Category Archives: Writing

Spiritual thrill ride with a Balatoni storm

Posted in Bumpboobs, Life, Travel, Writing by

Here we are on the porch in Balaton, sitting underneath the awning and watching the rain. There, on the table, are my indulgences: a cup of steaming tea and an unwrapped bar of dark chocolate (70% coco, if you’re curious). Everywhere – here at the table, there in the garden, beyond through the houses, up in the grey sky, and down along the cloudy water – is a sense of calm and peace and tranquillity. Except for last night.

Last night, after a successful stewing of goulash over the fire pit (and after eating that tasty goulash), a storm kicked up that put me in the mood for some night-time wonder. Zsolt and I (wise or unwise) headed to the lake side and watched the lightening streak across the far off northern shore. And ten meters away, on our southern shoreline, the water crashed into the rocks – while Balaton might be shallow (shallow, but very wide) there’s no way I’d have been enticed into that water.

The storm was, in short, magnificent.

I love to be overpowered by nature, made to feel small – and yet, and yet totally plugged in. Like I took my personal plug and inserted it into the storm’s crazy energy socket. You know what I mean? It’s a feeling of awe and wonder and fascination.  Almost spiritual.

Sometimes it’s good to be reminded that we are small, and the world is big. I cannot exactly say why, but that is my sense. It’s a beautiful thing (and very fitting for the gothic horror novel I’m currently reading, The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins).

Anyhow, after deciding the storm was a little too intense for safety standards, Zsolt and I retreated from the beach and I scribbled everything down in my journal. Now there’s probably a touch of Mr Collins’ voice in this description (because I absorb other people’s styles like a sponge), but I think it might actually fit the scenario.

Here is the Balaton storm, painted through words and jotted down in my journal, in the epistolary format of Mr Collins.

“We stood at the lakeside as my sweet Balaton turned into a churning mass of storm – wind gusting at near hurricane speeds against our faces (and bodies, and trees, and huts, and shore) as lightening cracked and crawled along the northern shoreline behind the Badacsony hills. Amazing! It’s awesome to witness a developing storm – awesome with the incredible power and force. Loved every second (despite being scared the waves would suck us up into the froth). It was an experience, inside and out. Awesome, absolutely Awesome.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a great storm. (blame it on the UK fizz and permanently mild weather)

There’s no particular reason I’m sharing this with you today, except that beautiful things ought to be shared. And last night was truly spectacular.  Sometimes we need to feel small. Sometimes we need to be awed. Sometimes we (I) need to plug into a higher power, whatever that may be.

The worst song lyric EVER

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Writing by

The voted worst song lyric of all time slapped me in the face yesterday as I danced under the stars in Budapest. There we were in an open-air nightclub on Margaret Island (I was clinging to consciousness, this being my first night out post chemotherapy and it was already ticking past 2 am), Zsolt was pulling his signature ‘I’m pointing my fingers’ dance move, and I was head bopping and body rocking along when the DJ mixed in Rhythm is a Dancer, by Snap! You know this song? It’s a bit of a classic, and I must have heard/danced to it a hundred times before.  So this gets me excited, because finally here’s a song I recognize and I begin to make attempts at actual dancing (rather than my ‘I’m totally exhausted’ head bobbing’) when out comes the line: I’m serious as cancer when I say rhythm is a dancer.

What?

And all head bopping stopped. I was shocked.

Snap!, apparently, is serious as cancer when they say rhythm is a dancer. But really, are they? Well lucky for them to not (at least at the time of lyric writing) have cancer in their lives – that’s great for anyone – because if they did, I’m sure this line would never have made the final edit. Really, you have to assume (you just have to) that the creators of this song look back at this lyric choice and shake their heads with regret. But there it was last night, regret or no regret, shouting over the speaker system and reminding me about something I had really hoped to forget for the evening.

However I’m not writing this post to shame Snap!, because chances are they’ve already been shamed. Nope, I’m writing this because Rhythm is a Dancer is such a well known song – I’ve heard it  many times, and yet last Friday night (aka Saturday morning), was the first time I’ve ever noticed that lyric.

Which goes to show, perspective is all about experience. BC (before cancer) I would never have been so impacted by such a dumb lyric – nope, I would have waved my arms, shook my hips and spun in a circle, and maybe, maybe, registered in the back of my head that I’d heard something strange, but certainly it wouldn’t have winded me, thrown me back, stopped me dead.

I can remember this other time when I was the idiot (cause in fairness to Snap! we all make mistakes – just too bad theirs was cut, produced, and distributed). All throughout my childhood was this expression: “that’s so gay”, i.e. that is stupid.  And my unknowing mouth would pronounce this or that as gay, and my distracted brain would never, ever connect it with the bigger insult (I don’t mean calling someone ‘gay’ as in homosexual is the bigger insult, I mean using the term ‘gay’ as a bad thing is insulting to anyone who is, actually, gay.  Seeing as there’s nothing stupid about homosexuality, heterosexuality or being bi – it’s a true misrepresentation of words.)

ANYHOW – it wasn’t until a summer spent in Jasper, at the too-old-to-know-better age of 20, that I remarked (for the last time) “that’s so gay” and a friend turned to me and said, “Catherine, I expected better of you.”

At which point, I woke up to the absolute rudeness.

Like last Friday night, when I woke up to the world’s worst song lyric and felt disguised, buzz-killed, and angry at the flippant remark.

Which makes me think, what else have I allowed to slip past my internal radar of decency? Plenty, I’ll bet.

Rhythm is not serious like cancer. Anyone post diagnosis knows this. Anyone with family who have battled knows this.  Anyone who has helped support others through a whole lotta crap knows this too. Everyone should know this, cancer or not.

But it is a reminder to be aware, and be considerate. Even when spoken with a light heart, there are people who will feel the impact of such ignorant language.

So last Friday I learned a lesson.  And I danced, which – FYI – was really the highlight of the evening. It’s been over a year since I’ve danced all night, and the experience, right until that 2am face slap, was incredible.  I felt young, healthy and totally care-free. From a night out at the restaurant, to walking around the boulevards of Budapest, to finding a giant outdoor club and a spot to dance – it was a wonderful evening. I’m 100% thankful to have made it past last year’s nightmare. Just another reminder that there is another side – the after-side – of treatment, and it was worth the fight to dance again, finally, under the stars. 

Summer of wonderfuls

Posted in After treatment, Travel Log, Writing by

This is me on the beach in Balaton. Have I told you about Balaton? Most likely. It’s the place I named when the anaesthesiologist asked: “Where’s your favourite place to go on vacation?” right before I was knocked out and wheeled into surgery. So this is me, here in Balaton, writing to you.

It’s off season, everything is quiet and the stores are all shut (little kiosks actually, where you can buy langos and soda and burgers), but the water is a very comfortable +23 degrees – or something like that, I just went in up to my thighs no problem, so whatever the actual temperature, it’s most certainly a good one.

This morning Zsolt and I boarded the slow train from Budapest and rode the rails to this little village on the lake (Balaton is the lake, and it’s spotted all around with villages).  Riding the train was excellent, serving as both research for a story I’m writing, and just a great way to have fun. The windows were all down and we had a berth to ourselves – I was like a dog in puppy heaven with my face out the window, waving to the garbage man (etc).  Trains in Hungary are slightly antique, not all of them of course, but many, and before they arrive at any station – if you’re standing on the platform waiting that arrival – the rails ring out with a metallic snake-slithering kind of sound that announces it’s approach even before that lady’s voice makes a speech over the intercom.  Since it’s off peak and a Monday, the train was essentially empty. This, believe you me, is the way to get around Europe. I suppose we should have trained it from England, but – while a great ride – it’s also expensive. Not as expensive as Canada trains, mind you, but still costly.

So here we are in Balaton. I totally dreampt of this place during chemo sessions – imagined myself floating on the water with that hot sun beating down. Hmm, well, I’ve waded – not quite floating, but it’s a start.

Zsolt suggested that I’m getting everything I had wanted too quickly – goulash, Balaton, smoked cheese,  train rides, paprika chips, swimming – but I say, can’t get them fast enough. What’s the use in pacing yourself, when good things are available – right there in front of you – just asking to be enjoyed? Can I over indulge in this experience? Frack no. When I’m full of summer rest, then I’ll start diving back into my writing projects.  Today on the train I did some writing, not blogging, but story writing, and maybe tomorrow I’ll do it again. Time is this summer’s ultimate luxury.

Anyhow- one year has passed and I’m in Balaton. That’s reassuring. One year, and the whole world can (will) change. But not everything, I guess . . . not this place, at least. Maybe it’s good that I’m here alone today (Zsolt is at the cottage building an IKEA shelf with his father). This way I can say hello to the water, and hello to a piece of me that’s been waiting to come back. Feels good to be here – feels like home. I’m so damn thankful to have made it this far, and I’d like – I want, and I will – make it much, much further.

One year since that stupid dirty frustrating (life saving) diagnosis. Thank goodness. Thank GOODNESS, gracious, and golly gee. And thank you for your support, your kind words,  your thoughtful comments, and your excellent company.

Okay, now I’m getting off this computer and am going to stare at the sky. Why not? This is my summer.