hello again

I'm back.

All is well here, I just used up all my writing mojo in November writing a novel (more on that experience in a future post).

Then I took a few days off to hang out with a wonderful friend and, well not write for a few days,

And while I was gone from the blog November 24th (the anniversary of my diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer) and December 2nd (the anniversary of the night I found the first lump) came and went. I noted both events in passing, took the time to breathe deeply and be grateful, and then got on with my day.

It's been four years since I found the lump. It's been three since the cancer spread to my liver. And it's been two and a half years since my first clean scan.

I had an appointment with my oncologist yesterday. I had nothing to tell him. He said, "Shall we keep dragging you in here every few months just to say 'hi'?"

I readily agreed.

I have chemo next week. They've been building a new treatment centre for what seems like years. I have often jokingly pointed in the direction of the new building and said, "They're building that for me."

Yesterday, I discovered that the new building is open and the chemo room has been moved. No more listening to the sounds of construction during treatment. No more listening to the intimate details of the constitutional issues of the patient beside me. There will be a little more light and a little more room and hopefully, a little less noise.

I'm kind of excited.

And yes, that is somewhat ironic. I have lived long enough to be excited about getting chemo in the new building.

off the top of my head and maybe out of my mind

Last spring, I shared a bit of tabloid inspired writing about a mother who is revolted by her own child that I'd done as homework for a class I was taking. A few days after I wrote that piece, we did an in class excercise, starting with the prompt, "It was a strange creature and it was looking right at me." How could I not be reminded of my bat boy? I wrote this by hand and in ten minutes but I think it's kind of fun.

I love the inspiration and motivation that comes from being part of a writing group. I miss it.

It was a strange creature and it was looking right at me. Someone had called to say they'd seen a strange looking man hanging out by Berit's Cave. No one thought much of it, until some smart young deputy mentioned the report that had crossed my desk the day before. The missing boy from up North. He'd stolen a car and not been heard from since. The thing was that the car was expensive but that was not what had folks all riled up. What really mattered was what had been inside the trunk of the car – a brief case full of cash. The had likely not known the bonus he was acquiring when he stole that car but he had stolen it and the folks in Maryland were very keen to get it back. And they'd said the boy was odd-looking, too.

Odd-looking. Funny-looking. Those expressions did not do justice to the creature that stood before me. At first glance, I thought I was seeing a monster. When rational thought returned, I saw that I was looking at a young man – a boy really – whose features looked disconcertingly like those of a bat. He had pointy ears, tiny eyes, a pushed in nose and his teeth – I saw them when he opened his mouth to yell at me – were small and sharp, as though the owner had filed them to a point. Not to put too fine a point on it, the kid was hideous.

I started to ask who he was and about the stolen car when he charged at me, head lowered like a battering ram. He wasn't very big but the attack and the accompanying ear splitting scream caught me by surprise. Before I could react, I had fallen ass over tea kettle and the boy was on the run. It took a second to regain my composure – was it only a second? Before I called for back up. I told 'em to send for the young deputy – I hoped his feet would be as fast as his mouth.

I didn't want to chase the boy. It wasn't really my bad leg – the excuse I gave to my sheriff. The fact was, the boy had really freaked me out. It wasn't just that he was ugly – although he was that – but it was the eyes that had scared me the most. There was no soul there. When I looked at him, all I saw was emptiness reflected back at me.

I wish I'd thought of sharing this on Hallowe'en. I wonder if there's more writing my bat boy can inspire.

when the doorbell rang (part 1)

It's 3:00 am and about half an hour ago, my doorbell rang.

At least I think it did, but my spouse thinks I was dreaming. I remember that I was dreaming but about eating pastries while being handed a wad of twenty dollar bills. Who interrupts a dream about eating pastries and getting free money by dreaming the door bell? Some kind of Freudian diet police?

My reaction to the doorbell ringing was swift. I woke up my husband.

And then I lay there all cozy and warm in our bed while he went downstairs to investigate. I even muttered (somewhat sheepishly), "Be careful."

It was like something from one of the sitcoms I watched when I was growing up. Except that by then it was the seventies and eighties and in the sitcoms the wives would tiptoe downstairs behind their husbands.

And the men would usually be clutching a baseball bat.

We don't keep a baseball bat by the bed. We don't even own a baseball bat. The only thing close at hand that would be the approximate size and weight one could swing at an evildoer would be the dog. Who, incidentally, wasn't barking. I suppose one could take that as further evidence that I was dreaming.

So T. went downstairs and checked the front and back doors. There was no one there.

I think that whoever it was ran away. T., as I said before, thinks I dreamed it.

Fortunately, my dear spouse fell back asleep almost immediately. He's snoring now, as I type this, wide awake. Some kind of karmic justice?

The thing is our doorbell did ring, at around this time, last Saturday night when I was out of town. It was also the night before Hallowe'en, which at least in the telling, makes it creepier. But that's a story for another blog post.

Maybe now that I've confessed, I'll be permitted to return to dreamland.

free to a good home

It's not the kind of thing I'd want to advertise on Craigslist or Kijiji.

I can't set it out on my front lawn and hope someone takes it away.

I doubt the Canadian Diabetes Association or the Ontario Federation for Cerebral Palsy would want it as part of their drive to collect use goods for re-sale.

But I have a perfectly good prosthesis, worn only a handful of times that I'm sure someone could use, even if it was wrong for me (and I have replaced it with another one I don't seem to be wearing much).

The government covers about two thirds of the cost of a new prosthesis. That balance must be prohibitive for many who don't have private insurance to take care of the rest.

How do I find someone who can use it though?

Maybe someone at Breast Cancer Action would know.

Of course, I could always use my prosthesis to make art, the way Jacqueline did.

I think my inclinations might be a little more violent, though.

Thoughts?

my new rack

Warning: This post may contain too much information for some readers.


I have not worn a prosthesis for more than two years. Lymphedema and then scarring from radiation made the experience of wearing it excruciating. The last time I tried to wear it, I was on a date with my spouse in Florida. After an hour, I was in tears, it hurt so much.

Out it came and I haven't looked back.

At least not much.

I find that I'm pretty comfortable without a prosthesis. Sometimes I dress to camouflage and others I just don't care. And most of the time, I don't think about it at all.

Lately, though, I've wanted the chance to blend in a little more, to not have to lead with my cancer when I meet people. And although I have some great tops that work with my asymmetrical body, (from Rhea Belle, of course) I do get tired of the limited options open to me (it's hard enough finding funky clothes in larger sizes).

So, while feeling slightly guilty about giving into societal notions of beauty (in hiding my asymmetry, am I implying that I think there is something wrong with it?), I set out to visit Kelly's Mastectomy Boutique.

The entire operation took all of ten minutes ("Oh look! Boobs!" I exclaimed as I tried on prosthesis and bra) and cost several hundreds of dollars (recuperable, thanks to the government and my insurance plan. I wonder though, why do we need a referral from a doctor? Does anyone get a prosthesis for fun? What would they do with it?). I brought it home, stuck it in my closet and didn't wear it for almost a week.

Yesterday, I decided it was time for the prosthetic equivalent of a test drive. I was meeting Sassymonkey for pints and knitting on a sunny patio. It seemed like a low stakes endeavour, in that if I arrived with my boobs pointing in different directions, Sassymonkey was likely to be unperturbed. It was also a good opportunity to put the boob through it's paces, as I would be biking, knitting, eating, sitting in the warm sun and engaging in a social encounter.

My new fake boob is squishier in back and is supposed to be lighter - better for both my uneven chest wall and lymphedema. I wore it under a t-shirt with a picture on it (much harder to wear with an uneven chest) and one that is slightly snugger than I have been wearing lately. I noticed immediately that my waist, gone for ages, seemed to reappear. I also noticed that my posture seemed to improve.

I ran into someone I knew on my way to the pub. She said, "You look different. Have you done something to your hair?"

And after Sassymonkey and I had been sitting for a while, I pointed out my newly symmetrical rack to her. "That's what's different!" she exclaimed.

"You'd tell me if I were unbalanced right?" She assure me that she would (I felt unbalanced, I'm so unused to having this weird mound on the right side of my chest).

All in all, I declare the outing a success. The thing felt odd but there was no pain. I even forgot I was wearing it for a while.

When Sassymonkey and I parted we hugged goodbye (I later repeated this experience with T. Hugging feels very odd, like we are squishing a big pillow between us) and she noted, "You're still balanced."

I said I was glad but that I was going to take it off when I got home. "It's like breaking in a pair of shoes, you know?"

She said that she did.

As I type this, the stand-in for my right boob is nestled in it's box in my closet. I am toying with taking it out for a spin again this evening.

And one last thing: there needs to be more support and encouragement of women who create clothing for the post-mastectomy body. Also, it would be great if the bigger clothing companies would come across, by supporting the work of women like Jacqueline and modifying their own designs. I can't be the only woman who has had a mastectomy, does not love prosthesis and cannot/would not choose surgical reconstruction.

look what we did!

Remember my secret happy project?


We did it! We yarn-bombed a corner of my neighbourhood. We were 10 knitters, 14 installers and one videographer. It was so much work but so much fun. I dare you to watch this short video without smiling:


   
(video: Mark Blevis)


There are lots more photos up at our web site, Frivolknitty.com. It was so much fun - we're already planning for the next time!


An observer pointed out that three of the knitters/installers involved in this project have lived with breast cancer. I don't think it's coincidence that we all wanted to share in a little frivolity.

has anybody seen my boob?

As anyone who has ever been to my house can attest, the place tends to be a total disaster pretty cluttered. We lose stuff all the time, only to find it months or even years later, after it's already been replaced.

But I have to admit that never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I'd find myself typing this sentence: 

I can't find my prosthetic breast.

We've actually been making some inroads in terms of beating back the clutter. But some rooms are getting worse before they get better. And our bedroom is complete tip.

Now admittedly, I don't wear my prosthesis all that often. But there are days when I want to fly below the radar. There are clothes that just look better when they're symmetrical. And I haven't seen my fake breast for weeks.

Could I have absent-mindedly stuck it in a drawer that I haven't checked?

Could it have become mixed up in the bags of clothing destined for donation?

Could it be under the mounds of clothes yet to be sorted?

Could I have left it somewhere?

It's a mystery.

If you find it, please let me know. 

Or just leave it in my mail box.



Update May 26: We found it! It was in a suitcase. In our bedroom. From a trip on which neither I nor the boob were in attendance. I think I took it off one night and too lazy tired to put it away, popped my bra with the boob still in it, in the open suitcase. Then, the suitcase was closed and left. Three weeks later, when my love finally unpacked - he found my prosthesis. Mystery solved.

funny, funny troll spam

Has anyone else noticed a new trend in blog spam? Usually spam comments tell me how brilliant I am, before linking to the stuff they sell. Then there are the ones about sex and related paraphernalia - often gibberish and including phrases like "home coffee maker porn shoes cologne gnocchi". 

Recently, I've had a couple that sound like trolls - accusing me of letting down my readership with laziness or self-pity. This appears to be a new spamming strategy.

My last post, "i don't have a brain tumour",was a photo of a bottle of Prosecco and a glass full of the bubbly stuff. There was not text, as I felt the title and the image were pretty self-explanatory. Before I delete all today's spam into oblivion, I thought I'd share this shining example of incongruous, inappropriate spamming:

"The very next time I read a blog, I hope that it won't fail me just as much as this particular one. After all, Yes, it was my choice to read through, nonetheless I truly believed you would probably have something interesting to talk about. All I hear is a bunch of crying about something that you could fix if you weren't too busy searching for attention. Feel free to surf to my web page: xxxx"

Ha! I'm sorry my celebration was so un-interesting, depressing and attention-seeking.Thanks especially for inviting me to check out your site, even though I'm so disappointing.

Do these links ever work?

I loathe spam but this totally cracked me up. 

fiction: tabloid inspired

A couple of weeks ago, the homework for my writing class was to take a headline from a tabloid and use it as a jumping off point for a more serious short story or poem. I was uninspired by the headlines in my grocery star tabloids ("Brad Gives Angie Ultimatum!" "Jennifer Lopez Fights Eating Disorder!" "Larry King Marries Again!") and decided to go to that old standby - the now sadly defunct Weekly World News. I stole a legendary headline from them. The monologue that follows is all my own.

"Bat Boy Found in West Virginia Cave!" by Bill Creighton, Weekly World News, June 23, 1992

I blame the doctor.

I wanted a baby so badly. The other doctors I'd seen wouldn't help me, so I sought this one out. The office was in a bad part of town and it was dark and smelled a bit funny but he didn't ask me many questions. He said he would help me get pregnant.

And he did. I don't know what the shots were for or what was in the medicine he gave me to drink but I didn't care. I would soon have my baby.

It wasn't a difficult pregnancy. I didn't get too sick. The last few months were hard when I had trouble sleeping but that was it, really. It would have been more fun if there had been someone – anyone - in my life to share in my excitement, throw me a baby shower or help me set up the nursery. But I didn't mind so much. Soon I would have a baby to love. I wouldn't need anyone else.

He was born right on his due date and, from the first, I could tell something was wrong. The first time I held him in my arms I felt not love but revulsion. This was not the child I was meant to have. He was not my baby.

In those first few months he cried a lot. I made sure that he was fed and his diapers were dry but for the most part, I left him in his crib. He was safe there and I did not have to look at him.

As he got older, I continued to cringe at his touch. When he tried to crawl in my lap, I would push him away. When he cried, I left him to it. No one could say that I did not take good care of him. He had food and clothes, I even bought him books and toys. But nothing could make me love him.

I don't feel too guilty about that because it soon became clear that he was a bad kid. The first time he got into trouble in school, I went in to meet with the his teacher. After that, I didn't bother answering her notes or phone calls. If he couldn't get along with the other kids there was really nothing I could do.

The first time he ran away, I called around to the neighbours. The second time, I left the door unlocked so he could come in when he decided to come home. The third time, I locked it.

The first time he was arrested, I went down to the police station right away. The second time, I let him spend the night in jail. The third time – I decided he was the state's problem not mine.

A short time after that, he stole a car from the school parking lot. I haven't heard from him since. This morning I got a call. He was found hiding in a cave in West Virginia. They want me to come to him. But what would be the point?

That child, that particular child, was a mistake. He should never have been born.

I am sad, though. I do feel a loss – not for that child but for the baby I might have had. The mother I might have been.

Maybe I should try again.

This time, I'll go to a different doctor.

buzzing brain

I had a brain MRI today. I'd never had one before and it's a pretty weird experience.

I'm not worried about anything in particular. I just thought it would be a good idea, after hearing an oncologist speak at the Conference For Young Women Affected By Breast Cancer that I attended last February.

It wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. It turns out that I am not at all claustrophobic (and I was so relieved that the technician managed to access a vein for the contrast injection on the first try that nothing after that fazed me at all).

But boy, was it loud. And my neck is still stiff from the brace they used to hold my head steady. It's been hours since I left the hospital and I feel like I am still vibrating. It felt like a jackhammer being used right beside my head. My teeth were chattering from the vibration.

And I am exhausted (although that my be from waking up every forty-five minutes again to make sure that I didn't oversleep).

I'm not going to worry too much about the results (although I may change my mind about that in the next few days).

My CT results from last week were good (still no tumours in sight).

And besides, there were several women at the young women's conference who had recently had surgery for brain metastasis. Every month seems to bring more options for the treatment of cancer.

And it's nice outside.

I am either going to take a nap now or go pick up dog poo in the back yard.

And then I'll go for a walk.

not really the end

Did you know that the world is going to end on May 21st, 2011? I saw a guy on a street corner today with a sign that said just that. And then I saw a big-ass caravan with the same message.

Contemplation of our impending collective doom helps to put yesterday's election into perspective. It doesn't matter if the Conservatives were gifted with a whopping majority if none of us is going to live long enough to deal with the consequences. There must be more of these end of the world types than I previously suspected. That would help me understand how it is that so many of us thought endorsing the Conservatives would be a good idea.

Or something. You'll have to forgive me, it's been a hell of a day. I stayed up way too late watching the election results and then stumbled around like a zombie all day. I'm delirious.

I even went across town to an appointment, only to discover that it's on Thursday.

It was a very odd feeling last night to watch the NDP take over 100 seats (the previous high having been 43) and not feel elated. Proud, yes but not elated. I just kept watching the Conservative and NDP numbers rise at the same time and feeling like my head was going to explode.

Those of us who oppose pettiness, meanness and bigotry and who support human rights and democracy (not to put too fine a point on things) have four years to get our act together. 

And I think we need to really start screeching about proportional representation.

Meanwhile, I really am thrilled that my party is going to be the Official Opposition. There is hope for the good guys (thanks, good guys, for working so hard to get yourselves and like-minded folk elected). I'm thankful to all the volunteers, staff and veteran politicians and candidates who worked so hard to make this happen.

And, even if I am slightly hysterical, I'm choosing to repeat the words of one of the surprised, young, brand new MPs from Quebec, "It's going to be all right."

really random news

1. According to an article in the Globe andMail, women and men respond very differently when they are on the recieving end of an apology:

“Women who are starved of an apology for rude or hurtful behaviour suffer an increase in blood pressure which can raise the risk of a heart attack or stroke, a study found,” The Daily Telegraph reports. “But those who hear a well-timed ‘sorry’ calm down more quickly, with their blood pressure returning to normal 20 per cent faster, the research showed. Conversely, a man’s blood pressure takes 20 per cent longer to recover after an apology – suggesting men become more worked up after hearing an admission of guilt.”

2. My sister sent me an article from the CBC web site this morning, about a colossal cookbook typo with the subject line "Oops." I've made some pretty big errors by not proofreading properly but this tops it all.

3. My friend, O. posted a story to Facebook today, with the headline "Woman with parrot perched on face arrested after throwing inhaler." Note to self: Don't throw an inhaler while a parrot is standing on your face. You will be arrested.

4. I'm still waiting for my CT scan results, which could be why I'm letting myself be distracted by all this silliness.

buckets of pink sh*t

If you've been reading this blog for a while, then you know how I feel about corporations selling pink crap in the name of "breast cancer." I even have a "don't buy pink crap" tag that use pretty regularly, especially in October.

There have been some pretty awful pink products sold over the years but in launching "Buckets for the Cure," KFC and Susan G. Komen for the Cure have sunk to what may be a new kind of low.

This stupefyingly bad idea was brought to my attention by Clergy Girl, in a post called "Buckets Of Saturated Fat For The Cure" over at Mothers With Cancer. She writes:

This was a sell-out Komen.  Did you ask anyone with breast cancer how they would feel seeing that big pink greasy bucket of chicken?  Was someone going to lose their job if you didn’t raise cash quick?  I really don’t get it?  Research also shows smoking and alcohol consumption are clear links to cancer, so why not team up with Marlboro or Bud Beer?  It’s not just about money, and quite frankly, don’t raise money on the backs of research that is clearly linking to cancer promotion.  Please!

Shame on Komen for lending it's name to this outrage.

questions

Have you ever blogged about the search for a bathing suit?

Are charcoal barbecues worse for our health and the environment than gas barbecues?

How do you organize your time and set priorities so that the most important things get done?

Did you watch Glee last night? Did you think that it wasn't as good as you remember?

How much do you need to spend on a bicycle if you plan to use it to boot around town, a few days a week from spring to late fall and you want it to last a really long time?

How do you take care of coloured hair when you swim regularly?

Also, I dreamed that my cat came back from the dead. Do you remember your dreams? What do you think this one meant?

now this could be fun

I've written before about the one major limitation of Herceptin - that it doesn't cross the brain-blood barrier. A couple of years ago (after meeting several young women with metastasis that had spread to the brain), I underwent a brain MRI. To my very great relief, there was no evidence of trouble but I think I'll will be requesting another before too long.

A few days ago, my friend Deanna posted a link to Breast Cancer? But Doctor...I Hate Pink and to Ann's take on the news that Viagra may help Herceptin to (ahem) penetrate the blood-brain barrier and thus help reduce the size of brain tumours.

 As Anne tells it:

"Herceptin, the wonder drug, has a flaw: it does not cross the blood-brain barrier. The blood-brain barrier was erected designed by nature to protect our brains from dangerous substances, such as bad viagra jokes, but what it means for cancer patients is that certain drugs can't get through to kill swollen bad cells. Herceptin cannot treat HER2+ breast cancer that has engorged spread invaded the brain. Apparently, if you add a big large generous dose of Viagra to Herceptin, it adds enough thrust power to break through that blood-brain barrier and bathe the brain in its heaving healing properties."

It's seriously interesting news but go read Ann's full post. It will make you laugh.
 
Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

random travel observations

I decided when I was on my walk around the hotel grounds this morning that the complaining I did earlier made me sound very spoiled. The truth is that this venue seems pretty ideal for a conference and I am extremely lucky to be here (and I mean that in so many ways). It would be great if it didn't cost $3.25US for a coffee but it is what it is. And I am assuming there will be free coffee once the conference starts in earnest.

Yesterday was a very long travel day. I miscalculated and finished my book way too early in the trip. As a result, my notebook is filled with random observations I made as I sought to fill the time:

I always feel nervous and guilty when I go through security, immigration or customs. I feel like I am going to be "caught." This is ridiculous since I never lie in these situations or smuggle.

There are signs up at US Immigration stating that all travellers will have their hands scanned and photos taken. I only saw this happen to one person. He was an older white guy so not sure if this was random or some new kind of profiling I've never heard about.

You wouldn't know that the North American economy is in crisis, judging by the number of people who are travelling. Both my flights were full, with long standby lists.

My flight out of Chicago was delayed because the plane was struck by lightning. Folks were very upset but I kind of felt that I would rather have a safe plane than one that left on time.

I have never had a sandwich in an airport that didn't taste like cardboard.

One woman seemed to think that the airport was a great place to find a boy friend. In the waiting area in Chicago, I overheard the following conversation:

40ish Blonde Woman (flirtatiously): "Watcha readin?"

Attractive 50 something man: Mumbled title.

Woman: "Is it a Christian book?"

Man: "I suppose it is."

Woman: "That's what I had heard about it."

Man: Silence.

Woman: "You seem really interested. You just keep writing things down."

Man: "Just noting some things."

Pause.

Woman: "Do you live in Dallas?"

Man: Silence.

Woman: Launches into detailed explanation of where she lives. Mortified I get up and leave.

Some time later, after we change gates, I see them again. She is calling out to him, "Don't go away! I'm a catch!"

A few minutes later, she has moved on to another man. From across the waiting room I can hear her talking about going to church.

So - was she prosletyzing or cruising? Or both?

When I am desperate enough, I will read anything. Apparently this includes the in-flight magazine (this month's issue features the NBA) and something called Skymall. I found myself coveting this and this and thinking this was kind of gross. And then I felt guilty that I don't have anything like this to protect my neighbours from my unsightly air conditioner (but what would protect them from all the unsightly dog poo in my yard?). I could go on and on. And the prose in the catalogue was fantastic.

I was too shy to talk to two women I saw at the Chicago end of my flight who I guessed were going to the conference. I redeemed myself by greeting them as we waited for our bags in Dallas. They told me that they have been coming to this conference for six years. They promised me that I was going to have a wonderful time. They also told me that they are expecting 1,000 participants this year. Wow.

The "Networking Opportunity" I mentioned in a previous post is happening now. Time to take a deep breath, gather up my leis and head on down.

suitcase stowaway

I am in Dallas (or somewhere on the edge of Dallas with only highway and hotels as far as the eye can see. The hotel claims to have seven acres of "park" with walking trails that I have yet to find or check out. Given that the restaurant with the "open air ambiance" is actually in a roped off area of an indoor courtyard and the spa and gym are in a separate building and charge a membership fee, I am prepared to be disappointed). This hotel is huge.

Please note the little friend that I found when I opened my suitcase. He's half of a pair of "sweater monsters" that were given to me by a dear friend. I think D. decided that I might be lonely on my trip. How thoughtful was that?

I am off to find coffee and breakfast. I've been up since 6.

i have a dent in the back of my head

Now that the swelling has gone down, I have come to realize that there is a sizeable dent in the back of my head. I'm not sure if it's visible but I can certainly feel it.like - a chunk of the back of my head was scooped out with a melon baller.

I find this both distressing and fascinating. I spend a lot of time feeling the dent and comparing the two sides. It's all I can do not to ask everyone, "Want to feel the back of my head?"

This is probably another good reason to grow my hair out. It's one thing to have a scar that goes from my nape to above my ear. The dented bit just adds to the impression that I might be related to Frankenstein's monster.

I feel pretty normal for someone who is missing a bit of her head. The missing piece can't have been to important. And seriously, if you know me in real life, it's totally OK to ask me about it. I'll even let you feel it.

look what we did!

Remember my secret happy project?


We did it! We yarn-bombed a corner of my neighbourhood. We were 10 knitters, 14 installers and one videographer. It was so much work but so much fun. I dare you to watch this short video without smiling:


   
(video: Mark Blevis)


There are lots more photos up at our web site, Frivolknitty.com. It was so much fun - we're already planning for the next time!


An observer pointed out that three of the knitters/installers involved in this project have lived with breast cancer. I don't think it's coincidence that we all wanted to share in a little frivolity.

salty

Whenever I have bloodwork done before chemo, the nurse will flush out my port with saline. I always get a salty taste in my mouth and in the back of my throat.

Lately, I have been getting that taste when I am out walking my dogs in the city. I have a lot of winters under my belt but this is the first time I have noticed this. I don't know whether there is more salt on the streets this year or if more of it is being churned up by the extra traffic (there certainly more, along with more pollution from exhaust since the bus trike started five weeks ago). It freaks me out a little.

A couple of week ends ago, I woke up to find out that the power was out in half the house. The living room had no power, the dining room was fine. Our bedroom had no power. The other upstairs rooms were OK. The furnace worked (thank goodness) but the hot water heater did not. The fridge was working fine but the microwave was not. The strangest part was that half the stove was working (three of the elements and the oven were working. The display panel and a fourth element were not) The breadmaker, which was plugged into the stove, was chugging away.

We dithered a bit about what to do until I insisted that we call an electrician (it was a Saturday morning). Three hundred dollars later, he told us that the problem was around a little box outside the house (I believe it's called a "crimp"). If the issue was on one side of the box, Hydro (the electric company) would have to fix it, if it was on the either side than it would be "very, very expensive."

So, after torturing ourselves with some worse-case scenarios, we called Hydro.

Then the power came back on.

Hydro came a couple of hours later and narrowed down the likely problem to some wires that had been corroded by salt (I should point out that we live on the corner of a very busy thoroughfare). They fixed the wires closest to the house but were called away before they could fix the ones by the box on the street (don't you all love my technical expertise in these matters?) they were called to a fire.

The power went off again a couple of hours later.

I called Hydro again but since we still had heat, we weren't at the top of their emergency list.

Hydro came back the next morning, by which time the power was on again.

The guys (the same ones as the day before) fixed the street end of the wires and we have not had a problem since.

And yes, T., we should have called Hydro in the first place.

It's made me wonder, though, about all the salt we must be breathing in (along with all the other pollutants from cars and other things). It can't be good for you.

I'd ask Mr. Internet but I'm too scared.

And it occurs to me that I didn't even think about pollution (let alone salt) when we bought the house more than 10 years ago.