Tag: breast cancer

Making it Work > breast cancer

Thin Skin Begins

Posted on January 20, 2018 by pioneerintrees

In an earlier post I mentioned how the killing off of cells in the esophagus and stomach can result in heartburn. Turns out that there are more cells in the gastrointestinal tract that are affected. I’m sure you’ve heard of the mucous membrane. It lines all body passages that communicate with the air, such as the respiratory tract, and have cells and glands that secrete mucus. Makes sense.

When you have chemo, the mucous membrane is affected. Bad things happen. Smart people call it mucositis.

The part of this lining that covers the mouth (oral mucosa, go figure), is one of the most sensitive parts of the body and is particularly vulnerable to chemotherapy. You don’t want oral mucositis. Open sores, bleeding gums, pain, pain, discomfort, hard to eat, yuck. So I’ve decided to pass on that side effect.

An ounce of prevention …

I’m doing some simple things, like:

changing to a soft toothbrush
using a less harsh toothpaste
swishing twice / day with flat soda water (you can also use baking soda and water, but YUCK!!)
avoiding foods that would irritate the mouth (spicy, acidic, you know all about it…)

I’m also doing something called “oil pulling”. It’s an Ayurvedic practice that is simple and boasts very positive results for oral hygiene. I’ve been doing it since Christmas when my big brother told me about it – and I have already noticed a difference in how my teeth feel.

How to oil pull: put up to 1 tablespoon of an oil such as sesame, sunflower or coconut in to your mouth (ok, I use about 1 teaspoon) and actively swish it / pull it through your teeth for 20 minutes. No swallowing! Then you spit it out (not in the sink or toilet as it will harden) and rinse with warm water, spit that out (not in sink or toilet), and then brush and floss (gently in my case). I use coconut oil because it also has lauric acid in it, which is apparently very good. Plus it tastes better (not that you taste it, to be honest, but I imagine that it tastes better).

At first I could only do 5 minutes. But I worked up a few minutes each day and now I have no problem with 20 minutes each morning. And it’s amazing how much I can get done while I’m swishing … light the furnace, chop some wood, make the bed, …

So far my gums are healthy and I have no indications of any sores developing. I’m sticking with it!

Sniffle

My nose, however, is starting to suffer. The skin cells are not reproducing any more, the hairs that normally trap the mucous are disappearing, and the membranes are thinning. This results in:

dry, crusty nose – feels like there are scabs in there ALL THE TIME
bloody bits and smears and chunks in the mucous coming out of my nose (I have a photo, but it’s just too gross)
sniffling
did I mention that it feels really dry?

So I’m working at increasing the humidity in the house – water on the woodstove, vaporisor by my bed. And I LIBERALLY coat the inside of my nose with Vaseline.

Apparently, if my nose does start to bleed, it may take a while to stop, since my platelets are affected by chemo. So NO NOSE PICKING!

Butt wait, there’s more!

On a related note, remember how I was talking about how toxic I am? The other day I search the Drug Monograph for Paclitaxel in order to see if there are contraindications for the use of essential oils and medical marijuana (that’s for another post, so sorry). There is a section called “elimination” that breaks down exactly how the Paclitaxel is getting out of my body. It says that there are “high concentrations found in bile; 71% excreted in feces in 120 hours”. OK NO WONDER MY ASS WAS ON FIRE!!

elimination — *This drug monograph is 14 pages long. Very informative.*

And so you can understand why this mug is my companion, and why I send poop emojis to Annie so that she can be updated. (She loves it. Really.)

poop mug and me — Sometimes there are fireworks.

Meanwhile, my head is feeling a bit numb / tingly. I think my next post will be about alopecia. Just a guess.

Toxic

Posted on January 13, 2018 by pioneerintrees

Chemotherapy medicines are toxic. So therefore, when you’re receiving chemotherapy, anything that leaves your body is toxic. You have to be careful where it goes and who comes in contact with it.

Naturally there are some basic safeguards – some that make tons of sense, some that are perhaps a bit surprising. Here’s the basic list:

1. Pee

You may not think that this is a big deal. Just flush it down and Bob’s your uncle (I know, he IS!). There are actually rules to the flushing. First one is to sit. Not a problem for me, as I always do. But dudes have to sit to pee. Not that that has anything to do with me, but I tought it was notable. Secondly, put the lid down before you flush. Who does that? Last, and the most disturbing to me, double flush!

This may not seem upsetting to anyone … but I’m an environmentalist. Having grown up at a cottage, I’m already conditioned to NOT flush unless it’s very very yellow & stinky or brown. (Note: At home I do flush after I pee (promise), but I flush once.) So I find this to go against my principles. (I can tell you this, though, if I’m peeing during the time that I am receiving treatment at the cancer suite, you can bet I’ll be flushing twice! People track you with their eyes and likely listen for the double flush.)

The other thing about pee is that when you’re female of a certain age, it tends to be less able to stay in it’s correct location when coughing or sneezing or laughing or jumping on the trampoline.

I have been told that each time any pee gets on me I have to wash thoroughly (probably twice since that seems to be the norm) and if it gets on my clothing or sheets I have to wash them TWICE. Separate from other items. Geez. This seems like a lot of work. (Am I going to be wearing Depends?)

2. Sweat

I told the nurse that I don’t sweat. She raised her eyebrows as if to say “reeeeaally” or “you don’t sweat YET”. She then asked about hot flashes and night sweats. Hmm, well, I don’t sweat much …. ok, I’ll wash my sheets more often. Fine. (But I’m not washing them twice.)

3. Vomit

I’m hoping I don’t have any issues in this department, but if I do, I have to follow the same rules as above – two flushes two washes. Of anything it touches. (I think I’m in denial on this one, but I’m not a puker.)

4. Stool

Who says stool?? It’s POOP, people!! I don’t think this will be a problem at all, since I haven’t generated very much since my 1st treatment. I know. It’s not a good thing. I’m on it …

poop inducers — *Pear juice, herbal tea, bran muffins and a supportive mug. Bam!*

5. Vaginal Fluid

Hold the bus. What? Yep – it’s toxic. So sex must involve covering it all up. Uh huh. A condom… and for other activities enjoyed by women, a dental dam. Ya, that’s not happening.

What’s not on the list:

I asked the nurse why saliva is not on the list. I am going to try to reiterate what she said, but it didn’t make any sense to me so I’m not going to sound convincing. It’s ok because it is less likely to come in contact with someone. Um … what if I cough? Not enough. Or spit on someone? Funny look. What about kissing? Not enough. (Ok that woman must be a dry kisser.) I let it go.

Some of the Additional Rules:

Anyone who deals with my “body fluids” has to (obviously wash it off their body asap, twice?), wear gloves and be given a medal.
Any “body fluids” needing to be cleaned up are collected with paper towel that is then sealed in a plastic bag and put in the garbage – which is then sealed. (Of course I’m wondering what will happen if I toss it in the fire instead …)
If any of my “body fluids” get into my eyes or someone else’s eyes (ok … what??), the eyes must be flushed 2 or 3 times. Hard to get that image out of my mind. Projectile vomit?

Good times, people, good times.

And yes, you can visit me. Just stand back a safe distance. I’m toxic.

In the Brown Recliner

Posted on January 10, 2018January 10, 2018 by pioneerintrees

Prior to this cancer journey I didn’t pay any mind to the recliner chair. I began to see the light a few days back when I had my information session with a Cancer Centre nurse. Her job was to be sure I understood about the chemotherapy, the side effects, and the procedures at the Centre, but she actually helped me to understand the power of the recliner. Specifically the brown recliner.

What I found out:

– The name of the place that I get my chemo is called “the suite”.
– The chairs for patients are all recliners.
– The brown chairs have a massage feature in them.
– It is chilly in the suite. Blankets are recommended.
– The brown chairs heat up.
– There are less brown chairs than beige chairs.
– Wednesdays are the busiest days (this has to do with Tuesdays being the days that most of the oncologists meet with patients – which happens the day before treatment)
– Since I go on Wednesdays I may not get a brown chair.
– People can bring me food and drinks but they can’t eat or drink with me.
– TVs are all on mute. I must be able to read the closed captioning.
– There is one chair beside every beige and brown recliner … I can only have one visitor who is not eating or drinking.
– The washrooms in the suite are not for visitors.
– I cannot go to Tim Horton’s but I can go and pee with my IV pole. But not with my visitor.

What I noticed on my tour:

– There are 4 sections in the suite, each one assigned to a different nurse.
– Each section has 4 or 5 recliners. A couple of them are brown.
– There were only 6 patients in the suite, scattered in the different sections. All of them were in brown recliners. None of them were talking.
– As I walked through, each of the patients glanced at me with a knowing look.
– Chemo drip bags come through a hermetically sealed window at the far end of the suite.
– There are 2 washrooms. (For patients.)

What I determined:

No picnics. No singing. No visits from loud friends. No way I’m missing out on a brown recliner.

My first treatment is happening while I write this. And yes, I got here early, in hopes of a brown chair. Oh ya, you guessed it … I got one!

My bum is nice and warm.

What I’m Doing in the Chair Today:

Schedule for the today (week 1):

– begin with a “loading dose” of Herceptin (8ml / kg) that lasts 90 minutes (the next doses are not as big … they are called maintenance doses with 6ml/kg)
– They watch me for 1 hour. For side effects, but likely also to see what kind of patient I am … complainer? Rule breaker? Under prepared? No friends? Chatterbox? Eavesdropper?
– Then I get approx 1 hour of “pre-meds” before the taxol. They include 4 things:
1. Oral dose of anti-nausea pills that I have to remember to bring with me each week. Oh oh.
2. Benadryl (oral)
3. 15 min of Zantac drip (coats the stomach, helps with nausea)
4. 15 min Dexamethadrone drip (steroid)
– FinallyI get the nasty stuff, Taxel for 1 hour and 15 min.
– Then I get a ride home at around 2.

Extra Curriculars:

I’ve got a load of things to keep me amused. All the technology: iPhone, iPod, ipad (yes, Apple junkie). Lunch & drinks. Knitting. Journal. Book & magazine. Etchasketch.

Better get busy! Lots to do.

Port Me

Posted on January 8, 2018 by pioneerintrees

Tomorrow I am going to have my toxic drug portal installed. It will deliver all of the nasty chemicals to my cells without any fuss or muss or burning skin. Ahh. How nice! It’s called a portacath, meaning a portable catheter. It’s made up of two parts: a small disk (port) and a long tube (catheter). Hence the name.

Where does it go?

It will be inserted in my chest, just under the clavicle. Each time I go for a treatment – whether it be for the 12 doses of Paclitaxel (chemotherapy) in the first 12 weeks or the Herceptin (the targeted therapy) in the remainder of the year (18 doses) – the drugs will be delivered through the portacath. Nurses can also take blood through the portacath, even though my veins are quite charming and easy to take blood from.

Giving blood — *I think the nurse had performance anxiety. I can’t recall ever having had a drop of blood spill – or it hurting. Serves me right for taking a picture.*

How is it put in?

Usually this procedure is done in Surgical Outpatients and I would be knocked right out, requiring that a breathing tube be inserted. But as I’m obviously an early adopter, I’m having it done in the Diagnostic Imaging department instead with “twilight anesthesia” (yes, I’m the very first one). This means that I will be in a semi-conscious state. No pain, no anxiety, no need for a breathing tube, no memory of what happened. (This last part is unfortunate, because I’d really like to watch if I’m going to be semi-conscious. I have many questions.)

In fact today during my teaching session (in which someone tried to teach me…) I asked the nurse how it’s done and waxed on about my vision of the procedure. She gave me a blank look. All she said was “There are 2 incisions.” Blew apart my whole vision, in which … of course I’m going to tell you … I think that the tube is inserted first – it looks like it has to run up and over the collar bone and then down into the Superior Vena Cava. (Remember that one from Biology class? It’s the large vein that runs in to the heart.) The disk is then attached to the tube, and slid under the skin. A couple of stitches later and it’s all done. But likely that’s not how it happens. If I come out of the twilight I will let you know what I see.

Here is a professional diagram, proving that I am likely very close to being right.

How does it work?

Once it is in my chest, each week the nurse just has to poke the special needle through the skin into the top of the port and start the drip. It’s not inconvenient like a PICC line, which is inserted in the arm and has an external port that you have to look after. Apparently I can sleep on my stomach (although I’m not sure if it will be comfortable) and I can swim with it (you can’t with a PICC line). Plus it will make me look like I have an alien microchip implanted in my chest, and that’s cool.

Why Not be a Wig Maker?

Posted on January 5, 2018January 6, 2018 by pioneerintrees

Well, I’m going to lose my hair. Chemo starts next week and I’m told I have about 10 days before it falls out. So I’ve decided to be proactive. I’m going to cut off my braids, grab my glue gun and make them into a version of a wig. Not kidding.

I was inspired by Scout. On the run, she hacked off her pink tipped and therefore very obvious hair, fashioned two cute pigtails and then plopped a little black toque on her head.

Well if she can do that and still look like a million bucks, so can I. Check it out:

So on Monday I’m going to see Jenny, who has agreed to help me out. She will cut off my braids. (I realize that this could be a delicate procedure … I’ll have to secure the top somehow so it doesn’t unravel.) I’ll set them aside while she fixes up whatever is left on my head (seriously folks, it’s going to be gone in 2 weeks. Who cares??).

Then I’ll hot glue the braids to the inside of a comfie black beanie that I found laying around the house. (I’ll have the exact location of the braids marked on the beanie ahead of time, don’t you worry.) Later on I’ll sew a soft band of something over the hair, sandwiching the braids to the hat. This will help to avoid irritation from the glue and ends of hair rubbing against my bald bald head.

This is what it should look like in the end, when I plop another hat on top.

goofball — Of course I won’t have eyebrows…

So ya, that’s the plan. Handmade wig making. Why not?? FYI, a short haired wig (made with real hair) costs $1800 and long hair is around $2500. Can you believe that?? Omg. I’m going to get me a turban, plop it over my cool skull cap with braids and I’ll be good to go.

Word of the Day: Receptor

Posted on December 29, 2017 by pioneerintrees

Before my breast cancer journey began, I might have guessed that a receptor is a mechanical part of a TV tower. Or something like that. Perhaps I wasn’t paying attention in Biology classes. (Sorry Mr. Bailey! But thanks for the quilt!)

What are Receptors?

Turns out receptors are a big deal when it comes to breast cancer. There are three types of receptors on a breast cancer cell:

estrogen receptors
progesterone receptors
HER2 receptors (human epidural growth factor receptor 2)

What does it mean?

When you have breast tissue removed and sent to the lab, they identify whether or not the 3 receptors are positive or negative:

POSITIVE: This means that the cancer cell IS receiving signals from that hormone or protein, telling the cell to grow.

NEGATIVE: The cancer cell IS NOT receiving signals from that hormone or protein to grow.

Why is this important?

It determines your treatment. If any of the receptors come back Positive, then you are a candidate for “targeted therapy” – treatments that target specific characteristics of cancer cells. Good thing. Because other therapies like chemotherapy is a systemic therapy that targets all quickly growing cells … such as those that are in your gut, mouth, vagina, and that grow hair and nails. Yes, vagina.

So, for example, if you test positive for one of the two hormone receptors, then you can use hormone therapy to cut off the supply of estrogen and / or progesterone to the cells. These are called targeted therapies. Boom! Dead cancer cells without the need to throw a ton of chemotherapy at your body. (Note: This is when a positive result is actually positive … not like my last post when a Negative is a Positive.)

With that in mind, a triple negative pathology is NASTY … since only chemotherapy can be used.

What’s my pathology?

Let’s take a look (this is the 2nd path report btw):

My hormone receptors are both negative – so no hormone therapy for me. Move on to the HER2 receptors. Positive. WOOT WOOT!

What’s HER2?

HER2 are proteins that control how a healthy breast cell grows – until they stop working properly, get out of control and replicate in a crazy ass way.

This is the first thing I read about HER2, from the American Cancer Society website:

“For about 1 in 5 women with breast cancer, the cancer cells have too much of a growth-promoting protein known as HER2/neu (or just HER2) on their surface. These cancers, known as HER2-positive breast cancers, tend to grow and spread more aggressively. ”

Oh great. That doesn’t sound so positive…

So what’s next?

So to be sure that there there are no rogue cells journeying around my body, we have to hit those HER2 positive cancer cells with some drugs. And the best treatment is to combine some of the targeted therapy (good) with some of the systemic therapy (not as good). This is what my oncologist has recommended:

1. Herceptin (this is the brand name – the medical name, trastuzumab, is hard to say):

This is a monoclonal antibody (a man-made immune system protein).
It blocks the ability of the cancer cells to receive chemical signals that tell the cells to grow.
Sometimes it is given alone and sometimes accompanied with chemotherapy.
Causes flu like side effects (fever, chills, nausea, muscle aches).
Oh, and it can cause congestive heart failure … more on that in another blog post…

2. Taxol (chemical name Paclitaxel)

One of the taxane chemotherapies that interfere with the cell’s ability to divide.
In order for it to find the cancer cells it needs to hitch a ride on herceptin, which incredibly knows where to go (because it’s targeted …. remember?).
It uses solvents to dissolve paclitaxel, the main ingredient, so the medicine can enter the bloodstream. I will have to take pre-medications to minimize reactions to the solvents. Oh can’t wait for that.

So that’s where we’re at folks!! I know what’s coming … just have to firm up a few dates and get myself fitted with a portacath!

Oh so many more stories to come… like what I’m going to do with this stunning hair before I lose it all!!

When Negative is a Positive

Posted on December 10, 2017 by pioneerintrees

When looking for signs of malignancy in a pathology report, a negative result is a good thing. A positive result is a bad thing. My biopsy was positive for cancer. Bad. Treatment? Take it out. Done.

This week I received the first pathology report that gave data on 3 things that were removed during surgery: Lymph Nodes, Right Breast and Left Breast. Since I knew that the Right Breast contained cancer cells, it wasn’t expecting any huge surprises, just more details. The Left Breast was removed prophylactically (for my convenience) so I wasn’t expecting anything there. But the Lymph Nodes? Now that data was going to be important.

Such great news! Negative! Woot Woot!

Before we go too far along, let me explain a bit about the lymphatic system – that will give you an idea of why this is such a big fucking deal.

The lymphatic system carries lymph – a clear fluid (from Latin lympha, meaning water). Lymph works in conjunction with the circulatory system (which carries blood). It travels along and filters through lymph nodes (we have between 500 and 600 in our bodies). Here’s a look at the area of interest to me:

Lymph nodes and the lymphatic system are very important in the cancer world, because when you have cancer, the lymphatic system acts as a highway (to hell). It carries cancer cells all over the body where it can take root, grow and kill you. That process is called metastasis. I’m sure you’ve heard of metastatic cancer. Sucks.

When cancer cells travel in lymph, they will get caught up in the lymph nodes. This is why, when looking for any spread of cancer, the surgeon first figures out which nodes the cancer tumor drains to, and then does a biopsy of those nodes. With breast cancer the surgeon takes out one or more axillary lymph nodes. They are in the armpit as you see in the diagram above. In an earlier post I told you a bit about how I was prepped for the sentinel node biopsy. I found out later that only one node “lit up”, which was a good thing since the surgeon only had to take one out.

sentinel node biopsy — *This is what they do to figure out where the “hot” node is.*

Of course, since it’s deep in the armpit, the surgery involves digging and scraping through the pectoral muscle so it’s a bit tender. But I digress. My “hot” node was negative, and that’s what’s important. No cancer in my lymphatic system. Phew!

The second set of results were details about the cancer in the right breast – which we knew a bit about already, mainly that it was Ductal Carcinoma in Situ (DCIS) with microinvasions. That means that there was cancer in the duct with some invading out of the duct. Details from the pathology report:

the cells are Stage 3 invasive ductal carcinoma
there were multiple foci of microinvasion in the 4cm x 3.6cm area (as shown in the MRI … so mastectomy was the right call). 🙂
the two foci were 2.5mm and 2.1 mm
there were clear margins around the larger area
It is named “high grade comedonecrosis” or “Grade 3”, positive for EIC (extensive intraductal component) Which translates roughly to “really fucking bad”, as my surgeon pretty nearly said, but without the swearing.

The data revealed that it was bloody good that they did a mastectomy, rather than a partial mastectomy (otherwise known as a lumpectomy). It was a bit of a crap shoot to do it since MRI results can often be a “false positive”. I decided to err on the side of caution and had both breasts removed. Glad I did.

Next step is to meet my oncologist. He / she will read the next pathology report that identifies my cancer cells’ receptors. These receptors indicate what makes my cancer cells grow, and so from that, they determine the treatment plan. But that’s for another blog post.

Thanks for hanging in!

Coming Unglued

Posted on December 5, 2017 by pioneerintrees

I’m coming up to 3 weeks since having my breasts removed. Since I left the hospital I have subconsciously been measuring my progress by the amount of gluey bits that I’ve been able to remove from my body. I know this because now that it’s almost all gone, I’m still not healed. And I’m appalled. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

glue in the armpit — *Just kidding – these are bruises from where they taped me to the table. (OMG, really? Yes.) But note the tape going WAY up into my armpit!! Seriously excessive.*

I came home a few hours after surgery. I was hopped up on oxycodon and therefore didn’t care that the tape attaching the bandages to my body came high up my chest, straight around under my armpits and across my back. The next day, when I realized that the tape was preventing me from moving freely, I pulled back a few centimetres along the perimeter and tucked it in on itself, like a rebel. Thus began my journey into tape removal, and in my mind, recovery.

big ass bandages — *This first bandage was more like a halter top. Note my work on the edges to make a nicer finish.*

I guess that my tape removal = healing theory came from the premise that this healing thing was going to continue on a predictable trajectory. Tubes out, big pad of bandages off, staples out, smaller bandages off, steri-strips on, steri-strips falling off, … no tape. Done! HA! How easy was that??

Look at how the glue turns black – even on the edges of the steri-strips! Yeech.

Now, as I have gone off all drugs except for the odd extra strength ibuprophen, I’m ALMOST glue free, and yet … what’s that I hear? Oh. It’s nerve endings yelling at me! Wearing a shirt hurts. Wearing anything hurts. That is, unless it’s really tight. I feel like a deep pressure junkie. I stand around pressing my hands flat against my chest to make the sensation go away. It’s not quite pain, it’s more like a humming, or the feeling when you’ve had frostbite and then you come into the heat. Burning. Pins and needles. It’s very distracting. Driving with an ice pack under the seat belt is distracting (but feels so great!).

It’s actually fascinating to probe around the scar tissue and feel the edema in some areas (soft and pillowy) and scar tissue (?) in others (hard and unrelenting). I don’t know exactly where the surgeon dug and scraped to get at the sentinel lymph node, but I can guess.

So ya, I’m almost 3 weeks from surgery and still unable to do basic stuff without wincing, such as:

wipe the table
pull open the cutlery drawer
drive standard
braid my hair
take off a shirt (how come it’s easy to put it on?? makes no sense)
sleep on my side
push myself up from a seated position

At my last appointment my surgeon drew me a diagram to explain it. There are nerves that run up through the breast tissue from the chest wall to the skin on top of the breast. He’s cut all of that tissue out, and in the process cut the nerves. So now I like to think that they are talking to each other. “Hey!! Where are you??” Not sure how long it takes for the nerve endings to chill out and the swelling to subside so that the skin can meld with the chest.

chest diagram. — *This is my version of the doc’s drawing. Lou can weigh in on how well I did.*

In the meantime, tomorrow I will work on removing the last few bits of glue.

Into the Pink, Literally and Figuratively

Posted on November 3, 2017 by pioneerintrees

This fall, as I took a bit of my spare time to finish up some projects that were “on the needles”, my world turned pink. I had a pink “pussy” hat to finish up and a pair of pink socks 3/4 finished. Funny how the things that sit so quietly in their little bags can cause so much noise in your brain! Knitting as a metaphor. Wait for it.

With the pussy hat – my 6th, thanks to Deborah – I had to deal with a dropped a stitch in order to get it done. Just as speed bumps can influence you to take an alternate route, so can the dropped stitch influence the knitter to avoid the project.

Dropped stitich — You just can’t live with a dropped stitch. Total speed bump.

I actually don’t mind fixing this problem – it’s so much like magic, after all. But it takes good lighting, concentration and a steady hand and those conditions are not always available (best not to do while passenging in the car, especially when Paul is driving JK). Rather than frog it (slang for rip out the knitting, FYI), you simply go back to the column containing the dropped stitch and unravel that column all the way down to the stitch that is waiting there patiently for you to notice it. Totally rewarding. And cool.

Picking up the stitch — Pick up one stitch at a time. Heal that sucker! (Another metaphor. Wait for it!)

Once that’s done, carry on, do some ribbing, sew it together and you have a cool pussy hat. Handy when traveling in the States.

Second pink project was a pair of socks knit from Zauberball, one of my favourite sock yarns because of the awesome colour, quality and knitability. I had one sock entirely done and the other was ready to turn the heel, so that only took a short while and a few Netflix movies. According to this blog post I started knitting these socks 10 months ago. GAH! (And yes, I like them short. Metaphor? Oh sheesh.)

Around this same time that I was knitting up these two pink projects I went for a regular breast screening mammogram, and then a second call back (for a “mag view mammogram”) that confirmed that there was something there. That led to a biopsy and before you knew it, I was in Pink Land. Yes it’s a place. Meeting with a surgeon, booking an MRI, having the MRI, seeing my undulating boobies on a big screen, discussing surgical options, figuring out recovery times… That has all happened. Breast cancer. I can barely say it since it puts me in a club that I don’t want to be in. But I’m in it. Sigh.

I’ve decided to write here so that I have a place to communicate to those who may want to hear my voice. Here I can talk about the pinkness of it all, in my own time and with my own crapload of crazy metaphors and likely swearing. Not necessarily the details – but maybe the details. Ya, probably the details. But I don’t know. All I know is that is that I really don’t have the energy to talk to everyone about it in person. There are just too many people who will want a quick update – with or without a concerned look, supportive hug, casserole or encouraging pink card. I don’t think that I can manage all of the updating – it’s just too much to face all of the time … all of the caring is overwhelming, and I’ve only just told my family, a couple of close friends and my staff. I sound ungrateful, I know, and I do feel guilty and apologetic (as all good Canadians do). But I have to manage other shit in my life – like my family and my work and my own self.

Of course feel free to add comments here as usual. And if you want more info, reach out to my “pink crew” for any more details. They are: my sibs, mom, best Aunt Donna, other besties Kerry, Wendy, Cath, Dana, and of course Paul.

Thanks and peace out for now.

My staff is awesome – organized this m&m group costume with me in pink – how great is that?? Love them.