oh oh...

"CT scan radiation may cause cancers"

but on the other hand

"Study: Coffee and tea may lower diabetes risk"

melancholy meme

These are questions from the Proust quiz in a recent issue of Vanity Fair magazine. I stole the idea from a friend (she did it on Facebook, so I won't identify her here) and I've been thinking of it ever since.

It was interesting to do. My answers reflect the fact that I have been in a somewhat melancholy mood of late. I tried to answer without censoring myself.

Feel free to answer the questions in the comments or to link to your on blog if you do it there.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Being somewhere beautiful, being with someone I love. Happiness can come out of nowhere. I am better trained to notice it now.

What is your greatest fear?
That I will die and my kids will forget me.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Lack of discipline and the fear that causes it.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Intolerance of difference.

On what occasion do you lie?
Sometimes to protect others' feelings. Occasionally to protect myself.

What is your greatest extravagance?
It used to be shoes. I do like nice glasses but that's only every couple of years. I'd have to say that now, it's eating out and yarn.

What is your current state of mind?
A little fragile, anxious and blue. Figuring out how to get past it.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Intelligence. The ability to laugh at himself. And if he's in love with me, that's pretty attractive, too. OK, so that's three. I did say that I lack discipline.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Intelligence, strength and a sense of humour.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Lately, it's "Oh, for pity's sake!" Trying to excise the potty mouth.

When and where were you happiest?
No particular moment in time. In PEI with T., in London with S., at the family cottage, in the arboretum with the dogs...

Who are your favorite writers?
Depends on my mood. John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Joseph Boyden, Sarah Waters...and lots of mystery novelists too.

Which talent would you most like to have?
I wish I could sing.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
I'd make us all appreciate what we have.

If you died and came back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
A well-loved dog with a stay at home alpha human and a family that loves me, walks me and feeds me well. In other words, I would come back as one of my dogs.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
Where to begin? Trying to be healthier in my attitude about this. But my weight (exacerbated by lymphedema) is getting me down lately. And it would be nice to have my breast back.

Where would you like to live?
Somewhere where there is no winter.

What is your most treasured possession?
If you agree with me that the dogs are family members and not possessions, then I guess that would be my raven ring.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Being 38 years old and learning that your liver is riddled with tumours and you don't have long to live. Needing morphine to control the pain for months. Having your heart ache on behalf of those who love you, especially your kids.
And life really is pretty good when you climb out of those depths.

What do you most value in your friends?
Loyalty, love and and humour.

What are your favorite names?
Sacha
Daniel
Katya

What is it that you most dislike?
People who think they have already learned all there is to know. And cancer. I don't like cancer either.

What is your greatest regret?
Not maintaining friendships with some people who were very important to me.

How would you like to die?
Painlessly and after having lived a long life.

What is your motto?
Be good.

i've never liked rollercoasters

Are you sitting comfortably? This is going to be a long one.

In late August, during a regular appointment with my medical oncologist, I was informed that my latest brain scan revealed a tiny spot on my cerebellum, exactly where mytumour was in 2012. I was going to write that I was blind-sided but I really wasn't. There had been lots of little signs over the course of the summer that my balance was compromised. At one point, while I was with my family in New York City, I had stood up and almost fallen over, catching myself against a wall. I'll never forget the very quick glance I exchanged with Tim, before carrying on with my day. A new tumour was something I didn't want to think about and I had fairly successfully succeeded.

“I'm never going to lie to you,” Dr. G. said during our regular phone appointment, before delivering the news. He also reassured me that the spot was tiny and the situation was “fixable.”

I told family via email, as well as close friends that I had a new tumour. We told our kids at dinner that night. I was outwardly calm but inside, I felt devastated. Although I had been reassured that this tumour could be easily disposed of, I felt like it was the begin of the end. If some stray cells had escaped treatment and metastasized so quickly, then others would surely follow. This new spot might be treatable but the next could easily – even likely – be some place treatment couldn't access. I'm so afraid of this possibility that I've never been able to put it into words (I have notes for a blog post entitled “my worst fear” that I've never been able to publish).

A week after this phone call, Tim and I went to the cancer centre for a brief appointment with my medical oncologist, followed by the radiation oncologist who'd treated mewith the Cyber Knife after conventional surgery (we refer to him as the Gallic Shrugger because of his eloquent non-responses when we were planning treatment in 2012). This time, Dr. GS dropped a bombshell: It was possible that the new spot was not a tumour but necrotic (dead) tissue caused by radiation. He told us that necrotic tissue can grow and tends to appear 3-18 months after treatment. He explained that even my wonky balance could be explained away by scar tissue building on my cerebellum.

We were stunned.

And giddy.

I might have had a glass of wine with lunch.

A week after that, we met with Dr. S., the neurosurgeon I liked and trusted so much in 2012. It was hisadvice that we eventually followed for treatment and he performed my nine hour brain surgery. We always wait for hours to see him but it's worth it. This time, he'd shown my scans to several other doctors. He said that while my case was “perplexing” (not something you want to hear from a medical professional), they were fairly confident that the spot would turn out to be necrotic tissue or easily removed by surgery. He suggested that we wait a few more weeks and do another, more precise scan that would also measure activity (which might identify a growing tumour, versus inactive, dead tissue).

Four weeks later, I had the brain MRI. A week after that, I received the good news: my surgeon was prepared to say that the new spot on my brain was very likely necrotic tissue. No treatment is necessary at this point, unless I start to feel unwell. We'll just make sure to monitor for any changes. I heard the good news from all three doctors in separate appointments. Each, endearingly, was practically jubilant.

Oddly, I was not. I was definitely relieved but it all felt anti-climactic. We didn't even celebrate. I felt embarrassed to have to go back and tell everyone that I didn't in fact have a tumour (I know this is ridiculous. This news was extremely well received). Surprisingly (or perhaps not), I mostly felt tired and angry that we'd been put through this trauma.

I'm mostly over that now (but not entirely) and I've trying to immerse myself in the things in my life over which I have some control. Until today, I have not felt able to share this story in this space. I haven't felt much like writing at all. I've finally just decided to spew it all onto the page because it feels somehow dishonest not to have blogged about it.

It's done now.

Time to exhale and move on to the next thing.

it's all official now

Dear Everyone,

I just got the call. I need to be at the hospital by 6:15 tomorrow morning. My surgery is at 8:00am until 3:00pm (gulp). I am my surgeon's only patient tomorrow (the person who called said this like it was unusual). I'm happy to know that I will have his full attention.

I am likely to be on Twitter until they take away my phone. Tim will update as he has info. You don't have to be on Twitter to read updates. You just need to click on the links below:

Laurie's Twitter feed.

Tim's Twitter feed.

I'll be in the hospital for a few days. Once I'm out of post-op and in a room, I'll have wifi access and Tim will bring me my phone and computer. 

If you're in Ottawa and thinking of coming to visit, let me know. Visiting hours are between 3:00 and 8:00pm but I'm only allowed two people at a time, so message me before coming.

Thanks so much for all your messages of support. Each time someone reaches out to let me know I'm in their thoughts, it lifts my spirits.

I am vacillating between a surreal sort of calm and waves of anxiety. I feel like I should be getting ready but I think, for so many reasons, that's hopeless.

I, however, am filled with hope. I am planning my life on the assumption that the tumour will be safely and completely removed with no complications. 

See you on the other side.

love,

Laurie

i don't understand

The Canadian Task Force on Preventative Health Care has released new guidelines for breast cancer screening. Among other things they have recommended that women under the age of 50 with an "average risk of breast cancer" not be referred for regular mammograms. Women over 50 would only get mammograms every 2-3 years (as opposed to every year). They also advise against regular breast exams and self-examination.

I don't understand.

On their web site, the Task Force gives no reasons for these guideline changes but I have heard several interviews on the radio and the main arguments seem to be that mammograms generate too many false positives, submitting many women to uneccessary biopsies and other intervention. 

There must be more to this. I have to be missing something. I have witnessed the trauma and fear that false postives inflict on the women and their families who live through it. However, I don't think it's as bad as the trauma of being diagnosed at Stage 4 because breast cancer was not caught at an earlier stage. And breast cancer in younger women, is often more aggressive.

Is there a part of this story that I'm missing? Task Force spokespeople insist that the new guidelines were not influenced by the desire to conserve resources. Really? Colour me skeptical.

The Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation released a statement yesterday in support of regular mammography and critical of the new Task Force guidelines:

“The fact is scientific evidence demonstrates that earlier detection and diagnosis can save lives among women 40-49 by at least 25%,” said Sandra Palmaro, CEO, Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation – Ontario Region.

Palmaro added that screening can help find cancers that are smaller and haven’t spread, which can allow for better treatment options and reduced disability and death from breast cancer. Breast cancer continues to be the most frequently diagnosed cancer among Canadian women.

 One of CBCF’s most significant concerns about the Task Force report is that it relied heavily on old data from “randomized controlled trials” (RCT’s) related to breast cancer screening and mammography, some of which are 25 – 40 years old and were based on equipment that is now outdated. There has been an enormous change in breast imaging since that time, including significant improvements to analog technology, and the continued adoption of digital mammography across Canada. Digital mammography has been shown to increase accuracy in younger women pre and perimenopausal women, and women with dense breasts, the group the Task Force recommends be excluded.

This sounds pretty convincing to me. Your thoughts?

learning to breathe

Last year, when I was diagnosed with a brain tumour and went through surgery, I was fine.

I mean, the surgery was brutal and recovery was excruciating but emotionally, I was mostly OK.

A year later, except for the back of my head (which is a little bit sensitive), I'm fine physically but the emotional part has become more of a challenge. In the last few months, it's become clear to me that I'm only going to work through it all with a little outside help.

So, I'm seeing a therapist. I know it's the right thing to do and I like and instinctively trust the woman I'm working with but it's not easy at all. 

We've talked about how all my life, I've been pretty good at getting along by stuffing a lot of my fear and anger into an emotional closet. This has, for the most part, been a remarkable coping mechanism. However, no door is completely effective at shutting out the bad stuff and, when it leaks out through the cracks, it manifests itself in ways that can take a very large toll on the body and spirit. At this point in my life, my emotional closet is so full of anger and fear that the door is in danger of bursting wide open. 

I'm afraid of losing control.

I'm embarrassed and ashamed that some of it is so ugly.

I'm scared of taking my darkest thoughts and holding them up to the light.

But I think it needs to happen.

I've also been thinking a lot about how I live most of my life in my head, to the point that I'm really quite disconnected from my own body. At my very first session with my new therapist, she pointed out that when I talk about my fear of another tumour or about certain things from my past, I hyperventilate. And I don't even notice.

She spent most of the second session interrupting me and telling me to take deep breaths, hold them and then exhale slowly. She asked me how I was feeling and I said "Impatient."

What I thought was "I'm paying all this money per hour, so I can sit here and breathe? I can do that at home."

Except that I don't. So she's given me homework. I have to spend two minutes a day, twice a day concentrating on my breathing (we started with four minutes but it felt like an eternity).

In.

Out.

Just taking in oxygen. It's so basic. Yet here I am, 46 years old and learning to breathe.

going with doors number 2 AND 3

I've been persuaded to have surgery, followed by targeted radiation. This will be my best shot at getting it all.

I really liked the surgeon we met yesterday. He was patient, clear, forthcoming and took lots of time to answer our questions. I've decided to trust him.

I was feeling pretty devastated yesterday. I was hoping hard that the route I wanted to go would also be the best route. Who wouldn't want the treatment that purports to have few side effects and doesn't involve having your head cut open?

But I went for a lovely walk with a friend and then slept for 11 hours last night. Today, I feel much more at peace with my decision.

Although I'm still a little freaked out.

One cool thing: The surgeon says that if you rate the difficulty level of what the kinds of surgery he does from 1-10, mine will be a 3.

Makes it sound pretty simple, for brain surgery.

crapshoot

Last week, Tim and I met with my new radiation oncologist. Dr. C is a walking talking Gallic stereotype, with a rumpled white coat and a turned up collar. He was full of sighs, snorts, "Boff!"s and very eloquent shrugs. Both Tim and I observed that the only thing missing was a Gauloise emerging from between his lips.

Not my radiation oncologist. This is the French actor Gerard Depardieu, to whom Dr. C. bears a remarkable ressemblance. (photo IMDB)

After asking how it was that my tumour had been found (he was surprised that I had asked for the MRI), Dr. C shocked us by putting three options on the table:

Whole brain radiation (which he noted is still the standard treatment for brain tumours in most of the country).

Surgery (which is possible because my tumour is on the surface of the cerebellum).

Cyber Knife radiation treatment (which is the only option we were expecting).

Dr. C offered no advice as to which we should choose. He told tell us that there are no clinical trials and no longitudinal studies to guide us because most patients with brain tumours don't live enough to be studied longitudinally. On the other hand, it's really unusual for a patient to have only one small tumour.

The size and singularity of my tumour are very positive things but they make it really hard to base my decision on anyone else's experience. For example, whole brain radiation (WBR) "treats the whole brain" (as Dr. C helpfully pointed out when I asked him the advantage to that treatment). The rates of overall recurrence are lower with WBR. However, the treatment also causes permanent alopecia and can cause permanent cognitive damage. It seems to me that it's a bit like taking a sledgehammer to hit a single nail - you end up needlessly damaging the plaster.

I've decided that WBR is off the table for now (keeping it as an option to treat future tumours).

With surgery it might be possible to clearly cut out the tumour. However, it's still surgery with all it's risks, pain and side effects. 

Cyber Knife has very few side effects (in the words of Dr. C "almost nil."). There is a risk of necrotic (dead) tissue needing to be removed surgically in a few months' time.

Dr. C wasn't condescending or impatient just painfully honest. I am once again navigating the land of the cancer unknown. Perhaps the surgeon to whom I'm being referred will have some insight.

To recap:

WBR is the standard treatment and may prevent future recurrences. However, I have no indication that there is another tumour developing soon and WBR comes with some nasty, permanent side effects.

Surgical techniques are being refined all the time. A surgeon may be able to more clearly extricate the tumour. However, I do not relish having my skull cut open and the subsequent pain and recovery time.

Cyber Knife is reported to be as effective as surgery, painless and with few side effects. On the other hand, some of those reporting this are the owners of the company. I don't relish the possibility of necrotic tissue but I do love the idea of walking away after a 40 minute session.

I kind of wish I had a three sided coin. Or a crystal ball. And then there is this guy in Italy with a brain tumour who hacked his medical records, posted them online and got advice from all over the world.

I wish I knew how to do that.

Meanwhile, I have a CT scan and Cyber Knife mask fitting on November 9th, an MRI on November 11th, a consultation with a surgeon on November 13th. I have a Cyber Knife appointment booked for November 23rd, in case that's the route I choose to travel. All these dates have been booked in the last couple of days. I still don't know what I'm going to do but it feels good to be moving forward.

first one, then the other

My older son went back to school this morning. I did a little happy dance in the hall after he left. It's not that I mind having him around but the kid has to go back out into the world some time, you know?

And then of course, my six year old woke up with a sore throat. He really doesn't seem too sick to me (he had the first part of the H1N1 shot last week) but these days, I prefer to err on the side of caution (we are relieved that there is no coughing, as D. has asthma and things can get scary pretty quickly).

We've been hanging out in our pajamas on the couch. I don't know if this will help me reach my deadlines (or my NaNoWriMo goal) but it's pretty sweet.

outside the zone

In the nearly six years since my initial breast cancer diagnosis, I have become increasingly introverted. As a child, I was pretty outgoing. However, later in my teens and throughout adulthood I have developed a form of social anxiety that makes it easier to address a crowd of hundreds than to speak to a handful of new people at a social gathering.

I come by it honestly - anxiety disorders run in my family - but the structure of my day to day life hasn't helped. When I was going to an office every day, I had to interact with co-workers and new people every day - and (mostly) I enjoyed it.

I've always liked spending time on my own but these years of introspection have made it seem like more of a hurdle to confront social anxiety. I have a busy social life but I choose to spend time mostly with trusted friends, going places that are familiar to me.

I don't think there's too much wrong with that but I have seen how fears can make one's world smaller and deprive us of experiences that we might enjoy or, at the very least, that can teach or inspire us. I talk to my kids a lot about how everyone needs to strike a balance between doing things we know that we love and undertaking new challenges - about how confronting our fears is often the only way to make sure that our fears do not come to control our lives.

This year, I've been very inspired by my friend Andrea, who has taken it upon herself to do many things that take her outside her personal comfort zone. While she's danced and travelled and taken on public speaking, I've attended a conference, taken a job as an Elections Ontario officer for a day and now - my family is heading on an entirely new adventure.

This morning, we are pointing the car towards Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, on our way to take part in a week-long family vacation hosted by Little Pink Houses of Hope. We will be joined by 13 other families and every mother in the group will have been treated for breast cancer. The only mandatory group activities will be dinner on the first night and the last. In between, we will be in our own beach house and all group meals and activities (in the past, these have ranged from jewelry making to hang-gliding) during the week are optional. I'm very grateful for the opportunity and the generosity of the organizers but I'm also freaked right out.

It's going to be an experience. And, as Susan (aka the Bubbster) pointed out to me in an email, "The trip sounds wonderful and you'll all 'dine out' on the vacation for years to come. They'll be happy and funny stories, I know." 

In other words, great blog fodder. And most definitely, an interesting experience.

wishing for a dreamless sleep

I'm about to hit the hay. I've been plagued by wild dreams of late and I'm hoping tonight's sleep will be deep and dreamless.

No discovering that I've not graduated from high school.

No returning to live with my parents while I complete school.

No wandering the halls unsure where I'm supposed to go and unable to find the office or a time-table.

No discovering I'm way, way hopelessly behind.

No finding myself responsible for other people's babies.

No getting my stomach pumped.

No crawling into bed, only to discover that I've let myself into a stranger's home and I'm under the covers of their guest bed in their living room.

No mowing the same stranger's giant lawn under a blinding hot sun.

No dead dogs on the lawn.

No horrible hair cuts.

Just sweet, dreamless sleep. 

Wish me luck.

sometimes you confront it

photo: Andrea Ross

A few years ago I wrote a list that I turned into a blog post called "whiskers on kittens." This is the opposite of that post, because sometimes you need to deal with fear head on:

Dying.

Getting old. (I'm aware of the irony of this.)

Heights.

Being a terrible writer and not realizing it. (I had a dream last night that a former boss morphed into my father and he/they said, "You don't write. You just throw words on paper.")

Dementia.

Being irrelevant.

Going blind.

Fears too big to name. (They involve loved ones and I'm just not going there.)

Being at a cocktail party with nothing to say.

Being forgotten.

Birds.

photo: Mark Blevis

leaning in

A friend on Facebook shared a post by Alexandra Samuel about the practice of "leaning in" in the context of dealing with one of her kids' ongoing troubles with school:

Instead of the emergency visits that might come at any time, we decided to schedule daily visits to school, so both we and our kids would know when one or the other parent was going to appear. We told the teacher to count on our regular arrival time, and to set aside work we could do to be helpful while we were in the classroom. We opened our calendars, and made a schedule of who would cover which days. We stopped resisting, and decided to lean in.


“Leaning in” is the practice of accepting what you have tried to avoid, resist, or struggle against. As Tara Brach puts it in Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha,

As we lean in, we are inviting, moving toward what we habitually resist. Leaning in allows us to touch directly the quivering, the shakiness, the gripping tightness that is fear. Whether it is a familiar but vague feeling of anxiety or a strong surge of fear, leaning in can help us become aware and free in the midst of our experience.

This post has stayed with me. And in the last few days, I've re-read it many times. I have a few issues in my life that I have been avoiding and the anxiety is mounting, subtly but gradually. Perhaps it is time to lean in.

growing up

Daniel, who is eight years old, has been badgering us to let him walk the three blocks to school by himself. I'm not ready.

I've known for a while that this time was coming. Last year at this time, he was still holding my hand. Now he likes to walk a few steps ahead. I have to give him his hug goodbye before we are within sight of the school. When he walks into the yard, he doesn't look back.

A few weeks ago, I sent Daniel to the corner store down the block by himself for the first time. He came back clutching the chocolate chips he'd been sent for so tightly that half the bag had melted. And he was so, so proud.

Yesterday afternoon, Daniel asked Tim to ride ahead on his bike so that he could walk by himself. "Let me show you what I can do," he said. So Tim let him walk, circling the block a few times to check up on him and I waited anxiously at home for the knock on our door. Again, when he arrived home, my boy was so, so proud.

I remember the gut-wrenching anxiety I experienced when his brother was this same age and demanding to be allowed to walk on his own. In the years since, we have gradually given him more freedom and he's impressed us with his sense of responsibility - even in some very challenging situations.

It ought to be easier the second time around - and it some ways it is. I feel more relaxed as a parent since Sacha has acquitted himself so well. But I still worry every time one of my boys is out of my sight for too long.

Mostly, I don't like having to let them go. The days of thirteen year old Sacha sitting in my lap to watch a movie are behind us. Every hug from him is precious because they are doled out so sparingly. And Daniel is my baby. There are no little ones coming up behind him to help mitigate my sense of loss.

I know that kids must grow up and away from their parents. A big part of this whole exercise of parenting is about teaching them to be happy, independent people. I just wish it weren't happening so quickly.

And I still want to walk down the street, holding my baby's hand.

omg

time is still relative

November 1st.

That's when I'll meet the radiation oncologist, ask some more questions, get more information and most i mportantly - MAKE A PLAN.

This morning, I spoke to Rejeanne, the nurse who works with my medical oncologist. I must have gasped when she told me the date of my appointment because she said (and kindly),  "If Dr. Gertler thought the appointment needed to happen sooner, he would have said something."

And so I wait. November 1st is only a little over 2 weeks away. 

It feels like an eternity.

please be aware

Today is Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day.

Six years ago, I thought I had a pretty good vocabulary but I didn't know the meaning of "metastatic" until I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

According to the American Cancer Society, only 15 per cent of women with mets will still be alive 5 years after their diagnosis. I'm one of the lucky ones ( stats are bogus anyway).

I think one of the reasons I get so angry at campaigns aimed at "saving [insert infantile name for 'breasts' here]" is that, for those of us with metastatic breast cancer, the breast was only the beginning. Our cancer has spread to our bones, brains, liver, lungs or skin. We are "the bad girls of breast cancer."

And we want you to know about us.

We are:

Catriona

Rachel

Katie

Jeanne

Deanna

Judy

Susan

Katherine

Eileen

Delaney

Kristina

Dirty Pink Underbelly

Susannah

And we remember:

Sarah

Emily

Rebecca

RivkA

Sue

Andrea

Kate

Chris

Daria

Lisa

Jill

Renee

don't freak out

Have you heard the supposed ancient Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times?"

Things just got a little more interesting around here.

The routine MRI I had on October 5 revealed a 20mm lesion in my cerebellum. 

Photo: mybrainfacts.com

My oncologist and another from whom I got an unofficial second opinion are very optimistic that this thing can be easily zapped with stereotatic radiosurgery (also called Cyber or Gamma knife surgery), which isn't surgery at all but a very precise form of radiation. Treatments are few (between 1 and 5 sessions) and cause very few side effects. 

It's a really weird feeling knowing I have a cancerous mass in my brain. It does explain all the falling down (the cerebellum controls balance). I've always been clumsy but the last few months have been ridiculous.

I'm having a harder time dealing with the fact that the cancer has returned. I've been in remission, or NED, for five years. It's become easy to entertain the fantasy that the cancer was gone for good. My oncologist has even mused about that possibility.

This relatively little (I'm assured it's small by medical standards) tumour is a sobering wake-up call. I have Stage 4 breast cancer. That is always going to be true.

Still, I continue to be lucky. Herceptin came onto the market in time to save my life. Ottawa is only one of three Canadian cities to have Cyber knife technology and that is only as of this summer. Time is once again on my side.

So please join me in not freaking out (or in only freaking out a little bit). Life around here continues as normal (or at least our version of it). The day after finding out about the tumour I joined Weight Watchers. How mundanely optimistic is that?

I'll know more once I meet with the radiation oncologist. Meanwhile, I really want this t-shirt:

I'd order it, except that  Ihopefully would only get to wear it a couple of times before I'd have to change "have" to "had." I don't want to waste my money.

nothing ventured...

I have decided that I won't be doing NaBloPoMo this year.

My heart just isn't in it. This is in part because two of my NaBlo compadres have died. It just won't be the same without Sara and Emily. I miss their voices so much and I just don't feel like blogging every day without them at my virtual side.

But November can be a hard month for me and I still need something to distract and consume me.

I also need motivation to return to the scary (for me) world of fiction writing. I got so much done during my online writing course last year but have done nothing since submitting my outline for a novel, as my final assignment on December 31.

A few weeks ago Rachael suggested to Zoom that she try NaNoWriMo. And that got me thinking. If structure is what I need and my inner critic is my worst enemy then what better solution than to crank out 50,000 words in 30 days?

They don't even have to be good words (what matters with Nano is quantity over quality).
And before I know it, November will be over and I will have a whole bunch of words on paper.

Sounds like fun, right? Right?

S. is joining me, as part of the NaNo Young Writers' Program. I'm very pleased.

ambiguous ambivalent

I had abdominal and thoracic CT scans a couple of weeks ago. For the first time since July 2007, I was not simply told that all is clear.

But I wasn't given bad news either.

I was told over the phone that some of my lymph nodes look "suspicious" but as my oncologist conveyed via his nurse, "that could be anything."

I was just recovering from a bad cold when I was tested, so that could have inflamed by lymph nodes. The only thing to do right now is wait, go in to see my oncologist on October 10th and then - I don't know. Do another scan and see if there is any change?

I've been told not to worry, so I'm working on that and on patience.

Meanwhile, I have a brain MRI scheduled for next week. This is purely routine, as herceptin does not cross the brain blood barrier. I have been fretting about it because I did not enjoy my last one - it's so unbelievably LOUD! I'm bringing company, extra ear plugs and lorazepam.

I'll have the results for that on October 10th as well.

So I'll be sitting tight, keeping busy and focusing on the things over which I have some control.

Anyone want to sit and knit somewhere or come help me organize my house?

"Worry has an anxious and unfocused quality. It skitters subject to subject, fixating first on one thing, then on another. Like a noisy vaccuum cleaner, it's chief function is to distract us from what we are already afraid of." - Julia Cameron, Walking in this World.