In Over My Head

Wrapping up

2009-08-09T12:15:00.000-07:00

It was fun, but I'm glad it's (mostly) over. As I expected, my too-pale Irish skin didn't tolerate the radiation well. I'm so glad that I shunned all reading matter relating to treatment (I do love surprises!) I would have been pretty worried had I known in advance that the state of my skin after the twenty-fifth 'zap' was only the beginning. The burn continues for another ten days to two weeks after treatment. I'd already been sent for nursing advice before treatment was complete because my skin was starting to bubble. (Not a technical term, 'bubble' is my own description of early blistering). A few days after my twenty-fifth treatment the radiation department called to ask how I was doing. "I'm miserable!" They suggested I go in to see their nurse again. She took one look and said "Holy moley!" (technical term). She brought in two doctors who looked quite subdued then presented prescriptions for more massive doses of antibiotics. It did look pretty gruesome -- bright red of course, oozing serum, black in some places and one pointy bit burned right off. I got some great pictures but decency prohibits posting them!

She's a lovely nurse, Beverly -- probably ten years younger than I am, but after visiting her a number of times I got to thinking of her as "Mom" for all her tender ministrations. One day a chemo nurse I knew wandered into the nursing station while "Mom" was soaking my burns. Calay, the chemo nurse, came over to have a look and Mom said "Ill tell you, when I first saw it, I GULPED! It was all red, like this (pointing to a still-dark area) and oozing."

The burn got better. The skin texture remains rather like heavy brown paper.

Next up was surgery. I seriously considered passing on that, thinking I'd endured a full year of torture already and now I was going to top it all off with mutilation?! I told "Mom" I might back out on it. She waggled her finger andf said "Now, you're going to have that surgery." I told dear Dr. Karimuddin I might not be showing up for the party and he said that if I didn't he'd keep calling me back to his office until he'd convinced me. "Surgery is still the best chance of effecting a cure."

I'm not really easily led. Had I decided not to proceed, no one would have been able to change my mind. (Actually, my mother considered me a very determined, obstinate person... ) At least I've also got a dollop of common sense and I listen to good advice. So I showed up for the surgery. That was a little different from what I had observed over the years. It strikes me that a mastectomy used to be considered a "big deal". Now it's treated almost as an outpatient procedure. You do your own pre-surgical scrub, once in the evening before surgery and again the morning of surgery. For me, admission was 11 a.m. and surgery about 1 p.m. They kept me overnight and I was dischaged at 9 a.m. the next day.

I was worried about having a general anaesthetic after the awful reaction I'd had to the bronchoscopy drugs (remember, I coughed out the I.V. and they had to replace it at least twice). I think I suffered real brain damage then; my memory was gone for months and suddenly I was an addled old lady. Fortunately the synapses seem to have reconnected, but heading into surgery I was concerned. The anaesthetist came to my bedside to introduce himself. Dr. Fard. A very pleasant, fine looking young man with cafe au lait skin and milk chocolate eyes. And you know what I was thinking? The night before I'd been talking with my daughter on Skype and she'd made a vague comment about anaesthesia. She didn't say much but my mind was back at work and I picked up on what she was thinking. She was thinking about those horror stories we've heard of people who are only half-drugged during surgery, paralyzed so they're helpless, but still able to feel every cut. So, when Dr. Fard introduced himself, I thought "Dr. Fard, I need to remember that name in case I have to kill him." The poor dear man! I'm sure I wouldn't really have killed him! Maybe knee-capped him...

They wheeled me into surgery and introduced three nurses. One of them came over to do the mother role, holding my hand. Dr. Fard put a mouthpiece on my chest. "Take three deep breaths" he said, walking away and peeking back over his right shoulder. If it had been a trick, it wouldn't have worked == he looked too darned shifty! I inhaled once through the mouthpiece, twice, then a third time. Third time, I thought "Whoa!", looked up to the ceiling, thinking "that's powerful stuff!" It was probably quite a laughable scene because looking up to the ceiling obviously was quickly followed by my eyes rolling back in my head as I lost consciousness.

Anyway, I woke up from surgery and one of my first thoughts was "Dr. Fard. Good...no brain damage."

Minor glitches: I still have numb fingers and toes, a lingering side-effect from chemo. I've lost two nails from my feet and four more are definitely packing to leave.

They forgot to give me the painkiller prescription that Dr. Karimuddin had left for me, so I used Tylenol and Advil for post-surgical pain. I probably suffered a little more than I should have. (Doesn't matter.)

They told me my dressings would be fine left alone until my post-surgical visit with the doctor. The appointment was delayed and the doctor's office insisted it was still no problem leaving the dressings untouched. It was a problem. Apparently I'd been bound too tightly after surgery and there's some skin damage. I've also got some odd looking little folds. I don't know if they'll eventually disappear. I hope I'm not looking at future corrective surgery. Ah well, I'll worry about that later.

The wound still isn't healed. That's to be expected when surgery follows radiation. When I saw the radiation oncologist he said he wanted me to go back in four months because if I'm not healed by then there are "things we can do". Whoopee. But, never mind, it's all good.

Ten days after surgery I went to see Dr. Karimuddin. The pathology results still weren't back. Peter and I went to Costco then came home for tea. As we were sitting down, the 'phone rang. Peter picked it up and told me "It's Shri, from Dr. Karimuddin's office."

I went over "Hello, Shri".

"Actually, it's Ahmer, Ahmer Karimuddin....I couldn't wait to call you! Can you put your 'phone on speaker? The lab results just came in. They couldn't believe them at first, so they repeated all the tests. They didn't find a single cancer cell! This is the best possible outcome!"

I can't help but feel a little nervous about believing this, but I do. Dr. Bernstein called a couple of days later with the same news and the same 'take' on the report. And Dr. Alexander, the radiation oncologist, came into the examining room saying "I was so happy reading your file! We don't get many like that."

I remember saying to Dr. Bernstein once "I don't believe in illness". She responded, "Well you should, you've had plenty of it!" I don't know, ignorance seems to work for me!

Glow-in-the-Dark Susan

2009-05-01T23:14:00.000-07:00

That's me lying on the radiation table. (My arm really isn't as 'meaty' as it looks!) . The facility has five of these machines and each one treats between fifteen and twenty patients every day, five days a week.

I've had fourteen of the planned twenty-five 'zaps'. Actually, so far it's been fine. The system is very well run (Amazingly, this is one of the few times I'd be hard-pressed to suggest any improvements.) Appointments are seldom delayed and the people are capable and invariably upbeat. I haven't experienced any negative side-effects yet, but I've been told I can pretty much drop in any time for advice or prescription needs.

The major chemotherapy is done now and I've progressed to a 'maintenance' schedule. I had a somewhat difficult time with the second four-part series of chemo. My white blood count went down to dangerous levels after the first treatment with Docetaxel and Herceptin. I was admitted to hospital and dosed with Neupogen to rebuild the blood and I.V. antibiotics every eight hours to protect against infection. All very nice, but I don't want to go back there any time soon.

They reduced the dosage on the Docetaxel for the next treatment and ordered subcutaneous Neupogen injections for seven days after each subsequent chemo treatment. I was supposed to give the shots to myself but my neighbour Rose did most of them for me. When Rose went out of town for a few days I finally 'screwed my courage to the sticking place' and did the injections myself. It wasn't too bad. I developed a rash though....and by 'rash', I mean RASH. Funny, I told Rose that my face looked like a baboon's bottom. "No it doesn't!" Rose said, and all the while the silly grin on her face was saying "You're right! You're right! It does look like a baboon's bottom!" It was ugly alright, but not disabling and my family still loved me, so 'no big whup'.

The circulation in my hands and feet was affected too and that's a problem. My fingers and toes are still numb (I'm told this could last a year.) The nails of feet and hands look pretty disgusting and although they haven't fallen out yet, it remains a possibility.

They reduced the Docetaxel dosage to 75% for the third treatment. The rash got much worse. My face and hands were bright red and my eyes were red and watery. The doctor thought it might be an escalating allergic reaction. I was warned that the next treatment might do irreparable harm, that I might be permanently unable to fully close my eyes. They didn't seem too anxious to continue, suggesting there were alternatives we might explore. Ignorance is bliss -- I told them I was prepared to take my chances. We carried on and the final Docetaxal treatment didn't do much more damage. I did, however, develop another annoying side-effect. This one was so alarming that I kept my mouth firmly shut about it; I didn't want anyone jumping to the conclusion that cancer had spread to my brain. Every waking moment for at least two weeks I heard music! It started out with an endless loop of Nancy Sinatra singing "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'", then it switched over to a very bad bit of music with even worse lyrics. If I concentrated I could switch it over to either The Star Spangled Banner or O Canada for a little variety. Thank goodness that's over!

I'm still on chemo - IV Herceptin now, every three weeks - and having radiation treatments five days a week for five weeks. My face is back to normal, my hands are still a little 'stained' (looks like a wide-spread birthmark). After radiation I think they said they'd give me a month to recover and then surgery in early July. Ugh. I'm scared about that -- thinking of hitchhiking to Whitehorse instead....

Long Time No See...

2009-02-23T21:29:00.000-08:00

So....I'm alive. I'm actually feeling quite well. I've had a bit of difficulty, but things seem to be improving. I was scheduled for eight rounds of chemotherapy, spaced at three week intervals. So far I've had seven. The first four treatments were with Doxorubicin and Cyclophosphamide. I had an unexpected reaction, the doctor saying "That's not a side-effect with these drugs". I don't blame the doctor - everyone's unique and I guess I'm no exception... I spoke up right away, telling them that I felt I had 'swollen like an over-ripe tomato'. (How can I say this delicately? I can't. ) I experienced pretty severe internal and external fissures and suffered quietly for close to four months before I cried in public. Then they finally believed me!! I must say, I was amazed by the reaction. I'm not a crier, so it really took me by surprise. Talk about TLC! It was almost embarrassing, the attention I got. They called a specialist who came from his office to meet me at 'Emergency' within the hour. The nicest man! Love him. His name is Dr. Ahmer Karimuddin - young enough to be my son, but absolutely confidence-inspiring. Anyway, God bless him, his parents, his brothers and sisters and his descendants for all time. He diagnosed my problem and put a treatment plan in place that helped immediately. After that meeting things were definitely looking up....until...

The fourth through eighth chemo treatments are with Docetaxel and Trastuzumab. They're the ones with the side effects. The doctor cautiously started me on a seventy-five percent dose. They seemed to be expecting the worst because they had adrenaline, etc. loaded and ready to go when they started the I.V. I was fine - none of the reactions they were looking for. Seven days later, though, I obediently phoned the on-call emergency oncologist, as instructed, because my temperature had spiked. My white blood count was "dangerously low" - down from a normal 4.0 , below an acceptable 1.0, to .02. They admitted me to hospital and put me on intravenous antibiotics every eight hours (to combat any possible infections) combined with daily Neupogen injections to stimulate the bone marrow to produce white blood cells. It wasn't a horrible experience, but it wasn't pure joy either. A hospital's no place for sick people. And the food is disgusting!

I recovered nicely from all that. And I'm pretty good right now. My dear little neighbour, Rose, is a nurse and she volunteered to come over after chemo treatments six, seven, and eight to give me Neupogen injections on post-chemo days four through ten. It sounds gruesome (in the stomach), but actually it's not bad at all. It seems tummy flesh is nearly senseless. At least mine is!! The Neupogen causes some aches and pains (so far easily handled with Ibuprofen). The pain to the pocket-book is something else, but I'm lucky there too with our excellent medical coverage.

There's more scary stuff to come. I'm nervous about radiation. There'll be twenty-five treatments I think, five-days a week for five weeks. I'm warned that my phosphorescent Irish skin makes blistering a distinct possibility. Then radical surgery. And a lung biopsy via my throat.... Doesn't sound like a lot of fun, but "Yard by yard, life is hard...inch by inch, it's a cinch". I'll probably get through this o.k. I have wonderful support.

I'll tell you some nice stories soon, but tonight I'll just show you my arm! It doesn't really look so bad in the picture, does it? The larger bruise is from the latest chemo i.v. The big scratch is from rose pruning (I'm not to go near roses anymore, warned that I could get blood poisoning at this stage.). The mark near the elbow crease is the remains of an improperly sterilised hospital i.v. and the small red spot in the middle is a piece of flesh removed by the clothes dryer (I have no idea how that happened!)

Update

2008-10-03T18:14:00.000-07:00

Famous last words: "It's not my plan to let cancer take over this blog." Unfortunately, cancer took over me and I decided to spare you the minutiae of my misery. It's been quite a while since I last posted, though, so I'll give you to a brief update.

The process was agonizingly protracted. I had a diagnostic mammogram and on-the-spot biopsies on August 1. Immediately scheduled for a mastectomy, a subsequent CT scan ruled that out. The CT scan revealed a suspicious area in my lungs. One test after another followed.

Have you ever watched a Zamboni machine clear ice? It's a large, lumbering contraption that moves slowly around an arena, scraping, spraying, and resurfacing the finish. Waiting for the endless tests, I felt like I was lying on the ice, hearing the machine approach ever-so-slowly, knowing it was about to run over me. Then I had to lie still and wait for the next pass. Pass after pass. Unpleasant, and finally quite morale-destroying. There was a bone scan, a heart scan, ekg, and numerous blood tests. Chemotherapy treatment was scheduled and then re-scheduled when I told the oncologist that I'd been coughing for twenty-five years and that only last year I'd had lung function testing and an x-ray. The old x-ray threw enough mud onto the picture to prompt another chemotherapy re-scheduling in order to allow time for a bronchoscopy. Now that was an unpleasant test! I saw the respirologist for a post-op appointment yesterday and I think he explained it partially as "You have an interesting redundancy of cartilage..." Whatever, they couldn't get a sample in the area of interest. The I.V. drugs administered are supposed to render one unconscious and unable to remember the procedure. The I.V. was placed in my arm at least three times; I guess I coughed it out at least once because I have a distinct memory of waking and looking at a screen that resembled a simulation of the Martian landscape. I also recall choking and gagging. End result of the test, an inadequate sample but nothing abnormal in what they did retrieve. I came away with giant cold sores on top and bottom lip, across my tongue, down my throat and possibly in the lung. I'd also bitten my tongue rather severely. I ran a fever of 39.7 C and had serious failure in my ability to concentrate. That was September 23. Perhaps there was a lingering effect of the 'forgetfulness' drug because I really wasn't thinking straight again until the 30th. I visited the oncologist again on the 26th and at least had enough of my wits about me to enquire if the bronchoscopy might have suggested sarcoidosis. (My mother had had sarcoidosis and there's some suggestion of a possible familial connection.) Sarcoidosis isn't malignant. (I don't have a clue what it is, but it's not as intimidating as lung cancer.) Finally, after considerable discussion back and forth the oncologist (Dr. Vanessa Bernstein) announced that for the moment "we're going for the cure". Future events may change that, but right now the chemotherapy is tailored to hopefully eradicate the cancer.

There's a long haul ahead - about fifteen months to begin with. Months of chemotherapy, followed by radiation plus chemotherapy, and finally a mastectomy and lung biopsy.

I had the first chemo treatment on Tuesday, the 30th, and am pleased to report that it wasn't too traumatizing. The anti-nausea regime available today is truly wonderful because I've had very little discomfort so far. On days seven to ten post-chemo one is apparently at great risk of infection due to suppresion of the immune system, so I'm nervous about that. And my hair will be falling out in about a week. Could there be more fun?

Ah well, I've got my wig on hand. When the hair starts coming out in clumps I'll make an appointment to get the remains shaved off and have the wig fitted, steamed and styled. It's not a bad match to my current colour and not too 'wiggy' looking. I also bought a cute little sleeping cap, a cloche, and a variety of pirate-style bald-lady scarves. (If I have the courage I'll post a picture later.)

And as Forrest Gump would say: "That's all I've got to say about that."

I'll try not to put you through too much more of this in the future.

Bright Sides

My dear family has been wonderfully supportive. Every vaguely positive medical report has been greeted with enthusiasm. My little girl drove all the way from Los Angeles to be here for me. My neighbour Rose, an ER nurse, came off all-night shifts and insisted on accompanying me to the surgeon and the first chemo appointment. I've had lovely surprise packages from Sharon and Ute, Debra and Maxine and Clare. Debra's little girls sent me delightful 'get well' cards. And I have some hope that this ordeal won't kill me.

2008-08-18T15:51:00.000-07:00

It's not my plan to let cancer take over this blog... Sorry to be "Debbie Downer" (as my daughter would say). I'm just going to post the latest news here because there are a couple of kind souls who've sent me such nice letters and I haven't written back. I hope you'll understand.

I went to the oncologist last Friday (the 15th) and he says it's advanced breast cancer and a mastectomy is advised, plus some lymph node removal. He does more lumpectomies than mastectomies but in my case it doesn't seem to be an option. Today I got an 8:15 am call from the CAT-scan booking department, telling me that the doctor had ordered a scan for completion "no later than tomorrow afternoon". From that I would infer that the mastectomy is tentatively booked for a pretty near date. Of course, that would be assuming that there's not excessive spread revealed by the cat scan.

I suppose I could find something to be thankful for whatever the scan results. If the surgery's a 'go' it would mean that the prognosis seems more hopeful. However, if it's a 'no go' I would avoid an ordeal and not be subjecting my body to excessive trauma. Sometimes I wonder if surgical intervention really is helpful - remember the old joke about the Irish woman at the Pearly Gates ? "I was at death's door and the doctor pulled me through!"

My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She went in for a biopsy and the hospital resident examined her and said "Your doctor's a respected specialist, but there's nothing there". They went ahead with the biopsy and found cancer, recommended a mastectomy. The next day, they decided 'no mastectomy' because it's Cancer IV. So they opted for radiation, forgot (really!) all about her for over a month, then did two courses of radiation. A year later she was in the Cancer Clinic for followup and asked the doctor there how she was doing. Now, before I continue let me explain that my mother's own doctor had decided to withhold the entire story because he knew she was fragile. The doctor in the Cancer Clinic ignored that and told my mother "I think you deserve to know. Nobody expected you to come out of the hospital last year; a quarter of one percent survive the first year..." Then, in response to 'how long?', she shrugged "Two months?" I think her name was Dr. Ellison. Damn her. I cold-bloodedly decided that I would beat her up after my mother had died. (I'm not normally a street fighter, you know...) My mother promptly went into a major depression, probably lost over sixty pounds, and was back in hospital dying. They brought food to her bed while she slept and took it away while she still slept. She became quite disoriented. My sister made the decision - "We have to bring her home. They're not doing anything for her here." So Mum came home. She was ninety-five pounds and the one doctor I trusted said we were 'on the home stretch'. I became the chief care giver, reading diet books and doing the opposite of what was recommended. I didn't allow her to stop trying. (My sister said that Mum told her "Susan would have made a good Nazi." I'm so proud...) Well, it doesn't matter. I gained weight myself with demonstration eating, but I also got my Mum up from ninety-five pounds to a hundred and forty-four pounds. And she lasted another nine years, in spite of the damned doctors. You know what killed her? Depression. She made contact with the Hemlock Society (a suicide group) and decided to stop eating. And she issued a DNR to the doctor. In hospital one day she coughed and her long-standing cariac arrhythmia stopped her heart.

And on that negative note, I am off for my Cat Scan tomorrow. I feel like punching someone in the nose. A guy butted in ahead of me in line at Costco today. He doesn't realize how lucky he was. (Think Dirty Harry - "Go ahead, punk...make my day!")

2008-08-10T20:46:00.000-07:00

Even horrible experiences can have good moments. It's amazing how kind people can be. Sharon Sahl is a lady I met online. We've exchanged a couple of letters, but she barely knows me. I owed her a letter and I didn't have much 'write' in me, so I sent the briefest note explaining that I was waiting for biopsy results. Look what she sent me! And the nicest accompanying note... Thank you so much, Sharon. Here's a link to her ornaments. My pictures don't do them justice because I messed up the focus. The detail on the figures is amazing! You can make out little stitches on the quilt and clothing pieces and the painting is just lovely. They're on my bedside table now and it makes me happy just looking at them.

Sunday Salon - The Yiddish Policeman's Union

2008-08-10T10:22:00.000-07:00

So, I got run over by a bus on Friday. Saturday, I'm standing in the kitchen with my sister, a stupid grin plastered on what's left of my face, reading her a paragraph from this book. She looks bewildered. "Didn't you just get run over by a bus?" she's thinking. "Yeah, but this is a great book!"

The previous paragraph has a faint echo of Michael Chabon's writing style. With apologies to Michael Chabon, of course. What do you call that kind of writing? I don't know the technical term, but I call it amazing!

I'm a little distracted right now, so I'm not reading very quickly. I think I've read about eight chapters so far. I love Michael Chabon's writing! This is a very 'ethnic' book, peppered with Yiddish. (There's a glossary at the back of the book, so that's not a problem.) The story is interesting and well crafted and this is the perfect book for me right now.

2008-08-08T20:52:00.001-07:00

This hasn't been the happiest of days. I went in for a biopsy last week and today I was told that I've got breast cancer and there's lymph node involvement. Perhaps I waited too long to go in about it, but the funny thing is I never for a moment considered the possibility of cancer. I've always been a pretty good physical specimen and I just don't believe in 'illness'. Well, like the old joke, I 'ken the noo'. (That's a Scot's dialect phrase, don't know if I've spelled it correctly...the joke is about an old Scot who is regretting something or other, wailing "If only I'da kenned!" The voice of God comes down "Well, ya' ken the noo!", meaning 'you know now').

Peter and I were sitting in A & W, just finishing off coffee and bacon'n'eggers this morning when the call came telling me that the lab results were in. Less than an hour later we were sitting in the doctor's office while the poor young woman squirmed and tried to get me to say the "C" word so she didn't have to. The office had already made an appointment for me to see a cancer specialist next Friday.

I've told my sister and two of my children. (One lucky child has yet to receive the surprise bucket of icewater over the head. ) Everyone's been very sweet and supportive. And look at the dear note Jon left on the whiteboard.

2008-07-22T21:53:00.000-07:00

Peter and I took the van in for an oil change today. The car dealership is in a seemingly decent part of downtown Victoria. We dropped off the car and walked two blocks, crossing a tourist-trap street known as "Antique Row". I had spotted a little restaurant called Bubby Rose's that I thought might be a good place for breakfast. It was too noisy so we didn't go in. We headed back in the direction of the dealership. In the first block we came up behind a man who turned his back and proceeded to piddle against a wall. We approached the corner at the same time as three rough-looking kids. Two girls and one boy, they were probably in their late teens or early twenties. They looked 'Goth' -- rings through the lips and tattoos. One girl was pulling a shopping cart that was loaded with sleeping bags, blankets and miscellaneous clothing. This is the city core.

2008-07-20T19:39:00.000-07:00

This is rare. Unheard of, actually. Debra at the Deblog challenges all comers to beat her time at the Set Puzzle every Saturday. I played regularly for about two years and was consistently pounded. Not just outdone, my times are usually quite embarrassing. I'm not good at this game; I over-think it. Eventually I slunk away, leaving it to the big kids. This Saturday when I visited Debra's page it looked like she was all alone with the game (usually I'll see at least five or six times posted there). I thought I'd give her the pleasure of once again humiliating me. Hah! Every dog has her day and yesterday was this b****'s day!

Look What Was Delivered Today!

2008-07-02T23:30:00.000-07:00

Debra Hamel had a contest at Book Blog and I was one of the winners! I'm absolutely thrilled. I can't remember the last time I won anything. Isn't free stuff wonderful?!

Thank you, Debra and thank you Hachette Books!

2008-07-02T19:11:00.000-07:00

Got a kick out of the company name posted on this van!

Sunday Salon with Sedaris

2008-06-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

On a recent trip to Costco I came across When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris. My daughter Martha raved about his "Me Talk Pretty One Day" and so I bought "Engulfed" after just a quick glance at the inside of the dust jacket.

I didn't know anything at all about David Sedaris, so when he revealed his homosexuality within the first few pages, I thought "Oh, oh" and prepared to set the book aside. Understand, I don't have a problem with gays. I believe gays have every bit as much right to be as I do. I was simply worried about the content of the book. I've never felt the need to discuss my own sexual proclivities, and I certainly don't want to hear about anyone else's. I crept forward, a little fearfully, ready to bolt if the bedroom door suddenly swung open. I'm glad I persisted.

This book is funny! and David Sedaris is a nice man. His essential sweetness comes through in his writing. The book just got better and better as I developed a genuine affection for David and Hugh.

There are some wonderful, outrageous stories. "That's Amore" introduces us to a New York neighbour, Helen, who is a profane, vicious old bag and yet, somehow, Sedaris portrays her with understanding and affection.

One thing I didn't love was his bug story. I hope this falls into the category of "exaggeration in the interest of humour". I guess most people wouldn't be bothered, but I'm a bit of a Jainist. There were some coarse-ish parts too. O.K., I've led a very sheltered life. The average person wouldn't be troubled by the odd rude reference and it probably takes a major pill to complain. I confess -- I'm a major pill, a thin-lipped, prissy old sack. But I'm recommending this very funny book anyway. It was written by a person I really like.

Two Years of Stealth Blogging!

2008-05-23T22:52:00.000-07:00

I was attempting to complete the previous post when Peter and Jon decided to chat. They took turns coming into the computer room, standing beside me and discussing whatever it was they were talking about. Actually, I have no idea what they were saying... I thought they'd never leave. I had heard footsteps approaching and did my usual trick, switching over to Spider Solitaire as each one arrived on scene. I swear, I must have played twenty sloppy games of Spider Solitaire. It's a decent enough game, but I really didn't want to be playing it that much. Somewhere around the fifteenth game it suddenly dawned on me, I've passed the TWO YEAR mark blogging without the family knowing. Two years I've been posting on this blog and those clods are still blissfully unaware!

2008-05-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

It was a very quiet birthday. Finally! I really don't like a lot of excitement. Just my three boys and Aunt Martha and Uncle David at teatime. I served mini quiches, egg rolls, a Pavlova and a hazelnut cream cake. Relaxed and easy -- exactly my cup of tea.

Peter gave me the new camera, Jon provided extra memory, Petie is fattening me up with chocolate. That's right, I'm not fat enough... He also gave me a native-style carving that I quite like (more on that in a minute). Auntie and David gave me some neon and a lovely bouquet. I suppose I shouldn't admit this, but I've loved neon since I was three years old. I remember travelling across Canada and the U.S. in a train when I was three and looking out the windows at night as we passed through various neon-lit cities. I was enchanted then and I'm still enchanted by coloured lights.

Now the carving... That's it, propped up on the bookshelf. Petie carved it himself under the tutelage of his native friend, Ty. Ty's a member of one of the Vancouver Island bands - such a nice young fellow! Anyway, Petie announced "I want you to understand, Mum, I was sitting beside an actual Indian when I carved this. He gave me advice on how to keep it authentic and touch up the fins, etc." Funny, cute and quite special. It's a salmon. Nice little notch in the tail, good gill representation. It's made of cedar (very authentic material). Really, it's not half bad and I'm thrilled with it.

Birthday Girl

2008-05-21T22:15:00.000-07:00

Arrgh, it's an ugly birthday I'm celebrating tomorrow. Should I admit how hideously old I'll be? What the heck... I'm so old I've stopped caring. Sixty! Ach! How is it that I'm still the same person I was at ten? I see the world exactly the same way as I did then. Perhaps my political opinions are somewhat more liberal than that horrid little ten year old's, but other than that, no change. I even look the same. (Yes, I was quite a homely child.)

My sister Martha and her husband are coming over tomorrow to celebrate with us. I know Martha thinks we should be making more of a big deal of the day, but I prefer 'simple'. So I made a Pavlova, which I love, and I bought a nice little hazelnut-cream cake. We'll have that, I'll insist that they sing to me, and then they'll leave. I'm getting a new Canon digital camera from Peter. I like that. I've got two digital cameras already, a Hewlett-Packard and an Olympus, but I love the Canon cameras. They're wonderfully user-friendly and produce excellent pictures.

2008-05-15T20:57:00.000-07:00

Do you remember how I said that soon the shade garden would be a mass of lovely blooms? Here's the view today.

May 14

2008-05-14T11:28:00.000-07:00

The Aunt (my sister, Martha) is off on a cruise today and Young Peter has just picked up his brand-new car (a Toyota Civic). I've suggested the name "Mr. Moto" but I suspect that's unacceptable. Males for some reason refuse to name their cars. Silly boys. Our Dodge Caravan is "Raj, the Dodge" and Peter's little Mercedes is "Silk". So, meet Mr. Moto!

Kayaking off Vancouver Island

2008-05-09T22:09:00.001-07:00

Your mind is Green

2008-05-05T15:13:00.000-07:00

Of all the mind types, yours has the most balance.

You are able to see all sides to most problems and are a good problem solver.

You need time to work out your thoughts, but you don't get stuck in bad thinking patterns.

You tend to spend a lot of time thinking about the future, philosophy, and relationships (both personal and intellectual).

What Color Is Your Mind?

I found this at Maxine's place. Kinda fun...

What a Wallet SHOULD Look Like

2008-04-30T12:44:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness, look at Debra's tiny wallet! It's pitiful, isn't it? It probably doesn't weigh anything. Now, my wallet...it's impressive -- 4.2 pounds stripped to the bare essentials. The bare essentials being two tape measures, husband's spare glasses, cellphone, spare keys for two cars, house keys, pen and four pencils, changepurse and ziplock bag full of overflow change, pill box loaded with glucosamine (only), post-it notes, kleenex, Purell hand sanitizer, sudoku puzzles, two sets of disposable chopsticks, and an appointment book which I can probably eliminate.

Ah, Clare has joined us and her purse is on display here. Love the beautiful leather of her wallet and purse! I can never find anything as nice -- and I've looked, I really have. It's such fun snooping, isn't it?

123 Meme

2008-04-29T21:12:00.000-07:00

Debra Hamel from "The Deblog" tagged me for the 123 Meme. The rules are:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

I chose "Foreskin's Lament", a memoir by Shalom Auslander. On page 123 he talks about his childhood friendship with a pair of black children. Now he tells how the friendship dissolved as they grew a little older:

Our friendship seemed to wither as new friends entered our world: friends of his who wondered why I was talking to him. Hellos became waves. Waves became nods.

I commented on this book earlier. I certainly have reservations about it, but it impressed me.

Now, to tag five people. How about Tom, from Random Thinking; Clare from Keeper of the Snails; Maxine from Petrona; Kimmy from Smug Cloud; and YOU (You know who you are! You'd like to do the meme, wouldn't you?)

Easter 2008

2008-03-24T15:10:00.000-07:00

Just want to show you my pretty table and the delicious dessert! It's a Pavlova - if you haven't had one you've missed the best dessert ever. I'll copy out my neighbour Rose's recipe for you:

Pavlova

Part-way through preparation set oven to 300 degrees F. When you put meringue in oven, immediately lower temp to 250 degrees.

4 egg whites, pinch of salt

1 cup berry sugar

1 tsp cornstarch

1 tsp malt vinegar

1 tsp vanilla

Beat egg whites and salt together 'til stiff enough to form peaks. Sift sugar and add slowly, beating at high speed until all the sugar is dissolved. (This takes a very long time...allow about twenty minutes). Fold in cornstarch, vinegar and vanilla.

Pile on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Form into a dish shape (8 or 9 inch diameter - it spreads a bit ) with slight depression in centre. Bake in bottom of oven for about 1 hour, until quite firm to the touch. Turn off oven and leave the Pavlova in to cool.

At serving time cover with whipped cream or Dream Whip, add berries of choice.

Poet vs Pragmatist - A Sunday Salon Wrestling Match

2008-03-04T20:00:00.000-08:00

I really do have mixed feelings about this book -

The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho , translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa. On the one hand, the poet in me appreciates some very artistic phrasing. On the other hand, my pragmatic self finds the writing annoyingly artsy. The poet appreciates Coelho's creative presentation of his central character. Deceased as the story opens, The Witch is revealed through successive interviews with people who knew her. Each character has a unique viewpoint and contributes additional pieces to the portrayal. My pragmatic self has problems with the believability of all the characters.

Sherine Khalil (The Witch), prefers to be called Athena. She is a gypsy by birth, adopted by a Lebanese Christian couple. Her adoptive father's apparent belief in her psychic abilities causes the family to flee Lebanon and emigrate to England. Later Athena meets and seems to instantly recognize the man she will later marry. The suggestion, of course, seems to be that she is a clairvoyant. Well, Pragmatist thinks the clairvoyant needs glasses. She's not much of a soothsayer since her marriage fails and causes the loss of her important connection to the Catholic church. Denied communion, she overreacts.

Pragmatist: You're not kidding! She stands up in church and curses them!

Poet: Is it possible that this is not a case of faulty fortune-telling, but rather a conscious decision on Athena's part, a decision to suffer for some as yet unexplained reason?

Pragmatist: Rot!

Poet: The book is interesting. I can't put it down. Sometimes I find myself stopping mid-paragraph, just to savour a new idea. How about this: Pity those who seek for shepherds, instead of longing for freedom! That's a really great sentence!

Pragmatist: Did this come from Coelho or from the translator? How much has been lost in translation? How much has been added?

Poet: Some of the writing is quite lovely.

Pragmatist: Artsy crap, over-embellished and it sounds foreign. He lost me when the landlord told how a group of people came to his house every night with the express purpose of dancing to percussive sound. Their object was to dance to the point of exhaustion and to thereby reach a state of ecstasy which they claimed was a "search for the Vertex". And not just one person! A whole collection of loonies! These are not normal people. Nah...just too nutty.

Poet: Yes, it does strain reason a bit, but I'm going to finish this book. It has redeeming qualities. There's some poetry about it.

Susan: Coelho did accomplish one thing. He's provided a temporary cure to my book buying. Normally I'll pick up two or three books on each of my twice-weekly shopping trips to Costco. The last time I went I couldn't bring myself to even look at fiction. Like a drowning man, I grasped for a straw. I bought "The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins.

Poet-Agnostic: Now, I have some reservations about that one...

Happy Birthday, Rebecca S!

2008-02-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

Wishing you a long and happy life!