The thing about living in a climate like Ottawa’s is that we cram a whole year’s worth of festivals and cultural activities into four months. Here’s my list of things to do this weekend:
Westfest (it’s free and Danny Michel is playing Friday night)
Pots in the Lot (Pottery exhibit and sale at Gladstone Clayworks (on Gladstone one block west of Preston), Saturday 10-8.
CBBAG Ottawa Book Arts Show & Sale (Canadian Book Binders and Artists Guild – bookbinding, paper, calligraphy, prints, letterpress, engraving, books as art – Saturday, 10:30-4:00 at Library and Archives Canada, 395 Welllington)
MSMF Indian Food Festival (11 am – 2 pm on Saturday June 13 at Andrew Haydon Park. Tickets: $12 per person and $6 for 6-12 year olds.)
One-Day Trips to Monasteries of Quebec (Saturday June 13. Chorus Ecclesiae in a motor coach! Gregorian chant, music, liturgies, scenery, meals. Call 613-567-7729 for information and reservations.)
Carnival of Cultures, June 12-14, also known as Ottawa’s International Folkloric Festival, at the outdoor Astrolabe Theatre at Nepean Point behind the National Gallery of Canad. Features over 500 artists including Sri Lankan, Venezuela, Filipinos, New Zealand, Lebanese, Mexican, Chinese, Scottish, Caribbean, Japanese, Colombian, Egypt, Latino, Inuit, Russian, Lebanese, Greek, Odyssey Dance Troupe, Modern jazz, and Ukrainian.
Sit in your back yard drinking beer and watching your weeds grow.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I’d heard anger was a common reaction to finding out one has cancer, but that I wasn’t angry. XUP emailed me and said she was angry for me. I keep thinking about that.
I never mentioned this here before, but I spent a few months in Ottawa’s mental hospital when I was a teenager. I still remember cutting my 16th birthday cake with a plastic knife.
During my first week there, I was on an adult ward and I shared a room with three seriously ill people. One night a nurse woke me up and took me to the Quiet Room at the end of the hall. She spent hours telling me how important it was that I accept Jesus into my heart, and warning me about the dangers of not doing so. She seemed almost demented about it.
Finally, she told me to get down on my knees and pray out loud to God.
I was scared, I’ll admit it. But I couldn’t do it.
“I can’t,” I said.
She demanded to know why not.
“I don’t believe in God,” I said.
She stared at me for a few moments and then she said, “In that case, I will pray for your soul. Because even 15-year-olds can die in their sleep.”
And she did. She got down on her knees and prayed out loud for my soul. Then she returned me to my room, where the others slept their deeply disturbed, deeply drugged, sleep.
I went back to bed, but I didn’t go back to sleep. There was something sinister about the way she said even 15-year-olds could die in their sleep.
The next day I thought about telling someone, but I knew instinctively where I fit into the hierarchy of credibility. She was a psychiatric nurse. I was a mental patient. She was an adult. I was a kid. Who would believe me? I don’t think it even occurred to me to feel angry about it. It was just the way things were. I kept quiet.
Shortly thereafter, I got transferred to the adolescent ward, where there were attempts at therapy. Among other things, I was part of an experimental new group called The Anger Group. Everybody in this group had anger management issues. Some of them were angry all the time, and, according to the doctor, needed to learn to control their anger. Me, they said I wasn’t angry enough. They said there were things I should be angry about, and I needed to learn to tap into my anger in a safe environment and release it.
These group sessions were led by psychiatrist Dr. Danesh and videotaped by a film guy. As I recall, we only ended up having a few sessions, because they all ended rather disastrously. Just talking about anger enraged some people, and because of anger’s contagious qualities, there would be explosions and mayhem and video cameras would be broken and alarms would be sounded and patients would be physically and chemically subdued.
Let’s just say that these experiences didn’t encourage me to tap into my own suppressed anger and coax it to the surface. If anything, they reinforced my conviction that anger only makes things worse.
On an intellectual level, I can see the benefits of anger in some situations – it can light a fire under people, and motivate them to change whatever needs changing.
But it seems useless – or even destructive – in other situations. If there’s something you can’t change – like a cancer diagnosis, for instance – what purpose is there to anger? Wouldn’t it just be frustrating to feel angry?
(For another point of view, read Welcome to Cancerland, by Barbara Ehrenreich. She’s got breast cancer, she’s furious, and she almost makes me want to get mad too.)
Yesterday, River Ward City Councilor Maria McRae sent out an email to her mailing list.
Here’s what it said:
Hello everyone:
As you know, community safety and crime prevention continue to be a priority for me and I applaud your efforts in working with me and the Ottawa Police Service to make sure that you identify issues of concern to you. In response, the Ottawa Police Service continually investigates and addresses issues brought to their attention. Thank you for your diligence.
I wanted to let you know that West Neighbourhood Officers conducted a two-day prostitution sweep in the Carlington area between May 28 and 29, 2009. The operation targeted street level sex trade workers and “Johnsâ€.
Two adult women and two men were arrested during the operation. The two men qualified for “john schoolâ€. The two women were charged with prostitution related offences as follows:
Please feel free to make a confidential call to the police or to Crime Stoppers at 613-233-8477 (TIPS) or toll free at 1-800-222-8477 if you want to report possible criminal activity.
With regards,
Maria
I responded:
What was the purpose of publicly naming these women? And why did you choose not to name the men?
Maria responded:
I forwarded information provided by the Ottawa Police. I am not certain as to why they provide the info in that format.
Maria
The same information was published in the Ottawa Citizen, but the Citizen indicated that the men could not be named. Does anybody know why that is? Is one of the benefits of agreeing to go to John School that your identity is protected?
It doesn’t seem right to me that only the female participants in sex-trade transactions are publicly identified. Personally, I think it should be decriminalized and nobody should be named. But since that’s not the case, then all the participants should be treated equally. Either name them all or name none of them.
One last point. This two-day sweep resulted in two acts of prostitution being interrupted. This would suggest that Carlington does not have much of a sex trade problem.
We keep increasing the police budget every year, but it sounds to me like they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel looking for ways to spend it. Perhaps that money might be better spent on improving community and recreation services in low-income neighbourhoods like Carlington.
A couple of weeks ago a CBC reporter contacted me about the Chalk River nuclear reactor closure and the resulting medical isotope shortage. He was looking for the perspective of a current cancer patient.
I decided not to get involved. First of all, any delays I was experiencing were not due to isotope shortages. And secondly, as a general rule I try to avoid public speaking.
Since then, I’ve been giving it more thought. What’s the shelf life of medical isotopes? How will the shortage affect me? If it’s not affecting me, who is it affecting? How? How soon?
From what I can gather, the implications of an isotope shortage are profound and immediate. For some people it will mean, quite literally, the difference between life and death. Early detection and treatment is paramount to surviving cancer.
The whole process from detection to diagnosis to treatment already takes too long. I say this as someone whose breast lump was discovered 78 days ago. It took 44 days to find out it was cancer. My surgery was just booked this morning for June 24th – 93 days after the lump was discovered. Then treatment will begin. I hope to be finished early in 2010.
I attribute the delays I’ve experienced to doctor shortages and machine shortages. Once you add isotope shortages to the equation, the situation gets even worse. Not only will patients have to endure longer periods of extreme stress while waiting, but in some cases, their cancers won’t be caught and treated in time.
What I’m saying here is the isotope crisis is a big deal to those of us who have suddenly found ourselves immersed in the big scary cancer machine, and who are already living with the profound fear that only the unknown can conjure up. We’re terrified of what we have to go through, and the only thing scarier is the consequences of NOT going through it. It’s a horror movie.
So imagine how it feels today for us to hear that Conservative Cabinet Minister Lisa Raitt thinks the isotope crisis is a ‘sexy’ political issue with positive implications for her political career?
Where do the Tories find these people? Why do they keep them? Jesus.
Donna and GC and I met with the surgeon bright and early this morning. In a fairly short amount of time she put a whack of information on the table and all three of us sat there like sponges, trying to absorb it as fast as she could pour it out.
She’s going to wait to do the surgery until the biopsy results from the left breast are available. That biopsy is scheduled for June 17th. There’s only a 20-30% chance that the second lump is cancer too, but she needs to know before she operates. She understands that waiting another couple of weeks is hard, but adding a second surgery after the fact, if necessary, would involve adding even more waiting time.
I have to be nimble with respect to scheduling, and ready to take advantage of any last-minute changes in other people’s schedules.
If the lump in my left breast turns out to be nothing, as expected, surgery will consist of a “wide lumpectomy” to remove the tumor in my right breast. A sentinel node biopsy will also be conducted at the same time to determine if the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes.
Because the tumour is twice as big as they originally thought, there’s a good chance chemotherapy will be required. I have lots of thoughts and feelings about this, and I will probably subject you to them another day. I might go on and on about it. Because nothing says ad nauseum better than the prospect of vomiting for four months.
We asked if the medical isotype shortage caused by the shutdown of the Chalk River nuclear reactor will have any impact on my treatment. She said no. Her patients all have priority access to the isotope supply.
I think that’s about it. It’s all I can remember, at any rate. When I got home, Duncan and I curled up for a long, long nap on the couch.
Since I lost my job, Duncan has been instructing me in the fine arts of sleeping and waking up. I’m paying attention, because Duncan is the least sleep-deprived person I know.
The old, working-days way of waking up involved leaping out of bed at the screech of the alarm clock, but not actually waking up until I was in the shower. The new way that Duncan is teaching me takes a little longer and involves a great deal of stretching and yawning and purring and stroking and cuddling. It’s so much more civilized.
Duncan’s Cardinal Rule*
“Never get out of bed,” says Duncan, “Until you feel like it.”
Duncan’s General Guidelines
Duncan recommends following these few simple guidelines.
Squeeze in a nap wherever and whenever you get the chance.
Squeezing in a Nap
No matter how big or small the bed, there’s always room for one more.
Curling up with Friends
Never snooze alone when you could be snoozing with someone you love.
Snoozing with Zoom
Always listen to your body, and never wear a watch.
Never wear a watch
*Caveat: These guidelines do not apply to people with hungry cats. People with hungry cats have no business sleeping. We recommend that the oldest human male in the house assume the role of designated morning staff person, whose duty it is to leap out of bed shortly before the crack of dawn and rush downstairs to make breakfast for the cat.
I ended up walking out of a waiting room yesterday because I didn’t feel like waiting anymore. I just got up and left. It felt good. You should try it sometime.
Anyway, because of that I ended up at the bus stop early, and because of that I got to meet a very interesting person.
I was sitting there in the bus shelter thinking “Man, is it ever hot.”
And then this man in a jacket and baseball cap walked in, sat beside me, and said “Man, is it ever cold.”
“I’m hot,” I said.
“Try blood-thinners,” he said, “You’ll never be warm again.”
He had a copy of the Ottawa Sun with him, and there was a picture of two people who were wanted for murder. One of them was a kid.
“Kids today,” he said, “Christ, when I was a kid, we wouldn’t even dream of doing stuff like that. They think they can get away with anything now.”
This led to an interesting discussion about crime, childhood, video games, TV violence, Red Skelton and Dean Martin. And other stuff.
The #14 came, and we got on and continued our conversation.
“I bet I’ve seen a million murders on TV by now,” he said, “And they’re all the same, every one of them. It’s America, you know. I used to live in New York.”
“What were you doing in New York?” I asked.
It turns out he was a professional jazz pianist. He got his Grade 10 in piano at the Conservatory and then played in orchestras and individually for decades and decades.
“Until,” he said, “I broke my hand skiing at Whistler 15 years ago. A wrist-guard would have saved it, but I wasn’t wearing one. Now I can’t reach those octaves on the left side. I still play, but not professionally.”
And then he told me about the time he was playing at a lounge in New York City and someone came up to the piano and said “Look up. Wayyyyy up.”
Can you guess who it was? I did!
It was my hero, The Friendly Giant! I loved Friendly. I STILL love Friendly. The piano player told me that Friendly (he called him Bob) played not just the recorder, but also the clarinet, the flute and the oboe. And Friendly did all his own programming. Each show was 15 minutes long and consisted of a one-page outline and lots of improvisation. Anyway, Friendly’s wife (who knew he had a WIFE???) tipped the piano player $20, which was a lot of money back then. And the piano player and Friendly stayed in touch for the rest of Friendly’s life.
I loved meeting The Friendly Giant’s friend. I could have spent hours in his company, but he got off the bus at Parkdale and Gladstone. He’s having his second triple bypass next week. I hope it goes well…but I guess I’ll never know unless I’m lucky enough to bump into him again some day.
Giant Smarties Box Meets Giant Cat
After that I went to meet some old friends for lunch. We all got laid off the same day after many years of working together, and it was good to see them again. There were hugs and kisses. Louise gave me a GIANT box of Smarties. I’ve never even seen such a big box of Smarties! She must have got them from the mothership.
After lunch we all came back to my place to play with Duncan, and I promised them that today’s blog post would include sleep tips from Duncan, which, as it turned out, was a big fat lie. (Maybe tomorrow.)
Before they left, I showed them what Hella Stella sent me in the mail: a chocolate vulva on a stick! (By the way, Hella Stella’s going to be on Vinyl Cafe at the Museum of Civilization at the end of June. GC and I are going and if you hurry you might be able to get tickets too!)
Speaking of doing exciting things, this is a pretty exciting weekend here in the Big O.
Among other exciting things:
Meaghan Haughian has an art show at the Petit Mort Gallery tonight.
The New Art Festival (formerly known as Art in the Park) is taking place in that nice park in the Glebe all day Saturday and Sunday. I love this show.
It’s Give-Away Weekend in Ottawa. It’s a big free city-wide garage sale.
The one thing that GC, Duncan and I always agree on is that bedtime is the best part of the whole day.
GC and I usually start the night out snuggled up together in the cold bed. Duncan climbs on top of us and spreads himself out along our uppermost edge, purring and peering down at us like a gargoyle. Usually he drops one big furry paw down to rest on my face. We all huddle together like that, purring and talking, until we’re warm and happy.
Then I gently roll Duncan off of us to my left side, where he lies spread-eagled on his back, cradled in my left arm, his head on my shoulder, his paw in my hand, purring. And GC rolls gently off to my right side, his right arm wrapped around me. (Lucky me, I always get to sleep in the middle.)
Sometimes I wake up in the night and find us all woven together, arms and legs and paws and whiskers and heads and knees and tails. Sometimes GC’s right arm is wrapped around me and Duncan’s left arm is wrapped around me, and they’re both snoring gently into opposite sides of my neck.
Sometimes I have to pee but I don’t want to disturb them, so I don’t.
Sometimes, though, I’m way too hot, and then I have to extricate myself from the duvet and the overheated tangle of bodies. (But only briefly – a few minutes later I’m back, trying to re-create that sweet, cozy tangle.)
Bedtime wasn’t always my favourite part of the whole day. My bed used to be too big, and it would take forever to warm it up when it was just me in it.
My surgeon called me last night and verified what her secretary had told me – there is no evidence the cancer had spread, based on my imaging tests.
I breathed the rest of that big old sigh of relief.
She also told me that they’re now booking surgeries into July, but she is going to try to get me in sooner. Essentially, she said, they’ll reserve a time for me in July, but she’ll probably call me some evening in June and say “Are you available for surgery tomorrow?”
I went for my follow-up ultrasound this morning. The purpose of this ultrasound was to either verify or disprove the results of the MRI. (The MRI had seen an area of ‘non-mass-like enhancement of suspicious disease.’) If the MRI was correct, my upcoming surgery will be a mastectomy; otherwise it will be a lumpectomy.
So this morning the friendly and reassuring ultrasound technician did her thing, and then called in the radiologist to take a look.
The good news is that the ultrasound did not see any “area(s) of non-mass-like enhancement of suspicious disease.”
The not-so-good news is that they found a lump in my LEFT breast, and I will have to undergo another biopsy in about two weeks to see if it’s cancerous.
But the good news with respect to the not-so-good news is that the radiologist doesn’t think this second lump is cancer.
“It could just be a cyst,” said Dr. Lee encouragingly, “with debris in it.”
(Debris? Really? My body has debris? When I think of debris, I think of the garbage that collects in ditches along the side of the road. Sun-bleached coke cans. Beer bottles. Empty cigarette packs. Big Mac packaging. Used condoms.)
I know at first glance today’s news doesn’t sound like cause for celebration, but it is.
I had been pretty alarmed about that ‘area of enhancement’ and its ominous implications. It’s a huge relief to find out it doesn’t exist. As for the new lump, I’m optimistic that it’s nothing serious. All in all, it looks like we’re moving back to where things were a few weeks ago: a small tumour, a lumpectomy and radiation, followed by 30 or 40 years of living happily ever after.
Groundhog accepting our offerings
GC and I were walking back after the ultrasound, feeling happy about the way things were unfolding in general, when we saw a harbinger of good fortune: a groundhog, poking his head out of his hole. (My mother used to be the Groundhog Lady of Ottawa, and today is my mother’s birthday.) (Happy Birthday Mom.)
GC and I chatted with the groundhog, and then spent some time gathering up handfuls of dandelions (the favourite food of groundhogs everywhere) and laying them at the entrance of his burrow. He stuck his quivery little nose out and pulled the dandelions into his burrow. He was very sweet. I love groundhogs.
I’ve been given some tentative good news with respect to all the test results I’ve been waiting for – the bone scan, the chest x-ray, and the abdominal ultrasound all seem to be okay, according to someone who was kind enough to look them up for me. She cautioned me that she’s not a doctor and she’ll have the doctor call me later (she’s in surgery all day), but in the meantime, tentatively, it looks like the cancer has not spread beyond my breast and possibly my lymph nodes!
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