Sunk

The sea was angry today. I came down to find the beach missing. There was nothing but waves and anger.

Though, what may have seemed like anger actually felt more to me like pure unbridled energy. The wind thrashed and begged me to the water's edge. I found this boat, capsized and filling with water. Someone had obviously found it hitting the shore and tethered it so it wouldn't be lost. Despite it being a boat and all, I couldn't help but feel a kind of synthesis with it, as if it were playing out my story.

I often wonder if I am sinking or afloat? My energy is often so low that I stay in bed feeling ill. I no longer see the same person in me. I constantly refer to "before" and what I "used" to be able to do. Sometimes I feel like a middle aged man who can't stop talking about his football days. I suppose it hasn't been that long, only a year and a half. Sometimes I feel angry.

I watched the boat and thought about the people who I've known during this time, who have been lost. I hear so much about "attitude" and how it can make such a difference. I've always felt very confident that this would all be a bump in the road for me. I've dealt with worse. Well this is one hell of a bump. Were those people who didn't make it unsure? Hell yes. Is that why they sank? I doubt it. Cancer is something which you have no control over. You become a "yes man" to the Dr.s and pray.


Cancer treatment is pretty harsh and unnatural. Some people wonder if it's worth it? Some people will do anything to stay. I watched the boat break apart under the crushing waves which came one by one, unrelenting. The poor battered boat probably didn't look so old and abandoned yesterday.


As I walked down the beach to head home I couldn't help but think how tomorrow the wind would be tamer.

That boat could be hauled in and have the water bailed out.

WTF?

Did I just see that? I thought my eyes were decieving me, but yes, I in fact just saw Breast Cancer M&M"s.

Corporate marketing land has totally and completely hijacked pink in the name of "The Cure". If you step out of your house you will see pink housewares, clothing, hats, jewellry, furniture and now even food. Starbucks sells pink mugs, etc. etc. etc. Are we all just spending idiots? Does anyone ask where this money is going? Does anyone ask how much %10 of that packet of M&M's is going to lead to HELPING someone with breast cancer?

"Show your support with these recipes" involving M&M's. "Email your friends and get them to pledge buying one pkg of Breast Cancer M&M's." I feel physically ill.

Maybe we, as responsible consumers could take a moment and think. Perhaps, just perhaps, this is the most brilliant marketing scheme ever? It hits people low where it hurts and gives them a sense of having done something for humanity. Do your M&M's do that?

I want people to notice that this is our problem and we are leaving it up to the corporate culture to take care of us. We have the assumption (a great word which starts with ass) that these noble efforts by the corporate structure is, in fact helping real people. No “cure” for cancer will ever arise while we are running our asses off, earning money for a billion $$$ industry. That's right, I said industry. No one gives a shit to help us with our expenses, our mental health and our repercussions from treatment. We are dealing with these consequences on our own while the rich keep getting richer.

Breast cancer is all the rage, it even has it's own month. Everyone knows about that. Buy a ribbon. There is enough pink garbage for sale in stores creating “awareness”. Yeah, we’re aware. What now? What about everyone else struggling? When are you handing over our cure?

How about we take a step back from our power purchasing craze and ask some questions. "Where did that $5 I just donated go?" Will it pay for someones medications, treament, or transportation costs. Will it help them buy a hat or a wig or pay their rent? My first hand experience is "No". Going through cancer treatment is isloating, cold and scarey. People have lost everything over this.

I made it through because my friends started an account and began holding fundraisers for me. Thank God for them. There are real ways to help people directly. I could give you horror stories of my firsthand experiences of people I met, trying to get by through this, but I won't.

We need to realize that we need to stick together to make a difference for ourselves. No one is going to do it for us.

And you can fuck me if I buy anything pink.

Healing Places

I walked a lot today so I am worn out. I'm really trying to build up my muscle strength again. I want to be able to make it up my front steps easily. I feel like a moron every time I have to haul myself up them when I feel like all my neighbors are watching.

Maybe I'm just a paranoid narcissist? Or maybe I'm just frustrated?

Anyway, I took photos of what I call my healing place. I actually have several of them and go there once or twice a day. There is also a spot which my friend calls her "Wisdom Tree" which she visits every day. I find the concept fascinating.

My best place to be is on the beach with my feet in the sand. Now that it is getting cold I wonder how long I can keep it up? I was indoors all last summer and missed it completely. It's hard to never feel the sunshine or the breeze on you, the smell of the beach, the grass, anything and everything (other than medical supplies). I love it.

This is a nook where I sit on the rocks. I never see anyone here, except the otter.


I walk by this field every day on the way to feel the sand in my toes.


I walk down this beach every day but a friend of mine does it to visit her Wisdom Tree.


She lays her hands on the trunk and thinks about...? I think she feels it age and how Emily Carr probably sat beneath it, painting her oils on paper? Oh, sorry, that's what I would think she was wondering about.




When I am walking I think about being able to swim again, to be able to run, play soccer with my kids.... to be able to get up those damn steps without making an idiot of myself.

Track Pants

Many moons ago I vowed never to wear track pants outside of the house unless, of course, I was in fact running or working out. The year leading up to being diagnosed I was a hard core workaholic artist. Everything I owned was covered in paint. When I was wisked off to the Vancouver hospital I had nothing but a coat, pjs and studio shoes, all covered in paint.

When I was released from the hospital I had to wear guys hospital shorts. My body size and shape had changed so I bought two pairs of $15 track pants. Long story-short, I still have them and that's all I have to wear! Save me from the God forsaken track pants!

Considering I'm not able to work yet, my dream isn't likely to come true...but I can dream.

On the Edge

I have had a headache all day and feel pissed off. I'm having an apple martini and a WAY too expensive, premade, white bread sandwich from the grocery store. I'm sure that doesn't mix with my meds. Fuck it.

Death by Blackberries

That's right. I just about bit the big one in a blackberry bush. I wanted to walk somewhere but I have a hard time walking any distance. I decided to take the shortcut through the back of our yard which is forest and has a trail. I put on a dress (to look nice of course) and headed out.

My body is slow now as my muscles haven't rebuilt after all the hospital bed time. I'm like those old ladies you see crossing the road where they shouldn't be, with their walker and at the pace of a post office line up. As I headed down the trail things began to close in on me. Next thing I know I'm surrounded by the jagged claws of the blackberry bushes. I somehow never considered they may have grown over this time of year.

I was really stuck! Do I go forward or go back?

So this is how it's going to end! I never would have guessed. After contemplating how many weeks it would take for people to find my body I kept forward. I made it through that and then a field of stinging nettles. My legs looked like I had been attacked by a marauding gang of ferrets.

Whew! I'm glad that's off my chest. It's so hard to talk about death.

Good Old Fashioned Head Shav'n

I'm SO excited! I just recieved some photos which I thought were missing. They are the photos of my head being shaved. Generally women are very attached to their hair and feel like hey are not feminine without it. I never really felt that way. I was just so ill that it seemed like a step on the road to getting better. A little like a badge that says "Look at me. I can kick anything!"

I was a little scared and more than a bit giddy. My world was upside down. The experience turned out to be fun. I felt I was taking control of my situation. Maybe it was the drugs talking but I was ready to let it go.







The best part was when my nurse called me mini me! Bald is sexy baby!

Owning the Ugly

This blog post is a confession.



I am ashamed of how I look. Through all of this shit I've been through I am SO bothered about how I look. The medications I'm on make my face round like a beach ball, distorts my body and makes me puffy all around. I don't mind chubby, I can deal with that. I'm not chubby, this is so much more than that. I don't see myself in the mirror anymore.

Losing my hair was like a challenge. I walked down the street with my head held high despite peoples reactions. I didn't wear a wig unless it was a wild unatural colour. I wasn't going to hide who I was, or what I was going through. That was before my bone marrow transplant. A couple of weeks after my transplant I was given high dose steroids to calm the graft vs host in my body. My face instantly changed and morphed into someone I didn't recognize.

I became so puffy that I couldn't roll myself over in bed and I felt like a sausage. That was last year. One year later I'm on a low dose, but it's enough that I don't look right. My curly hair doesn't help. Curly hair is so cute but it's like a foreign object on my head. Who is this person?


Sketch of me. Sept. 2006

I know this is temporary. I know I am not permanently disfigured, but I am ashamed to even leave my house. When I walk down the street I look down and never look someone in the eye. I am ashamed that I am ashamed.

All Artists Smoke Pot

Turns out I'm a pot smoker and didn't know it. Why you ask? Well didn't you read the title? I'm an ARTIST. I know about the stereotypes of artists being flighty and hippie like. Both things which I am truly not. In fact the other day I was speaking to a PHD student who told me you CAN'T be creative AND a level/headed, business type.

Hmmmm. Funny considering I'm applying to take my Masters in Business Admin. I've studied business for years, as well as art.

My funniest experience with this is when I was in hospital for my transplant. I was reacting badly to most of the medications I was given. They tried several different meds for my constant nausea but nothing worked so they wanted to give me nabilone. Nabilone is a diravitive of marijuana. I began asking all the questions of what sort of side effects will this have ? (I'd learned now to ask about each and everything they would give me. Some of my reactions to the meds were bad)

One of my best nurses said, " Well you're an artist. You've smoked pot!"

Uh. Actually, I've never tried it.

"What do you mean you've never tried it? You're an artist, you smoke pot!"

Wow did we have a huge laugh in that room that day. There were a couple of other nurses and a friend of mine who vouched for me that I was indeed telling the truth.

Nothing like laughing with the ridiculousness of it all. Through nausea and hell you can still laugh.

I never did get to experience pot. They gave it to me twice but I threw it up both times. I guess I'll have to leave the rainbows and munchies for another time.

Off to the Oncologist

Unfortunately, where I live, they do not treat Leukemia. Therefore, I spent six months full time and three more months half time travelling back and forth for treatment. A year and a half later from when it all started I now go back about once a month for an assessment. They do my bloodwork every two weeks. Fun stuff. Yesterday I spent the day in Vancouver.


I try to make the most of my traveling day so it's not all about Dr.s appoinments. I chose to play with my camera as the day was moody. This is a shot off the ferry of a ferry.


This is the Granville Island Market, candy shop. MMmmm...candy!


This is the hospital that I lived in for 9 weeks without being able to go outside. I was at the top on the 15th floor. I almost break out into a sweat just looking at this building now.


I was brave and visited the 15th floor this time. I was able to visit and photograph my tile that I made "in house". Notice the angry spider amidst the lovey quotes and happy tiles. I ended up painting the green apple just to be a conformist.


Here I am at the unit. I didn't leave these doors for months. I was almost afraid if I went back, they wouldn't let me out again. Fear is a strange thing.

I no longer feel the same or look the same. I, in fact, am not the same, right down to my DNA. One thing I am, though, is alive.


I know I will find myself again. I have to.


Everything always looks sweeter on the way home.

What's wrong with your face?

"What's wrong with your face?" So, this a real comment made to me the other day. The medications I'm on make me puffy and give my face an oddly round look.



This is a person who knows me, what I've been through etc. I suppose with my pufferfish look and lack of sleep (also due to meds) my eyes may have been black, turning my head into some balloon style freak show.

I love posting pictures from before my transplant but I won't even take any of myself now. Damned vanity.

So here is a picture from 2 yrs ago!



Now I feel better.

Blog Tag

I've been been tagged in a rip roaring game of Blog Tag. Now I have to list 6 unusual things about myself. Hmmmm. Where shall I start?

1. A friend of mine and I have dubbed ourselves "Pinky and the Brain" as we plot to take over the world.



2. I graduated from university with blue hair.




3. I have two birthdays a year. When you get a bone marrow transplant, that day is considered your other birthday. I've had my 1st birthday now and soon I'll get to turn 35!



4. My kids. This particular moment is known as "Beaver Attack". You've got to be careful up here in Canada.



5. I'm a CSI episode waiting to happen. After my transplant, I no longer produce my own blood, I have my brothers. I could go on a killing spree and they would trace my DNA back to my brother! It's a nice little back up plan...you know. Just in case.



6. I'm So clueless on how to post links etc. on this blog or or on how to post comments on others. I'll have to go figure it out so I can tag other blogs! Ok. I'm a bit of an internet nitwit.



I'll figure it out and update this post.

My Vagina is on Steroids.

Sorry, no pictures for this one!

So, it's been a year since my bone marrow transplant. This means that I no longer have my own blood or immune system. I have my brother's. (too weird). I am in remission and things are going well. This does not mean I'm back to normal, unfortunately. I have to take stacks of pills to keep the marrow rejection from consuming my body. I have multiple health problems due to this, but one is more sensitive than the rest.

My vagina is having "issues".

So my vagina is having "issues" and was prescribed a topical steroid cream. Let's think about this concept?

Does this mean I can have a swinging sex life with my vagina having the power of 3? Will there be mood swings, unbridled energy, endurance tests or withdrawl? I imagine those little barbells I've heard about, helping create a Super Vagina. A Super Vagina! On me!

The good things never end around here. Unfortunately my Super Vagina is tired and taking it easy right now. It's not really interested in any extracurricular activities.

I'm pretty sure when it is interested again I will be sending out party invites.

Okay...maybe to only one person.

I'm "Special"

So when I was put in the hospital I was asked if I had any allergies. "Yes!" I'm allergic to Benadryl. I needed the Benadryl to keep me from reacting to the chemo they had begun. I begged them not to give it to me as it makes me COMPLETELY loopy.

Guess what? They didn't really believe me and gave it to me anyway. I don't remember much from that time period but apparently my nurse asked my friend if I was "special". "Special"!?!

At least she could have had the decency to be PC and say, "mentally challenged".

Not my best day!

BFA Payoff

I remember the big day. I was in hospital for a couple of weeks. I had been yanked out of the final weeks of my honours program in the visual arts to be treated for leukemia. I had been isolated to my room and was frustrated as I had been in the middle of reasearching Miro and painting every day. I wasn't used to being confined to a bed with nothing but a TV.

As luck would have it, the occupational therapist came by with the "Art Cart". So I didn't have to suffer creatively after all! I was confronted with ceramic tiles and glazes in squeeze bottles with names such as "Froggy Green". What luck! And the luck kept coming. It was nearly Easter and I was given a colouring sheet with the Easter bunny in a basket with Easter eggs. I grumbled but as the eternal optomist decided to give it a try.

I used the sterilized hospital pencil crayons and tried to keep within the lines. Apparently many patients and nurses were entering this contest and the competition was fierce. The submissions were being placed on a wall somewhere. I couldn't see them as I wasn't allowed to leave my room so I didn't know what my chances were.

Over the next few days several nurses came in and sighed about how "good" my pictures were. Just after that the OT came in with a giant prize basket! I had won! Apparently I had easily beat all the patients on the 15th floor. My thirty thousand $$ art degree was paying off already! Who says a BFA is a Bachelor of Fuck All.