Category Archives: Samantha Albert

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Time for contemplation

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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, December 21, 2013

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

 

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This week’s visit to the chemo unit presented me with a perfect story for today. In fact, knowing I could write about this event, made the whole thing much more pleasurable.

This dialogue is between myself and the female  patient sitting in the chair next to mine.

Other patient (in a voice that could be heard all over the ward): WELL, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO HAVE YOUR BABY?!

Me (trying to whisper): Well, actually, I’m not pregnant.

Other patient: WHAT??

Me: I’m not pregnant

O.P: YOU’RE NOT PREGNANT?

Me: I have a big liver

O.P.: YOU JUST HAVE A BIG BELLY?

Me: I have a big liver

O.P.: YOU HAVE A BIG LIVER? A BIG LIVER? HOW ABOUT THAT? I’VE NEVER HEARD OF SUCH A THING. YOU HAVE A BIG LIVER. HMMM

 

And that was the end of our conversation. She simply got lost in meditating on a big liver.

I reflected that maybe it was good that we had this very public conversation. Now lots of people would be forewarned about my belly. Perhaps I should plant someone like this woman in every new situation I find myself in. It would break the ice and people wouldn’t need to ask the question. Hmmm. Any volunteers?

 

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Living with illness

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The idea of ‘living with an illness’ continues to intrigue me.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about the transition from an illness ‘crisis’ to the ho-humness of living with an illness.

In the first few years after my diagnosis, I was anxious about the illness, the treatment and about dying at such a young age.. There was an intensity and  drama that shaped my days. Life was suspended as I waited either to die or to get ‘back to normal’ and move on from my illness.

Except neither of those things happened. Fortunately, I didn’t die, but life never really got back to normal either. Or, rather, a life of illness became the new normal. It became normal to not have much energy. It became normal to look pregnant. It became normal to hang out at the chemo unit.  I don’t remember when or how the transition happened. When did I come to accept that this was my life?

I look at other patients in the hospital sometimes and see the deer in the headlights look that some have. I remember how it felt to wear that look. I remember those early days and what a scary and intimidating place the hospital was (in my pre-flouncing days).  I remember that time, but as if I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope. I remember the feelings from before, I can see the change to the present, but I can’t remember when that moment or series of moments happened. It was a subtle change.

While I don’t remember the ‘when’, I can surmise that the ‘how’ was an acceptance of my new life. Not a giving in, but finding a way to say, “All right then, let’s just carry on.” Not that I don’t still have my moments, but they are fewer and farther between.

I’m just now realizing that when I meet people who are hearing about my illness for the first time, that they are thrust into the drama and intensity part. What I need to convey to them is that I’m already in the acceptance part. “Oh, yeah, this is old news. I’ve lived with it for years.” This might just be the key to helping people with the shock of learning my story for the first time.

Sam

 

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Belly Laugh Friday, December 7, 2012

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

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The other night my mother and I went out to a new restaurant in Toronto. A lovely, chatty waitress served us. She was the dramatic type and entertained us with a story about some other patrons.  As we got up to leave she noticed my belly.

“Ah, I didn’t see when you were sitting down. Congratulations. When are you due?”

So now I had a choice. I could tell her the truth:that I wasn’t pregnant, but had a big liver. If I did that, I would likely receive a dramatic response from her. She would feel terrible, she would want my whole story, she would fuss over me. While she was lovely, and I’m sure would be very gracious, I just didn’t want to go down that path.

My other choice was to pretend I was pregnant. If I made this choice, what would I do when I come back two months from now; three months from now; six months from now? Eventually she would need to know or I would have to stop going to the restaurant. Would I have to give up this wonderful new find of a restaurant because I was afraid of a little fuss?

I have to weigh this decision each time I’m asked. ‘Do I tell or don’t I tell?’ is a constant question. What are the pros and cons? Is this someone I’m going to ever see again? Is this someone who I might develop a friendship with? How will this person react? Is this person someone I even want to engage in conversation? This laundry list of question runs through my mind in the split second between when I’m asked and when I answer.

In this case, by the time this waitress noticed my belly I was just tired and ready to go home. I decided to put off the inevitable. I mumbled the usual, “I still have a little ways to go.” and we made a dash for the exit. (I’m sure there are many people who wonder why I’m not more excited and chatty about my ‘pregnancy’.)

One day, when the moment is right and the restaurant is deserted, I will tell this woman the truth. I wouldn’t want to give it up, the food was very good.

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More creative

Dear Readers,

Ultra Sounds Mondays is on hold for a while. But in the meantime,  I look forward to carrying on with the conversation. You will continue to find here reflections on my own experiences as well as the creative activities of others that I am fortunate enough to discover.  Today I have some wonderful gems to share. Enjoy!

Sam

 

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Take a look at this amazing show of art work from young people with cancer. It’s organized by a group called the Middle East Cancer Coalition. If anything has a hope of bringing about peace in the middle east it is this kind of collaboration towards a common cause.

 

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I’ve seen several creative bra art shows, but this show from Brazil is my favourites.

 

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You can now view the winners of the 2012 Arts Awards of Cancer Council Victoria (Australia) and vote for the people’s choice awards.

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The Max Foundation also has a yearly international art competition. See the Colors of Hope Gallery for some amazing art and messages from artists around the world.

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And just for fun, here’s a link to Leo Sewells’s wonderful art made from junk.

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Ultra Sounds Mondays, November 5, 2012

 

Good morning everyone. It’s a cold day here in Ontario, Canada. I’m pulling out my longjohns tonight!

No new posts for you today I am sad to say (c’mon people, I’m waiting to hear from you!) So instead I thought I would post some links to previous contributors, so you can catch up on what they are up to.

 

Amy Marash has a great new cartoon here.

More wonderful work from Anna Moriarty Lev here.

Barbara Crooker’s poem “November, Sky Full of Bruises” could have been written for me. It make me think back to a November 12 years ago.

Dorit Fuhg has added to her portfolio of Art for Cancer prints - gorgeous.

Check out the latest works of my hero Viola Moriarty here.

Charles Phelps-Penry posted a newer cancer poem in July that I really like.

 

Well there’s a start. It’s a fertile bunch of creators that have posted over this last year. I would love to post your creative work. Take a look at submissions guidelines and keep the creativity flowing.

 

Enjoy the rest of your Monday.

Sam

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Ultra Sounds Monday, October 29, 2012

Good windy morning to all of you in the Eastern part of Canada and the U.S. I hope you are all safely snuggled somewhere to weather the weather.

Today’s post is one of my own works. This poem is about the oft-overlooked caregiver of us needy patients. They give and give and give and often nobody notices.

Sam

An Ode to a Caregiver

by Samantha Albert

 

In the business of illness

the patient is the star,

with agents and  handlers,

groupies and entourages.

“Do you need some chicken soup?”

“You are so brave, so inspirational!”

“Tell me your every need, your every wish and I will fill it.”

The patient is the celebrity, the self-indulged.

They are encouraged to focus on themselves

To take care of themselves

To talk about themselves

Their jokes are funnier

Their words are more profound

Than they ever were before

But if the patient is the star

what is the caregiver?

Chief cook and bottle washer.

Launderer of dirty linen.

The one who makes the money to pay for the medication

The one who cheerfully brings endless cups of tea.

The one who explains why mama has to be away so often.

The one who responds to grumpy moods with a sympathetic, “Are you having a hard day? “

The one who is scared, but can’t show it.

The one who, no matter how much they love the patient,

is always a bit of an outsider to the illness.

The one who must carry on with the life of two,

while the patient is otherwise engaged.

Where are their groupies?

Where are the reporters?

Where is the fanfare?

Leave the patient in anonymity for a while.

Cast your spotlights

on the quiet one in the background.

Celebrate him

Appreciate his dedication

Acknowledge his courage

Recognize his love

June, 2011

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Belly Laugh 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 in my responses.  Sometimes I actually look forward to bizarre responses because they make such good stories. Belly laugh Friday is my chance to share these humorous tidbits with all of you. Enjoy.

 

Sam

 

 

 

I smile pleasantly at the hotel concierge as we wait for the elevators. She gives me a knowing smile.

Finally she says, “Honey, you’re just all belly!”

I’m a little startled that someone would so blatantly tell me what I already know. She’s smiling happily though, so I understand that this is supposed to be a compliment.

“Your baby is all in the belly”.

Ah, comprehension blooms.

“Hey Cheryl, come on over here!” Cheryl, another employee obediently trots over.

“Isn’t her baby all in the belly? Me, mine was in my face and in my hips, but she’s all belly. Isn’t she Cheryl?”

Cheryl  looks me over.

“Uh huh, all in the belly”

I just smile serenely and pretend to enjoy the compliment.

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Tuesdays at the chemo unit, Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012

So, it’s not  Tuesday, but I don’t seem to get to write this post until Thursday. Let’s pretend.

Tuesday was a loooooong day at the chemo unit. It was the day I received my iron infusion (a grande decaf soy latte iron). It seems there was a tubing problem. The darn little machine kept making that annoying dee-dee-dum sound  - a sound that was catching all over the ward.

Of course my restless legs were in full gear, so sitting for that long was something of a trial. But I was reminded of an incident that happened this summer.

We live in Stratford, Canada, a town known for it’s famous Shakespearean Theatre Festival. My son and I gorged ourselves on live theatre this year.

One afternoon we were at the main theatre to see a production of Much Ado about Nothing when my legs kicked into high gear. I tried to talk to them, to tell them to calm down, but instead I found myself squirming like crazy, stretching and unstretching my legs and generally being a nuisance to the people around me. I decided I had better leave. My 13-year old son was indifferent to my leaving and told me he’d meet me at home (a 13-year old who doesn’t want to miss any of his Shakespeare play – does it get any better? )

As I was leaving the theatre I was accosted by one of the ushers.

“Can I help you with something?’

“No, I just have this problem with restless legs.”

“Are you coming back?”

“No, I think I’ll just go home.”

She looked pensive for a moment and then said, “Do you think if you were in the director’s booth you could stay? You could walk around in there and still watch.”

I hadn’t been enjoying the play too much. Claudio’s treatment of Hero is despicable (especially knowing she’ll take him back in the end). However, this was an opportunity too good to miss.

“Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

She led me to an almost invisible door and, after climbing a few steps, I had the whole theatre spread out before me. I walked up and down the room, did some exercises, had a snack and thoroughly enjoyed this way of watching theatre.

Too bad I can’t exercise while I’m getting my infusion…

Sam