Living like dad

Two years ago I was getting ready to go to a father's day picnic while in the hell of pre-diagnosis limbo. I didn't know but I knew. And I was experiencing life in a strange way. My friend Ashlyn described it best in a recent post on her own blog when she said that the pre-diagnosis stage is by far the worst part of cancer. Everything after - the treatment, the puking, the wretchedness - is completely manageable in comparison.

But getting a few hours that day to be with my family was good. Watching my dad approach the ne'er do-wells near our picnic with the faint scent of silverback on him and realizing that I didn't want to die before he did.

Here's the thing about my dad. Everyone says they have the best father in the world, but they're bullshitting you. Because mine was cut from a completely different cloth. He made it okay for me to grow up strange while still making me answer to stuff. He was the dad who brought home treats every time he went to the gas station and never complained when I asked him to get me something from the kitchen. I abused that service and he never complained about that.

He put up with my picky eating and sang "Angelina" to me when he served up the spaghetti. He put Saan flyers on my dresser when I wasn't looking and kicked my butt down the hall when I got snarky.

He watched me go out in hot pants and fishnets and bustiers, my mom's rosary around my neck and only balked when the hot pants had rips in them. If there were ulcers burning, he didn't say so.

When I moved to Vancouver, he cried in my new Kits living room.

And when I was diagnosed, he was strong and just there and starting juicing when I did. He still does today.

My dad has taught me that beyond food and supplements and running and yoga and meditation there is kindness and fun and a twinkle in your eye that can make you live forever.

I love you, Dad.

 

I am not a mutant

Before I got french-kissed by the c-dawg, I thought what many people think who have cancer in their family: because my [insert family member here] had it, I could get it, too. Since then I've learned that the percentage of hereditary cancers is very low - ranging between 5-15% of all incidents of cancer, depending on the publication or research or full moon dipping behind jupiter.

When I was diagnosed one of my first thoughts was "wonder if this is genetic?". I mentioned that to my onc and she agreed that I had enough of a reason (young, family history, aggressive strain) to get the free BRCA1/2 gene test, but as I went through the carousel of treatment, we both forgot about it. Then, when it came time to begin deciding on one breast removed vs. two, I realized I was too late to get the wheels in motion (the test can take up to a year) and had to make up my mind on the prophylactic removal of rightie without all the information. I decided on the scorched earth route, and although the right came back clear, I've wondered since.

In January, I finally went for genetic testing and counselling - more for my daughters than anything. I'd read that having one of the genes, if they mutated, could increase the risk of developing breast or ovarian cancer by five times (so from the usual 10% to around 60% likelihood). Ballz. I was hoping to be free and clear, but part of me still wanted a cold hard scientific reason for getting the unwanted visitor at 37.

Two weeks ago my results came in. Not guilty. No effed up genes. What I had is considered sporadic cancer. And yes, we don't know everything we need to know about cancer, but as it stands, the reason I got it is unclear. And if there's any pattern in my family, it's because of lifestyle similarities, not DNA. Which is terrifying and empowering and the reason behind everything I do now.

Tonya Harding, Cindy Wilson and finding the inspiration to write again

It's been two months, yo. I've broken the golden rule of writing and have forgotten that 99% of it is just sitting down and doing it.

I could complain about work taking over my life, but that's a shitty excuse and I will not allow it. What's happened since is that I've run a 10k race with my cousin Tasha without puking:

I also visited Montreal for the first time in my life and although I traipsed all over old town with bloody stumps for feet, I did not find the Iron Chef-winning lobster poutine promised me. By the time I found the clichéd, unmarked building where it swam and squeaked, I had already downed some of the best sushi I've had anywhere. Who knew the St. Lawrence could compete with the Pacific? So until another day to try poutine for the first time evah. It's not exactly on my to-do-before-I-die list, but I feel a bit too virginal not having sampled the heart attack/cancer food on a plate. And yes, I plan to eat bull's balls one day, too.

I also had one of those 6-week TELUS stretches of madness that can make a grown woman weep. My body and brain rebel when I have those spells and I do the non-heroic thing and ignore friends, family and vegetables as I try to stay sane. The bright spots were the five-hour flights and 90 minute ferry trips where I got to have spotty or no wi-fi and a date with my Kindle or (egads) my thoughts. Nothing I'm ready to talk about yet, but I'm makin' some plans, yo, and I hope you'll come with me.

As I get closer to the anniversary of c-dawg madness, something I've completely realized in the past two years is that trying to live a balanced life is a different kind of crazy. It's impossible to give everything equal attention. You will shift. You will favour. And that's okay. The first year of cancerland I wandered the aisles thinking of food and how what I had been putting into my bod was creating a space for disease to live. I'm still working out what the grub on my plate looks like every day, but I know what I need and the rest is a process. I'm going in the right direction.

In the past six months it's been about the realization that not only is it ballz that I've been so sporadically lazy my whole adult life, but that it's stupid not to do something about it. So my energy has gone into finding time to run and make it a priority. I still don't love it all the time, but it's in my bones now.

Which is the perfect time to go all Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan on my trick skiing knee at Stella's parent participation field hockey practice this morning. I'm injured, and likely out of running for at least two weeks. And that licks.

So while propping up my knee, icing in 15 minute spurts, I've been contemplating turning 40 in about six weeks, my upcoming trip to New Orleans with my husband, cousin and her husband, and figuring out what I need to turn this mother around again. Because that is what it's all about for me now. Not being complacent and comfortable. I've also had more opportunity to think about my friend and cancer twin Sharon and she would have turned 41 this past week. We held a ribbon tying event in her honour in Burnaby for TELUS Day of Giving, and I actually felt her hanging around the cafeteria, with that interested smirk on her face and willing us all to just get on with things. I still miss her. And she drives me to keep doing.

In the end, I've decided that to keep doing, I need to do some stupid shit, too. Like sing "Give me back my man" by Cindy Wilson of the B-52's sometime in the next year. And I don't just mean into my living room karaoke mic. This strikes fear and love in my heart because I'm a crap singer and because the B-52's saved me from rock of ages hair band hell when I was growing up in le ghetto.

So it will be.

And while I'm planning all this 40-year old nonsense, I managed to find a wicked paleo cookie recipe. Vegan if you want them to be, grain-free, sugar-free. My kids loved these. Make them and think of me.

Guilt-free cookies

1 banana
1 apple, cored & peeled
1/2 c almond butter
3 tbsp softened palm shortening (or butter)
1 tbsp vanilla
1.5 c almond flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 c of anything else you want (chocolate chips, raisins, nuts - we added dark chocolate chips)

• Puree banana and apple together in a food processor.
• Add puree, almond butter, shortening, and vanila to a bowl and beat until combined.
• In separate bowl, mix flour, baking soda and salt.
• Add dry ingredients to wet and mix until dough forms (my dough was quite wet, but it worked anyhow).
• Form into tablespoon-sized balls and place on greased/lined cookie sheet.
• Bake at 350 degrees for 8 to 12 minutes (mine took 15).
• Store airtight for a day or two, but then you'll need to pop them into your fridge or freezer to keep them fresh.