Category Archives: Bumpboobs

It just wasn’t right

Posted in Bumpboobs, Life, Radiotherapy Treatment, Treatment by

It’s so strange what can trigger a person. For me, it’s tattoos. Not beautiful tattoos of self-expression, but rather tiny black mole-like tattoos a person gets when they go in for radiation treatment.

As life with metastatic cancer continues, thankfully, so does the need for treatment. While my bones are mostly stable, there is a trouble spot that is creating some dull pain in my hip. Dr Canada thinks we should get on top of it with a single shot of radiation. That means I’ll go in next week, get it radiated, and then be done, minus the after-effects which are not promised to be fun.

Somehow I can handle this idea of radiation, but the tattoos that come with it . . . the visible, always there, never fading tattoos . . . I hate them so much.  I hate how much my body is being marked by cancer, and these tiny black spots represent the permanence of so many things.

So, that’s already a loaded emotional trigger. Then add onto that my experience getting the markings.

Today I went in to get my tattoos and have the CT scan of my hips. It was just fucking horrible. The admin assistant shows me to the change room and tells me I need to remove my trousers, though I can keep everything else on. So I do – and then I realize, there are no hospital gown trouser available. So I leave the change room instead draped in gowns back and front like a dress, and walk around trying to find trousers. But there are no damn hospital trousers! The lady is busy with other patients, and I’m just stuck without any pants.

Then a technician come out. He’s tall and later middle aged. ‘Catherine Brunelle’ he calls. So I go and see him. He’s the guy who will be doing my markings.

Fuck. It’s a man. Fine.

I begin to tell him I was looking for trousers but can’t find any. I fail to say: I require hospital-gown pants before going another step . . . instead I listen as he rattles on about next time I can just keep my own pants on, and follow him into the CT room.

We take a seat in the room. I feel pissed off. I know I’m radiating annoyance. I cannot help it. I also feel helpless.

“I’ll give you the tattoos here, here and here.” (he points with each here: hip, belly, hip)

“Where? On my front, or on my back.” I had assumed this tattoo was going to be placed on my back, as it’s my backside that is sore.

“Here, here and here,” he points.

“On my belly?”

“On your front.”

Catherine is not happy about this. She is really not happy.

But, the spot needs to be radiated, and I climb onto the CT scan table – sans trouser.

“Okay, I’ll lift up your gown,” he says.

“No,” I respond. Because the idea of baring my legs and belly with nothing but my knickers on is just too much. Instead I remove the front covering gown and slid it down to cover my thighs and hips. This leaves me mostly covered. Good.

Except then he gently folds down the gown to access my pelvis.

I just swallow the emotions. Get it done, Catherine.

“If you can pull your underwear down a little.”

I pull them down just a little. Still thinking he is going to tattoo my fucking belly. But oh no, it’s not my stomach that is getting the tattoo.

“Okay, a bit more here.”

And he reaches over me and very gently pulls down the underwear so my pubic hairs are all there to see, and the back of the underwear is down off my butt.

And I’m just lying there looking upwards, exposed, and thinking ‘just get through this’.

FYI, he isn’t being grabby, or rude, or anything inappropriate. He is professional. But he is doing things I wasn’t warned to expect by doctors, admin assistants, or the technician himself. And so, no matter how professionally he behaves, I essentially hate him.

He puts tiny metal BBs on me, covers me up, and runs the CT scan. Then he comes back out, uncovers me again, takes off the BBs and gives me the tattoos – one on each hip, and one on the upper crest of my – I don’t know what to call it… above the pubic bone. Pubic hair. Pubic all over the place.

The he steps away, and lets me know I can pull my underwear back up. And I looked down and just saw too much. Started crying right there. Still kind of crying now, for some reason. I was lowered on the table, and shown out of the room – but didn’t take more than two steps before swooping into the open bathroom in the hall, shutting the door, and crying my eyes out.

I’ve had my chest tattooed and I’ve had a rubber mesh pulled over my face to create a mask that would pin me to the radiation table. And that was all upsetting. But this felt violating. I wasn’t ready – and if I had known, I would have asked for a female technician. I should have asked for one when I saw him, but I just didn’t – I didn’t know what was about to happen.

And that fucking sucks.

I have gratitude for what people do, and for their expertise. I have gratitude for the support given without asking anything in return. And I know I complain a lot here, it’s true. But on this blog I can say the feelings that I often fail to express in those critical moments.

I just wish I had known. I could have gotten ready. I could have asked for a women.

But that is done now.

He did nothing wrong, but whatever happened to me emotionally really wasn’t right.

P.S. While writing this post, I realized  how uncomfortable I had been. So this morning I called the radiation department and requested a woman work with me when I go in for the actual scan. They were super nice about it – and it’s no problem at all. Thank goodness. Now, if only I could have made that request in the first place…

*this conversation is an approximate of the wording. I didn’t record everything, but it’s the gist.

If I must choose, I choose OIL

Posted in Bumpboobs, Canada, Fun, Life, Life despite cancer, Reading, Uncategorized by

Zsolt said to me the other day, I’m haven’t checked your blog in a while – which made me go, eep… I haven’t written in a while. The last post wasn’t exactly uplifting, so what I am going to write here is a very brief summary of things. Stories may come from these, but at the moment they are all just things.

September is the month of scans. As the chemo continues every three weeks, it is now time to see if it is actually working. Fingers crossed. After a summer of blissful ignorance, it will soon be back into the consultation to receive results. Oh do I hate these moments.

The Ottawa International Writers Festival is kicking back up. This is great news because of the great conversations that take place. This year I’m hoping to catch Margaret Atwoood on The Tempest, Madeline Thein and other panel members on The Ever Present Past, and perhaps I’ll go to Charlotte Gray’s The Promise of Canada. And of course, I’ll be bringing along my microphone to see what others think of the show. These event fit somewhat well around my chemo schedule – those Atwood and Thein are only shortly after treatment, and I’m quietly slightly a bit worried that I’ll have to skip them.

OH I started an art class. We have a choice in the class: paint with acrylics or paint with oils. There is no switching mid-course. My brother and I visited the art store together, and noticed that oil paint is WAY more expensive than acrylic paint. Therefore, at the class I decided to paint with acrylics. UNTIL I went down into the gallery at the school. All my favourite pieces were painted in Oil. AND I have always wanted to paint with oils. The medium intimidates the HECK out of me, for some reason. But you know what? It’s time to stop being afraid of failure. And it’s time to see past the price difference and decide what will bring joy. My gut says oil.

By the by, our art teacher is charming. However, she has this need for things to be captured properly proportion-wise.  In terms of details, I am not meticulous. Details are so boring. If I draw a terrible milk jug, it is highly like that I don’t care two bits about that milk jug and would rather focus on the tea cup. Like writing, when drawing, I edit out all the boring bits and prefer to just focus on my focus. It’s the portraits of Manet that struck me long ago with this approach – focus on the focus, and give little detail elsewhere. Art school rebel = ME! Let’s see how that turns out, eh? (Though I do agree that contrast and tone are essential)

One more thing about that. The class is in the middle of the day, middle of the week and it’s all younger women. What the what? Seriously, I anticipated being the youngest in the room. Rather, I’m one of the oldest. This makes me feel wise with my years.

Um.

Work – I am working part-time. YES. It is going very well. And speaking of work – disability. What the heck is it? How does it work? Am I eligible? My oncologist wrote me a letter explaining to Service Canada why I am not able to work full time anymore, and how I will likely never be able to do so again. It was one GRIM letter. No sugar coating the impact of stage four cancer in that letter. I should never have read it, but he did the right thing in writing so openly about everything. But seriously, I never, ever, ever should have read it.

Heck yes, I’m using oil paints. Life is to be lived.

Books! Well, apart from the Amnesty International Book Club (facebook link!) which sparks some pretty fascinating conversations, I am just about to finish All the Light We Cannot See, which I picked up upon recommendation from a friend. It is fantastic. Gripping, beautiful, immersive, and so excellent story telling. It takes you through some hard things, but keeps you flying as you pass. This novel is worth reading. Go to your bookstores or libraries, read, savor . . .

And speaking of books to read, my friend Don Kerr who I met through facingcancer.ca, is in the process of kickstarting his account what it’s like to support someone diagnosed with cancer. About five years ago, his wife Kate was diagnosed with breast cancer. Don began to blog at facing cancer about his feelings, and how he found his way in supporting his wife. He is open and honest – and maybe, probably, other care-sharers/givers would benefit from such a book. Or for those trying to understand their partners as they support them, to read someone’s perspective.

Here is the link. Visit and consider buying a copy to support Don’s great initiative.

And seriously that is all. Life is thankfully busy at the moment, and alternates between good days and harder days. I do not feel like being specific, because I am so tired at the moment, and therefore, this blog post is done.

Like a pancake.

Hmm, I miss eating pancakes.

🙂

The ‘Me’ in the Mirror

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Life, Life despite cancer by

Over the past six months, or so, with the treatments, my weight has dropped considerably. The first chemo had its impact with occasional bouts of nausea. The second chemo has not caused any nausea, but I’m still losing weight. Probably so far, I’ve lost about 18 pounds. I’m the lightest I’ve ever been; so light, I will float away any moment and dissipate in the breeze. Gone.

I’m writing this because yesterday I visited my brother’s gym. He is a personal trainer along with also being a Traditional Chinese Medicine Acupuncturist here in Ottawa. Very kindly, he will be helping me train. We need to build my body back up. We need to get the muscle regenerating (or whatever the word is). We need to fix the woman who looks like she’s missing 20 pounds.

It was weird looking in the mirror of that gym yesterday. All around me were people training themselves. They were sweating and pounding the bags – they had strong arms and strong strikes. They didn’t seem to worry about shattering a bone when hitting something. I’m scared to even lift a grocery bag, for fear of crushing a vertebrae. And in the mirror I watched myself amongst them, so noticeably different.

Beauty – is it in the eye of the beholder? Even more so, is health in the eye of the beholder? Does it count that I feel well for someone in my situation? Is this frail projection reflecting back at me a reality that my sensibilities won’t accept?

I’m at battle with the me in the mirror, because I’m a bit afraid she’s the me who is dying very slowly.

I guess that is really the truth of it. It scares me a little, you know? To wither away, it’s not cool. So I need to remember: the me in the mirror is doing her best. She is at the gym despite feeling totally awkward about it. She is eating the meat and fat, despite having no real desire for either. And she is trying her best. There is a ‘me’ in there who is healthy, beautiful, and striving to survive.

I just need to remember this. And keep trying. One pound at a time and one treatment at a time, I want to get my body back.