Customer service

Posted in Bumpboobs, Canada, Chemotherapy, Travel Log by

Hmm, I just called up Air Canada to arrange wheelchair assistance through the airport.

First, I must admit – it feels strange asking for a wheelchair. Wheelchairs should be for people who are really sick, or much older, or unable to WALK. I’m a 28 year old woman and I can walk . . . I just can’t walk for very long. My legs start feeling thick, I get tipsy (literally tipping over), and of course there’s fatigue.

I can understand someone’s surprise at my needing a wheelchair. But what I do not understand is being made to feel like an idiot for asking.

Calling the UK Air Canada customer service line today, I requested a wheelchair. The conversation went something like this (following the conversation about my reservation number, which was difficult in itself but quite possibly my fault):

Me: When I fly on the 14th, I’ll have just finished chemotherapy and will be really exhausted. Is there any kind of assistance I could have through the airport?

Lady: What kind of assistance do you want?

Me: Maybe a wheelchair or something?

Lady: Oh, wheelchair assistance.

I think the idea clicked into her head here. Before she wasn’t certain where to place me.

Lady: Is there any medical reason you need a wheelchair?

Me: I’ll have just finished chemotherapy and will be exhausted. I can walk a little, but not for long.

Lady: But is there any medical reason?

This is where I start to feel like an idiot.

Me: I’ll just have finished chemotherapy. I’ll be exhausted.

Lady: So you’ll need a wheelchair because you’ll be exhausted.

What is going on here? How many times do I need to say ‘chemotherapy’ and ‘exhausted’? Thinking about this now, I probably should have said: ‘I’m in the middle of chemotherapy’ – but totally forgot that fact during our conversation. But regardless, to have just finished chemotherapy and to be in the middle is essentially the same, because the effects are still felt a week or two (or more) after treatment.

Lady: I’ll put in a booking— sorry, a request for a wheelchair.

Me: (in my head: a request?) So I won’t know till I arrive if I have assistance?

Lady: That’s right.

At this point I want to cry, and don’t stand up for myself. Instead I say ‘fine’ because I feel like such an ass for even having asked.

Isn’t that crazy? Being challenged really throws me off; I totally lose my train of thought and can only say, ‘yeah, okay, fine’ like a stupid lemming. Mind you, if Zsolt is being challenged and asks for my help – no problem, I can tackle that issue. I’m a tough woman in other people’s battles. Not so great with my own.

Essentially, because I didn’t receive any sympathy from the Air Canada woman, I didn’t know how to handle myself. She treated my request like a form to be filled, which isn’t horrible, but at the same time – I’m not a form, I’m a person. My medical reason (apart from having been stated four times) goes beyond ‘exhaustion and chemotherapy’  – it extends to the fact that I need help, and I need it badly enough to ask.

Who asks for a wheelchair unless they need the bloody chair?

But she’ll put in a request.

Bah! It pissed me off enough to write, and maybe it’ll piss me off enough to call back later, when I feel less sorry for my passive self.

Though honestly, I had expected better.

Warrior watercress

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Food, Treatment by

The University of Southampton recently published a study suggesting that watercress may help stop the reoccurrence of breast cancer. Isn’t that convenient?

Apparently they had a small group of women fast 24 hours and then eat a cereal bowl of watercress, after which blood samples were taken. The results were promising.

Findings suggest that watercress blocks a signal vital to tumour growth. You may or may not know, but cancer tumours need a lot of blood to grow. When scanning the body and looking for tumours (e.g. with the MRI, etc.) they are looking for splotches where an abnormal amount of blood has developed. Probably there is a lot more to this body-scanning science, but I’m happier without the details. Point is, tumours need blood. When they use up the blood around them, they send out a signal for more. Like waving over the waiter at a restaurant.

But in this case the cancer cannot signal the waiter. No blood arrives. Tumour dies. DIE TUMOUR! AH HA HA HA!

Obviously this is just the start for watercress research, and is only one of the many studies with many possible cancer solutions.

But it’s been published at my university, and it targets my particular problem. I’ve taken it as a sign, and have now started eating a small cereal bowl full of watercress per day.  Because, like I once mentioned, 50% of the pizza is not enough. I don’t want to play with my life expectancy like someone flips a coin. Screw that.

So along with everything else, I’m eating watercress. Add that to my pile of cancer fighting treatments, supplements, and therapies. Fifty percent is bullshit, though better than the ten percent they first quoted. Bit by bit I’ll raise my chances. By the end, we’ll eat that entire freaking pizza for  dinner, and a watercress salad on the side.

Chemotherapy crazy

Posted in Bumpboobs, Canada, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

Yesterday was my third annual visit to the Christmas Art, Craft and Gift Fayre; I suppose it’s something I would normally have skipped (due to chemo) but a friend was showing work, and I really wanted to pick up a few of her matchbox masterpieces.


Ulrike and I arrived early to avoid the crowds; we hovered table to table, chatted up vendors, sampled truffles with oil,  and shopped – I bought three matchbox ladies from Barbro, who also had a stall showcasing her beautiful hand-woven, hand-painted cardboard baskets.

So that was a lovey morning, but by the time Ulrike and I had gone full circle and decided on a cup of tea, my legs felt like tree trunks and my head slightly fuzzy.

But sometimes a girl needs to socialize.

Mind you, I go crazy strange in the midst of exhaustion. Just this evening I was freaking out over nothing and Zsolt had to calm me down. It’s 100% a result of ‘too much activity’, which is tricky to manage during chemotherapy. This drug gives me the allusion of health . . . like, hey, I feel fine this morning so why don’t I do this, and this, and this, and this . . . except that come mid-afternoon I’m flat on my ass from a spinning head and can’t think straight.

It’s tricky, tricky stuff.

But nevertheless it was a lovely Sunday.

Another friend of mine who once had breast cancer advised that chemotherapy becomes more draining as time passes. She was concerned that flying to Canada would be too much. She’s probably right – I admit there is high risk of ‘Crazy Catherine, the Exhausted’ making a special appearance once home in Kanata.

So long as she doesn’t appear before, like when I’m talking to customs and trying to explain that hello/bonjour I’m Canadian, but I live in England, and yes I work there too, and no I don’t have anything to claim, and no I didn’t stop at duty free, and yes I’m home for a visit, and PLEASE stop asking questions because my parents are on the other side of that barrier and I’m dying to see them. At which point Crazy Catherine would take over and dive past the checkpoint, run across the luggage carousel, jump the security dogs, rip off her toque mid hot flash (revealing a suspiciously bald head) and probably end up tackled to the ground by that last fellow who checks your landing card and decides whether or not to search your bags.

Whew – sounds like an adventure I don’t want to have.

Therefore, the crazy will be saved for later.