Category Archives: cancer forum

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Time for contemplation

coal-hole-2

Jeanette Winterson, in her fantastic memoir Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal, writes:

“The one good thing about being shut in a coal hole is that it prompts reflection.”

She goes on to meditate on life, happiness and normalcy; results of the reflection that occurred during the many hours she was locked in the coal hole by her mother.

Now I don’t mean to suggest that a hospital waiting room is like a coal hole, but there is a similarity of ‘in-betweenness’ in the situations. In both cases, the job we have is to wait for the next phase, whether it be freedom from the coal hole or the opportunity to go in to an appointment. How we use that time is up to us, of course.

The waiting room does have more distractions than the coal hole, which is why, perhaps, Jeanette’s in-between time was more productive and profound than mine generally is. I have returned to my old ways of reading, writing and checking email in the time before I am called in. I have lost some of my capacity to just sit and ‘be’ during this time.

I would like to reactivate that part of me that knows how to wait. That will be my goal for tomorrow’s visit. Who knows what deep thoughts might appear. I’ll keep you posted.

Sam

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Belly Laugh Friday, January 4, 2013

As usual I’m late – let’s just pretend it’s Friday.

As most of you know, my strange illness has given me a belly that makes me look about seven months pregnant. After so many years I have been able to find the humour both in the queries and the responses I give to the queries.  Sometimes I actually look forward to bizarre responses because they make such good stories. Belly-laugh Fridays is my chance to share these humorous tidbits with all of you. Enjoy.

Sam

PW_oran1_1808_11

I try to come up with humorous responses to put people at ease when I tell them about my belly. One of my favourites is the following:

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 “When are you due?”

“Well, actually, I’m not pregnant, this is all liver from a bone marrow disease. Have you ever seen a liver as impressive as this before?

“Well, uh…no.”

“It is a wonder. Doctors gather when I am about in order to marvel over this miraculous organ.”

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And while it is said tongue in cheek, there is much truth in that statement. New doctors practically salivate in their eagerness to palpate my liver. Sometimes colleagues and medical students will be retrieved to view my notable organ. “You’ll never see one like this again.”

At a recent ultra sound appointment I was delayed by the technician because the doctor herself wanted to come in and see me. I worried that perhaps she had seen something concerning. In fact, she was simply keen to meet me in person and examine my liver.

I feel like I could use my own carny  “All right, step right up, ladies and gentleman. See first hand the world’s largest liver. You will never see a liver like this again. Come right this way. World’s largest liver. And for only a small extra fee you, too, can palpate this world class organ.”

I actually do keep pressing my doctor to find out if it is the biggest liver she has actually seen, but she won’t commit.

 

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Wednesday at the chemo unit, January 2, 2013

bar-mitzvah-boy-jack-rose-007

 

 

Happy New Year to all!

2013. It’s an awesome number to be writing. I was diagnosed in 2000, 13 years ago.

In the Jewish tradition, a boy or girl reaching the age of 13 enters into their adulthood (as celebrated with the Bar or Bat Mitzvah.) So this would mean that my illness is entering its mature years.

An adolescent who turns 13 is not really an adult yet. He or she still lives at home, is financially dependent and can’t fully participate in civil society. They usually do gain some autonomy, however, and start to act more like an adult.

Likewise, my disease is still living at home and is dependent on me for life. At the same time, it’s gained some autonomy. It can go out without me. It does not completely absorb me. It is my disease, it is not me.

Ideally, this gradual separation will one day result in the disease leaving home. But we all know that the trend these days is for kids to  return home to live with their parents when they can’t get a job. Maybe mine will go to medical school and look after me in my old age.

Sam

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Ultra Sounds Monday, October 8, 2012

Cartoonists hold a special place in my heart. Aside from my love of them leftover from childhood, there is something about the whimsy of cartoons that allows the dark side of a situation to be exposed to the light. I recently, happily stumbled upon a new cancer cartoonist and I  her humour is spot on to describe the life of a cancer patient (or any seriously ill patient for that matter).

This wonderful cartoonist is Kate Matthews and you can find her in all of these different ways:

cartoonsbykate@gmail.com

www.cancercartoons.com

www.facebook.com/cancercartoons, www.facebook.com/cartoonsbykate

twitter: @cartoonsbykate

http://www.thecartooniststudio.com/Cubicle.aspx

 

Her story is woven in through her cartoons. Enjoy.

 

Sam

 

Cartooning Against Cancer by Kate Matthews

 

One day, close to the end of his life, my daughter offered my Father-in-law a handful of Red Hots (bright-red, heart-shaped cinnamon-flavored candies).  He gestured with his hand and said, “ No thanks, I’m off the Lysinopril” (these were his bright-red, kind of heart-shaped, blood pressure control pills).  We all burst out laughing and for a while, his pain and our sorrow were lifted away.  Eventually my memory of that moment morphed into a cartoon:

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Shortly after my Father-in-law died, I too was diagnosed with cancer.  At first, I fell into that deep dark hole of despair that seems so dreadfully inescapable.  But then I remembered how we had laughed and how much it had helped.  I began to construct a ladder of laughter to help me get out of my hole:

Inline image 3

Cartooning saved my sanity. I was seeking that bright quick moment of mental relief, the laugh that pushes the fear and the pain away. Anytime I found it, I drew it.  I drew in the doctor’s waiting rooms and in the chemo chair, in my living room and in the hospital.    When my treatment was finished, I collected the cartoons in a book in hopes of sharing a few bright moments with others.  We all know that there’s not one damn thing that’s funny about cancer, but no one needs a good laugh more than we folks who are fighting it.  That’s why I’m still cartooning, why I try to post a new cartoon everyday.  When we laugh, we feel good and when we feel good, we get stronger.  Let’s hear it for laughter!

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Ultra Sounds Monday, October 1, 2012

Good day all and happy October!

Today I offer you another couple of gems from Viola Moriarty.  I love Viola’s paintings and I love Viola even though I have never met her in person. I connect to the colour and lines and the feeling of the painting and they  seem to me to be portholes into her personality (as much as I know her so far). You should go right this minute and check out her collection at http://www.violamoriarty.com/ (and notice what a beautiful bald head she has – I drool in envy  - mine wasn’t so pretty).

Enjoy

Sam

 

In her own words:

“Physicists tell us that the very act of seeing changes us, and changes the object of our perception. I paint
solely and directly from life largely because of this energetic exchange between the seer and the seen.
Creative process is perceiving information and deciding how to personally engage that information; it is
this process that most interests me. Painting is also hard work. It requires a particular kind of focus and
energy. When I step to the easel, I feel I was born for this work. All my liabilities—my tenacity, boldness,
tender heart, passion and insatiable curiosity–become my assets. When I am painting, I feel like myself.

Nature is my sweetest and most demanding teacher, and it is to her that I am most grateful.”

Viola Moriarty

 

Nicole P

By Viola Moriarty

 

 

 

Things Happen

By Viola Moriarty

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Ultra Sounds Monday, Sept 24, 2012

Happy Monday all,

This week I am happy to present another painting by Gina Duque. I hope you all went to take a look at her website after the last submission. If not, please do take a look at the many wonderful ways in which she sees the world.

Enjoy!

Sam

 

 

In her own words:

About the Artist

Whether it’s through prints like ‘Calypso’ or paintings like ‘Eukarya’, the essence of my work stems from creating mystical images inspired by cellular biology, the concept of healing and my interest in exploring the spiritual connection between the body and mind. I am currently using images derived from medical imaging technology to portray cells, tissues and systems of the human body.

During the last two and a half years of my cancer treatment, creating artworks has become a therapeutic and fulfilling process, eventually evolving into a spiritual and mindful practice.

Gina Duque is an emerging artist currently attending the University of Western Ontario in London, Ontario for her Bachelor of Fine Arts Honours Degree. Originally from Cali, Colombia, she immigrated to Canada with her mother at the age of eleven to Walkerton, Ontario.

 

About ‘Rebirth ‘

‘Rebirth’ is an abstract painting inspired by the Phoenix, a mythical creature that ignites on fire at the end of its life cycle and arises from its ashes to be reborn again. This is a powerful piece that for me signifies closing a painful, yet wisdom filled period in my life where I’ve gained so many life lessons not only from this experience but also from the many courageous, inspiring cancer patients I have met along the way. Now taking the ashes of my last chapter to construct another, I begin anew feeling stronger than ever with a renewed perspective on life that has truly enabled me to live life to its fullest.

 

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Tuesdays at the chemo unit, June 19, 2012

Today my husband, Daniel, drove me in for my treatment. While I love to have the time with him, there is always a bit of trepidation about these trips.

You see, I actually like to go alone to my appointments. I feel independent and free to do whatever I need to do. I can chat with people or be completely quiet and alone. If I’m tired I can just sit and nap. I can be very focused on dealing with whatever that day brings.

When you bring someone, all of a sudden you have a guest that needs looking after.  I know, they are there to support me, but the reality is that my “support” person, can’t stand waiting around hospital waiting rooms. He is not as used to the waiting as I am. He wants to be outside.  He gets fidgety, which drives me crazy.

We do have our strategies. Daniel goes for walks during the long wait times. If it’s a tired day and I need the elevator, he takes the stairs. He paces around the long hallways observing the people there. It works out okay.

Once I’m out of the hospital I’m a different person. I don’t have that same need to be alone and focused. I feel more social and more able to think beyond my own needs. Having Daniel there now seems festive. It seems that I’m only curmudgeonly in the hospital.

Sam

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Ultra Sounds Monday, June 18, 2012

Today I am pleased to post some more poems by Margery Hauser.  Once again in her own words:

In 1999 I was diagnosed with cervical cancer and had surgery that, at the time, we all thought had taken care of the problem.  However, it came back for a return engagement in 2008 and again in 2010, now taking up residence in lymph nodes and moving its way up from my pelvis into my abdomen. The poems below were written in response to various experiences during diagnosis and treatment.

Today’s poems are quite different from each other.

The first, Chemo Blues, is “definitely irreverent, but it reflects my personal feeling that finding the humor in a difficult situation is a way to maintain some balance”

“How do I tell you is really an expression of anger and frustration in reaction to all the people who told me how much they admired my strength and positive attitude.  Their words, undoubtedly spoken with the best of intentions, made it difficult for me to share my fear and sadness honestly.”

 

Until next time…

Sam

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Chemo Blues

 

Oh the first line of the blues is always sung a second time (oh yeah?) 
 First line of the blues is always sung a second time (kinda smooth!) 
 So by the time you get to the third line you’ve had time to think up a rhyme.

 Richard Stilgoe, Poppa’s Blues, Starlight Express

 

I’ve got those paclitaxel topotecan chemo blues.

Oh yes, those paclitaxel topotecan chemo blues.

It’s made my thumbs a little numb,  my toes are tingling in my shoes.

 

Treatment’s made me bald, ain’t got no eyebrows or eyelashes.

Yeah, treatment’s made me bald, ain’t got no eyebrows or eyelashes.

The upside is it’s cold and chemo gives me cozy, warm hot flashes.

 

My legs ache from the taxol and the topo makes my white cells disappear.

Oh, my legs ache from the taxol and the topo makes my white cells disappear.

On the other hand I haven’t had to shave my legs in almost half a year.

 

These drugs make me so tired, I just want to sit here staring at TV.

I said, these drugs make me so tired, I just want to sit here staring at TV.

It’s the best excuse for doing absolutely nothing, lazy as can be.

 

Some folks say it’s bad taste to joke when cancer’s got you by the nodes.

I hear some folks say it’s bad taste to joke when cancer’s got you by the nodes.

But I think all of us on this journey find our own kinds of roads.

 


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How do I tell you

 

it’s hard to walk upright

with the weight of your admiration

pressing on my shoulders

 

too difficult to breathe

swaddled in your blanket of love

 

impossible to swim

through your riptide of caring

 

Your heartstrings tentacle tight

around me     I am confined

constrained   contained   restrained

 

Image   icon

idol    ideal

I dream Pinocchio dreams

of being real

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Telling our story

Recently I have reconnected with some old friends and I’ve been reflecting on how we tell our stories. How do you sum up your life for the past twenty years? If illness has dominated, it sounds rather dreary to say “Yeah, since we last saw each other I’ve spent most of my time in hospitals. How are you?”

As I compose the emails to these friends I realize that I have instinctively tried to to summarize what my illness has meant to me. Not the gory details, but how it has shaped my life – both good and bad.

Similarly, when I first tell new acquaintances about my illness, I’m less inclined to give lots of detail.  Frankly, I’m bored with the details, but I’m constantly exploring what it means to live with a disease and how it shapes a life (at least my life).

How do we construct our lives when major illness influences every aspect of what we do? How do we then construct the story of that life to share with others?

Creative expression gives many people a way to tell their story in a way that can capture, at a visceral level, what the illness has meant to them. I’m honoured that so many people have chosen to share their stories through this blog and if you are newer to the site, I encourage you to go back and look at the archives.

Looking forward to many future stories.

Sam