Narrative Nipple goes, “WOOOOOHOOO!”

Posted in Fun, Writing by

She’s here, and she’s looking good! Finally Narrative Nipple is dressed and ready to be seen. So please – go see her 🙂

Okay guys, I guess this isn’t exactly a post, it’s more a big ‘WOOOHOO’ cause I’m stoked to get this project rolling. So with no more words, I invite you to check out the page and let me know what you think. Submissions are always welcome, and you certainly do no need to have had breast cancer to contribute.

Right – here’s the link: www.narrativenipple.com

Please, go have a look 🙂  Maybe even leave a comment. High fives all around!

Looking at the past, again

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Life by

This week I’m digging out my old diary (which is buried in one of my fifteen moving boxes and I don’t know which box it is in) in order to travel back in time. Where to? Well, to the day of diagnosis. Again.

You might think I’m a sucker for punishment, the way I’ve been continuing my blogging in regards to cancer – cause every time I have to remember cancer, there’s a little pinch on the side saying, “That was pure and total shit, Catherine. Remember?” And honestly in many ways I’d rather forget.

But when it comes to such a life-altering experience, to forget completely is 1) impossible and 2) possibly equivalent to denial.

Plus, there are too many reminders in life that cancer exists. Too many people die. Too many people suffer. Too many people are diagnosed. And a lot of people run around in pink this time of year raising money to end breast cancer, which I appreciate, but which also serves as a steady reminder that breast cancer happens, and, oh yeah, it happened to me.

But I’m not complaining – just trying to explain why when people ask me to recollect what it was like, I don’t just say, “no way, Hose,” and go find a pile of sand for my head to fit under.

Next week on the 19th of October I’ll be going to Orillia to give a talk for a palliative care conference. It’s slightly daunting. I feel like I should approach this conference with my fingers crossed and held out for protection – palliative care is not for me or my future, and there’s a little intimidation when being around someone who cares for those who are dying.

Because I am not dying.

Okay, okay, we’re all dying. But I am not dying.

You know what I mean? And I really don’t want to face that situation until I’m good and old and maybe around the age of 89, so long as I can still dance.

But this talk I’ll be giving focuses on that moment of diagnosis – that sudden shocking change. And I think it’s an important moment to reflect upon, because in that second, the second reality sinks in, so many things happen so fast – and while I appear to be just a slobbering mess of a woman who can’t stop crying, really I’m starting my journey (my battle) and everything has just shifted in my life. It’s immense. And I guess that’s what I ought to get across to the lovely people who will be listening next week. That and what happens next. Not in terms of the ‘process’ though that is huge, but more in the emotional challenge, and how life itself must be reshaped.

Okay, okay. I’m just procrastinating now. Time to go and shape this talk, and dig through those boxes for my journal. There’s some hard, never-shared stuff in there. But it’s an essential reminder. And I guess (and this is a good thing, cause lately I haven’t though about cancer 24/7, which I like very much), I guess I need a little reminding.

So – here we go. Into the boxes.

Wonderful to each other

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Love by

“This is your time. This time we are for you.” Last year around this time, that was my French Canadian grandmother of ninety-one years, Lulu, cheering me onward as we spoke over skype (as I  tried to look ‘healthy’ with my bald head and worn out expression, since no one wants to look sick in front of their grandmother). She sent her support, like everyone else – and I was so incredibly thankful. ‘People are at their best during the worst’, I heard that the other day on Lost (I think), and during my worst, people were truly incredible.

And last year I thought to myself while pre-made food arrived, as friends visited, when family called from across the ocean and coached me via skype, I thought to myself, “once I’m all better, I’ve got to give back.”

The number of ways to ‘give back’ are endless, from blogging to volunteering to donating to running  marathons. . . possibilities stretch before a thankful survivor who needs to honour the goodness they’ve experienced. But I hadn’t imagined giving back would start so close to home, so close in the family.

This week Zsolt and I are thick in the woods of the Mount Tremblant area, hanging out at my aunt’s cottage and keeping her and my grandmother company. Now, one year later, this is Lulu’s time, and this time we are for her. While I haven’t written a single word of fiction (or fact, apart from this blog) during this mountain retreat, I have cooked some lovely meals, watched my husband stoke the fire, enjoyed driving tours with my aunt, played rummy with family, listened to my grandmother’s memories of her parents (and her parent’s parents, and her aunt, who was a nun) . . . and I am reminded that sometimes the best way to help another person is simply to be available.

Being here. Cooking food. Listening to stories. Going for a latte.

Last year those were the little things that made an incredible difference in my fight, and this year – though the circumstances are completely different (though the exhaustion isn’t, I can imagine) – these are the same things that helps everyone smile. And when we’re smiling, all else moves aside like sunshine through clouds. A generous reminder that life can be wonderful, and we can be wonderful to one another.