The September Terror of Grade Nine

 Ah, high school.  I remember starting grade nine as being so terrifying.  I had been moved up two grades in school, so I was about two years younger than the other kids.  My parents had talked about sending me to a Catholic high school, but I sat them down and outlined my reasons for wanting public school, including not wanting to wear a uniform, not wanting to go to a school without boys, and not wanting a school that would make me study religion every day.  Surprisingly, they agreed.  

Adding to the stress of being so young and starting high school, we had just moved from Quebec, where I had spent the last few years being educated at a French language school (talk about immersion!).  Since we had moved without having a place of our own yet, my dad returned to Quebec to pack up the remainder of our stuff and get it into a truck to come to us in Ontario.  My mother and us three kids lived in the basement of an old family friend, mom on a sofa, and us kids on the floor in sleeping bags.  I walked 45 minutes to attend high school.  I was the new kid struggling to adapt.  

In the school system in that area back then, grade nine students didn't have a lot of choice on what classes to take, and one of the courses had to be Canadian history (plus math, English, French, science, music or art, and a couple of electives).  A few weeks in I was kind of settling in when we moved to the basement of my uncle and his family.  Not only did I have to change schools and be the new kid all over again, but in that school district, grade nine students had to take Canadian geography (and the Canadian history course in grade ten).  That meant that I had to switch gears and pick up on a few weeks of geography lessons.  It was a challenge.  I also had to adapt to a new school, new routines, new people, and of course I was the new kid all over again.  If you're keeping track, this was my second school.  

Only a few weeks later my dad arrived from Quebec with our stuff and we moved into our own place, and you guessed it - another new school for me.  Yes, my siblings were also going to new schools each time, but I was the continual grade nine newbie.  I kind of liked this location and the school.  I started making a few friends - a perpetual thing in my life.  It was mid-October.  In late November the boxes reappeared and we started packing up.  We were moving. Again. I was not happy about moving yet again and, of course, starting yet another school.  We moved anyway.  

Let's turn it up a notch...not only did I not know a single person at the new school, but even though we'd lived in a city for a a few months now, the fact is we had moved from a tiny little town where my school had had only a couple hundred kids.  Here I was now at a school that had about 2400 students. I settled in with some difficulty.  Normally I was extremely adaptable, but at that moment I was an insignificant 1 in 2400 student; I still had language adjustments to make; and I was the new kid in every way again. At least at this school they had some sense.  I had an interview with the head of the French department, conducted in French, and based on the interview, they started me in the grade 12 class.  Now that was a culture shock!  Oh, and just for fun, this school district had Canadian history in grade nine.  Great!  Now I was three months behind in learning on that subject because the previous two schools did the geography first.  

My first day of French class, I remember walking in and having all these 17 and 18-year-olds looking at me as if I were something to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe.  That was probably the most scary moment of all of high school for me.  Fortunately the teacher was the department head who had placed me at that level.  He introduced me and told me to take a seat, which it happened the only available one was at the back.  So I sat down and quietly did the work assigned.  

This particular school was on the term system, so you had eight subjects on a rotation schedule, over the course of three terms (Sept to Dec; Jan to April; April to June or something like that).  As you may imagine, all the moving had completely messed me up.  Needless to say, I failed every subject except French and music in the first term.  My mid-term marks for the second term weren't much better.  I made myself a promise and commitment that I was not going to fail the whole year.  I buckled down, easy enough to do when you don't have any friends to distract you.  By the time final exams were drawing near, I had marks good enough to gain exemptions from all my exams.  The only fly in the ointment was the history teacher that decided since I had failed the first two terms, I must write the final exam.  I did.  I raised my mark as a result.  I had also made some friends.  This was the first school where I had made real friends.  (And I still keep in touch with many of them.)

I made it through grade nine.  I had some friends.  There was a cute boy living next door that went to the same school.  Life was good.  Summer started, and...you guessed it.  The boxes came out again.  I couldn't believe it.  I desperately didn't want to move again, but I didn't have a choice.  We moved over the summer.  This time, although I was technically now in the zone for a different school, we were still in the same city and there was public transit.  I figured out which buses I needed and what time I had to leave at to catch the bus, including the 15-minute walk to the bus stop.  Then I got a Saturday job so I would be have the money to pay for the bus.  

So, yes, I survived grade nine and managed to pass with decent grades.  I had friends.  I had a plan.  

Grade ten started the following September and I mention this for two reasons:  (1) The first day of French class, those kids left over from the previous year who were attending grade 13 would not allow me to return to the back of the class.  They wanted "maximum exposure" and I ended up sat in the middle.  Grade 13 French was much like a regular English class in that we read books and discussed them, wrote book reports, etc.  There was more focus on speaking, and not just conjugating verbs or learning grammar.  It was more practical use; and (2) I met the girl who would become my best friend and sister until she passed away at age 39.  It's been 21 years and it still wrenches my heart.  

The best thing that came of moving so much was that peer pressure meant nothing to me.  I had learned early on that most people in my life were transient, and so their opinions of me were meaningless.  It was very liberating.  But I sympathise with kids starting grade nine.  But hang in there because it does get better.  

Little Red Mustang

 As I mentioned in a previous post, in February of 2024, shortly before my birthday, I came home one evening and saw a strange vehicle parked in our driveway.  Strange as in unknown, that is.  At first I wondered who was there to visit us, but as I kept looking, I realized there was a giant bow on the car.  I sat there for a minute in disbelief, denying what my eyes were seeing.  

To give you some background, my sister-in-law had passed away at Easter in 2023 and left a small bequest to my husband (her brother). Our son and his two cousins (from hubby's other sister) were beneficiaries equally of the estate, but for the bequests to my husband and his other sister.  That year, on Christmas Eve, my husband slid off the road on black ice.  His van ended up totaled.  He and the insurance company settled on an amount after he was able to prove modifications and upgrades to the vehicle.  The payout from insurance came in at the same time as the bequest from his sister.  Her old Ford Escape was part of the estate, but needed a lot of work to make it saleable.  My husband was without a vehicle, and was interested in having the Escape, however his other sister and her husband (not the executors, mind you, one of my son's cousins is) didn't feel that it was right for him to have it when he hadn't inherited it, and yet it had no monetary value as far as being able to be sold.  To put an end to the argument, my son said he'd take it.  Since his two cousins already had newer cars, and one of them lives in the US and would have had to "import" the car to take it home, neither of them wanted it.  As soon as it was agreed that our son would have the car, he said to transfer it directly to his dad.  They realized that they could transfer it to our son, but he could simply turn around and transfer it immediately to my husband.  So hubby got the vehicle.  

My husband received the inherited amount, as well as the old Ford Escape, and at the same time, the insurance payout for his own vehicle.  

Over the years we had talked many times about having a summer car. My husband regularly buys draw tickets on various vehicles, typically what we call "summer" cars.  These are the cars that don't see snow and are usually convertibles.  My husband also regularly scrolls through Auto Trader and Kijiji looking at what's out there in the market.  So it was mildly interesting to me one evening when he showed me a nice-looking convertible for sale locally.  I thought nothing more of it.  Really.  It went out of my mind by morning.  

So a few days later, in February 2024, I was parked in my driveway behind a bright blood red Mustang convertible and wondering who was visiting.  When I realized there was a giant bow on it, my puzzlement deepened and slowly it dawned on me.  It wasn't new by any means at 17 years old, but it sure looked pretty.  OMG, yes, he had gone out and bought that car he'd shown me a couple of nights before.  I was stunned.  He told me it was my birthday/you beat cancer (for the second time) gift.  Wow! 

Now, you'd think the story ended there, but in reality it was just the beginning.  

My husband had gotten a temporary license plate in order to bring it home and then to a mechanic to get it certified (as safe).  Every vehicle needs to have a safety certificate on transfer if you want to put a license plate on it and drive.  The guy who sold it to him had his own story to tell.  He bought the vehicle from a guy in a larger urban city (we live small town/rural).  He'd bought it already certified. Coincidentally he had bought it for his wife, but they had to take over full custody of their grandchildren, so mostly he drove it, keeping it in his garage in the winters and driving his other vehicle.  Then shortly after being awarded custody of their grandchildren, his wife got sick and died.  The Mustang is not a car that fits car seats, especially in the back seat, so he made the decision to sell it.  He did sell it to a local gentleman who wanted it for his daughter who'd just graduated, but the daughter didn't want an "old" car, so he agreed to give the man his money back in exchange for the car.  Before the man had sold the car, he'd had his mechanic certify it because you get more money for a car already certified.  He put up his ad again to sell it, but the safety certificate expired before my husband saw and bought it.  Still, it had very recently been certified, so it shouldn't have been a problem to get a new certification.  

The next day my husband took the car to a mechanic he knew (since our regular guy was busy), and asked for a safety check.  Bad news.  The mechanic had the car on the hoist and showed my husband there was significant rust on the rocker panels.  This alone is enough not to pass a safety check, but the next thing he showed my husband was horrifying.  He tapped on part of the frame of the car, which sounded metallic - as it should.  Then he tapped on another part of the frame, which didn't sound metallic.  Somewhere along the line (probably with the first owner, since the guy hubby bought it from had a garage for storage and was doing cosmetic stuff like paint and touching up rock chips, as well as actually driving it, but storing in the winters), so somebody had used spray foam where the frame had rusted out and then cut it to shape, and painted it black.  This told us the car had spent its first dozen years of life being driven through snow and slush where salt was used on the roads.   No wonder the first seller had sold it "certified" and since his mechanic had a very similar sounding name, we wondered if it wasn't a relative of the owner who gave him a convenient safety certificate.  

Rats!  I couldn't drive my new car without a lot of work being done to it.  First thing, my husband had done was order a new roof for it.  The existing one was showing its age.  He found a guy in a city a few hours' drive from us that specializes in convertible roof replacements, made an appointment, and we took it down.  The temporary license plates are good for ten days, with one ten-day extension allowed.  We had the new roof put on.  Then hubby found a local guy that apparently does body work.  We took the vehicle to him for a discussion and an estimate.  We left the car with him.  Weeks went by and the car was still sitting in his work yard, and getting through to him on the phone was nearly impossible.  Finally we found another guy and decided to move the car.  From getting the car in early February, we were now into April.  The new body guy was a little more expensive, but said he could get right on the work.  We left the car with him.  More weeks went by and the car was still where we'd parked it in his yard.  We showed up one day to ask about it and got what seemed to be a whole song and dance about some issue with getting the necessary parts, and about some insurance issue he had with his shop. As I said to my husband, his insurance issues are his problem, not ours.  

Anyhow, he said we should take the car and drive it for the summer and bring it back in the winter.  (In the intervening weeks I had reached out through someone I knew and made contact with a mechanic who would provide a safety certificate, sight unseen. We'd made the trip to the city (not in the red car) and paid the ransom for the certificate.)  We left my blue car with him for a little rust repair to some spots on the wheel well on one side, and a spot on the opposite side where something had chipped off a chunk of paint the size of a small child's palm.  More weeks went by.  Now we were in mid-July when one day my husband had taken the convertible to town to pick up some takeout.  He phoned me to come get him and said the tow truck was on the way.  It had broken.  Not the motor, but one of the underneath things that was all rusted.  I needed my blue car back immediately.  We went up to see the guy about when it would be ready and he promised it in a week.  I drove my son's old Chev for that time.  My husband went with my son one day to pick it up.  Imagine our disappointment when we discovered the guy had used the wrong paint!!! My car was blue, now it had blue doors and the rest of the car was sparkly blue.  Yes, he had used metallic paint.  I was livid.  Not only had the work taken a couple of months, but it was painted with the WRONG paint.  I have a two-tone car now.  It looks awful.  

I told my husband we should take the Mustang back to the first guy because there was no way he would ever talk me into letting this guy near it again - ever!  So we drove back to the first guy.  By now I'd had my first of two surgeries for the latest cancer.  We left the car with the first guy again in September.  In early November my husband went to chat with the guy and he had it up on the hoist.  Hubby took a picture for me.  

It was very hopeful to us that the work would be done soon because the car was on the hoist.  But there it remained.  Apparently the guy didn't have a hoist inside his shop and so couldn't work on the car until the winter ended.  Seriously?  I wish we'd known that ahead of time.  It sat there on the hoist all winter long, and it was a long winter.  It was now 2025.  The weather had finally warmed up.  The guy had fixed the part that had broken, but nothing else.  He had promised us in March that it would be ready by the end of May.  I was very upset.  Over the fall and winter I'd had a chemo series, and finally declared in remission (again).  I was looking forward to driving my car for the summer, but I wanted a safe vehicle to drive. Even though we had paid for a safety certificate, and the car was technically on the road, I wanted to feel safe in it.  When we asked why it wasn't done yet when he had promised it would be, he said he had other vehicles ahead of us.  I reminded him we had left it with him in the fall and his reply was that since we had taken it back from him the previous spring, other cars were now ahead of us. Even my pleading that I wanted to be able to drive it before cancer came back again had no effect.  Yep, he was punishing us because we'd dared to take it elsewhere after he didn't start the work when he'd promised the previous year.  We paid for the work he had done, and left.  

I said we should look elsewhere, broadening our search, because clearly there wasn't anyone local.  Well, my husband found a guy who was too busy to take on the job, but he recommended another body guy, who had actually been his master when he was an apprentice body guy.  My husband drove out to see the guy, and was pleasantly surprised when the guy said (1) he could do the work starting a week later, (2) he would also replace the work the first guy had done - incorrectly, and (3) he had just finished doing some work on the exact same vehicle!  Not only could he start right away, he'd come highly recommended, and he was 1/3 of the total price of either of the other two.  A week later we drove over and left the car with its third body guy inside 18 months.  Two weeks after that we drove back to get it.  

It looked amazing!  I have been happily driving it everywhere this summer.  It feels great and I have now worries about my safety.  It's probably just as well it took so long because I really wasn't in the mood to enjoy it last summer, having been diagnosed with cancer that third time.  Now I'm in remission and feeling great, and I have a summer car to zip around it.  Life is good.  

Cancer - The Continuing Saga

 The CT scan happened on a Saturday and the following Monday I was scheduled for my first chemo session.  This was a horrendous day for me for a few reasons.  First, chemo.  Second, it was the birthdate of my late best friend.  We'd been besties from high school.  Soooo...I check in for my first session.  Remember that I hate needles, and cancer is all about needles - blood work, tests, you name it.  My sessions are scheduled for every three weeks and I have already been told that the first week will be the worst; I will feel better the second week; and by the third week I'll feel almost normal, only to start all over again the following week.  In all, I'm scheduled for six sessions (so 18 weeks).  It seems like such a short time, but also so very long.  

Shortly after checking in at 8:00 am, a volunteer came to lead me to the chemo room.  I was visibly upset, with silent tears running down my face.  I was about to confront something so completely scary (cancer), and I was thinking of my late bff on what would have been her 59th birthday.  The volunteer asked me if I was okay and all I could do was shake my head.  She asked if it's my first time, and I could only nod and whisper "yes".  She led me to the room and I picked out a chair.  They have recliners ranged around the room.  While I'm waiting for a nurse to start the IV, the volunteer brings over a few quilts.  She explains that these are made and donated to the cancer room for patients. You get one on your first visit.  I picked one and she draped it over me.  You need it because it gets quite cold in there.  

The nurse arrived and started the IV.  First in is a little saline as they test the line.  Next, of all things, is antihistamine.  Apparently it helps with the nausea.  It also knocks you right out.  It's funny because each time the nurse has to change the bag of whatever is going in, she has to check with you to confirm your name and birthdate, even though both are on the hospital wristband you're given.  So there I am, groggily trying to say my name and date of birth.  Good thing the nurses understand groggy.  

As I was kind of waking up from the effects of the antihistamine, my phone rang.  It was a doctor who had just read the results of the CT scan I'd had done on Saturday.  He wanted me to come to the ER right away.  I explained that I was in the midst of a chemo treatment and suggested he call my oncologist. When the stroke event had occurred, I had been put on some heavy-duty blood thinners right away.  Well about five minutes after that doctor called me, my oncologist and one of the hospital's pharmacists showed up beside me.  This is a rare occurrence for an oncologist to appear in the chemo room because the actual administration of chemo is all managed by nurses.  He told me to stop the blood thinners immediately.  The problem was that the CT showed a blood clot in the lungs (pulmonary embolism).  Blood thinners tend to break these types of clots up, potentially causing chunks (small, but still).  He and the pharmacist wanted to melt the clot away rather than break it up.  The good news?  Remember how I said I hate needles?  Well now I had to give myself injections. With real hypodermics - not injector pens like an insulin pen.  Twice a day.  I told him this would kill me but I'd do it.  So the pharmacist and he proceeded to explain how and when.  They had a nurse show me when she gave me the afternoon injection before I left.  

So once you wake up from the effects of the antihistamine, you'd better have something to do - play on phone, read a book, crochet.  You can also chat with others in the room.  That day I started talking off and on with another woman seated across from me.  When I was finally set free around 2:00 or so, as I was folding up the quilt to take with me, the woman I'd been chatting with suddenly asked me "how much?"  I didn't understand.  She explained she wanted to buy my quilt because it had purple and that was her favourite colour.  I finished folding it and handed it to her.  I said I couldn't take any money for it when I hadn't even paid for it.  The volunteer, who was about to walk me out in a wheelchair (I was exhausted), saw this and took me to the room where they keep the quilts. She let me pick out a replacement.  

Sure enough, as advertised, my hair began to fall out.  I was so exhausted that my husband took to getting into the shower with me to wash my hair as I couldn't even lift my arms to do it.  I'd cry the whole time as clumps of hair disappeared down the drain, and he'd try to console me that it would grow back.  That possibility seemed so very far off.  

My second treatment, three weeks later, happened to fall the day after the 20th anniversary of the passing of my late bff.  So of course I felt like absolute crap again.  I had been dutifully giving myself twice-daily injections.  I would look at her picture and tell her it was for her and that I was not dying of a pulmonary embolism, like she had.  By the week after my second treatment my hair was all but gone.  The thing is, although everyone knows you lose your hair off your head, I never really thought beyond that.  Of course you lose absolutely every hair off your body - facial hair, legs, underarms, pubes, even nose hair.  All gone.  

My son was my constant companion as there were so many appointments.  I had regular doctor, oncologist, stroke clinic, neurologist, eyes, wound care, blood work, and chemo, to name a few.  He drove me everywhere, and for the most part he did so without complaining.  By the time I'd had two treatments, I was just about done in.  I lamented on FaceBook that I wished there was some kind of spa for cancer patients to go get pampered with food, massages, rest, rinse and repeat.  And that it be free.  Even though I live in Canada and my treatments were free, there are still ancillary costs associated with cancer treatment like gas for the car, parking, and sometimes meals.  Well wasn't I surprised when one of my friends replied that there is such a place and gave me a link.  

I followed the link to a retreat for cancer patients.  It was a four hours drive from me, but I would be able to bring a support person.  I signed up to be on the waiting list, and since I could be available at relatively short notice, I ticked that box on the form.  I was stunned to have them reach out within a few days asking if I could come to the retreat in the middle of November.  They'd had someone drop out.  I agreed and immediately called my sister.  She agreed to come as my support person and to drive.  

The retreat was another emotional roller coaster.  I had word just before leaving for the retreat that I would have to add a third injection for the next several days.  My white blood cell count was low and needed to be increased before further chemo treatments.  I was given four hypodermics with whatever drug in them that would help (force) my bones to produce more white blood cells.  The needles were bad enough, but the actual act of being forced to produce white blood cells makes your very bones ache. Bone deep, literally. Still, the retreat was good with morning and evening yoga; really good, healthy food; music therapy - gongs and drums; massage; nature walks; and sharing circles. The sharing circles were hardest, but I made friends through our shared experiences.  (Sadly, as of the writing of this post, one of those individuals has passed away. She is free from pain now.)  

I had another CT scan in mid-December.  Christmas passed quietly in our home.  Towards the end of December I had another meeting with the oncologist ahead of my chemo treatment.  He was happy to tell me that the CT scan showed "significant" reduction in my tumours, with the stomach ones gone.  Hooray!  Naturally I cried in his office and he told me that everyone does when I mentioned it.  He also said that of all his patients, ever, I was the one with the best overall outlook.  I told him that I was determined to think positive because I believe in the power of manifesting what we think.  

The big day finally arrived at the end of January when I had my last treatment. While the chemo was over, I still had daily injections to give myself and I would have ongoing immunotherapy infusions for the next few years.  I rang that bell like it had never been rung!  I'd made it through the chemo treatments.  

In mid-February I'd heard from the surgeon about reversing the ileostomy.  I went to see him for a consultation.  At that meeting he suggested that perhaps I might want to hold off on the surgery.  He said that if my cancer were to return and if I had to have this surgery again, it would likely be permanent.  I told him that I refused to live my life afraid to live my life based on something that may or may not happen in the future.  I said that if the cancer did come back, then I would deal with it then, not before. 

We scheduled the surgery.  This time it went off without a hitch, although there was a six to seven week recovery period to be expected.  When I saw the surgeon a few weeks after the surgery, he was happy with how the healing was coming along.  I told him that I considered myself to be quite lucky as I had now beaten cancer for a third time.  What he said next just bowled me over in surprise.  He said that I was very lucky because most people with this particular type of cancer don't survive!  I was stunned.  I had a follow-up with the oncologist a week later ahead of my immunotherapy treatment.  I asked him about it and he confirmed that was indeed the case, but he didn't like to tell patients that because even he couldn't predict which ones would respond to treatment and which ones wouldn't.  I said I appreciated that because if I'd had any inkling that I might actually die this time, my whole attitude throughout the whole process would have been completely different.  The other good news was that I no longer needed to give myself daily injections.  I was allowed to go back on blood thinners.  

Now that I was pretty much on the road to full recovery, it was time to get my license back.  It took a couple of tests before the neurologist was satisfied and the Ministry of Transport granted my license back.  I have to say too, that it was a good thing I was listening and not driving. One day as my son drove me to visit my coworkers, we were pulled over. The officer came to the window and said they'd pulled us over because the license plate had popped up on their system as "owner license suspended".  I leaned over from the passenger seat and said that was me.  They took my son's license and were back thirty seconds later to hand it back and let us go.  

At the beginning of June I started back to work on a graduated return to full time.  It's been such a long journey, especially if I count from that very first diagnosis.  This time, however, I'm feeling really good.  I feel better than I have in years.  Think positive people.  Think positive.  

*** 

Here it is just over a year later now since this last cancer event started.  Once again I went to the Mensa annual gathering, which took place last weekend, in Calgary this time.  Our son paid for the trip for us as our 25th anniversary gift.  The universe does put us where we need to be at times.  I had arranged to meet with a member one evening of the conference.  They suggested we meet at the registration desk, and I took that to mean the hotel registration desk and was waiting there.  One of the desk clerks was wearing a toque - odd as it was pretty darn warm out.  I asked if he was cold, and he looked around then whispered "cancer".  I immediately pulled the front of my hoodie so he could see the decal and told him I understood as I'd now survived it three times.  

He asked if he could ask me a very personal question about it and I said he could.  The young man asked, "How do you go on knowing that cancer could come back at any time?"  I looked him in the eye and said, "You live your life. None of us knows how long we truly have, so just live your life."  He shared that he had been given a 95% chance of success with his treatment, but he had tears in his eyes.  I felt his emotions.  I knew his emotions.  I asked if he wanted a hug and he said yes and came from behind the desk.  This was a big man and he enveloped me in a hard hug for a full thirty seconds.  He went back behind his desk and my phone rang with my friend saying they were at the Mensa registration desk.  I truly believe I'd been put at the hotel registration desk just at the moment that young man needed me.  I really hope things go well for him.  

Cancer - The Saga Begins Again

 It's been a very busy and vivid past 18 months.  I have not written here because I carried out this last go-round with cancer on Facebook, but it's time to write it all down, chronologically, for posterity.  Spoiler alert - there is some gruesome language and description of bodily function that might gross you out.  You have been warned. 

In February of 2024, shortly before my birthday, I came home one evening and saw a strange vehicle parked in our driveway.  Strange as in unknown, that is.  At first I wondered who was there to visit us, but as I kept looking, I realized there was a giant bow on the car.  Then I sat there for a minute in disbelief, denying what my eyes were seeing.  To give you some background, my sister-in-law had passed away and left a small bequest to my husband (her brother). He received that amount, as well as her old Ford Escape, and at the same time, the payout from insurance for his own vehicle which was totaled when it slid off an icy road on Christmas eve.  He was okay, just pissed off.  Since he had her vehicle, he decided to get me something I'd talked about on and off over the years - a summer car.  So what was sitting in the driveway was a bright blood red Mustang convertible.  It wasn't new by any means at 17 years old, but it sure looked pretty.  I'll save the saga of the Mustang for a future blog post, because it's quite a story! 

At my CT scan in early March of 2024 things looked good and I was declared cancer-free for the second time.  Later that month I went to my family doctor with apparent sciatic pain, which was not new but had been shuffled aside while we dealt with that last cancer.  He sent me for x-rays, which didn't find anything.  He decided an MRI would be an appropriate next step, and I was scheduled for one in mid-July.  In  the meantime, we tried some pain relief drugs, which didn't really help.  

In June I attended the Mensa annual gathering, which was taking place only a few hours' drive from me that year.  Although it was a really good event, I had a difficult time sitting for more than a few minutes as I was in such pain.  Because one of the meds I was on for diabetes was causing horrible bowel distress, I decided to stop them during that weekend.  My doctor and I had previously discussed discontinuing that med, so it was okay.  My MRI was scheduled for July 18th, a Thursday.  On the Monday before I happened to already have a follow-up scheduled with the gynecologist who had performed my hysterectomy (due to the first cancer).  I tried not to be alarmed when she felt something.  When I mentioned the upcoming MRI, she tagged on to that procedure with a few tests of her own.  

The following Monday, I was driving to work when my phone rang at 8:00am.  I will never forget the time or the contents of the conversation.  Her first words were "your cancer is back".  I asked her to forward the results to my oncologist and thanked her for the news.  A little later that morning I called the oncologist's office and left a message that I'd been diagnosed with Cancer again.  That afternoon the oncologist's office called back and asked me to come to the hospital in London (a 2.5 hour drive from me) on Wednesday, prepared to stay for a few days.  I was stunned and asked, "Wednesday as in day after tomorrow, Wednesday?"  Yes, that fast!  I told my boss and packed a bag.  I was in hospital from the Wednesday to the Friday and had a series of invasive procedures and tests.  The determination was that cancer had indeed come back and my paranoia was not so misplaced.  

The oncologist indicated that I could have treatment there in London, or she could refer me to an oncologist in my area, thereby saving me the long drive as chemo is offered at my local hospital. I opted to stay local because I didn't want to potentially miss any treatments due to weather.  We can get serious bad weather in the winters where I live.  I was told I would also need surgery.  Well that wasn't news to me.  What was new was the kind of surgery and the ramifications of it.  

I soon met the local oncologist and the surgeon who would perform my surgery.  It was explained to me that I had a large tumour pressing on or attached to my lower bowel, and a few lesions on my stomach. It would be necessary to essentially detach the upper bowel from the lower bowel, an ileostomy, which meant I would be pooping into a baggie for the foreseeable future, possibly forever.  I didn't even hesitate when I asked how soon we could get on with it.  The reason for the ileostomy was that they weren't sure if the large tumour was part of the bowel.  If it had attached itself to the bowel, it might well be that the bowel would have a hole left in it as the tumour was melted away.  If that was the case, depending on the size of the hole, they might be able to shorten the bowel a bit, or if not, I could be left with the baggie permanently.  I just wanted the cancer out.  

Remarkably, my luck with surgeries seemed to hold as less than three weeks after my diagnostic hospital stay I was being prepped for surgery.  

When I woke up, I did have a baggie hanging off my right side of my abdomen.  The surgeon was happy with how everything went, and told me that he'd done the surgery such that the procedure could be reversed if things went well.  A few days later I was home, but it was short lived.  The nurses were fantastic and gave me great care, but after some experience living with a baggie, I could definitely say that their training needed to include more instruction on ostomy care.  I woke up in the hospital the day before being released to find that the baggie had become detached from my skin.  It's only stuck on with adhesive.  The nurse/psw had to clean me up, put on a new bag, and change the bed.  I noticed a lot of redness around the ostomy and there was some stinging pain (like sanitizer on a papercut) while it was being cleaned up.  I worried that my allergy to some adhesives was causing the redness and how that would be managed.  The next day I was to be released and a nurse showed me how to remove the old bag and attach a new one.  Really, it was a five minute "lesson".  I was sent home with a goodie bag that included one spare bag and supplies, and a contact number for the company that provides the hospital supplies of ostomy equipment so I could order more.  I was told I could set up an account with the government for financial assistance with supplies, and that the one baggie would be good for a week, which would be long enough to get some supplies in.  Sounds easy, right?  

That night at home, around 2:00 am, I woke up to an exploded bag.  Wrong term really, although that's what it feels like.  Essentially, the baggie had detached from my skin and the feces had oozed out.  I was somewhat happy that I had worn a nightgown and it had somewhat contained everything so that my sheets were not covered in poop.  So there I was in the middle of the night, sitting on the edge of the tub and putting on the new baggie.  It took some time, and of course I was very upset while doing so.  Still, I managed.  I thought.  A few short hours later I woke my husband.  He had been sleeping on the sofa for over a year as he didn't want to jostle me in the bed because he knew my sleep was disturbed enough already.  I told him I needed him to take me to the emergency room.  My baggie that I had replaced in the night had not remained stuck on and I had another poop event to deal with.  Now I'm upset because my abdomen is raw and bleeding, and I'm out of supplies.  Instead of pulling this bag completely off, I pressed my now completely soiled nightie to it, put some clothes on, and went to the ER at 6:30 am.  Fortunately the wait wasn't too long and I was soon put into a cubicle.  They gave me some sterile pads to hold over the ostomy and a plastic bag for my nightie.  I had at first thought to wash it, but ended up tossing it in their trash can after I'd wrapped it up.  Too bad, because I'd liked that one.  

I laid there in the cubicle, upset, weepy, and feeling sorry for myself for the first time. When the doctor walked in, I was elated to see it was my own family doctor.  He explained to me that he worked the ER every Monday.  It was so good to see a familiar face, and someone who knew my history.  He took a look and had a nurse come in. He explained what kind of equipment she'd need and asked her to fix me up with some extra supplies.  This time it stuck.  At least it stuck long enough for my visit to the wound care folks.  

I'm going to skip forward a bit. I had several appointments with the nurses at wound care.  The problem with the bag sticking to my red and raw skin had them refer me to their ostomy specialist nurse.  She told me that the redness was from there not being good adhesion, which allowed feces to ooze under the bag seal and sit on my skin.  Think about what your stomach acid does to food, well, that same acid on your skin is caustic. Over the next two months she tried different processes to dry my skin and maintain good adhesion. We managed to get the skin in a good place and I was able to take over managing my baggie changes, with weekly check-ins with the ostomy nurse when she would also change the baggie and monitor progress.  

In the meantime, I was scheduled to start chemo towards the mid-end of September.  Since I had long, naturally curly hair, I was upset with the knowledge that it would soon be gone.  I decided to get it cut short because I reasoned that it would be less traumatic to see four-inch lengths of hair disappearing down the shower drain.  I also decided to colour it so I would at least have fun hair to distract me from the loss of length until chemo would take the rest of it.  

My 21-year-old son held my hand the whole time, because I cried as my hair was all cut off, and even as it was bleached and dyed.  The hair stylist was very sympathetic - I'd told her what was going on.  She didn't even charge me for the cut part, just the colour.  

One morning shortly before chemo was due to start, I had planned to meet a friend for lunch.  I woke up and realized I was having problems with my vision.  My first thought was to wonder if I was having a stroke, but I wasn't slurring my speech and was ambulatory.  Still, I cancelled lunch and immediately went to the hospital.  I saw the ER doctor, who sent me to see the ophthalmologist on call.  After a very thorough exam in which he didn't see anything wrong with my eyes, I was sent home.  The next day, Monday, my oncologist called.  He had seen the ER report and had scheduled me for an emergency MRI.  After the MRI, I was told to wait as the oncologist wanted me to see the hospital neurologist immediately.  I later learned that he'd quite literally called her and begged her to look at my film and see me right away.  So an hour after the MRI, I was in the neurologist's office, whereupon she told me I had indeed had a minor stroke.  She showed me on the scan where it had occurred.  She told me that my vision might well return to normal after some time, but in the meantime I was not to drive. (I agreed not to drive, and I wouldn't have, however, a week later a notice came in the mail from the Ministry of Transport suspending my driving privilege for the time being.)  She scheduled me for a CT scan to see if we could determine a cause of the stroke.  I also had an Echo (heart scan) and a Holter Monitor for two days.  At a meeting with my oncologist, he told me that the commencement of my chemo would be delayed.  I was distraught, but he pointed out that a stroke would kill me a lot faster than the cancer, so it was okay to delay the chemo.  He was right.  

The next blog post will have the continuing saga. Tune in again, same bat time, same bat channel.