I was higher than a kite

On a natural high in the winter of ‘83. Can’t remember exactly when or why the euphoria began. The doctors classified my acute disorder as hypomania. Whatever. All I can say is that I was feeling very happy and full of energy. So when I took my parents on a trip to Florida in December, I wasted no time sitting next to the handsome man at the airport gate and striking up a conversation. This paid off when he invited me to sit next to him on the plane which I did. Momma didn’t raise no dumb children. We exchanged phone numbers and he said he’d phone some time that week. He didn’t. Not that I waited or anything I hoped he would be on the same charter flight home & he was. We sat together again and got to know each other better. Much better You’ve heard of the mile high club? JK, not that well. John was a police officer in Ottawa and he invited me to visit the next weekend.

When I got to his apartment and saw pictures of his puppies as he called his two young boys. There were also pictures of sailboats and because sailing was a favourite pastime of my late brother Bill, I believed it was he who had lead me to John. We had a fabulous weekend together and I was still dreaming of the possibility of a relationship with John into the New Year 1984. When a friend told me she was planning a trip to Rio de Janiero in February, I jumped at the chance to go with her, even though I had just been on a vacation the month prior. Like I said, higher than a kite and the sky’s the limit !

To be continued.

On the sperm of the moment

Have I got your attention? Good. Because this is really important. When I was a young woman, I didn’t have to worry about AIDS. Don’t forget, I grew up as part of the Love Generation. We made love and we didn’t worry. Things are different now; very different.

So I took the pill, my boyfriends didn’t have to worry about condoms. But you know what? On a routine annual pap smear, the results came back not so normal. Pre-cancerous even. That was in 1995. I underwent a cone biopsy for abnormal cervical cells. Result? CINII. Not to be snubbed. Pre-cancerous cells necessitating a cone biopsy. And it’s all blamed on the HPV, Human Papilloma Virus.

The operation itself was a piece of cake. Asleep. What me worry? But the aftermath? At home, I thought I was losing my uterus when in fact it was the surgical gauze that was peaking through. Doctor had not mentioned that would happen. Helllooo!

Fast forward ten years later. Another pap smear. Again, abnormal results. Oy. So I underwent another cone biopsy. This time, CINI. Better. Not as dangerous i.e. advanced a pre-cancerous stage as CINII.

So, I sit here, waiting for the other shoe to drop. As they say in French, jamais deux sans trois (never two without three). I sincerely hope they are wrong. I don’t want to go through that angst and surgery again, thank you very much.

My point here is. Mothers, tell your daughters. HPV vaccine is available. It wasn’t in my day. Consider it? For your sake and expecially for your daughters’.

The Smiley emoticon has a special significance

My late brother was my only sibling and seven years my senior. Bill played guitar in a band when he was a teenager but I couldn’t go to his gigs because I was underage (: Pete played sax, Frank played bass and Lou was their drummer.

Mom, Dad and I were at Bill’s on Christmas Day 1980. I asked him why he was sweating and he said, Oh, it’s just hot in here. In fact he was stoicly covering up the pain he was having from the blood cancer he had been fighting since the previous summer. The day after Christmas, Bill’s girlfriend, Louise called the ambulance. Mom only visited Bill once in the hospital because it was too painful for her to see her son suffer. She also didn’t know the seriousness of his sickness, Bill not having wanted Dad and me to tell her that his doctor had informed him at 38 years of age that he had a year and a half to live.

A few days into his stay, he was transferred to the Palliative care unit, his leukemia having gone into the acute blast stage. Bill asked for morphine but the doctors only prescribed a drug cocktail for pain. On one visit I asked him what I could get him and he weakly said ‘a coffee’. So I brought him a mug of coffee and holding the mug in one hand, he outlined the eyes and upturned mouth with his free hand. Typical Bill, always in good humour no matter what. Even when he was first diagnosed, I would call him to ‘cheer him up’ and he was the one who told me the joke of the day.

On my visit that record-breaking cold day of January 4th, the nurse met me at the door to his room and told me I’d see a big change in Bill, as he had slipped into a coma. Louise and I stayed at his bedside until I thought I’d better call his friend Lou in Toronto to come quickly if he ever hoped to see Bill again. I stepped into the other room to make the long-distance phone call and heard Louise call out. When I went into the room, she said Bill had just died. I saw him take another breath and I ran out to the nurse to come quickly because I thought he was still alive but she said not. That had been his last breath. The priest came into the room and in consolation said stay here and let’s pray. Bill’s soul is still very close to his body and it will give you strength.

I had the task of breaking the news to my parents. I don’t think I will ever have a harder thing to do.

Four years after Bill died, I heard his voice when I was sleeping and he told me what he wanted me to say in the memorial notice I put in the paper.
Dear Mom, Dad and Chris
and all who loved me
Weep not for me;
What is the end of life for the caterpillar;
Is the beginning of life for the butterfly;
And I soar with the eagles.

How can I forget NYEve 1986 ?!

On NYE, #tenyearsago was a trending topic on Twitter. People were reminiscing. I drew a blank. But my NYE 23 years ago remains indelibly etched in my mind.

I had a hard time waking up my Mom that morning. She was never one to sleep in; however, she had taken one-half a sleeping pill the night before and I figured that was the cause of her grogginess. Mom, I said, Fran wants me to go skiing up North today. That’s nice, Chrissie, she said. You go ahead. But I don’t want to leave you alone, I replied. I’ll be fine, she said. Reluctantly I left, comforted by the fact that Jean-Guy was coming in to take care of Dad who had Alzheimer’s and also a CLSC nurse would be in to take care of Dad’s bursitis.

Still, I had an uneasy feeling. My queasiness was confirmed later in the afternoon when, upon calling home to inquire as to the home-front situation, Jean-Guy told me the CLSC nurse was checking on Mom who still hadn’t gotten out of bed !

I jumped in my car and made a beeline for Montreal from the Laurentians. I don’t know what was racing faster, the car, or my heart. As I pulled up to the front door of our building, I saw the ambulance. I ran to the door of my apartment, and made way for the attendants who had my Mom wrapped up warmly on the gurney. She was comatose. My Dad, who because of his condition, spoke very little, said to me as he looked down at Mom, ‘J’ai le coeur gros’ which means, I have a heavy heart.’ He knew.

Mom never woke up from her coma. I visited her every day for 15 days. On the morning of January 15th, I got a call from the hospital to come as soon as I could. The priest greeted me at the door of the ward. Mom wasn’t there any longer. They had moved her to a single room so that I could say my goodbyes in private. She was already dead, but as I stroked her hair, I found a warm spot on her neck and I kissed it and her face. She finally looked so peaceful.

Christmases past

December 1st reminded me of the Advent Calendar Dad used to give me and so I tweeted about it. @joannayoung replied ‘What a lovely memory’. Which got me thinking. I ought to write a post about this and Christmases past. The Advent Calendar Daddy gave me came with shiny, new dimes behind the door of every day of the month. Now they make the calendars with milk chocolate surprises. Trust me, the dimes were better.

I was spoiled at Christmas. I remember how proud I was of the reindeer and Santa’s sleigh filled with presents that perched on our rooftop, all hand-made by Dad. Nobody else in town had such a beautiful display.

I had gifts-a-plenty. There was the baby-doll that cried when you gave it a bottle. And Teddy who got a haircut when I did. Oh how I cried when his shorn hair did not grow back like mine did. Then the ballerina doll with the beautiful tutu and pink toe shoes. And how I loved the doll-house with the miniature furniture. Oh, and the mini cooking set, just like Mom’s real thing.

As I grew a little older, Christmas morning brought me cut-out dolls, Lennon Sisters of course. How many hours did I play with them. And the Nancy Drew books, the roller skates with the key and the white ice skates that your ankles buckled over in on the pond.

Every Christmas Eve I set out homemade cookies and milk for Santa and shorenuf, they were gone Christmas morning, proof positive of the existence of Mr. Claus. Never mind what the little girls at Catholic school said about Baby Jesus delivering gifts. Pooh ! What did they know?!

I miss you Mommy and Daddy ! Christmas always brings back the bittersweet memories of Christmas’s past.

You can call me a dork if you want to but …

… puleeze don’t ever call me a douche or a douche bag. You see, this word which has become increasingly popular in social media circles, this word is sexual slang and derogatory to women. A douche is French for a shower. A douche bag is a vaginal hygiene product. I mean, if you must label someone, why not call them by the gender neutral term such as asshole or enema bag ?

My campaign to rid ourselves of this word began earlier this Fall. Since then, I have been blocked by those who consider me Twitter Police. Me? A police person? I doubt it.

Honestly, I find the term defamatory to women and its use just repulses me. So, I started the hashtag #douchebusters. If someone in my stream uses the word douche or douche bag, I retweet their tweet with this hashtag.

If you care to join my army, I would be honoured. In the words of Margaret Mead “Never doubt a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

How could I not forget-me-not ?

Today is forget-me-not day. Little blue flower, emblem of The Alzheimer Society. Makes me think of my dad, diagnosed with dementia in 1985, four years after my brother died at the age of 38 from leukemia. Mom & Dad never got over Bill’s death. I remember my dad coming to my bedroom, kneeling by my bed, holding his head in-between his hands and saying “Chrissie, I think I’m going crazy.” I cannot imagine the torture when he realized he was losing it, slowly but surely. When I took Dad to the neurologist for an exam, the Dr. told me in front of him that I mustn’t let Dad drive any longer. As we left the doctor’s office, my Dad, who had never sworn in his life, looked at me and said vehemently “If that son-of-a-bitch thinks he can take my keys away from he, he has another thing coming to him.”

Dad’s condition deteriorated as Mom & I tried valiantly to care for him at home. Always a docile man, he became violent and on several occasions, I cringed thinking he might hit her or me.

A social worker I called to the house assessed Dad and put him on the A-1 list. I took Mom to see the home we were waiting for him to be placed in as soon as there would be a vacancy. Mom said the place looked nice & that Dad would enjoy the garden. That was in the fall, and I thank the Lord, God took Mom in the winter, before she had to see my father go.

In February I moved Dad to the home. On my first visits, he would see me coming, and beam to the nurses “That’s my daughter!”. As time went on he didn’t recognize me anymore. And so, I would go before work, feed him his breakfast, do his laundry to give the nurses a hand & occasionally help track down his dentures which he might have taken to another room. It broke my heart to visit because Dad who always loved nature and the wide open spaces was like a wild animal caged in that home. He walked and walked up and down the corridors with nowhere to go.

Pneumonia was the angel that took him on that February 25th twenty years ago.
But I still remember like it was yesterday and oh yes, the forget-me-nots, they remind me too.

Do you know what time it is?

Innocuous question. Perhaps. But not for a breast cancer survivor. When I was diagnosed 10-1/2 years ago, I happened to glance at my file and see that my tumour was at 3 o’clock. If you look at a clock-face, my tumour was on the right quadrant, mid-breast. No big deal you say? Well, since then I have ascertained that most tumours occur at 11 o’clock. So I am in the minority. Why does that not surprise me?

Fast forward to two years ago when during my annual mammogram, the radiologist spotted something unusual at 11 o’clock. Oops. My surgeon being self-admittedly OCD, ordered an MRI just to be sure. The wait for the appointment was agonizing. Not to mention the oft repeated question: “Are you claustrophobic?” No, I answered. But by virtue of being asked time after time I was poised to become so.

Nevertheless, I had my MRI– surreal experience that — and waited and waited for news.

I will never forget the call from my surgeon. I understand you’ve been calling the office anxious for your results? Duh, yes, I replied. Well, nothing of consequence there, he said. You can breathe again. How did he know I had stopped?

So, just to tell you, if you’re a breast cancer survivor, you never look at a clock the same way again. I bear the scar — at 3 o’clock.

An All Hallow’s Eve tale

A young man was in love with a beautiful girl. Sadly, the woman did not return his feelings. He tried for months to get her attention. Finally, out of desperation, he visited a group of witches. He asked them to create a love potion. They refused on ethical grounds. But they did give him a bottle of small white pellets. They instructed him to bury one in her yard at midnight for a month.

The man returned five weeks later, elated and thankful. He and the woman were to marry in two weeks. “Ah,” said one of the witches. “Nothing says loving like something from the coven. And pills buried say it best.”

A creepy story for Halloween

When I say creepy, I mean creepy. As in formication, etymologically derived from the Latin word formica, meaning “ant”, precisely because of this similarity in sensation to that of crawling insects. The term has been in use for several hundred years. In the 1797 edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica, a description of the condition raphania includes the symptom:

…a formication, or sensation as of ants or other small insects creeping on the parts.

This wonderful peri-menopausal experience happened to me a couple of months after I met my now DH, dear husband. Can you imagine, sitting on the couch, necking as we called it in my youth, and all of a sudden you have the sensation of an army of ants crawling all over your skin. Scratch my back, I pleaded and threw myself upon my stomach across his lap. This happened repeatedly for several months. The funny thing is when I reported the symptom to my gynecologist he had never heard of it. Yo, Doc, get with the program !