sad--that because of corporation and government interests and greed, that people have come to believe such utter nonsense about health care access. So I thought about this a lot--I've been thinking about that woman and about the other common folk whom I've seen on tv, their eyes wide with fear of a "government-run health care system," their mouths saying that *they* want to have control over their health care. All the while, no one in the U.S. has control over the health care because insurance companies have such a death grip on the situation. And so then I think about myself, my situation, my story, my experiences both here in Canada and in the U.S.--and it dawned on me so very clearly: I can never go back to my motherland to live.

We heard this phrase a lot during the election: "pre-existing condition." We don't say words like that here in Canada. You get sick, you're diagnosed, you get treatment. It's true that it's many times not as clear cut and simple as that--the diagnosis part is the hurdle because health care professionals here just can't send everyone who's sick to get an MRI, x-ray, ultrasound, etc. That's the consequence of having health care for everyone--unless it's clear you need urgent care, you have to wait your turn. But soon enough, your turn will come, and you will get care and not have to worry about where the money to pay for it is coming from.

When I was diagnosed, my treatment at the cancer agency started almost immediately. When my white blood cell count dropped to dangerously low levels during chemo, I was put on Neupogen, a $200 injection that I gave myself every other day. If we had not had the extended health coverage that we do through UBC, there was assistance in helping to pay for that injection, so that in any case, we never had to pay anything for that prescription. Never. Granted, we do have what is called the Cadillac of extended health coverage here (there are two kinds of coverage; the basic coverage which is granted to everyone, but which doesn't cover all medical costs, depending on the level of necessity of treatment; and extended health care, which employers can give out as a benefit, and which will cover many of the costs the basic doesn't take care of). But even without the extended, we wouldn't have had to pay for much. Our basic coverage took care of the surgery entirely, and my entire hospital stay was $500, but only because I opted for a private room. And even then, our extended health care picked up the tab.

So here I am in Canada--and while people are suffering in the U.S., struggling to get the care they need, I don't. People often ask us why we chose to live here instead of going back to LA. The choice was clear once I was diagnosed--we wouldn't be able to afford living in the U.S. with my cancer. And now, with my pre-existing condition, we can never go back to live there. There's no insurance company in the world that would take me on. No freakin' way.

So this is what universal health care is, folks. People get to live. Simple as that. This system is not some scary entity that takes over your life and tells you what to do with your health and takes away your say in the matter. We get to choose doctors like anyone else. We get to have our prescriptions that heal us; we get to have the surgeries we need. But we don't have to worry about not being able to pay for that. Those of you living in the U.S.--can you imagine that? If you can't, ask me about it, and don't listen to all this bullshit about how the government will control your lives through your health care.

I have so many friends and family in the U.S. who have had at one point or another suffered because of how things are, whether they be small struggles or large ones. It's just inhumane and not right.

The next time you think about your health care or you hear someone say something about universal health care access being dangerous, think of me. If you haven't experienced it, it's just an abstract. I've experienced it all--it's all real to me. What's scary is how things are now, and how much worse they could become if things don't change.

Don't get me wrong--I love living here. I feel so fortunate that when we had to make this decision, that living here in a Canada was a real option for us. We never had to stress about my treatment; all our focus was on me getting better so I can be here for my family, so I can be here for my children most of all. In the U.S., this is a luxury. In Canada, this is a basic human right. To be able to live and not worry about how to pay for living.

Awareness

2008-10-07T10:49:00.000-07:00

H, Jenn, and I went to visit our friend and mentor Ed last night. We chatted with him and his wife Ellen. Ed has been dealing with prostate cancer for a few years now, and he is nearing the end of his life. It was sad seeing Ed and hearing him speak candidly about when he passes, but I also felt a certain sense of calm, especially between him and me. And at one moment, I looked around the room. All of us in the room had been greatly affected by cancer. Jenn lost her father to cancer a couple years ago; Ed and Ellen are dealing with it now; and of course Henry and I with our own cancer struggles. Even though the five of us in the room had been friends for years (and Ed was Henry's professor at UBC over 20 years ago), there we were, with our own experiences, collectively.

This snapshot of us in that room last night has stayed with me since then. Why? Can't answer that question right now.

But here's something simple you can do. My cousin Kelly emailed me this link this morning. It's a Purina Cat Chow Breast Cancer Awareness quiz--5 quick questions you can answer so that Purina will donate $1 to the Komen Foundation per questionnaire answered. I'm not a cat person, but this sounds pretty cool: Breast Cancer Quiz.

Halloween Theme: Fat Necrosis (dress up as the fatty lump in Brandy's chest for Halloween!)

2008-10-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

Best news ever: FAT NECROSIS! Biopsy is clear. It took them a goddamn while to get back to me, and I have my suspicions that the only reason the doc called was because she read this article in the Straight about me: Cancer Affects Young Adults. She called me and said, "Did my secretary call you?" "Um, nope." [I had called and left 2 message with her secretary AND called my family doc and asked if they had gotten the results from the cancer agency.] Dr. Doc: "Well, everything looks normal, so bye!" "Okay, bye!"

Done, done, and fucking done.

Now I'm just trying to deal with the rusty robot arm I have. It's this massive set of knots and kinks lodged in my pec, shoulder, and neck region on the right side. It's pretty uncomfortable. I went to my massage therapist on Friday, and she said that I have a lot of fascial tissue built up around the muscles, causing them to tighten. Help!

Oh yes, and it's breast cancer awareness month. Make a donation to any of the various breast cancer organizations--and while you're at it, tell them to throw more money on research on young adults! As you can see by the article in the Straight, a tiny microscopic miniscule amount of money is directed to cancer research for people ages 20-40. It's really shocking and sad.

I'm sure a lot of you have read about Christina Applegate's breast cancer ordeal, and for me, it was pretty weird to read about a celebrity going through a similar situation. Weirder yet is that she and I have the same birthday (except she was born 4 years before me). Is November 25th a good day? Or cursed? Anyway, I do feel a connection to her, even though I don't know her at all. We've suffered from the same evil disease. Hey Christina--if you're reading this (yeah, right)--call me! Let's write a book together! It would kick cancer's fucking ass!

The Great Big Nothing

2008-09-29T23:11:00.000-07:00

Update: There is no update. It's been about a week since the biopsy, but no word from the cancer agency. Which gives me hope. Usually, if they don't get back to you asap, that means there's nothing exciting to say. Except that I would consider it exceptionally exciting to have no cancer.

On Friday, Chloe had a little freak-out when I dropped her off at school. The night before, she asked me about the bandage on my chest from the biopsy. She asked me, "Mama, did they put a hole in your lung?" I assured her that it was just a little boo-boo from a test and that it didn't hurt. She seemed okay with that. But when I dropped her off at school the next day, she cried after me when I went out the door. She said, "Mama! Don't leave me! Don't go!" I came back and hugged her and told her that I would see her at the end of school. After a few moments of soothing, she was okay. One of her teachers followed me out the door, and I explained to him that Chloe was asking me about my biopsy scar, and it scared her. Then I just busted out into sobbing in front of him and the community centre manager. I was just overwhelmed in the moment, in the fear in Chloe's eyes. It sucked.

Anyway, so I spent this weekend just playing with the kids and not worrying about anything else. We had a fun time building stuff and playing with dolls.

Then today, Chloe and I were sitting in the Costco food court waiting for Henry and Mylo to show up. She was munching on roasted seaweed (her favourite treat). Then she asked me, "Mama, did you die when you went to the big doctor?"

I said, "You mean when I went to the hospital? I didn't die. See, I'm alive, talking to you."

Chloe said, "Yeah, you're right. Cuz when you die, you go under the ground. And then aliens come and take you away and you never come back."

I replied, "Yeah, something like that. Some people think there's God and they either go to heaven or hell. Some people think you come back as an animal or another person. Some think that nothing happens. But no one knows. So aliens is a good idea too."

She said, "Yep."

I think Chloe is a prophet.

There's a Hole in my Chest, dear Liza, dear Liza

2008-09-24T10:09:00.001-07:00

The biopsy went okay yesterday. The radiologist used three different sized needles to try to get a tiny speck of flesh from me (14, 16, and 18 gauge). And scissors--she used scissors to cut open a hole so the needle would go in easier. Luckily, I didn't feel a thing after the local was administered (the local, by the way, stung like a mother, but oh well). She kept asking Henry if he was okay or if he was going to pass out, and I couldn't understand why, but then I realized that he could probably see the hole in my chest and I couldn't. Not that it was a big hole, but I guess the idea of using scissors on my body could freak some people out. But not Henry--he's brave.

I should get the results in a few days, but I'm still confident that it's just fat necrosis.

Funny Cancer Thought of the Day

2008-09-22T10:53:00.000-07:00

Nothing will take you out of wallowing in self pity faster than your kid vomiting deep-fried bananas and chocolate ice cream at 11:30 at night.

Got the call two days ago.

2008-09-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

Biopsy scheduled for Tuesday afternoon.

How Things Fit

2008-09-12T21:50:00.000-07:00

Today, as I was walking up the hill on Ash Street to the cancer agency, I was messing with the waistband on my skirt. I had this feeling that girls get sometimes when they're wearing skirts (please tell me I'm not the only one) that the back somehow had moved to the front. So my hand moved down to the waistband in the front to see if the tag was there or not, or sideways. Instead, my fingers only felt my underwear. I looked down. My waistband had migrated down to the pubic area. Good thing both my underwear and the skirt were black.

I can't tell where and how my clothes are fitting me anymore. I mean, I guess I haven't been able to for a while, since the surgery. But it was only recently that I've stopped wearing support garments as frequently; I used to wear those girdle panties, a girdle, sports bra, etc--anything to keep the stitches tight and stuff. But I a) just don't want to wear that shit anymore (it's difficult not to feel like an 80-year-old with all that armour on); b) am lazy (you know how long it takes to suit up?); and c) think it's time to experiment with regular undergarments again. Thing is, even when I'm not wearing that stuff, I feel like I am. My abdominal area and chest are still pretty tight and numb, with little sensation. Which is why I didn't know that I was practically flashing people my thong. And which I why I didn't know that my bra was riding up halfway on my chest, threatening to choke me, during most of Wednesday, until I stripped to take a bath that night.

All this is to say--I'm having a really hard time feeling "normal" again. I mean, shit, I don't even know how to wear clothes properly anymore, apparently.

Perhaps I have a wild imagination (yeah, okay, so I do), but things seemed to get even more abnormal today. Before I set off for my ultrasound, I got a call from a dude from CBC who was doing a story on the report that come out today stating that genetic screening for breast cancer doesn't cut it for Asian women (Risk of Breast Cancer Mutations Underestimated for Asian Women). He said he heard me talk about my story before on CBC radio, and he confirmed that I'm Asian. I said, actually, I'm half Caucasian too. But the focus of the discussion was on this twist for me: the Asian part. It's true that I've filled out the paper work for genetic screening, as my cancer was determined to not be hormone receptor positive. And because I'm under 35 years old, that makes me more qualified for genetic screening. However, I did run into difficulty when I came to the part where I had to write up my family tree and state when and where people where born, and if they had died, when and how. I sat down with my parents and asked them for all the information they could give. My mom and dad had a helluva time figuring out the Vietnamese side. It was this nearly total void. If anyone on my maternal side had ever been affected by cancer, I will never know. And that's kinda a bitch when it comes to being a woman with breast cancer. And that's how it's always been for me: when it comes to my family medical history, I'm an orphan.

So now, according to this study, I'm even in more of a bind. Some of the key variables that are plugged into that genetic screening program aren't accessible for me. And now, even in its most complete state, turns out the test wouldn't be accurate for half of me anyway. WTF?!

Anyway, as CBC dude was chatting with me about this, he apologized to me for being the bearer of bad news. He asked me how I felt about all this. Honestly, I hardly felt anything. I mean, after all I've been through, it does kinda come down to, "so what?" I thought about this. Have I already counted myself a goner, that my years are destined to be cut short? Yeah, kinda. I mean, I do have dreams of making it to see my grandchildren some day, but I also know that there's more of a possibility that I won't get to see my kids graduate from high school.

So now, more than anything, I have dreams of just wanting to live. That sounds so cheesy and Zen, but what else is there? Yet it is one of the hardest things for me to do.

Then we come to the ultrasound today. They know me there, on each of the six floors of the cancer agency. I got off on the third floor, where they do all the diagnostic tests--the ultrasounds, xrays, MRI's, mammograms, blood tests. The receptionist said, "You know where the ultrasound is, right? Down on the left, sit by the photocopier." Yeah, it's that fancy.

Then I see my good ol' buddy, Mr. Ultrasound Dude. Sorry, I don't know this guy's name, even though he's seen my boobies more often than most people. But this was the first time he saw them post-op.

He's an alright guy, Mr. Ultrasound Dude. The first time I saw him, he wasn't what I would call "warm." But after a while, he started getting nicer, telling me to tell him when he was pushing down too hard or hurting me. Today was much the same like the other times. Except I never spent that much time in that room, with that man, before. He musta took a billion images of my lump, which is extending itself out into a ridge. He also took images of my lymph nodes on my left side. He took measurements of the lump. When he finished the imaging, he went to his computer at his desk and took a closer look at some of the images and wrote down notes.

I lifted my neck and glanced at his monitor. I could see two images enlarged on his screen; the dual image of the lump looked like evil black alien eyes. I closed my eyes.

He sighed, came over, and we chatted a bit about the surgery, the discovery of the lump, and what's been done since I found it. Since he's a technician and not a radiologist, he's not allowed to give me any information or advice on the imaging. But he did say that it was odd because there's no visible scar tissue surrounding the lump. Then he quickly muttered that he couldn't see whatever it was that well, and that it would take a week to get the report. Yeah, I've heard that before.

When I left the ultrasound room, I felt so very tired. That's all--just tired. I waited for the elevator. It took forever. I thought, I'm not patient; I'm not a good patient. I'm certainly not a patient patient. Most of all, I'm pretty damn sick of cancer, and I think denial is a good thing.

I'm good at denial, until the problem is completely in my face. I've had a bum foot for a couple months now, but I said, "Oh, it's just my bunions. Whatever." So then I signed up for tap dancing class. And then I went to said tap dancing class on Wednesday. On Thursday--yesterday--I was at the doctor's office. My foot throbbed and burned. So then I also got an xray, and I'm going to see a podiatrist. A bum foot is a good distraction from cancer, no? But I thought I should probably cancel tap dancing and ballet, just to be safe. But not bellydancing--that starts next week. And bread making, too.

I'm going to knead my worries away.

Shit. Damn. Fuck.

2008-09-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's a big deal, maybe it's not. Of course, my mind immediately rockets off into thinking it's the biggest deal in the world.

Today, I was feeling good about myself: doing my homework for my MFA writing workshops, getting some writing done, meeting with a friend and her kiddins, having a nice California roll lunch, going about my business throughout this wonderful city we live in. Then out of nowhere, I get a call on my cell from the cancer agency. They want me to come in for another ultrasound--this Friday afternoon. Maybe it's just my paranoia and imagination, but the woman on the other end of the line sounded particularly saccharine--like the kind of cheery that makes you wonder what's really up. Like when someone who's a meanie to you is suddenly nice. It's like cancer itself called and said, "Hey, there, remember me?" Yeah, cuz for a moment, I kinda forgot.

Anyway, I suppose I should be thankful that someone is trying to keep tabs on this lump, which yes, is still here. So on Friday, I'm getting an ultrasound on the left chest area, so I was told by the jovial woman today, who said, "Awesome" when I reluctantly said, yes, I can come in on Friday at 1pm, thanks. So there you go.

Still Waters

2008-08-26T23:35:00.000-07:00

I just realized that my laptop power cord wasn't plugged in this whole time I've been on the computer. I thought it was. I hate it when shit like that happens. Like, you think things are as they should be--time to power up--but actually, the energy is draining. I think you might know where I'm going with this.

Part of me being a bad blogger here is that I feel embarrassed and ashamed. The whole time I was going through chemo, radiation, and then the lead up to surgery, I was kind of my own best cheerleader. I remember thinking, "I will get through this, and I will laugh at cancer, and I will kick its ass, and when it's over, I will get back to my crazy old self, except even crazier--and it will be so...so...FUCKING CRAZY! but in a good way."

Also, when the shit's over, everyone who loves you wants to be happy for you that you're done with the bullshit and the pain, that you can move on, and everyone thinks you will, and everything will be fine.

But yeah, it's not fine. In some ways, it's worse. Look, this is how it goes. I'm
suppose to be better. I fucking beat cancer! But...but. I feel like shit. I'm tired all the time. I want to do nothing; I have zero motivation. This, then, makes me feel guilty. I got a second chance, and what I do want to do with life? A lot of times, nothing. But I should be getting out there, writing like crazy, living life and loving it.

In terms of how my emotional/spiritual/motivational/inspirational state of mind goes, I can't deny that there's no constant--and I'm a big fan of denial. I want to do so much, but I'm so freakin' tired! I want to get out there, but I want to hide. I just want to sleep...a lot.

And I still have my nice little fatty marble stone thing. It's okay. I'm only 10% worried about it.

When I was at Inspire Health a couple weeks ago, I was looking at their library. They switched it up and rearranged everything, so suddenly, the books I looked at for almost a year seemed new. As I was scanning the shelves, I saw two books sitting side by side: Picking Up the Pieces: Moving Forward After Surviving Cancer and Dancing in Limbo: Making Sense of Life After Cancer. My immediate thought was, "Okay, okay, I get it. I see the sign." Here's why: when I had what I thought would be my last appointment with my oncologist, she went to great lengths to prepare me for the post-treatment crap that is typically experienced--the funk that no one anticipates. She wrote down these two books and said that they would help me greatly on my journey after cancer. But being stubborn and cocky like I can be on the rare occasion, I put the paper away and didn't bother with the books. But lo and behold, there they were, sitting there, just waiting for me at Inspire, telling me to take them.

So I've been reading them in chunks, trying to make sense out of why I still feel like shit. Why do I have anger, bitterness, fatigue, depression, unmotivation, survivor's guilt, bullshit and puke? But I also have happiness, gratitude, and drive. All this together is one big mushy yuck blah. And a lot of times, I just want turn it all off.

Alas, next week, I have to end the pity party and get back to business. School starts--for everyone in our household. Chloe's off to kindergarten, Mylo's off to UBC daycare full-time, Henry's back to being his academic rockstar awesomeness (not like he ever quit), and me--I'm back to the MFA program. Life must move on. I'm terrified, but it's all systems go.

Despite my whining, I will admit the summer has been quite rockin'. We've gone to many wonderful places and done a lot of amazing things, and to wrap it all up, we went on a grownups-only gourmet kayaking trip last weekend. The trip was organized and offered through Edible BC and Blue Planet Kayaking Adventures. It was freaking awesome!!!! You know how I like to bitch and complain? I cannot complain about one single thing on this trip. We were even blessed with gorgeous weather the first two days and, yes, BLESSED, with rain on the day we had to paddle back and catch the ferry. I was glad we got some rain so we could experience the excitement of choppy waters, almost-killer waves, and feeling the rain beat down on our heads.

We started off at 5 am on Friday. Henry and I picked up Jim and Lou-Anne; Marty and Letti picked up Trish and Brent; and Heidy and Greg headed out on their own. We took the ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo at 6:30 am. We got to Nanaimo at 8 am, where we met James Bray, our gourmet chef/kayaking extraordinaire tour guide. He packed us all into this full-sized van, towing a trailer of kayaks, and we drove to the boat launch site, where we met up with Kirsten, his assistant. Everyone was all smiles and eager to begin our adventure!

Marty and Letti had the most experience kayaking, and the rest of us had little or no experience at all (I'd belong to the latter category). But as the sun shone down on us, we were all confident we'd do alright.

We paddled for about 3 hours to the campsite at Pirate's Cove Park on De Courcy Island. We passed gorgeous sandstone caves and cliffs. A lot of the cliff faces looked alien and mysterious yet undeniably beautiful.

Here's Jim paddling by one of those alien formations.

Our guides, James and Kirsten, go by the "boob" rocks. Boobs of all shapes, sizes, and ages!

Letti's checking out the boobs. After all, that's what this trip was about!

When we got to the campsite, James whipped up a delicious and delicate tuna sashimi nicoise salad, or something fancy like that. It was good.

Then we set up our tents, got settled in, and started in on the wine. Mind you, we managed to bring 5 bags of wine with us in those kayaks (cuz we're classy), not to mention the legit bottles of wine that James brought with him for dinner, and our bottle of Dead Arm. That added up to, like, 30 LITRES of wine. In case you don't know how much that is, it's a lot. It's obscene.

After a nice hike through the park, we ate dinner. And part of the dinner was this lovely cheese plate. Unfortunately, I was too busy getting plastered to eat any cheese, but my kayak mates finished the whole thing off.

When dinner was finished, we engaged in a furious game of Uno. Even in my extremely drunken stupor, I managed to lay down cards as I was passed out on the picnic table. At one point, I had to go #2 in the outhouse. I was pitch-black dark, and I had my headlamp on. So without telling anyone where I was going or what I was doing (I later found out they thought I was leaving the table to pass out in the tent), I headed off toward the outhouse. In order to get to the outhouse, one had to go down a path, go down a considerable flight of stairs, go up another path, and go up a ramp to the potty. So, I did all this, but when I got to the ramp and looked up at the outhouse, my immediate thought was: "I can't go in there. There's a serial killer in there. I've seen the movies. I will be hacked up into little pieces and eaten." Fear--no, terror--struck, and I started telling myself, "Stupid! How could you come down here by yourself! Now you're going to be killed!" So I turned to go back to the group and get Henry, but all of a sudden, I had no idea where I was! I looked left--there was a path. I looked right--there was another path. I went with my gut, and--whew!--there were the stairs to go back up to the tents.

When I got back to the picnic table, everyone was laughing at me. They were watching my little bobble light the whole time and wondering what the hell I was doing, especially when I turned around without going to the bathroom. Anyway, it was time to call it a night (yeah, after I took Henry back down to the outhouse with me and did my business).

The next morning, I was the first one to wake up despite my killer hangover. But thanks to James's delicious cheese-stuffed French toast and coffee, we were all ready to go to our day's destination, Blackberry Point on Valdes Island.

Here's a group shot of us enroute:

Yes, I did the single kayak thing on the way to Blackberry. Let me tell you--it was so hard! You definitely can't sit back and cruise and let someone else do the work for a bit when you're by yourself. Good thing the water was calm and the weather was nice.

And here are some logs on the beach, including Henry as a log.

When we got back to De Courcy, James whipped up a lovely halibut dinner.

We definitely ate, drank, and were merry that night. And luckily for us, my sister-in-law Trish had the foresight to buy TowTabs. Yes, Brent made fun of her for buying these, but he was soon singing her praises, as you can see in this video. And as asked on their website, "How do you TowTab? On a hike, with your bike, when you fish, when you wish," we TowTabbed like crazy. It's like a Dr. Seuss invention.

If you think TowTabs are weird, hold on. This is even weirder. So we're all guffawing our asses off (GOAO, I believe the cyberspeak would be), when this cute young couple passes by. We saw them before but never chatted. So we started talking and invited them for a drink. Then the young man, Eli, and I were talking about why our group was on this trip. I said it was because I was diagnosed with cancer last year and we were celebrating life, so he said that his mom goes to an acupuncturist named Gerard! I said that I do too! And then I realized that I've seen him and his mom before at Inspire! Freakin' crazy!!! It was like totally full circle at that moment.

We had a lovely time with Eli and Adrienne, and eventually, we got them sufficiently wasted, and they went back to their cabin to do what I imagine young people must do.

And other than Lou-Anne rolling down a cliff and hurting herself, but not too much, thank god, we had an awesome time! We want to do a reunion trip! Incredible!

Here are some souvenir shells from the trip, holding our own home-raised, organic cilantro-fed caviar d'escargot. Yes, that's right. I ate my pet snails' babies. They were good. (I will post some snail pics on Brandy's Blog soon.

So the moral of this epic story: life can be shitty; just don't go to the outhouse alone in the dark, and you'll be okay.

Not-so-Dead Arm

2008-08-19T22:57:00.000-07:00

First, I want to thank everyone for keeping up with my blog, even when I haven't been so good at keeping up with it myself. You know how yappy I've been...well it seems that the recovery process has been silencing me. Odd. Or perhaps not so, I suppose.

As an update on the annoying lumps that have appeared on my chest--all the medical professionals I have seen said that they are 99-105% sure it's fat necrosis. So that's excellent news. My oncologist has retired, but I got another nice oncologist to replace her. Basically, if it gets bigger, I will go back to the cancer agency. Hopefully, it will just melt the fuck away. Enough said.

So this is the cool part: last week when I saw the plastic surgeon to discuss my nipple reconstruction, she took a look at me and said coyly, "Would you like to be bigger?" I said, "Who wouldn't?" She said, "You look nice and athletic now, but I could make you look more feminine. It wouldn't add much extra time to the surgery to give you implants." So...WOO FUCKING HOO! I get to have knockers! Yay! Not only did I get a tummy tuck from the tram flap surgery, but I get honking tits to boot! Fuck yeah! So in the next couple months, I will go back in for a "size consultation" and then get prepped for surgery, which will be out-patient. Dang. Oh, Ca-na-da...

This weekend is our awesome gourmet kayaking adventure. We are taking a special bottle of wine with us called "Dead Arm." I could go into the significance of this, but I'm tired. I'll just say it's a good, tasty metaphor for the shit I went through this past year.

I'm back to school in a couple weeks too. And that freaks me out, but I'm going to just do it. Move on with life, and enjoy it all!

Oh yeah...

2008-08-12T23:17:00.001-07:00

and FUCK YOU, CANCER!

RIP Betty

2008-08-12T23:04:00.000-07:00

For once, I'm finding it hard to write.

A good friend of mine passed away. Betty Ho. Her son Arnie just called to tell me the news. Betty was fighting lung cancer. She was diagnosed earlier this year. Years ago, she fought breast cancer and won. When I was diagnosed, she quickly came to my door with hugs, tears, some head coverings, a cheque, and her support.

I met Betty through the Chinese Canadian Historical Society. She was one of the 24 participants in a workshop that I organized and facilitated. She had such an incredible passion for writing and learning. Despite our age difference, she was like a sister to me--a kindred spirit. My heart is breaking right now.

When I was ending my chemo and beginning radiation, Betty was beginning her chemo. She wanted to take me to the labyrinth at St. Paul's Anglican Church as a meditation exercise. Sadly, I never got to go with her as we both had such busy schedules. I'd like to go now, for her and with her in spirit.

Here's a picture of our workshop way back in March 2007. Betty is standing beside me in the front row.

Rest in peace, Betty. I love you.

Pussycat

2008-08-08T10:25:00.000-07:00

I get to keep my new hair.

This is just one of the trivial and not-so-trivial thoughts running through my mind.

Things look good. The ultrasound images didn't look like cancer. The mammogram was inconclusive, as the lump was too far up my chest for them to get a good picture of it. They squooshed and smooshed me as much as they could into the machine, but alas, it wasn't happening. I see the oncologist again in a couple weeks, so I suppose she'll decide then whether or not to biopsy the lumps, just to be 100% certain it's just tissue.

I see the plastic surgeon next week to talk about nips. I'm super psyched for this. I miss having nipples. I like nipples. They command attention and for whatever reason are provocative. They're like little jewels. And they're coming from my inner thigh. I like the idea of that as well. My pokies will actually be thigh tissue.

I feel like I'm entering a new phase of my life. Watch out: Diva Brandy is loose and on the prowl. I got cute new hair, I'm gonna have some hot little titties, and I've got attitude to spare. ROWR!

Someone...please end my misery!

2008-07-18T20:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, so today the oncologist also mentioned the possibility of it being fat necrosis, but she was still concerned. She wanted to biopsy it asap, like right then and there, but since it was 4:00 PM on a Friday, no one was around to do it. She said it still struck her as bizarre and the sooner we figured out what it was, the better. She also mentioned that the area around the left breast was "ridgy." Who knows?

She had me wait around to see if I could get an appointment for an ultrasound for next week, but it was kinda impossible. The receptionist said there was a slim chance I would get called, if there was a cancellation or something like that.

So...more waiting! Yay!

Dead Fat

2008-07-17T23:06:00.000-07:00

"Fat necrosis."

That's what Dr. D., the breast cancer surgeon (not to be confused with Dr. VL, who is the plastic surgeon) said when she felt my lumps. She smiled and said not to worry.

I asked her what would be the point in getting a chest xray--as I'm scheduled to get tomorrow.

She shrugged and said, "Might as well."

Ok.

I sure hope it is dead fat, rather than live cancer cells.

Taking My Lumps

2008-07-16T15:57:00.000-07:00

Remnants of well wishes and a speedy recovery: a tree of life from Wayson Choy, a yellow begonia from Emilie Allen, and an orchid from the Chinese Canadian Historical Society. Recently, the orchid started blooming once again after the original petals fell off. The new growth makes me very happy.

I'm back to where I started.

On July 12, 2007, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

On July 12, 2008, I discovered two lumps on my chest. For anyone not looking at a calendar, that was 4 days ago.

I went to my family doctor yesterday. She examined me. One of the lumps is in my left (fake) breast, so she said that it might be scar tissue or something like that. But the other lump, which is like a hard stone, is not near the surgical site, and is about two inches below my clavicle. It's not like other lumps I found before. Anyway, of course I'm freaking out.

So she wanted to get me scheduled for an ultrasound asap, but ultrasound department was booked full until the end of August. Then she had the receptionist try to book with the cancer agency. Unfortunately, the cancer agency officially "discharged" me last month as a patient, and so she was told that they wouldn't see me unless I had another confirmed cancer diagnosis.

I was a little upset by this news. Just a little.

But then at the end of the day, the receptionist called me back and said that she managed to get me an appointment at this one imaging office on Broadway, for August 6th. I looked at my cancer agency chart and was happy to see that I'm going back to the same office that did my original ultrasound last year. I know that sounds like a weird thing to be happy about, but I really liked the radiologist there, and she was also the one who performed my first biopsy. So it makes me feel a little better to know I'll be in good hands.

So then today, when I got home, I got a call from my oncologist (or I guess, former oncologist, since technically I'm no longer her patient) that I've been scheduled for an xray and an appointment with her on Friday! I guess she decided to take a look at me after all! This also makes me feel better. And I'm also having a routine follow-up appointment with the breast cancer surgeon tomorrow. So with some good luck, I'm going to figure out what these lumps are after all!

Yeah, this is weird.

So anyhoo, a lot of people have emailed me, called me, sent me cards, wondering where I've gone in the blogosphere. I told some people who asked that I'm okay; I've told others that I'm not okay. I guess the best way to put it is that I'm shell-shocked.

It's been a little over a year since my diagnosis, since my brother-in-law passed away, since we've been thrown into this downward spiral that cancer can be. Time is a funny thing; I'm often perplexed by its meaning and significance. And now I ask myself more often than I would admit to, how much time do I have left?

When I had my follow-up appointment with my oncologist last month (the appointment at which I was apparently discharged), she talked to me mostly about how to deal with the after-effects of having cancer and going through treatment. She suggested a couple books and that I join some support groups. She said that I would feel like no one would understand.

She said that it wasn't a perfect outcome; I did, after all, have one positive lymph node--and this was after all the chemo and radiation. But it was a pretty good outcome, and everyone was happy about that.

She said that the chance of recurrence within a year of treatment was rare, but it does happen. She said that if something is abnormal, I should demand attention and examination.

Then she said goodbye.

So some days, it's been hard to know how to move on with life. I think people really want things to be normal again, but for me, it's hard to say or know what that is. I see my friends; I play with the kids; I spend time with family.

One day, Emilie, Mike, and Brianna came by to hang out. And it was fun. (I miss you, Em.)...(and yes, that is a NKOTB t-shirt I'm wearing.)

But it's an odd balance--to feel like every moment is precious and threatened, and to just forget the gravity and just LIVE.

And now, as H said, we've come full circle.

So now I'm left wondering--where to next? I'll let you know.

Some days it sucks; other days it's pretty good, especially when you have this little guy as your guide.

Nippity Nip Nip Nip

2008-05-13T19:43:00.001-07:00

I'm going to ask for really hard nipples. Some people are grossed out by "high beams," but I love pokies. One dark secret of mine: I used to own this contraption that created pokies for as long as you wanted. It was a little suction bulb, and three pairs of different sizes of rings came with the bulb. You slipped a little rubber ring onto the end of the bulb, stuck your nipple into the bulb, gave the bulb a squeeze (it looked much like those blue snot suckers you use on infants), and as your nip was sucked into the bulb, you slipped the ring onto it. Well, here see for yourself: Nipple Enhancers. Yeah, anyway...so now I can throw my nipple suction bulb away! Wahoo!

My pathology report came back very positive. I had 8 lymph nodes taken out, one of which was positive for carcinoma, but the rest were negative. So it looks like the cancer is history! But there still could be microscopic carcinoma in the chest wall, so I'll have scans every 6 months for the next five years to make sure everything is as it should be. I'll also go through genetic screening this summer for the BRCA-1 and -2 genetic mutation that could be the cancer culprit, in which case I would also be screened for ovarian cancer.

My body is healing quite well. I'm still getting lymphatic massage treatments, acupuncture, and today I had reflexology, which was soooo awesome. I could actually feel lymph fluid draining when the therapist pushed on a certain part of my foot. It was creepy yet cool. I got my Bellisse compression bra, and that's been helping loads too. I just wish someone around here would become a distributor for it, because I think so many women would benefit from having this special bra. I'm going to use my magical powers to make it happen, just wait and see.

Tomorrow I have another follow-up appointment with the plastic surgeon. The first question on my mind is when can I start getting tattooed? I want to get cherry blossoms on the formerly cancerous boob instead of your normal areola (and also still get a really hard nipple), and just have a nice pink areola and nip on the other boob; and also some cherry blossoms and branches where my abdominal scar is running from hip to hip. Now would be a great time since I have zero feeling in those areas, but I suppose I have to take into consideration the fact that the tissue is still healing.

My friend Jeff Chiba Stearns is a filmmaker and animator, and he has an animated character called Super Nip, but I think I might have to talk to Jeff...because a new Super Nip(s) is coming to town!

Today

2008-05-08T17:04:00.001-07:00

"Listen to your body." How many times have I heard that during the past nine months? Enough to make it mildly annoying. Yet I've come to understand the truth in that advice during the past few weeks.

It's been three weeks and two days since my operation (not that I'm counting). During this time, everyone who supposedly knows better has told me to keep it easy, move with caution, be gentle, put paper tape over my scars, and don't exercise. In the meantime, fluid has built up under my arm and along my side and even on my back near my shoulder blade. I've done gentle stretching and mild weight lifting (five-pound dumbbells), and while it has helped, I'm terribly impatient and frustrated. So today, I said screw it, and I hit the gym. Before I took off, Henry wrapped my arm up from my wrist to my shoulder, with the pressure starting at the wrist and tapering off as it went up my arm. My lymphatic massage therapist told me to wrap it like that when I wanted to exercise. Tomorrow, I'm going to get fitted for a special compression sleeve, but for today, this would do.

At Fitness World, I worked out on the elliptical machine for 30 minutes, did a wee tiny bit of resistance training, and then stretched. It felt soooo good to sweat from my head, neck, chest, arms, have the sweat running in my eyes, nose, and mouth. It felt incredible to get my heart rate up and keep moving. My abdominal stitches did burn a little in certain spots, and when that happened, I slowed down or changed direction of the machine. But I kept working. Then I walked home--and it's about 2 miles from my house to the gym--and then I lifted some more weights and stretched. When I took a hot shower, I felt awesome. I listened to my body, and my body said thank you.

Other ways I listened to my body--my body does not like paper tape, which as I mentioned, I was told to put over my scars/incisions. It actually irritated the scars and the skin surrounding them. Instead, I slather on pure shea butter, kinda like how you'd spackle cracks in the wall, and it's been working like a charm. I almost have flesh that looks like boobs!

I also ordered a compression bra, at the suggestion of my lymphatic massage therapist. It's from a company called Bellisse, and I had to order it through this medical supply store in Winnipeg! I called the woman with my measurements, so I should be getting it sometime next week.

Other fun things I did today: I created some postcards using my new mega-pack of Sharpie markers of all colours that I bought from Costco yesterday; then I wrote postcard stories, which I will send off to some lucky recipients on Postcrossing.com. Check out my postcard stories blog for the awesome results!

And I took some pictures with the new camera!

Here are some pretty plants outside a house I was stalking.

More stalking--uh, I mean, pretty plants.

What? A rain cloud in Vancouver?! No way!

My old friend, Mr. Kitty Kat. You can tell he's thrilled to see me again.

Also, on the walk back from the gym today, as I was crossing Main St., I saw this guy that looked so unreal. I mean, I could probably make this guy up, but if I did, I know someone in some writing workshop would tell me, "That's totally fake and cliché" (at least, that's what I would say). This dude was wearing a black tee-shirt, black leather jacket, black jeans, black sunglasses, had a black handlebar moustache, and was carrying a black briefcase. I wanted to take a picture of him, just so no one (including myself) thought I was bullshitting or hallucinating, but obviously he was in a hurry, on his way to blow up some shit or murder someone, so I didn't want to disturb him.

Yeah. So anyway, for those of you who think that because I have this renewed/new-found energy and vivacity, that I might get to that thing I had promised you I'd get to one month/three months/six months/nine months ago, or even during the time before I knew I had cancer...please, just for the next little while, pretend I'm still a bedridden invalid who's incapable of feeding herself or going to the bathroom without the aid of a laxative. Thanks.

I'm so glad I had this wonderful day, and I'm prepared to get my pathology report tomorrow.

Therapy of another kind

2008-05-04T19:17:00.000-07:00

I'm still waiting for the breast cancer surgeon to call me about the pathology report, but I'm not rushing to get the results. I guess some people might, but after having gone through ten months of treatment and surgery, I'm in no hurry to find out if I have more cancer floating around or not. But I will do the responsible thing and call her office this week, I suppose.

In the meantime, I'm doing a bit of retail therapy. Office Depot had a deal on cameras today, and seeing how I busted the LCD screen on my camera a couple months ago, we felt justified in buying a new camera--or two (matching His & Hers)--today. I got a green Casio Exilim, and Henry got a blue one. It's got this weird feature, "Face Recognition," where you can take pictures of your favourite people, and the camera stores the facial features, I guess. Then later, when you take a group shot, you can turn on the "favourites" feature, and the camera will focus more on those people whose faces it recognizes. Creepy--and cool.

So I decided to take pictures of some recent acquisitions to test out the camera.

This is a quilt that my friend Pisey made and sent me. I've known Pisey since the first grade, when she came up to me because I was "Oriental" like her. Look at the beautiful colours and designs!

A few days before my mastectomy, I wandered into a store called Rice Terraces, where they have really cool vintage kimono products and other neat stuff from Japan. So here's some stuff I bought...

This is a small tote bag featuring a "modern Geisha," as the store owner described it. Funky Cold Medina (that's a late-80s reference, for those of you who are too young to have a clue as to what I'm talking about).

This is a cute little kimono handbag with this awesome off-centre handle, along with a ring that I also bought. The ring is also made out of kimono cloth, with resin over it. The bag was a steal at $25, and the ring cost me $14. The surrounding plants were given to me by my pals, author Wayson Choy (he gave me the "Tree of Life" on the left), Harley Wylie (the small pink flowered plant in the middle), and Emilie Allen (the very sunshiny plant on the right).

Here's another shot of the bag and the ring.

The ring and my gnarly hand.

Yay for retail therapy and pretty things!

PS: Pop on over to my other blog for the much-requested video release of "Robot Refrigerator" by M.Y.L.O.

A Simple Post, RE: Good Times

2008-05-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

I was downloading and editing pictures this morning, and I came across all these wonderful ones from a dinner party our friends had for us before my surgery. Heidy, Greg, Marty, Letti, Mike, Thoren, Jim, Julie, and Geoff and their kids organized this wonderful gathering at a fancy restaurant in Queen Elizabeth Park called Seasons. Chloe and Mylo were psyched to get dressed up in fancy clothes and see their little friends. It was in a private room, so the kids could run around and go wild.

Here are the two little rascals before leaving for dinner.

Totally a daddy's girl, eh?

Mylo doing his usual calisthenics before eating--his secret to maintaining his buff physique. What a show-off! Wonder where he gets that trait from...

Our friends Marty and Letti's little guy, Marcus

All the kids playing something or other before eating.

Even Heidy and Greg's son, Gryphen, enjoys getting in on the food action!

Mr. Mylo

Ms. Chloe. Um, yeah, even princesses get runny noses...

...and princesses like to lick their runny noses...

...and shove food in their maws.

I think that last picture sums it up. We had a great time with great friends. And now I'm going to plug my other blog where I also put up more new pictures of the kiddins. Enjoy!

Flow

2008-04-30T23:16:00.001-07:00

I went for lymphatic massage today, and the physiotherapy coordinator finally called me to confirm my spot in the post-op support group next week. Despite the way things seem to be looking up, I find myself in a funk. I suppose it's understandable to become philosophically morose (or morosely philosophical, whichever makes more sense to you) during times like these, to be down about being numb--emotionally and physically. When I was having the massage done today, I felt particularly numb when the therapist worked on my breasts, and other than feeling light pressure, there was no sensation whatsoever. She could have put a flame to my flesh, and I wouldn't have known the difference. I've been reassured by nurses and doctors that this is only temporary, that I will regain some feeling back in my body. But they can't guarantee that.

It makes me think that the body is so needy for touch (think of babies, for whom touch is the only true form of affection), and at the same time, the body itself really doesn't matter at all. I have almost forgotten what my old body looked like--the size of my nipples, the way my breasts drooped, the way they felt. I don't have phantom limb syndrome that people sometimes get when they lose a part of themselves. I'm glad--I think it would hurt to the core to ache like that.

During my second follow-up appointment today, I asked the nurse when I would have nipple reconstruction. She laughed and said I'm too eager. Well, who wouldn't be? I don't exactly enjoy looking like a FrankenBarbie doll. But yeah, I have to wait until the new boobs "settle" first, which is hard for me to imagine right now. I just feel like they're two stiff mounds that are hardly a part of me.

I'm grateful for all the comments about how strong I've been through this ordeal, but my typical reaction is that anyone would do it if they had to--to go through all this to live. Well, most people would, I assume. But tonight, I had a moment, reflecting on what I and my loved ones have been through since July 2007, and I'm like, "Fucking hell yeah, I've been through it all. My body's been through the ringer, and it's sucked ass." But I'm healing. And waiting to be felt again.

Advocacy

2008-04-29T19:10:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to reclaim my bionic body. It's hard. And it's surprising and frustrating that there's not all that much support out there. It's been difficult trying to register for this post-op mastectomy physiotherapy group that this city claims to have at various health clinics. Yesterday, I went to one that not only claimed was held on the 4th Monday of every month, but also specifically listed "April 28th" as the date--to be told that I was completely wrong, and the woman who runs the group even called me this morning to apologize, but still made me feel like I was in the wrong. Then I tried to register for another group that's being held at another clinic next Wednesday morning, only to be shunted off to someone's voicemail--twice--with no return call confirming my registration.

I'm currently reading Living in the Postmastectomy Body, which has been helpful in learning some exercises to help me deal with the lymphedema. In the book, the author says that even though all the oncologists and surgeons always tell breast cancer surgery patients that they might experience lymphedema, that pretty much all breast cancer patients who've had any lymph nodes removed will experience this condition. This makes me feel that doctors should spend more time talking with their patients about this so that they can expect it and know beforehand what to do when it happens. It's really true that if one hasn't had this surgery, one really doesn't know what kind of discomfort and pain is on the way. It's almost as if medical professionals are there to just do their job--which is to treat the cancer--and then leave the patient to herself afterwards to deal with what might happen.

I also found some information for post-op exercises at the Patient Guide to Breast Care. So I was able to print these out and follow them. Two more resources that I found are Alicethenics, which is a very gentle exercise program (with very low production quality--but anyway, whatever), and Pilates Therapeutics Breast Cancer Survivor's Guide to Physical Restoration, which I haven't received yet but ordered yesterday. I'm excited to get this DVD because my focus now is to just get movement back. I list these resources because there might be some of you out there who are in search of this information, which I know now from experience is so hard to come by.

I also had my first acupuncture appointment today since surgery. It made me feel relaxed, and I even fell asleep for a moment, only to wake myself up with some weird gurgling I was making. I'm sure the other two women in the room who were receiving acupuncture were amused.

One last thing--I was at a friend's son's birthday party the other day, and she works at the cancer agency. One of her co-workers was telling me that she received a call from some man in Abbottsford who was expressing anger that the cancer agency's literature is available in Punjabi and Chinese (in fact, Henry was instrumental in having the literature available in these languages when he volunteered with the cancer agency 20 years ago!)--basically, this man in Abbottsford was saying that it should only be available in English, and that if you have cancer and don't know English, then you should learn it! What kind of racist, small-minded people are out there? And I was telling her that in fact, I think more should be done to help cancer patients who aren't fluent in English because in my experience in going for chemo, I've seen more people struggling with their treatments because they weren't able to communicate their reactions to the nurses. The cancer agency needs more people who speak different languages to be able to help anyone who needs help, period.

So I guess what I'm saying is that even in a place like Vancouver where we have top-notch facilitates for cancer patients, there's room for improvement--which is also saying that overall, more needs to be look at in terms of a patient-centered model for treatment, rather than just merely attacking the illness. Because even in the best-case scenario where the cancer is defeated, there's still a human being left to pick up the pieces.

Robot Refrigerator

2008-04-28T13:27:00.000-07:00

Mylo's been going around saying "Ro-bot Re-frig-er-a-tor" for a while now, in this mechanical monotone. It makes me laugh. I really feel like a robot refrigerator right now (whatever that is). It's like there's a cutting board in my torso, and my right arm and side are swollen. It's like I have a padded bra on, but I don't. It's just me.

I went to the physio group this morning, only to be told that the information that they gave me is incorrect, and the physio group was last Tuesday, and the next one is at the end of May. I was pretty pissed and annoyed. I wanted to learn some exercises to help me with my discomfort and get the range of motion back in my right arm. But it's not to be. I ordered a DVD that will hopefully help me, so I just have to wait for that.

I also was supposed to get my stitches out tomorrow, but when I called my surgeon's nurse to report this swelling in my arm, I was told that my appointment for tomorrow had been cancelled, there had been some mix-up, and that I'd see the nurse on Wednesday morning instead. If I hadn't called them, I would've wasted my time going there tomorrow.

These things always happen to me like this. Like, one bad thing doesn't happen--it's usually two or three things. I guess it's not so bad, just pretty annoying. Hopefully, my week will end up better than it started. I should be hearing from the breast cancer surgeon soon regarding the pathology report, so we can know if the cancer is gone or what. Until then, I'm not moving much.

This is why America rules: motorized carts

2008-04-25T23:13:00.001-07:00

These past few days have been different kinds of weirdness. A couple days ago, I noticed that my whole torso was numb; it was a very odd sensation to be able touch my stomach with my hands, but there was no sensation whatever that registered on my stomach. In other words, under normal circumstances, your hand feels what it is touching, and whatever is being touched can sense being touched by the hand. Now, when I touch my stomach, my hand senses my stomach while my stomach senses nothing at all. It's as if I'm touching someone other than myself--a one-way touch. My stomach--nothing. In fact, if I closed my eyes and lay there naked and someone came over and touched me on my stomach, I would never be able to tell.

Additionally, I seemed to have developed lymphedema, which is a common condition that develops after a woman's lymph nodes are removed along the with breasts. I'm doing the best I can with the exercises they've told me to do, and I'm also going to a physio group on Monday for mastectomy patients. Hopefully, I can get this taken care of and that it doesn't remain a permanent condition.

But good news--I've been feeling slightly more mobile. Except for the trauma my body's experienced in the past 9 months, I'm feeling pretty good. So tomorrow, H, the kids, and I are off to Victoria for the book launch over there for Eating Stories. In case you don't remember, that's the book that was my last editing project before I started my cancer treatment. The weather calls for gorgeous sunshine and skies, and the kids love going on the ferry. So it should be a nice, relatively low-key break for me to get out of the house.

Henry and I always go to Wa-Mart to pick up stuff. I know, I know! Some of you think Wal-Mart's this evil gigantor monster that's out to suck the souls of humanity, but let's save that conversation for another time. I like Wal-Mart, and I wanted to go to Wal-Mart. But more important, I wanted something that I've dreamed of ever since Wal-Mart existed in my world: to ride their motorized carts, the ones for customers who "need a lift," as the little sign on the cart's basket says. Yes, I am finally one of those people! I rode a Wal-Mart cart--and IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME.

As soon as I hobbled into the store, I walked over to a group of ladies standing around doing nothing. This was the moment that Henry and I were talking about for the past hour--of whether or not I should get one of those motorized carts. I thought, "Yeah, I know. I mean, I really don't need a cart..." Henry: "Yes you do! If they give you any shit, just raise your shirt." Me: "Yeah, I suppose you're right. Sure, I'll give it a try." So I got all worked up on the way to Wal-Mart--getting pumped up to the moment when I could show my bodily disfigurement as proof that I needed a cart. Instead, when I asked for the cart, one of them immediately spoke up, "No problem. See you gals, I gotta get a cart for this young lady." The way she said it, it sounded like she was doing the most important job that she's qualified to do. She said as I did my hobbly-hunch, "Don't mind if I walked faster, do you? Get a head start?" "Go ahead," I said, and she sped-walk to the carts. Even though I caught up to her in about two seconds, she still hopped on the cart, drove 6 inches, and stopped it at my feet and said, "There you are! Ooh, the seat's still warm. I assume you know how to work this thing?" I said, "Uh, I never had one of these before." She said, "It's easy--just put your thumb on that button there and steer and go!" And I was off!

I have to say--this weird life goal of mine--to someday ride in Wal-Mart's motorized carts--falls in the category of "exceeds expectations." I totally want to pretend for the rest of my life that I'm somehow physically challenged and never have my shoes touch the ground beneath at Wal-Mart ever again.

And here is me with my old lady shuffle:

And the Boobee goes to...

2008-04-22T09:26:00.000-07:00

me. Of course!

Henry, bless his heart, went out and bought me a trophy. Okay, I asked him to go out and buy me a trophy, but I didn't know he'd actually do it!

The award ceremony was thus: Chloe and Mylo running through the door, shouting, "Mama! Mama! You got a trophy!" I accepted the trophy as I was sitting in the recliner watching Dancing with the Stars. I felt like a champ.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all those who have supported me--those who played Scrabulous and Scramble on Facebook with me, those who have brought flowers, food and trashy magazines, those who have laughed and cried with me, those who appreciate that I'm still raunchy (though I'd like to call it "spunky"), especially most of all and forever, my husband, kids, parents, in-laws, and pillows.

THANK YOU!!!

Update: A Report of Epic (and approximately size B) proportions

2008-04-18T13:35:00.001-07:00

{this is me before I had the dressings and drains taken out today.}

This whole breast cancer thing is more of a trip, less of a journey. Like, a trippy trip, if you know what I mean. And that's not just the meds talking.

Today, I went to the surgeon's office to have the final drains and dressings removed. This was the first time that Henry and I saw my new body. I was both scared out of my mind and relieved to get these damn things off because it's pretty uncomfortable being wrapped up like this. Apparently, I was sporting the famous "Van Laeken pressure wrap" (Van Laeken is my surgeon's name). All the nurses were impressed that I had it, and therefore, no one wanted to touch it.

But before I go on and on about today, let me do a recap of this past week.

So on Tuesday morning, Henry, my parents and I made the short walk to the hospital. I was the first patient to check in that morning. I was incredibly nervous, and it didn't help that the nurse checking me in scolded me for taking two sips of water at 4 a.m. because I had a coughing fit. I was told at the pre-admission clinic and even on the surgery-prepping sheet that I could take "sips" of water before surgery, and I almost argued with her that a "sip" is hardly an exact amount, but I was just trying to not cry at that point. So I made it through the registration and was taken to the OR (operating room) triage, where the surgeons would mark up my body and prep me for surgery.

I was so nervous when I got into the triage that I started singing--quietly but audibly--"Living on a Prayer" and "Sweet Child O' Mine." I could hear the guy next to me--patients were only separated by curtains--tell his nurse that he's been smoking 45 cigarettes a day for 40 years, and they were discussing his Nicoderm patch schedule post-surgery. I was definitely the youngest person in there, as I could hear other patients give their ages to nurses, all of them over the age of 80. Finally, both surgeons--I had two: my breast cancer surgeon and my plastic surgeon--came in and did their thing. And then the anaesthesiologist came in and said, "I heard about you." I said, "Oh, you read my blog?" He looked at me funny and said, "No, I read your chart." I had to laugh.

Then before I knew it, they were wheeling me into the operating room, where there were these huge lights and so many machines and people hovering around me, trying to calm me down. I started breathing in a mask, and before I knew it...

I woke up and looked at the clock. 11:30. It felt like I just went to sleep, so the first thing I said was, "Can you put me back to sleep? I'm still awake." Someone said, "No, dear. We're done. It's over." I said, "Really? No way." Then came the uncontrollable sobbing.

Waves and waves of emotion overtook me. I was done. My breasts were gone. Something major just happened. Indescribable. The only thing I could do was cry. Except for the fact it really fucking hurt. Pain wracked my body.

They transferred me to the recovery room, where I continued my sobbing. I kept apologizing, and the nurse rubbed my arm and told me to go ahead and cry. Then Henry came in. I was so overjoyed to see him. I'd never been happier to see my loving husband than at that very moment. Apparently, as Henry told me yesterday, the nurse who had earlier yelled at me for taking sips of water, became nice and told Henry that he could go into the recovery room, even though loved ones weren't allowed into the recovery room.

A few minutes later, Henry went home while they were still monitoring me in the recovery room. After about an hour, they wheeled me into my room, which was a private room. The plastic surgeon came in and said, "You have a nice flat tummy." I said, "Just in time for swimsuit season." She smiled.

Henry came back soon enough and helped me get comfortable in my room. Eventually, my parents, Henry's parents and the kids came to visit. Chloe and Mylo drew me pictures so I could hang them up and look at them. And we brought a picture from home--one of us in Victoria last summer that Chloe and Mylo used as a decoration in preschool.

The rest of the hospital story is kinda uneventful. I was on a morphine drip for a couple days. Then my IV started to leak, so they had to take the IV out, I was given two options: leave the IV out and start taking pain pills, or put the IV back in, which would not be pleasant. I chose the pills.

It was hot and stuffy in my room because it was a reverse pressure room, which was intended for patients who required isolation. There was a vent that sucked the air out, and you couldn't open the window. This made it even more uncomfortable for me because I was sweating profusely, which made the bandages incredibly itchy underneath. I took Benedryl along with the morphine to relieve the itch.

I didn't sleep much while in the hospital. My major milestones were getting out of bed, taking a piss, and farting. I found it funny that while my son is in the midst of potty training, I was regressing back into childhood, being applauded for these basic human functions.

Here I am standing next to the beautiful flowers folks sent to the hospital (that would be Larry, Victoria, Neala, Henry's parents, and...hm, if I forgot you, I'm sorry):

The day that I left, I was to have one of the three drains taken out. It just so happened that it was student nurse day at the hospital, and I was going to be the big lesson for the day. So one of the students was the lucky one to learn how to take out a drain. Just so you know, a drain is placed inside the wound area to suction out the fluids built up during healing. It's a long tube, and it's not entirely pleasant to have this thing yanked out of you. Here are some pictures from the process. The room was crammed full of nursing students who were witness to this event. I don't actually look as bad as I felt. Henry's camera phone didn't capture me still gripping the sides of the bed minutes after having the drain removed.

So, yeah. Anyway, to our delight, I was sent home early because everyone was saying how well I was doing with moving around and such. So we came home on Friday. As I was leaving the hospital, I had such a hunched-over walk that even the old people were staring at me. I thought, "Fuck you, old people." It was so bad that when I went to the door, I was too short to make the automatic door slide open and had to wait for Henry to come get me. When we pulled up to our house and I walked to the door, I had the urge to point my finger and shout, "You rascally young people, get out of my yard!"

Unfortunately, a lot of our friends didn't get the message that I was home and therefore went to the hospital looking for me, some of them even walked straight into the room where we had been staying! I could imagine the woman in there thinking, "Who is this Brandy bitch, and why are all her friends in here bugging me?" One of the first people to walk into the room and end up back at my house was my friend Jamie, who drove from Seattle with his friend Sharon to surprise me. I was pretty happy to see him, and it was then that I realized that laughing really hurt! Laughing and coughing--two things I don't want to do now. Actually, I don't mind the laughing so much, because, well, I'm laughing. But the coughing really sucks ass. I feel like I'm ripping apart at the seams, literally.

Friday was freakin' weird. First, it was sunny. Then it rained, then it hailed (Mylo wanted to get out his bucket and shovel up the ice, he said), then it snowed! Like, a lot of snow! The world was ending, and I was doped up in my bed. Not a bad way to go.

We had other visitors and flowers and cookies and cakes and trashy celebrity magazines come our way. It's been very nice to see folks and have them bring their well wishes.

So I guess this brings me to today. The build-up to having the dressings and drains removed (especially after having the first drain removed) has been a bit torturous. Add painkillers to the mix, and you got some pretty wacky dreams I've been having. I've felt like Frankenstein for a few days now. But it really wasn't as bad as I imagined it would be once everything came off. My skin is irritated somewhat from the adhesive on the dressings, and the drain to my abdomen was pretty painful coming out, and the hole left by the drain there stings quite a bit still when I move. But I don't look as horrific as I thought I would.

I know some people are rightfully curious and concerned, so I'm going to post a link here to a picture of what I look like now.

Click here to see the results of my surgery. Be forewarned that I'm naked, and it's not pretty--yet.

You know, I feel like I've been blessed so many times during this whole process. Even today, something wonderfully unusual happened. As Henry and I were walking (or shuffling, in my case) into the medical building this afternoon, a man stopped me and asked me how my surgery went. I realized that he was a member of Friends for Life, one of the places I go to to get wellness treatments. It's a house for people with cancer and AIDS. He said he heard my interview on the radio, and that I have been in his prayers ever since. I couldn't believe it. Vancouver is a big city, and out of all the places to run into somebody--it was just amazing. And it was meant to be, and even though I'm not a religious person, I believe in angels, and he was my angel just then. It was a sign to me to go into that building and not have any fear. I was in good hands, and everything's going to be okay.

I'm home!

2008-04-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

Crazy, but I'm home! I'm so glad to be out of that small, stuffy hospital room, as nice as all the nurses were. So I'm planted firmly in my bed, in my robe, kinda all weird from the drugs and being in a small space for such a long time, with all these tight dressings on me. I don't know if my bod is hot or not, but it sure hurts.

I will write more later, when I'm done being settled back into my own space. Thanks to everyone who's emailed, called, sent flowers, and visited--including those who spontaneously threw a party in my room last evening! Who knew so many people could fit in such a small space, with me in the center, butt naked and woozy?

feeling better

2008-04-16T13:43:00.001-07:00

Brandy had a long night pushing the morphine self-dosing button (1.7 milligrams per click...), but was feeling well enough to get out of bed on her own and take a walk up and down the hallway. She's at Room 420 in the West Wing of Mt. St. Joseph Hospital, and can take visitors from noon until 8pm. She has her cel phone with her, and so you can also give her a call and see how she's doing...
Chloe and Mylo visited before their bedtime, along with Trish and Brent and Lily. Mylo brought his Kitty Kat to make Mommy feel better (he now says "Kitty Kat" rather than the more endearing "Titty Tat" that he used to say...sigh...).

Chloe is still practicing how to ask Brandy how she is doing. Right now she says "Momma, how do you feel good?" Not quite there, but endearing...
The plastic surgeon came in this morning and said that Brandy now has a "flat tummy," but everything is still wrapped tight in dressing so its hard to tell, but there wasn't much bleeding and so far no complications, so far so good.
This last one is for Lou-Anne. You might not be able to tell from this picture, but the hat has lights. How cool is that...?

Out of surgery

2008-04-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

Update on Brandy's surgery today. Brandy went into surgery around 8am this morning with a brave face (well, making faces at the least...).
She came out of surgery at 11:30am a little loopy from anesthesia and morphine, but otherwise the surgery went well. She is now asleep in the recovery room, and will be transferred up to the 4th Floor of the West Wing at Mt. St. Joseph's Hospital at 2pm, where she will be for the next four days. During the 2 minutes that she was allowed to have visitors after she first got into the recovery room, she told me to put a message up on her blog that all went well (as far as she could tell--but maybe that's the morphine talking...). The nurses said the surgery went well (probably more reliable opinion...).

Thanks for all the good wishes and prayers. Hopefully her recovery will be rapid!

H

To Be Continued....(Cue the anticipation music)

2008-04-15T02:29:00.001-07:00

It is four hours before we have to make the short walk to the hospital, and I am naked. Kind of. I have a robe on. Naked enough.

Everyone is sleeping. I had so much I wanted to write about here, now, but I'm too tired really.

Right before midnight--the cut-off time for eating/drinking/smoking anything--I finished my coffee/vodka cocktail I concocted. It was good. Then I played Scrabulous and Scramble on Facebook. Then I removed the nailpolish on my toenails (no polish allowed. I asked Henry why, and luckily he's watched enough episodes of House to tell me the reason is because doctors and such look at nails to see if patients are deprived of oxygen). Then I took a bath. Then I played some more online nerd games, updated my poetry blog, checked on the kids, watched Henry go to sleep after he watched Rome (dude, History is soooo hardcore), and now I'm in the dark, mostly naked, pretty tired yet pretty wired.

So here's the deets on my surgery:

I'm gonna be at Mount Saint Joseph's hospital for approximately 5 days. If you're in Vancouver and would like to visit, come on by. If you feel sheepish, feel free to call Henry's cell. If you're not in Vancouver, feel free to call Henry's cell. I can't promise you that he'll answer cuz I'm pretty sure the hospital policy is no cells, but he's a rebel, so who knows?

This will be my last entry til I get home. But Henry will update tomorrow evening (Pacific time zone, for you Easterners out there). Don't worry! Actually, what you can do is be jealous! Cuz I'm going to have a super-hot bod soon...and it only took cancer to get it! :D

Cheers,
Brandy

Some People Fucking Suck

2008-04-11T21:38:00.000-07:00

It's been quite strange to get negative comments about my boob party, all this judgement about my character for trying to bring empowerment to a shitty situation and to raise money. This one particular "woman" (this person identifies as such, but you never know for sure on the internet) seems to really have it out for me. After a few of her scathing comments on the CBC article, Henry wrote:

"Do any of you who have made dismissive or insulting comments about this brave woman have any idea what it is like to go through 6 months of debilitating chemotherapy, where you spend most of your days poisoned to the extent that you can barely move and your veins and arteries and much of your body will never the same, another 5 weeks of radiation therapy where you are literally being burned from the inside and you wonder what the side effects of being irradiated will be if you survive the initial cancer being treated, and then ponder the prospects of major surgery that will require months of recovery and the possibility that you may not survive?

Are you so pathetic and lonely or, worse yet, so lacking in human empathy that you cannot imagine what it might be to be this woman or someone who cares for her, who has seen her courage and sense of humour in the face of such pain and fear, and who might cherish her generousity in throwing a party so that those who care about her can laugh along with her and support her in her hour of need?

If you use words such as "pathetic" or "self-indulgent" to describe her, I am afraid they mirror your own flaws and not hers, and that you truly lack a fundamental humanity that allows you to see the grace and courage another shows in spite of their suffering. This has nothing to do with the sexuality of breasts, or your views about your own breasts or your sexuality. This is about the loss of a part of her body that has held great meaning, and how the fears about how that might change her life reflect the fears about how cancer may alter or end her life in the most profound way. To face one's mortality with a sense of humour, and among friends, is such a contrast to the superficial attempts at humour and insult displayed by some of the commentators that I truly marvel at the emotional poverty of their lives.

I pity you and hope that you will not have to discover what it means to go through cancer yourself, or to see a loved one suffer through it and feel powerless to take their pain away. May you remain blissfully mean-spirited, so that you will not have to learn in the most difficult way what it means to be fully human and humane."

And my friend Vicki wrote:

"I've known Brandy since she was a young girl. She is a wonderful, intelligent woman who faces everything in life with a positive attitude and a zany sense of humor.

How wonderful, that in a crisis that could be a death sentence to many people's spirits, she chooses to lift her spirits by reaching out to other cancer patients with a fund raiser that is also a way of making a transition to her new, post-mastectomy body.

Brandy is also a loving mother to her 2 young children. Even though they are very young, she has not left them "out of the loop" about what's going on, but let them be a part of the whole life experience so that they will not be so afraid of the changes that are about to happen to their mommy. If you look in the archives of Brandy's blogs, you will see pictures of her children helping to cut their mommy's hair when it was beginning to fall out. She and her husband made a family "game" out of it, so that her kids would know that it was natural and not scary. Her daughter helped her mommy make the booby casts for this "bye bye boobies" farewell party as a way of being a part of the whole experience.

I say SHAME on you cowards who hide behind your anonymity and write mean-spirited comments towards someone whom you don't even know. And this IS newsworthy! In a world where so much of the news is gloom and doom, how uplifting to read a story about someone who is going through this with sense of humor intact. She is ready to embrace her new body and I say KUDOS to Brandy and her loving family for sharing their private pain and turning it into public celebration!"

To which this woman replied:

"To BCborn and Vicki58085 - This article has everything to do with sexuality, self- indulgence and breasts. I'm sure that Brandy Lien Worrall is a wonderful woman. And, yes, cancer is scary. Not one of my friends who has survived or left this world because of cancer has chosen to debase themselves in such a self-indulgent, pathetic, idiotic manner - they were ( or are ) too busy concerning themselves with their children, grandchildren and ensuring their needs are looked after.

Brandy Lien Worrall's private life really needs to remain there - PRIVATE- and that includes her " boobie bash ", which really is just a pathetic, self-indulgent, attention-seeking media spin so that she feels better - just in case she doesn't make it . . . which is quite a probability. I already truly do feel sorry for her children.

And, YES, I do have a sense of humour . . . the only thing that has kept me going ! ! !"

Okay, lady, so what the fuck is up? This woman is clearly insane. Here's my reply to her lovely rant:

"To Pivoine and others who feel like this person--I feel sorry for you. Because even though I might be the one who has cancer, you people are truly sick. Or perhaps, to give you the benefit of the doubt, you are only getting one side of the story. Though I have a suspicion that even given the full story, you would still judge me for who you think I am and what I've done. In any case, it's true--I have no shame--but why would I?

No doubt are sexuality and self-image a part of this act, but also is nurturing, empowerment, support. Many people came out to this event because they wanted information and to meet other people going through what they are in terms of their cancer treatments. They wanted to be in a safe environment in which they could not feel lonely with their cancer for perhaps this one night. And having this event was a beautiful success on so many levels--not just for myself but for all the other people who were there, including my children and other children, who were celebrating breasts with artwork. To them, breasts aren't sexual but were what nourished them in their first few years of life.

I have not debased myself; I am honouring myself--my body, mind, and spirit, all three of which have been changed by this whole process of trying to survive. Luckily, I have had the support of my entire family, including my parents, my in-laws, my children, my husband, and all my friends--all who were involved with this event and were touched by it.

So please, Pivoine, I hope you don't spend any more of your energy calling me names for something beautiful that I've done for myself and others; and especially, please don't feel sorry for my children. I have cancer, but I and those around me are all blessed with open minds and spirits, and instead of wallowing in my pain and suffering (which I have had done, believe me), every once in a while, I try to do good for a community of people who need support. And so if you really feel that I'm idiotic for doing so, then yes, I think you are the one who is sick."

What really pisses me off is that if there is a breast cancer patient reading this article, hoping to get inspiration or empowerment or not feel alone and misunderstood, if she reads these attacks on me, she could feel like she shouldn't say anything about her cancer...and that's poisonous. Cancer patients need to talk about their cancer, need to get help and support. They don't need to keep their cancer "private" or hidden from others. That is not healthy at all, period.

So all of you who read my blog, who are here to get information, support, peace, understanding--talk about your experiences. Be loud about it. If you want to spend your days in bed, do so. If you want to shout from the top of your lungs, do so. But whatever you do, don't let anyone ever tell you that you need to be private about your pain, that you need to do anything--just do what you feel you have to do to recover from this awful disease!

This is why...

2008-04-10T12:10:00.000-07:00

I do the things I do.

There's a nice article out there, "Cancer patient readies for surgery with boobies bash". On the righthand side of the article, you can also click on the link to hear the radio interview I did yesterday morning.

Unfortunately, some of the comments about the article are not so nice. In fact, they are downright mean-spirited. When I first scrolled down and read the comments, I was really upset. I mean, I just couldn't understand why someone could call me "pathetic and gross," that I have "the wrong attitude," that I have "no shame and no brains," and so on. I couldn't understand all the insults--it just felt completely demeaning in a time when I'm trying to not get down on myself and be depressed.

And then I think, this is why women are silenced about having cancer, whether it be breast, ovarian, or cervical cancer. They think that no one understands, and like I said on the 11 o'clock news story, cancer is a lonely place. It truly is. And what cancer patients DON'T need is more loneliness or judgment.

But what I remember from last evening are the two women who were the first to arrive at the event. They weren't my family or friends, but they came because they were going through chemotherapy and wanted to find out information and meet other people who were going through the hell they were experiencing. I remember others whom I didn't know that well but who came out for support or to offer support. I remember the kids painting the casts, having fun, being in a loving environment. I remember my friends and family who came, and those who weren't able to but who have emailed me loving thoughts. Creating a safe space, a nurturing space, a space where people can come together and support one another--not just supporting myself--this is why I do the things I do, including being very public and vocal about my cancer experience.

I am not ashamed, and I believe I have the right attitude. So you assholes out there that think I'm pathetic and gross--FUCK YOU! I'm glad I got that off my chest, especially at a time when I have to have my cancer off my chest too!

Now, for some positive thinking and images...The final fund raising tally from last night: $580 for the Canadian Cancer Society and $600 for Friends for Life. Awesome.

Boobs! Boobs! Boobs!

2008-04-09T23:20:00.000-07:00

Tonight's event was incredible for a number of reasons. First, it was amazing that such an inspirational event could come together in less than a week--and that had a lot to do with Lisa and Vinetta who own Rhizome Cafe. I appreciate much how they believe in what I do. Second, it was extraordinary how friends, family, and strangers alike came out to find out what was going on--whether they came to support me, to gather information, or to give to the cause. Finally, I was completely blown away by the beauty and the artistry of the boob casts. Everyone seemed to have a blast painting and marking the boobs (not to mention Chloe, who claimed about 8 of the boob casts as her own). It was truly a memorable evening. All told, I believe there were over 50 people in attendance, with about $1000 raised for various cancer organizations.

To top it all off, we made the news this evening. Here's the clip:

What Other People are Saying...

2008-04-09T08:18:00.000-07:00

I just woke up at the buttcrack of dawn to go on CBC Radio's Early Edition to talk about tonight's shindig. The interview should be posted on their website later today, so I will give an update when that happens (in case you weren't awake at 6:50 am listening to CBC).

Also, the Georgia Straight wrote a nice blog about tonight's event . Check it out.

I'm pretty tired at the moment, but it's going to a blast tonight! The kids are super-psyched for the party. We might have boobie balloons, we will see. Don't forget your $$$ or checkbooks for donations. Tonight will be a night of celebrating, coming together, sharing, laughter, and yes, maybe some drunken tears. Oh yeah, and boob petting.

If you'd like to decorate boob casts (I'm bringing paints, markers, pastels, glitter, etc.), I suggest wearing clothes that you don't mind getting mussed up. Most of the stuff washes out, but I can't guarantee that it will come out of your fine silk scarf or fancy cashmere cardigan.

And if anyone would like to read poetry about boobies, or cancer, or anything else appropriate to the event's theme, feel free to bring your words along.

Boob Casts: A Family Affair

2008-04-08T23:09:00.000-07:00

We put the finishing touches on the boob casts tonight, making sure they were dry and carefully packing them in a box layered with bubble wrap. They are imperfect and fragile; some of them are deformed. But that's okay. Some people make cupcakes; I make boob casts.

Here's Chloe helping me out with blow-drying the casts. She looks simply thrilled.

Boob Mausoleum

2008-04-08T10:18:00.000-07:00

I have to tell you--this whole boob farewell party thing was completely impulsive. I really only thought of it last Wednesday! This is how it happened:

Brandy: Henry, don't you think it would be cool if I asked people to grab my tits for the next two weeks? You know, cuz they're gonna be gone anyway.

Henry: [quizzical glance]

Brandy: Seriously, like, what does it matter?

Henry: You're disembodying your boobs from yourself already?

Brandy: Um, yeah, I guess so.

Brandy and Henry go to bed.

Brandy wakes up. Still can't shake the thought. The idea has grown, has legs, and she calls her friends Vinetta and Lisa at Rhizome. What a cool fundraiser/awareness opportunity, they both think. And now we got ourselves an event.

So that's kinda the condensed version, but you get the idea.

What I didn't expect was how much I enjoyed making the boob casts, all thirtysomething of them. It became ritualistic, symbolic, therapeutic. It was an act of preserving that which will be taken away from me in one week. It was mimicking how my wound sites will be dressed and undressed by others, taken care of and checked on. It was me taking care of my breasts, honouring them in my own private way.

I'd stand completely naked in front of the bathroom mirror, newspapers all over the floor, a tub of water on the toilet, with the plaster strips on the table. I'd play my iPod and sing along, as strip after strip was placed. I'd slather on the Vaseline ever so often so that my skin wouldn't be irritated by the plaster and also so the cast would slip off when dried enough. After making them, I did a quick rinse in the tub, picking off the dried plaster splotches, scraping it off my fingernails.

When I finished, Chloe said, "Mama, you have a lot of boobies! So many boobies!" My whole family wonders what must be going on in that crazy head of mine, but they all accept it and let it go.

[Here's my mom eating her dinner. She managed to find a space not populated by boob casts.]

For Lou-Anne: "Hats with lights"

2008-04-04T23:56:00.000-07:00

I just came from a neighbour's party. He was having a bash because his girlfriend came back from one of those fucking hardcore mega-races where people can die in the desert and canyons and shit. So at this party were our dear friends Jim and Lou-Anne, who are one of the couples going on this sissy gourmet kayaking weekend "adventure" (if you can call it that) in August, which I am totally looking forward to. So tonight, we're at this party to celebrate this hardcore chick's return from the Baja wilderness, and while we're looking at the amazing slideshow, Lou-Anne turns to me all wide-eyed and says, "Brandy! I have an in to hats with lights!" And seriously, it was the best fucking thing I heard all year.

See--that's the thing. My friends and loved ones know and appreciate how "quirky" and "eccentric" I am--in other words, weird. And I in turn appreciate their appreciation. And to me, that's what life is all about: hats with lights.

I know Lou-Anne was referring to the kind of hats that you imagine excavators or miners using--the kind with the bulb in the middle of the hard hat--but when I Googled "hats with lights," I came with this, which is also fucking awesome.

As you know, I've got this random way of saying things...which brings me to the point: Yes, I do, at this moment, have a positive attitude about things, despite how shitty the situation might seem. When I think of hats with lights, I actually think of the third eye chakra, which is in the middle of one's forehead, and which I think is the path to the meaning of life. So really, hats with lights is always a good idea.

Invitation: Brandy's Boobs--The Last Hurrah

2008-04-02T21:21:00.000-07:00

My current boobs will be history as of April 15th. So I'm paying tribute to them at Rhizome Cafe (317 East Broadway) on Wednesday, April 9th, from 5-7 PM. There will be boob casts for kids of all ages to decorate, and the theme is "Cop a Feel; Pay what you feel." 100% of monetary donations will go to various cancer organizations; 100% of love will be shared. While this all may sound incredibly self-indulgent (and it is...), it's also in the spirit of raising awareness about breast cancer in women under the age of 40, so please pass this invitation along and bring all your friends.

And yes, if you want, you can feel my boobs.

BOOBS!

Devilment

2008-04-01T15:11:00.001-07:00

There's a line of sweat running down my back to my ass. It's kinda hot today.

You know what--you shouldn't pay attention to me right now. I'm completely annoying with my whining one moment and rejoicing the next. I annoy myself.

The other day, I was talking on the phone with my grandma, whom I call Mammy. Mammy is 80 years old, and she's not well. She's got Parkinson's disease, and a lot of aches and pains and such. Mammy and I often commiserate. We compare notes. So as Mammy was telling me about what ails her, I said, "Mam, you know what you need? You need to smoke some weed." There was a long pause. Then she said slowly in her lilting voice, "Why, Brandy, don't you go puttin' the devilment in my mind!" And she chuckled. And I thought, jeez, how much would that rock if I could get Mammy stoned? Alas, I believe that's one goal that will never be attained.

But "devilment"--what an awesome word! Thanks, Mam!

Behind

2008-03-31T11:43:00.001-07:00

These are the thoughts I try not to have, but end up having more often than I would like...

A few nights ago, in the bathtub: "Where will I be in less than three weeks from now?" [It's now two weeks and one day until my surgery.]

Last night, at Henry's colleague's house for dinner: "Will they say that it was just two weeks ago that they saw me, and how good I looked, how happy?"

In the car on the way to Costco: "I should make a list for Henry of people who should be at my memorial service, no matter what."

No one wants to read me say all this. But it is the case. Some of the time, I really don't have fear about the surgery. Other times, I have panic attacks, like on the bus last week, and I'd wished I had my Ativan but did not, so I did all I could not to have my nervous breakdown, right there, on the #8, right in Chinatown.

I look at music lyrics and quotes and lines of poetry like scriptures, to describe the fucked-up way all this is sacred. I'm not sure how to make anyone understand that.

Shine

2008-03-29T12:21:00.000-07:00

Can you see it from there? Is it blinding? Yeah, yeah--don't worry. It's only my aura.

Three people this week have told me that I look "brighter," like I'm glowing or something. Henry thinks it just because I have hair and eyebrows, that people notice that I look healthier. But that's a boring way to look at it! It makes me feel good to think that that certain something is my aura, and that my aura is kicking ass.

Tran-Tram

2008-03-26T12:01:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty shitty at taking pictures. I mean, I'm not a shitty photographer, but I'm shitty at remembering to take pictures. This problem has been compounded by the fact that I dropped my camera and busted the LCD screen. So I'm limited to taking pictures the old-fashioned way--using the viewfinder. The horror!

Sadly, I took one picture during the entire time we were in LA, and it is of my girlfriend Irene and her man Peter:

[How cute! And how Irene!]

But I try to see the busted camera as a challenge. The point-and-shoot method with the arm sticking way out in front of me is a game of "how many shots can I take that will turn out decent?" And then the fun of it is that I have no immediate judgement--I have to wait until I download the pics onto my computer before I see how they turn out. So here's me trying to capture my new hair:

I've been told how hip, artsy, cute, and pixie I look. My hair also attracts attention, which in turn makes people pay more attention to my various accoutrements, such as my tattoos and my glasses. It's pretty cool and boosts my self-esteem, which is something that I've been in serious lack of in recent months. Alas, there are still moments when I'm called "Sir" or "Senor," but whatever. There's a certain sexiness to being androgynous.

As the day for the surgery draws near, Henry and I have random discussions about it, which signify to me that even though we're trying not to freak out about it, we think about it all the time. A couple nights ago, we wondered if in fact I could get have a normal pregnancy again, should we choose to have a third child. Right now, we're not even sure if my reproductive system will heal from the chemo, as I haven't even had a period since I started chemo. We were told that early menopause could be a side effect. In any case, should I be able to have children again someday, would I be able to carry a child, given that my abdominal muscles will no longer be there, and in their place, I will have a wire mesh to hold in my innards? So we looked this up online, and indeed, few women have ever carried their babies to term after having this surgery, and fewer still had the exact surgery I'm having. Most women are beyond childbearing age when they have the TRAM-flap surgery done, and those who have had it done and had children only had one breast removed and reconstructed. I found exactly ONE woman online who had a bilateral mastectomy and TRAM-flap reconstruction who got pregnant, but I don't know how it ended up for her, as she didn't make any more posts on the forum that she posted on. It's a question that my plastic surgeon didn't bring up, probably because she's not accustomed to discussing such issues with her patients.

In any case, we are moving along as planned. And we will deal with these issues in the future, if we must. The problem with our lives right now is that there is so much that is uncertain--big ticket items--but there's nothing we can do about that uncertainty. We can only move forward the best way we know how.

ps--For more updates on the Worrall Yu household, check out my other blog.

Sunny Southern California, Riding the Waves

2008-03-23T09:36:00.001-07:00

H-dog and I are in LA at the moment. Actually, we're in Santa Monica, but same difference. Dude is sound asleep, while I'm sitting at the kitchen table at our friends Steve and Amy's house, enjoying the blindingly bright sunshine blazing outside. Inside, the air is cool, and I'm warming up with a cup of Irish Breakfast tea (hey, the Irish drink tea too!).

As to be expected, I got a lot of how-are-you-doing's, hugs, head rubs (my head is like a soft downy chick), kisses, smiles, and well wishes. Last night, we went to dine with some friends, and at the table were two other women besides myself who had battled cancer. It wasn't like we intended for it to be like that ("if you don't have cancer, you're not invited!"), but it just happened. So we supported each other, traded chemo war stories, and cast a bunch of downward glances. I felt warm.

LA is always a trip when we come back. On Thursday, my former co-workers at the Asian American Studies Center at UCLA had a lunch for me and H-man. After that, we went to H's brother interment, which was a nice simple quiet ceremony. On Thursday night, H, his sister Trish, my soul sister Mae and her husband George, and I went to Koreatown for some karaoke and Korean food late at night. One of my little secrets (I guess not so secret anymore) is that I LOVE karaoke, even though it hurts to even hear myself sing. So now all these songs are playing on the turntable in my head, especially in the quiet moments....classics like Every Rose Has Its Thorn, 18 and Life, Living on a Prayer, Eternal Flame, Sweet Child O' Mine, and a new favorite--thanks to George--the Monster Mash. It was a blast. I'm going to kick cancer's ass so I can karaoke my little tone-deaf heart out!

On Friday, my dear pal Victoria took me on a pedicure outing in Beverly Hills, so now my toenails are pretty. Unfortunately, my fingernails are still trying to grow out the chemo (tells you how long the chemo stays in the system), so they were unworthy of a mani. But then we had a nice lunch at this little place called Cuvee. It's fun being a girl, especially with Victoria!

Seriously though, I think I needed this trip to tell me that everything going to be alright, and even more so, I want it to be alright, it will be alright, it IS alright. The idea of the surgery has been freaking me out for two months (probably more), but now, I'm looking forward to it. I mean, hell, I get a morphine drip! How fucking kick-ass is that?

Today, we will spend Easter soaking up the sun, seeing more friends, and packing up to head back to Vancouver tomorrow. We miss the kiddins, but anyway, they're having a blast with all four grandparents showering them with attention and doing fun things.

And oh yeah--my CT scans came back clean, except for the arthritis, which we already knew about. So no evidence of metastasis. That's a wonderful thing! Couldn't ask for better news.

One of H's colleagues at UCLA was hoping that we did the little dye job, but I'm still waiting for more hair to grow in before we do that. I'm now starting to consider like a deep pink/magenta-ish dye. We will see.

Celebrate Good Times

2008-03-14T17:01:00.000-07:00

I've been a bad blogger lately. But in a way that I'm sure people would understand, I've felt like retreating from the world, real or cyberwise. Still, I've had great interactions with people, had some nice company lately. Last week, I was honoured by the Chinese Canadian Historical Society of BC for the work that I've done with the writing workshops I taught and the books I edited and published. My parents, Henry's parents, Henry's sister and her husband were in attendance, so it was nice to have all this family support. My "students" (I still feel weird calling them my students since they're more like my friends) got up and roasted and toasted me. And Professor Jan Walls made up a Chinese clapper tale about me, which I will post a clip of once Henry gets around to downloading the film. It was a really sweet and touching event.

What was really cute and cool was that I don't think my mother had any clue about why we were at the dinner, even though I tried telling her it was because I was being honoured. I don't think I could even describe it in Vietnamese if I knew the words. Usually, in Vietnamese culture, young people just aren't honoured in that type of way. So my mom couldn't fathom it. Imagine her confusion when all these people started getting up and staying all these nice (and otherwise) things about me! My favourite moment was when I stood up to thank everyone, and I mentioned that my parents were in the audience, and how special that was to me. My mom stood up, smiled, and pageant-waved to everyone there (there were over 100 people in attendance)! She was so proud. It was really cute. Here are some highlights:

[This is the dinner menu. The organization made colour, laminated copies for me and my parents.]

[My students worked together on a secret project, a surprise for me: a book of recipes from our Iron Chef-style "Yam-Off" competition between the two workshops.]

[Another surprise: a little illustration of how I whipped them into shape.]

[This picture was taken by Roy Mah. Here's I'm accepting a gorgeous bouquet. Check out the hair I grew just for the occasion!]

In addition, I got a real treat when author Wayson Choy introduced himself to me at the dinner. A few days later, Henry and I went to a reading that Wayson gave, and he was just as gracious and inspiring there as he was at the dinner. Inspiration is what I really need right now.

This Wednesday also happened to mark Henry's birthday. March has always been the month of birthdays in our family, including our niece's, our brother-in-law's, and finally, Henry's brother George. The Monday before Henry's birthday, we went out to Fortune restaurant to celebrate, and we were treated to Alaskan king crab (I think this one was a 12-pounder) by Henry's parents:

On Wednesday, Henry and I attended the International formal dinner at St. John's College at UBC. For the past two academic years, Henry has been doing a wonderful job as Associate Principal there, organizing a ton of great events and talks there. So we get the honour of being invited to the formal dinners. Since the dinner just happened to be the same date as Henry's birthday, everyone sang Happy Birthday to him and several graduate students stood up and wished in happy birthday in various languages. I was so proud to be his wife at that moment--and a little tipsy from the wine--that when he stood up, I also stood up to give him a kiss in front of everyone. Little did I know that as I stood up, my chair fell backwards because my bag that was hanging on the back of it was so heavy. When I went to sit back down, the chair was no longer there, and I fell right on my ass on the floor in front of everyone! I just laughed, but I think that the office staff, who were sitting at my table, were horrified and embarrassed for me. So dear Amy said, "No one saw. I flashed them to distract them." I was like, "It's okay." Yeah, so I ate it. Oh well. No one ever accused me of being graceful!

The funs times are good and much needed. To be honest, there's an imbalance of fun times and darkness--though I believe that even if I had fun 20 hours out of the day, there would still be that imbalance, heavy on the negative. It's exactly one month until my surgery. On Wednesday, I had a CT scan in my chest, abdomen, and pelvic region, for re-staging my cancer. That basically means they want to see what exists in those regions (if there are any metastases, any shrinkages). I see my oncologist on Tuesday for the results. Yesterday, Henry and I went to St. Paul's hospital for a pre-surgery education clinic, when we met with a nurse who told us what to expect on the day of and the days after following surgery, and we met with an anesthetist who explained the "going under" process. And then there was more blood-work (I used to be a champ when it came to needles, but ever since my vein has hardened from the chemo, it's become a little bit more uncomfortable). The reality that the surgery is only a month away is a shock. And this period of waiting--and getting more tests done to determine my health situation--places me back at square one. I kinda feel like I did back in July when I was first diagnosed, and I would wake up every morning for the first few weeks and realize with a shock, "I have cancer."

The timing of all this couldn't be any weirder to me either. It was just five days after Henry's brother died of lung cancer that I was diagnosed. Now, next week--which will be three weeks before my surgery--we will be going to his brother's interment in Los Angeles. It will be a quiet private ceremony, which we and Henry's sister will attend.

Going to LA also means seeing friends and getting some sunshine, so the trip will be bittersweet, as life in general mostly seems to be right now.

I have a lot of fear--but I have much to hope for too. As Wayson Choy said at his reading, "I want to see what happens tomorrow."

Kicking Ass and Taking Names

2008-02-26T21:52:00.000-08:00

Ever since I've been diagnosed, many people have told me stories of survival in order to encourage and support me through my treatment. I'm grateful for those stories, but the ones that really keep me fighting are the stories and experiences of my own family. Besides thinking of my brother-in-law George who passed away from lung cancer this summer, I also often have on my mind my great-aunt Betty, who passed away from breast cancer over twenty years ago.

And now, I'd like to pay tribute to my Uncle Pen, who kicked cancer's ass about ten years ago. Uncle Pen is definitely my favorite uncle. He had a pet raccoon (which he tamed himself); he caught wild turkeys and wrestled them in our family's pig pen; and he always gives me awesome deer jerky (uh, yeah, if you haven't figured it out by now, this blog is not vegetarian-friendly). He's a real-life Paul Bunyan, even to this day. And while I don't catch animals with my bare hands and kill them on the spot, I think I'm kicking cancer's ass with the same kind of spirit.

Here's me and Uncle Pen, about 30 years ago:

Sunny Days, Sweeping those Clouds Away

2008-02-25T16:18:00.000-08:00

The weather in Vancouver has been splendid. Fifty degrees, sunny, clear blue skies. My parents, who arrived last week from Pennsylvania where the temperature is frigid and there are buckets of snow, think it's cold here. Their perception of the weather reminds me to remember--everything in context.

I'm riding a roller coaster around and around. Sometimes, I sink into an unforgiving existentialist mindset that sucks. Other times, I feel like skipping down the sidewalk, despite the sharp breaks that threaten to trip me up.

For instance, last night, I felt brave enough to pick up "The Idiot's Guide to Living with Breast Cancer" and flipped through it before going to sleep. The book has been collecting dust on my shelf for, oh, six months. As light and supportive as the authors try to make the material out to be, my mind got hooked on the fact that I was reading a handbook that included a straightforward chapter on dying and accepting death. I'm really not ready to learn this how-to. I don't feel this is my context, yet.

My situation is serious. My chart at the cancer agency says so. But I don't feel like it is. Sure, some days I feel like the biggest pile of poo ever, but I don't honestly believe that I'm going to die any time soon. I just don't. How could I? I have two of the loveliest children to ever have been born, a wonderfully caring and scary-smart/charismatic/handsome husband, family and friends who care enough to write/call/email me and say "you're not a loser!"...Yeah, I'm not going to die. I am invincible right now, in this context.

I'm a Loser, Baby

2008-02-14T15:11:00.000-08:00

I need to fess up: life isn't all that great with radiation. Well, anyway, it seems to be getting worse.

I was told by various health care professionals that I could look forward to life not sucking as much with radiation, that it's much better than chemo. Sure, I might get a little tired and some skin irritations, but compared to chemo, it's not that bad.

I'm finding out that that's a load of crap. I'm pretty fucking tired, and because I had all these expectations that it would be better, I'm also getting kinda depressed. I'm frustrated, I'm pissy, I'm sick of it. So yeah, I feel like ass. And I feel like I failed.

The gentle side of me says, "You didn't fail. You're still fighting." But the loud side of me says, "Suck it up. It isn't as bad as chemo, stop whining. Don't be a loser. Drink more coffee and get to work." So I feel stuck and sick to my stomach that I'm so exhausted and don't want to do anything but lie in bed.

My parents were scheduled to come stay with us on March 19th, but things have gotten so bad that Henry asked me if maybe they should come earlier. Thankfully, they do want to be here as much as I need them to be here, so they are coming next Wednesday. I am thankful for their support, but still, I feel like I've failed.

Surgery has been scheduled for April 15th. While I joke about and make light of getting new boobies, I'll also admit that I'm freaked out. I mean, sure, my boobs aren't the greatest pair of jugs to have graced the planet, but still, they have been a source of pleasure for me (lovely sensory nerves) and a source of food for my kids. Aesthetically, I will have decent boobs (I hope), but what will I feel? And it's going to be weird to be nippleless for six months, until I get new ones tattooed on. Weird, weird, weird.

I'm back to where I started: cancer fucking sucks.

Oh, my aching. . .

2008-02-05T06:12:00.000-08:00

Guess what? Things are okay. Mostly. Life is...moving on and ahead. Last week, I saw my chemo oncologist, and we got on the topic of apparently two chemo/cancer-unrelated health issues that I now have: arthritis in my lower back/pelvic region and a hernia. The ct scan I got before starting chemo way back when showed the arthritis, but no one bothered to tell me because we had bigger fish to fry. But now my back is pretty much in pain most of the time, and sometimes my legs ache. My hernia will be taken care of when they open me up in April for surgery. But just in case (in case of what?), my family doctor wants me to see the surgeon yet again on Thursday. Seeing the surgeon, as nice as she may be, isn't on my list of fun things to do. Her office is a little disorganized and a lotta stressful sitting in there. But what am I gonna do?

So this might be the last entry for a while, unless something interesting happens. From now until April, my focus is on what's on my secret priority list, which I can't talk about here because, well, it's secret.

shhhh.....

"FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!!"

2008-01-28T17:17:00.000-08:00

The above misquote (it should actually be "America, fuck yeah!") comes from the movie classic, "Team America," by Matt Stone and Trey Parker of "South Park" fame. The reason I pay homage to this movie is because there's a certain "je ne sais qua" surrounding this quote. First of all, it was just this weekend that my dear hubby, for some inexplicable reason, walked around our house saying "America, fuck yeah!" In spite of the mystery behind his new tick, I found it beyond hilarious--so much so that in the midst of my fourth core biopsy this morning, I thought of him saying that and burst out laughing as the huge-ass needle was being inserted into my tiny boob. The ultrasound technician said, "Are you okay?" Clearly, I'm not.

Alright, then.

So the rest of the connection comes from the flurry of American activity and influence in which I have been engaged over the past week. And I'm not talking about how I watch the U.S. presidential race in pain from across the border. Here are some photo and video highlights.

Lisa saves the day! As I previously posted, my hellish day in O'Hare ended on an awesome note when I told the lovely airport people to just send my ass to Pittsburgh (rather than my original destination of Harrisburg), where I was graciously picked up by Lisa and Larry. Here are me and Lisa in Mifflintown!

Bonjour, Madame! Lisa and I had some bites and beers with our high school French teacher, Pam, pictured here with me. Lisa's mom Vicki also joined in the joy and goodwill.

Here are Lisa, Pam, and me, saying "Au revoir!" and see you soon.

The next day, my sister Hanh and niece Stevii came for an overnight visit. Stevii, Lisa, and I spent a ridiculous amount of time playing Scrabulous on Facebook, while Hanh looked over our shoulders so that she could "help" us. [FUN FACT: Lisa's dad Joel was Hanh's teacher at Fermanagh-Mifflintown Elementary School, where he infamously kicked over a desk one time and scared the bejeezus out of my sister. To this day, the mere mention of "Mr. Cunningham" causes my sister to cower in fear.]

The next morning, I greet my niece with kisses, as her mom kissed my head with her bright red lips just moments before. You can tell by Stevii's crazy hair that we had a wild night of IM'ing.

Here's me and my not-so-little nephew Tyler in his newly purchased house. He's so happy to see me!

Now, this is one of the proudest moments of my life...I made front page of my hometown newspaper! Yes! Carol Smith, who's a high school pal of my sister's, interviewed me during my visit home. She was super nice, and the article is just freaking awesome.

Page Deux of the article.

Finally, the day before I headed back to Vancouver, it was my nephew's 22nd birthday. Twenty-fucking-two years old. I used to change his diapers. Anyway, my sister said she had not one, but TWO, Big Macs right after giving birth to him. So even though Tyler was not there to celebrate his birthday with us, we honored him by eating Big Macs and fries.

That was probably the most awesomest time I ever had in Mifflintown. Perhaps the cancer crap has helped me put things in a new light, especially concerning where I came from and all that cheesy stuff. But it was pretty cool to see my family and spend time with them. And as I told my cousin Kris, the next time I go to Mifflintown, I'm either going to be hot or pregnant. Cuz if I'm hot, then I'm not having anymore kids. If I'm less than hot, then sure, why not. I mean, you know, there's got to be an upside to all this, right? And with this perspective, the glass is always half full.

So, a couple days after I returned to Vancouver, my funny girl Irene came to visit from LA. We all love hanging with Auntie Reenie. Here are a couple pictures of the silliness, taken with Chloe's cam:

Auntie Reenie and Chloe hamming it up, after spending hours braiding Chloe's ponies' hair.

They turned the camera on me after Chloe placed her horse on my head. I'm really happier than I appear.

After Irene went home today, I had my fourth biopsy. Good news--it was hard to find any evidence of cancer. However, there was one tumor that appeared on the ultrasound, from which they took four samples. I have an appointment with my oncologist tomorrow to discuss my future. And this Wednesday, I begin radiation. Twenty-five treatments. FUCK YEAH!!!! Let's burn the shit out of the cancer.

So now I'm just trying to enjoy the return to normalcy, if there is such a thing at this point. Of course, I'm also freaking out a little about how that normalcy will be taken away yet again in April, when I have surgery. But my outlook on life is pretty good for the time being, and for that, I am grateful.

AMERICA AND CANADA--FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!

Detour

2008-01-18T07:05:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning, I began my trek home to Mifflintown, Pennsylvania. I have been so excited for this trip because it's been a year and half since the last time I was there, and also this is the first time in seven years that I've gone there by myself (without the little darlings and their father). Let me tell you what--THANK GOD they did not come along. I should have known--traveling at this time of year sucks ass, especially when you have to make a stop in freakin' Chicago.

I think I heard about ten times yesterday at O'Hare that Chicago is either the busiest airport in the world, the largest airport in the world, or both. In any case, add inclement weather to these claims, and you get to spend some time in hell.

I didn't see any horrendous weather myself, but there were apparently high winds which caused most of the flights to be grossly delayed or canceled. So, after a very lovely and pleasant flight from Vancouver to Chicago, I arrived to find that all was still well with my flight to Harrisburg. Then suddenly, the flight was delayed an hour and a half. Soon enough, the flight was delayed another hour and a half AND they changed terminals. I don't know if you've ever been to O'Hare, but when they do some shit like change terminals, it means you gotta run about 5 miles to the other terminal. So then I'm waiting around some more, went to the washroom, came out, checked the monitor--and the flight disappeared! I went to another terminal where there was still one flight to Harrisburg posted, and sure enough was told that my flight had died after all.

So then I was put on standby for the last remaining flight to Harrisburg and was told that if I didn't make it on this flight, the earliest I could catch a plane to Harrisburg would be 6pm the next day. And I'd have to pay for my own hotel room, thank you very much.

Things weren't looking good. The flight I was on standby on kept getting delayed more and more, just like my original flight. So then I thought, fuck this, I'm going to Pittsburgh.

My BFF Lisa was planning on driving to Mifflintown the next day to see me anyway, so I figured, shit, might as well go with her! So luckily, there was room for me on the next flight to Pittsburgh which was leaving....oh shit--boarding now--in yet another terminal. So I RAN my ass off and made it just in time! Phew! My bag, however, would have to wait for the flight to Harrisburg.

Luckily, I packed all the meds I could with me on my carry on (except my magic mouthwash for my mouth sores, which I checked in with an ice pack because the container was too big), so I wasn't really missing anything for the night.

And I was soooooo happy to see Lisa and finally meet her good friend Larry, who is a sweetheart, really nice guy! So things worked out in the end. We went to Eat 'n Park, and I had the best breakfast meal of my life: two poached eggs over corned beef hash and potato pancakes! Yum!

Now, Lisa's at work, and I'm just chillin' in her pad. We stayed up last night watching some cheezy, hilarious home movie we made over 10 years ago.

You know what I would hate? If someone was hanging out at my house and taking pictures and going through my things. But Lisa and I are long-time friends, so I hope she can forgive me for what I'm about to show you of my morning so far at her pad...

"Hello? Can someone get me out of here?"

"AAHHHHHH!!! Someone cut the cord and must be on his way to kill me!"

Thank god I have Jesus to save me.

Maybe if I hide behind this curtain, he won't be able to find me and get me.

Or I could practice self-defense with this fake fist.

No way! A ladybug sock monkey! Sweet--I'm sure this will help me against the raging lunatic who cut the phone cord.

Forget the raging lunatic...He doesn't stand a chance against me and Lola.

I love Lola. Like, a lot.

Hee hee, I'm hanging out with different circles.

There's a ginormous lighted snowflake falling on my head.

When in doubt, raid Lisa's closest, wear one of her coats, climb on her bed, and take a sultry picture.

THE END

Sock Monkey Take-Over

2008-01-16T23:59:00.001-08:00

I felt a little playful today, as I was trying to get a bunch of stuff done before I head off to PA in the morning. I thought, hey, it's kinda funny that I have an evil sock monkey hat and a sock monkey cotton hankie that I sewed myself. So here's a little fun foto thing for you:

And now, I will be recognizable around Mifflintown when I'm there, since this is all that I'll be wearing. Be on the look out for my knit horns--and offer me a bag of Hartley's while you're at it, will ya?

Weird Middle-of-the-Night Pics

2008-01-11T03:33:00.000-08:00

I'm awake and wired and weird. That's what Dexamethasone does to you. Here's something you might never see again for a while--me in a bikini. I had to make it all artsy to justify posting it, so I changed it to a pencil drawing in Photoshop. Enjoy, pervs.

And this is my creepy shadow of me taking a picture of myself on the stairs.

LAST CHEMO!!!

2008-01-10T00:36:00.000-08:00

I had my last chemo today. Last night, I told Henry that I hoped that they would give me a certificate because I read somewhere else that some cancer agencies do that when you're finished. Alas, no certificate. But the Nurse Ruth did say on our way out, "Oh, wish we had a certificate for you!" And I didn't even mention it at all anywhere to anybody (except for H). I was like, "Hell yeah, you shoulda." But I didn't really say that; it was more of a thought-bubble and a hiss to Henry on the way to the elevator.

BUT I'M DONE. Hopefully, forever.

I was even let off the chemo pill that I was taking in combo with the infusion. The doc didn't seem to think that at this point, it was doing much. So I was cool with that.

In a week, I'll be off to PA, and my family can see how fun cancer is.

So anyway, at the moment, I'm tired, exhausted, but can't sleep. Steroids. Gotta love them. I'm on sleeping meds too, and other things, but still, can't sleep.

Mom, Dad--got your message--will call you tomorrow. I'm fine--at the end of this crap and the middle of getting better.

Perspective

2008-01-05T22:43:00.000-08:00

A couple days ago, I lost my glasses. What happened was this: I settled into my bed for a nap, put my glasses on my laptop which was also on the bed, woke up, went back to sleep, and when I finally got out of bed, my glasses were gone. When Henry came home, we looked all over for the glasses. He took the mattress off the bed, and I peered under it, but couldn't find them. I looked under the bed. I looked under all the beds in the house. We thought maybe I slept-walked and put the glasses somewhere, anywhere. Still couldn't find them.

It really bugged me that I lost my glasses. It was also like I was losing my mind. Lately, I've been a lot more forgetful, to the point where we have a rule that I'm not allowed to light candles without Henry's supervision (not that I came close to burning down the house or anything, but just to be safe). But also, my glasses kind of really define my face now that I don't have hair, especially lacking eyebrows and eyelashes. And they are the pair of glasses that fit my face best. I like the other ones I got, but I save those for special occasions or when I feel like looking a little different. In other words, these particular glasses that I lost were the most comfortable to me on many levels. I liked the way I see out of them, the way they felt.

Today, for some strange reason, I felt compelled to get down on my belly on the floor of our bedroom, and look at the tarot books that are on my bedside table and shelf. I haven't looked there in a while. I found the decorative cloths that I bought at the shady thrift store last month. I must have stuffed them down there, thinking that's where they belonged. Then I remembered that I was going to use them for my tarot readings. This led me to realize that I still haven't done my 2008 tarot reading. I've been hesitant because I have a bit of trepidation about the future and all that. But I feel the pull of the tarot, that it will help me bring new perspective to my life. Then I just happened to turn my head slightly to the left, and lo and behold: my lost glasses! They were lying under a rolling bag where I keep all the cards and letters that people have sent and given to me since my diagnosis.

I felt that this was some divine intervention at work. I myself don't belong to any organized religion, but I do believe I am guided by spirits and such. The whole ordeal of losing my glasses and the weird way in which I found them led me to think that someone was telling me that I need to change my perspective--the way I see things--get out of my comfort zone for a while, get out of the rut that I've been in for the past month and a bit. Then I thought of my brother-in-law George, who passed away in July from lung cancer. At his memorial service, they handed out little buttons with his trademark white glasses on them. That's all the buttons had on them. His white glasses. People knew him by his glasses. In some way, I felt like perhaps it was George who delivering the message to me.

Anyway, I was so happy to find my glasses, and in the way that this temporary loss has turn out to be mystical for me, I've become motivated again to keep living and being thankful for the life I do have.

Collars and Colors

2008-01-03T15:00:00.000-08:00

My kids are awesome. Why? Well, we went to some friends' house for an almost-2008 get-together, and seeing Henry dressed in a crisp white golf shirt and khakis brought out the teenage rebel in me, compelling me to dress like this:

{pic courtesy of the Castles}

And neither Chloe nor Mylo questioned it. They didn't say, "Mama, what's with the dog collar around your neck?" And you know, the rose on my Harley Davidson t-shirt was kinda pretty. They just went with it. But I think Henry was a little embarrassed, but he couldn't find anything to say. That is, until we pulled up to our friends' house. He turned to me and said, "Geoff's sister is in there." Now, I don't know Geoff's sister. I figured the only people in there were all people I knew. And I'm not teenage rebel enough anymore to present myself to strangers with an S&M dog collar around my neck. So I took off the dog collar and tucked it inside my purse that said, "Precious and Important" on the outside.

Anyway, turns out Geoff's sister and her husband were tired and went to bed early. So I brought out the dog collar. Now, these people are totally straight, nice people. The freak factor is pretty low with this group of friends--not like some of you shady-ass mofos out there. But I love you all the same.

But they wanted to see the dog collar, so out it came. Their kids were amused. But not amused enough to hang around and watch me read tarot cards, when they could be playing Playstation. So off they went. I'm just another old weird person to them.

So this is the thing. I read folks' cards for 2008. But I haven't read my own yet. My ritual/tradition is to do it before the year makes another turn. So I already broke tradition. Of course, you could understand why, I'm sure. But today, I will read the cards. Better 3 days late than not at all.

One thing that I know for sure about the future: my hair will grow back. And when it does, both Henry and I are going to dye it some fucking rad color(s). He and I had a discussion about the whole "going bald for solidarity thing," but what we decided is that we'd rather celebrate the regrowth than to make a statement about the chemo poisoning. I can't say he wholeheartedly agreed to dyeing his hair, but now he can't really back out. Besides, he will be the raddest/baddest looking prof on this side of the continent. So cast your votes, folks! What color(s) would you like to see Prof. Yu and his better half have on their heads?

Here's to 2008!

Going Home to MTown!

2008-01-02T11:43:00.000-08:00

The thing about people with cancer is that they're sometimes prone to spontaneity. It's kinda like you're thinking, "Shit, I better do this now cuz who knows if/when I'll be able to do that again." On the first day of 2008, I was obsessed with that thought. So finally, I decided it's been too long since I've gone home.

Of course, since the kids were born, trips home have included the whole family. But school is starting next week, and even though they're three and four years old, the kids have lives of their own which I don't want to interrupt. They really like going to preschool, ballet, and all the other stuff. Henry will start teaching as well. And really, I kinda wanted this to be a short trip by myself.

And now's the time. My last chemo is next week, and soon after, I will start radiation. Once radiation starts, I can't really go anywhere for five weeks (not like I'd want to, I've become such a homebody). I really miss my family and want to see them, so I'm off to Mifflintown Jan. 17-23. If you're in the area, come see me! Let's hang out!

I'm excited to go home, but also part of my heart wants to stay at home with the comfort of my kids and husband and bed and massage chair. But I'm sure they'll do fine without me for a few days.

So to the country it is. Back to the fatherland.

PS...

2007-12-30T02:54:00.000-08:00

Omg (that means "oh my god" in cyberspeak), Dad, I just found out that there's also no Auntie Anne's in Canada! Remember when I told you that there was one in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia when Henry and I went last May? But none in Canada! What is wrong with Canadians?

So, um, don't know if it's possible for you to bring back pretzel dough or something....hm....

love,
b

Dear Dad,

2007-12-30T02:39:00.000-08:00

I just realized that I don't think they got Slim Jims in Canada! Not only that, but did I ever tell you that they don't have mashed potatoes in the KFC's in Canada? They have crinkly fries with gravy, but it's definitely not the same. I love American KFC's mashed pototoes. Thank god they have biscuits at KFC though--they're my favorite.

So when you and Mom come here, the list so far is:
Hartley's BBQ chips (don't get more than one or two bags, because they take up a lot of room in your suitcase. And when Vicki and Lisa came here, some of the bags burst open from the air pressure)
Slim Jims (not the super long ones, but the short kind that come in the red box, if they still make those....I haven't had those in years)
Cowtails (do they still make those too? I used to get them at the Little Store)

I think that's it for now for Brandy. You know what I hate? When people refer to themselves in the third person. It's almost as bad as writing a blog entry in epistolary form, but sometimes, you gotta do weird things.

Love,
b

God Box

2007-12-29T12:08:00.000-08:00

You know I must really be freakin' proud of myself since I blogged about this box in 3 different places--wait, 4. Okay. So anyway, instead of repeating myself over and over again, I'll direct you to my main blog. And I'll give some insight exclusive to Brandy's Cancer Bash: I have a new hobby now. Buying crappy looking boxes at shifty thrifty stores (I won't pay over $5) and taking them home, cleaning them up, and doing crafty things to them. On Boxing Day, Henry and I went to the Salvation Army down the street. Henry picked up an abandoned hockey trophy (looked like pewter), and I got a bread box that's cracked on the side. Our total price=$3.75. I can't wait to get started on the bread box.

Boxes are great. They have a purpose (you can put stuff in them for all sorts of reasons), and they've got four sides, well, actually, 8 if you count both the inside and outside. So if you see a cool, cheap box, even if it's lying on the street, save it for me!

I think I was also inspired by another cancer blog entitled "DIY not die," located on my blogroll on the right side. There's something very meditative about crafting. I'm far from being the expert craftsters that I read about online and in books (two books I'm currently loving are Bazaar Bizarre and Supercrafty), but it's fun to think about crafts and check out what other people are doing. It's about creating and celebrating things that are thrown away and thought of as trash and bringing new life to them. Kinda like what this whole cancer crap is all about. Taking crap and creating afterlives.

Positive Vibes (and a monster bag of chips) for the New Year

2007-12-27T14:08:00.000-08:00

2008 just has to be kick-ass. Because, as you know, 2007 sucked big-time (I didn't even really get to eat the turkey and duck we deep-fried because of my stupid mouth sores). The number 8 is also a good luck number in Chinese, so can't go wrong with that.

We have some exciting plans for 2008, particularly for what's going to happen post-surgery. We're looking forward to a gourmet kayaking weekend trip in August with friends and family. I'm pretty stoked for that.

And here's another good sign...as you may recall, I previously posted about a favorite food of mine from home: Hartley's bbq chips. Today, my friend Vicki sent me this article about how a new tradition is starting at home: dropping a huge bag of Hartley's on New Year's eve, like the big apple in Times Square. This is quite possibly the most freakin' awesomest thing I heard in a long time. No longer will Central Pennsylvanians have to flock to Harrisburg to witness a huge strawberry dropping at the stroke of midnight (in Strawberry Square). Now we have our very own big something falling on the countdown to the new year! Another tradition in my hometown on New Year's is to shoot rifles--one shot to take the old year out, another to bring in the new year. So picture this: a big-ass bag of chips dropping to the sound of gunshots. Beautiful.

Chloe's Caroling

2007-12-23T22:10:00.000-08:00

Henry and I decided to give Chloe and Mylo one of their presents early--a Vtech Kidizoom digital camera. The quality is pretty crappy, but it has a bunch of fun features the kids love. I wanted to check it out too, so I turned the camera on Chloe and taped her singing some holiday tunes. Here's her medley:

And here's her improv:

I'm missing my family very much this Christmas season. I saw everyone yesterday over the webcam. My grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, niece and nephew, sister, and my parents all said hello. One by one they sat down at the computer and said they missed and loved me. Chloe charmed them with some songs and counting from 1-10 in Mandarin and Vietnamese. Mylo didn't really want to talk, as he's still recovering from pneumonia and understandably moody. But I was happy to see everyone, even though it made me feel a bit sad.

Later in the evening, we had dinner with Henry's parents. I feel really lucky to have them, and his sister and her family, around. At a time when I'm missing home, I also feel so blessed to have such wonderful in-laws. Being in Vancouver is not like being in Mifflintown during Christmas, but it's my home as well.

Mylo's Home

2007-12-21T18:03:00.000-08:00

Mylo's back at home, finding comfort in rubbing my elbow. He's so giddy to be able to snuggle with me in bed, watching tv and looking at his Thomas catalogue. Soon, Chloe will be home, as she was with her grandmother all day. I think they will be so happy to see each other.

Settling into bed with Mylo, I realized how tired I was. My bones ached as I went under the covers. I guess I didn't realize how much stress really sinks into the body. But now we'll all be together very very shortly. And we can rest easy tonight.

My Little Mylo

2007-12-20T20:54:00.000-08:00

Half of the Worrall-Yu household is now at Children's Hospital, as Mylo is being monitored because he has pneumonia. Chloe is pretty sad and misses her brother a lot. We all visited him briefly tonight, but he was sleeping because he was awake much of last night due to constant monitoring by nurses and doctors and having a mask put on him to keep his oxygen saturation levels stable. It's pretty tough having your kid in the hospital (Chloe was in the hospital last year for pneumonia as well), but even tougher when you can't be by his side. Because I had chemo yesterday, I shouldn't be staying in a hospital too long because my immune system is compromised.

He looked really sad too, when he opened his eyes very briefly and took my arm so he could fondle my elbow (his favorite thing to do--elbows are like blankies to him). My heart about broke in two when I left his room.

He'll likely be home tomorrow, so we can all be together again. In the meantime, Chloe and I will keep each other company, reading books and watching movies.

Penultimate

2007-12-19T18:38:00.000-08:00

Today, I had the next to the last chemo. Yay! I'm tired. Boo! But I can see the good end is near. Hopefully.

Last night, I was updating My Poetry Blog, and I started crying when I read some of the poems I had written over the past couple of weeks. I try not to be so gloomy, but it really comes out of my poetry. I read H one of the poems, entitled "Time-Lapse," and I couldn't stop sobbing. It's a pretty cheesy ass poem, but I guess it comes from the depths of my soul. So be it.

Anyhoo, here are some pictorial reflections of what's been going on during the last week and a bit:

{Comfort food for when I feel like crap...}

{...a true Asian Canadian remedy: Chinese chicken buns from a Chinese-Filipino bakery and donuts from Tim Hortons!}

{me and my Paul Schaeffer (from Late Night w/David Letterman} look.}

I also just put up new kiddins pics on my main blog if you want to check that out. It doesn't get any cuter than that!

Luck

2007-12-14T09:39:00.001-08:00

Dear Diary,

Today is okay. It is raining--again--of course. There is a preschool holiday potluck party that we have to go to today. H said we should just skip it, but the kids like the cheesy magician, and they've been practicing "Feliz Navidad" nonstop, so I said we should let them get it out of their system (it takes patience to hear them butcher the song over and over again).

I still have some pain in my back and joints, and the skin on my hands looks like that of the living dead, but at least my pounding headache is gone for now. And I'm not eating like a toothless 90-year-old anymore (prunes and congee).

I keep telling myself that I should feel lucky to be able to get treatment--and without the hassle of dealing with insurance companies--but it's hard to feel lucky when you feel like crap. Like it's hard to smile and say, "Goddamn, I am sooo freakin' lucky that I feel like one big giant boiling mutant," but I suppose it is true that I am lucky.

Anyhoo, I'm also lucky that I have a husband who cares for me, kids who sing "Jingle Bells" (and butcher that too) to make me happy, parents who are willing to come to help out, in-laws who help out in more ways than they believe, and friends who make me laugh over the phone, email, and Facebook. For all that, I truly do feel lucky.

This Really Fucking Sucks

2007-12-13T12:58:00.000-08:00

In retrospect, the first four chemos, which were the FEC combo, were a walk in the park. I totally kicked that chemo's ass. Now, this chemo, the Taxol-Capecitibine combo, is kicking my ass. The capecitibine is the chemo that comes in pill form. My nurse told me to stop taking it altogether for the rest of this cycle because of the mouth sores and all that. So my dosage will be lowered next cycle, which is on Wednesday.

Basically, I feel terrible. I have okay days where I'm able to do some stuff, but I assess my energy level to be 50% of what it used to be. Thankfully, after Wednesday, I only have one more chemo to endure. I do hope that this is all worth it in the end.

With all that's happening to my body, I've been having super-strong urges to do some body modification, like in the good old days. But of course, needles are out of the question, so no tattoos or piercings. Yesterday, I just suddenly became obssessed with earlobe stretching. So on the way back from massage therapy, I popped into the Puncture Haus and inquired about it. It's a long process, involving increasing sizes of rings and such. So I bought my first set of 14 gauge hoops and am on my way to stretching my earlobes. In a way, it's like taking some control over my body because I've lost so much control over it.

Anyway, it's snowing now. A really wet snow. Good weather for hibernating.

Trips

2007-12-07T09:12:00.000-08:00

I've been told to stop taking my chemo pills for the next few days. My mouth broke out in painful sores, and my hands are swollen, red, and cracking. And my nose is all bloody and scabby inside. I feel like a mutant. Can't imagine what my liver looks like. Don't want to know.

I went with Chloe and Mylo on a preschool field trip to Burnaby Village Museum yesterday. I'm sure they had a blast, but I thought it was really lame, and cold. My feet were burning. I could feel my soles cracking.

H is away in Washington, DC. Am I happy about this? No. Am I understanding about this? No. Am I forgiving? Maybe someday. When I was reading Her Baldness, the author would talk about how she felt when her partner had to go on business trips, and all the mixed emotions she felt, and it really mirrored my feelings. Part of me does want to feel independent and be okay with him going on a trip, and be rational and understanding. The litle girl inside who's sick is screaming, "Hey, you're supposed to be taking care of me, and instead you go some place more important?" And I know he feels bad for going. Plus he's not well himself, as he's had a really bad cold the past week. Anyway, I'm sure we'll work it out. I think perhaps a trip by myself would be fair, don't you? I've been thinking of going on one of those meditation retreats.

Adventures

2007-12-05T07:52:00.000-08:00

The blog has become somewhat visually boring, so I thought I'd post some pictures of November highlights. November begins not only the holiday season, but birthday season as well. My mom's birthday is at the beginning of November, then little Mylo, then me, then my mother-in-law, then my father-in-law, then my niece, my sister, my nephew...So here's just some of the happy occasions:

{Trains and cake--a dream come true for the birthday boy!}

{Happy Birthday to you, dear Mylo..."}

{a visit from Auntie Vicki and Auntie Lisa--on Spanish Banks}

{Harley, Maia, the kids and H help me celebrate my 32nd.}

{Karin brought over a delicious Bon Ton Diplomat cake which was a first for me, although I heard about it several times during the writing workshop I taught. It was heavenly rich!}

{Here we are blowing out the candles, but what I really like about this picture is how H looks like a fucking freak--and I say that with nothing but love.}

{a fancy schmancy birthday brunch at the Pan Pacific with H, the kids, and my in-laws.}

{celebrating my birthday at the book launch for Eating Stories }

{Random pic of Chloe and Mylo standing at attention in Richmond}

{Random cute pic of Chloe grinning}

{My mother-in-law on her birthday--with her two innocent, sweet, cute granddaughters.}

Okay, so those are the end of the November-December happy birthday highlights. Now back to some serious business. My eyebrows are gone as of yesterday. They kinda just came off when I washed my face with a washcloth. There were a few scraggly stubborn hairs that looked just pathetic and lame, so I plucked them out. The odd thing is that the hair on my head is sprouting. But I guess there's little logic to chemo. So I kinda look freaky now:

{furrowing my no-brow}

{raising my no-brow}

I don't want to draw in eyebrows because then I think I look like a clown. Luckily, I have a scar above where my brow used to be from a bicycle accident I had almost twenty years ago. I almost got hit by a pick-up truck. My near-death experience then has given me some semblance of brow where it is absent from my chemo experience now. Thank god for scars.

So beginning with my the loss of my eyebrows, yesterday was weird, amazing, magical, and like a big old adventure.

After acupuncture, I thought I was just going to go home on foot. I started walking on Broadway. There was a nightclub that had closed down, and a temporary thrift store set up shop there. I walked by this place several times but never gave it a thought to go in. But yesterday, I was drawn upstairs to the store. I almost turned back upon entry--it was dark, sticky, smelled weird, and I couldn't see anyone in there. There were handwritten signs encouraging me to probe further: "Come on in!" "Great deals!" So I reluctantly moved further inside.

I walked around a little bit and saw a cute, clean-looking stuffed reindeer, and I decided that I would buy it since the sign outside said that proceeds go toward the SPCA. I like animals, so why not. A nice older lady came to chat with me about it. She told me it was five bucks, but all I had was U.S. cash (don't ask), which she gladly accepted. Anyway, I walked around some more, and found an awesome box for $1. I love boxes. This one had a mirror (that was falling off but could be glued back on) and a little drawer. Then I saw two pieces of cloth that would be great for reading tarot cards. So I held onto my treasures and trudged back to the front of the store. I started talking with the lady, who told me I had a nice smile and a really good heart. She blessed me and hugged me, and just made me feel all warm inside. She would ask me what stuff was when she couldn't figure out what the items were for (some of it was really weird shit), and we would think of what stuff could be used for. Then she said, "What's this?" I said, "A dirty diaper." She said, "Good heavens! Why would someone leave a diaper here like that?" She was really disturbed and went to the back to bleach her hands after disposing the diaper. But she was happy that I told her what it was. She said, "I almost opened the thing to see."

So then I left and went to Toys R Us and walked around dizzily for an hour. I didn't buy much, but just sort of observed the Christmas spirit. Everyone seemed in a daze.

With bags in hand, I decided to take the #9 home. I got on the bus, and a dude and his two daughters sat next to me. He was chewing them out for not getting good enough grades and all that. I felt bad for the girls, who were about 6 and 8 years old. Suddenly, the sun peeked through and there was this gorgeous, huge rainbow spreading across the city. I wiped the condensation off the window and told the guy, "hey, there's a rainbow." He and his kids stopped fighting and were admiring the rainbow, with the rest of the bus.

Instead of going all the way to the stop near my house, I decided to get off at Main St. I hadn't seen my friend Burcu in ages, and I felt compelled to show her the rainbow. When I reached her store (Burcu's Angels), she was standing out front, and we both admired the rainbow. Then she realized who I was (after not being able to recognize me sans hair). She invited me to come in and chat.

I sat on her couch in the living room in the back of her store, and burst out in tears! It was the weirdest thing! I just started crying, and she hugged me and introduced me to all the people who were in the store. In no time, we were laughing, and they were giving me compliments on my baldness. One girl said she thought I looked cool and hardcore and that she had a male friend who was into beautiful bald chicks (she told me it's a good thing I'm beautiful, which made me blush). Then we got to joking about how there's no Buddhist monk fetish porn out there, and that I should pioneer the field. Burcu's Angels is a magical place where the freaks feel at home--and I felt sooooo at home. So then I wandered around the store and picked up a lovely blouse. Burcu insisted that I try it on, and when I came out with it on, she gave it to me! She also gave me a huge bag of dried lavender--and lavender is something that makes me feel so calm and happy.

So I left Burcu's and started walking home again. Then, for some reason, I stopped in at Temple of the Modern Girl Boutique, another vintage store. I've seen this store many times but never stepped foot in it. There, a lovely girl named Sarah helped me try on things. She also helped me furiously try to take off something. I tried on this red and black lace number, which went on okay, but when I went to take it off, it wouldn't budge. So I yelled "Help!" We thought we might have had to cut off the dress! Perhaps in the past, I would have been totally horrified that this was happening, but because my body has been pocked, prodded, fondled, grabbed, and contorted, I really thought this was hilarious! I knelt down on the fitting room floor, held my arms up straight, and Sarah got a good grip of the lace and started yanking it off me like tug-of-war. My boobs were like flashing everywhere, and just then, another customer came in and asked what we were doing. Anyway--thanks to Sarah for putting up with me! I'm sure that wasn't in her job description. So much for vintage!

Anyway, that was my weird day. And here are the goodies:

I leave you with Chloe's latest artwork: her depiction of Santa Claus. Seasons freakin' greetings.

How I See Me

2007-12-03T23:43:00.000-08:00

When I picture myself in my head, I still have hair. I'm 23 going on 24, and I'm in Madison, Wisconsin. The most pressing thing in my life at the moment is outlining my thesis and producing a lit review for my advisor. I'm thinking about how the Vietnamese language studies I'm doing that summer will make my thesis more poignant. I also have sincere wishes to be able to communicate better with my mother. I even feel like the intense Midwest humidity will make me be able to understand my mother better, because white people who've been to Vietnam tell me that it's just like this--the humidity always on the brink.

I go to BW3 every Tuesday with Julie for their wing special. We never touch the Blazin', but usually go for the spicy garlic and honey bbq. We have some beers and plan our camping trip for the weekend. I'm pretty psyched that I brought my tent from LA. It's been great driving the country roads and discover the oddities of Wisconsin. It was cool, for example, to meet old man Burlingame after me and Julie stoped by the side of the road to buy a stool he had at the end of his driveway to sell. I convinced Julie she really needed to buy that stool.

I struggle with this picture in my head--I can't remember if I actually had pigtails that summer or not. I went through a lotta long hair/short hair battles. Maybe I was in transition.

It's true, though, that frequently the picture in my head is me, smiling with pigtails, no glasses, rainbow tank top and light denim skirt, and it's me leaning over to Julie asking, "One more? another spicy garlic..." And Julie, licking her fingers, taking a gulp of beer, just grins.

Odds and Ends

2007-12-03T15:19:00.000-08:00

When I feel a little lost, I read some of the blogs that you find on the right side of this blog. Last week, I checked up on "Too Sexy for My Hair," a wonderful blog by a gal named Lori, and I was really saddened to see that she passed away last month--one month exactly before her 32nd birthday. I felt a certain kinship with Lori--even though I never met her in my life or even exchanged comments with her-- because she was two days younger than I. She had been battling cancer for five years. Eventually, as her husband reported, her liver couldn't take anymore because of the chemo and gave out. Her husband Cary updates her blog every day with loving memories of Lori, so I encourage you to check out his beautiful words and tribute to her.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about death and the possibility of my passing (well, we all die, but you know what I mean). I know that the chances that I will come through with flying colors are pretty good, but I can't help but think of the what-if's, especially since I have two little kids. I've been thinking a lot about the surgery too, which isn't until March or April, but it's just freaking me out a little. Okay, more than a little. The idea of being rearranged like that. Unsettling.

So now some of my personal projects and goals include establishing a little archive for my kids, in the event that the worst-case scenario happens. I'm thinking of making a video, writing down more things for them, and all that. In the best case scenario, I will be able to look back at all these things five, ten years from now and reflect on them. Life is a project, no?