Nectar of the Gods

A couple of summers ago, we visited Vancouver.  On the last day of the trip, we met up with an old friend of mine from university.  We all went for a bike ride along the seawall.  He is the type of person that will have a long and meaningful conversation with a small child, even one that he has just met.  He asked my daughter what her name "Amrita" meant.  I don't know what type of response he was expecting from my shy 6-year old. But she responded, seriously and with a certain authority, "Nectar of the Gods."  because that is what her grandfather, her dadu, had told her.  He was impressed with the meaning and the way she had said it and he wrote to her a few days later, addressing her as "Nectar of the Gods."

We could not have chosen a more perfect name for our daughter.  Because that is what Amrita is. If the Gods have a favourite drink, I believe it would taste like Amrita. I believe it would be sweet like guava - not overly sweet - infused with the fragrance of spring lilac  and mint, and the sound of birdsong with the fragility and beauty of a butterfly. Because that is what Amrita is like. To be sure, she is no angel.  She is sprinkled with mischief and is frustratingly slow at every task and drives me crazy by not liking any fruit except apples. Quiet and shy at school, at home she is our family clown, keeping us all in stitches, especially her older brother. (Older brother is pretty awesome too - kind and generous - he will get his own post another time.)

I had the chance to drink in my nectar of the Gods yesterday as I accompanied Amrita's class on a school trip. The long bus ride gave me the chance to observe just how sweet she is and how she interacts with her classmates and teachers. She is sweet and good and is a good friend to everyone. Everyone loves her.  At the same time, she is never part of any "in" group.  On the bus, the children could sit in groups of three, but she was always the fourth.  No room for her.  Same thing at the lunch bench. Same thing while walking. I have seen this happen with Amrita and any group of kids. She always has to try so hard to fit and be heard.

It made me sad and love her so much more (if that is possible).  Because I know I am like that too.  I have friends, and I know that many people care about me.  But I am also always that 4th person that doesn't fit and has to remain slightly outside the circle.  Sometimes that makes me sad for me and sad for her. 

When she sat with me on the bus ride back and we snuggled together, I thought that I am her real and true bff.  And then it made me so sad to think that I might have to tell her that I have cancer and that she may have to see me sick and weak with treatment and with no hair and may have to see me die and be left motherless and that made me cry and cry and cry.  Just like my own bff, my sister, died and left me and left a hole in my life forever.

I went to my doctor today and told him that I was sad and I wanted him to give me something for that - not just Ativan for anxiety.  He asked me why I was sad.  I told him the story of the bus ride and Amrita being left motherless.  He said that that was very sad.  But he was pretty sure that it wasn't going to happen.  He said he was pretty sure that if it was cancer, it would be an early stage one. 

Instead of an anti-depressant, he told me to meditate and that my mantra should be, "At this moment, there is no evidence of cancer." 

"Yes, but there might be evidence of cancer in two weeks."

"Ah, but you are jumping to the future.  Stay in the present.  'Right now, there is no evidence of cancer.'"

"Well, can I just add that, "even if there is evidence of cancer, it will be at an early stage'?"

He laughed and told me I was funny.  "Yes, you can add that."

No luck that this would end well today either

I had my ultrasound today, and there was no gift at the end for me.  No cheerful hopping off the table being told that it was only a cyst. It was again a grim faced radiologist that told me that she couldn't tell what it was and that I would need a biopsy.  In a couple of weeks.  With pathology reports to follow.   

The Days Are Long

The days are long when you get a call-back from the hospital that says your mammogram results are irregular and you have to go back in for an ultrasound.  Because, of course, things could not have just been simple.  On Friday afternoon, I got a call from my doctor giving me these results.  It feels almost painful to me to have such a beautiful sunny weekend - one of the first sunny weekends of the spring -  that I can't enjoy.  Like when you don't feel like eating and anything you put in your mouth feels like cardboard.  This is how the weekend feels to me. 

Maybe it will be nothing, just a fault of the mammogram.  Or maybe it will be cancer again.  I don't know.  It just feels unfair to me. 

And I feel guilty when I use the word "unfair".  Because I know that we are not handed certificates of entitlement that we will be given a "fair" life.  Fair or unfair compared to whom?  The child beggars on the streets of Kolkata?  The single mother in Canada who can't make ends meet?  The family in war-torn parts of the world?  The woman who has just been handed a stage 4 diagnosis? 

I know I have no right.  I could be told I am fine tomorrow.  And I will walk away, continuing on my life.  Going to a job that I am not so crazy about.  Taking life and people in my life for granted.  Being taken for granted by the people in my life.  So quickly forgetting the lessons we have learned.  It is what we do.  Looking for something.  Where do we look?  On a screen somewhere, it seems to be in today's age.

It is mother's day today, and I am trying to remember that my children are my greatest gifts.  No matter what happens, there will be two beautiful people in the world because of me.  But as much as I am trying, I am barely succeeding not to cry today, in the beauty and warmth of the day.  It just makes me feel ever so much sadder.   

When the Universe Speaks to Us

I love it when the universe speaks to us.

Last night, we went to my son's soccer party.  It was a beginning of the season, getting-to-know each other, team-building party.  Bring your families, bring food and drink to share and get to know each other at the place of the family with the biggest house.

So we are there, getting to know each other, having the kind of conversation you do when you are getting to know each other.

"What part of town do you live in?" asks a pretty, blond woman whose right to be at the party is through her son Ben.

"The Glebe."

"Oh, I love that neighbourhood.  We used to live there many years ago.  Then we moved to the States for a few years, and then when we came back, we couldn't find a house in the Glebe."

So I ask more questions about her move to the States and her return to Ottawa and her neighbourhood.

Then, she says, "But I really do miss the Glebe.  Walking to work, and that cute little daycare on Fifth Avenue that Ben went to."

"Oh yeah, he went to that daycare?  So did Aveen.  Hey, they're the same age.  They probably went there together!"

So, it turns out that not only did Aveen and Ben go to daycare together, but they were each other's first best friends!  I remember that traumatic time when Ben's family moved away.  Everyday, afterwards, for weeks, Aveen would go to daycare and ask where Ben was.  Everyday, he would have to be told that Ben moved away, and the crying would start again, fresh heartbreak everyday.

When I told Aveen the story, he said that what is even more coincidental is that he and Ben met each other last year, before they crossed paths at soccer, at sports camp, and became friends with each other. 

I think the universe is pulling them together and telling them to be friends.  I believe it is important to listen to the universe.

That is why I went for the mammogram on Friday.  Even though, when I called the nurse, she said it must have been a mistake because there was nothing in my records to show that the doctor had intended me to have a mammogram.  Well, first of all, I wasn't completely convinced it was a mistake (I had asked the person who had called me for the appointment if it could be a mistake - she was convinced it wasn't), and I asked her to double check with the doctor.  It is not clear what the doctor actually said, but it came back as it was probably a good idea for me to have a mammogram in any case.  Mistake or not, I believe the universe was telling me to have a mammogram.

So off I went, back to the Riverside, back there sooner than I intended.  The good thing was that a mammogram is not nearly as terrible as I had thought.  Really, it barely hurts at all!  Not fun, for sure, but not as bad as its reputation.  And the technician was excellent!

However, now I have to worry about the result.  I could have not gone for the test.  And I could choose not to worry.  But c'mon, who is able to actually have a mammogram and not worry?  Especially someone who has already had cancer?

The universe reunited Aveen and Ben.  I think the universe made me have a mammogram.  I hope the universe has some good news for me this week.

Out of the blue

Out of the blue, out of no where, I got a call from the Ottawa Hospital for an appointment for a mammogram. Ordered by my menopause doctor, whom I haven't seen for over a year. I am not saying it is a bad idea, just that I feel completely side swiped by it. Who said I needed a mammogram? Nobody has ever mentioned it. Not even once! Aren't doctors supposed to talk to you about tests they order? 

And does this even fall into the jurisdiction of a menopause doctor?Maybe she feels slighted that I haven't ever gone back to see her. The last time I went to see her was over a year ago when I was tied up to tubes. "Come back when things settle down," she had said. Well, things are just starting to settle down, but I wasn't going to rush to see her. After all, I have enough appointments and enough problems that hot flashes are really fairly low down on my list of issues.  I mean, it hasn't even been two weeks since I have been to see the osteoporosis specialist and get a vitamin d test (yes, deficient) and I haven't even filled my prescription for that yet. (As a side bar, apparently, on my chart, the osteoporosis doctor had written "patient reluctant to take osteoporosis medication". Where did she get that from? Because I asked a couple of questions??)

Back to the matter at hand. I also didn't go back to the menopause doctor because I didn't like her. She made me cry. And cry and cry and cry. I couldn't stop crying in her office.  I had just met Dr. H who had assured me that I probably didn't have cancer and that menopause was not a big deal. Then I met this doctor who spoke as if it was a done deal that I had cancer, and spoke of it very casually. And then started ramming all kinds of things about menopause down my throat. I haven't forgotten. While I was sobbing, she said, "it's a lot to take in". Yes, I'd say so.

I know she is doing the right thing by ordering this test. Probably my family doctor should have done it. It's just that I wasn't expecting to have to add "worry about mammogram test results" to my "to do" list for next week.

Dear Cancer, Thank you for your many gifts, Now Good-bye

You came to me, uninvited, like a stealthy intruder in the dark night.  I don’t know when you arrived, and started hiding in the walls of my body, taking up more and more space.  At some point, you started to give me little signs that you, or maybe something else, was there, but the signs were too vague.  Finally, you gave me a sign that I couldn’t ignore, and I called for help.  It took awhile to find the right person to remove you from my body, but with skill and modern technology, we got you out.

 

I recognize that by coming to visit me, you brought me many important gifts.  You taught me to appreciate all that I have – my family and friends, the place in the world that I live, the food that I eat, so much.  You taught me to truly appreciate it and value it, when I was afraid I would lose it all. 

 

You taught me that it is important, above all, to take care of myself.  You gave me a wake up call.  That I can’t ignore my health.  You also gave me permission to take the time that I need to do that.  I know that even if I duck out on my kids during homework time to go for a yoga class that that is all right.  I am trying to make sure they have a mother.  (And it is better for them to try to figure out their homework on their own anyway.)  That if I leave work promptly at 5:00, when my colleagues are still sitting at their desks, who cares?  They are not, for the most part, going to be holding my hand if you ever come to visit me again.  (I’d like to tell them that they should go and take care of themselves too, but I don’t want to be known in my work place as not only the one who leaves early but the “Crazy Cancer Lady” too.)

 

You taught me not to put things off.  We are not guaranteed a “tomorrow”.  We only have today.  So, if we want to do something – whether it is to travel, or hug our children, or write a book, or plant a tree, or take up dance, we’ve got to do it now.  (Of course, there are some practical considerations – of work and time and money – but within reason.)

 

You taught me what is truly important in life.  And what is really not.

 

If only we could all know this without you having to visit us.  If only we could live by what we know.

 

So, thank you, thank you for your many gifts.

 

But.

 

You also stole a lot away from me, you dirty, rotten thief.  You threatened to take me away from my children, leaving them without a mother to raise them and nurture them.  To take me away from my husband and leave him companionless.  To take away my parents’ only remaining child when I should be taking care of them.  That, Dear Cancer, (in the words of my favourite Glee characters) was not cool.

 

You took from me a sense of feeling confident about my health.  When I wouldn’t get something that I wanted, or thought I wanted, like a job promotion, I would think, “Well, at least I am healthy.”  I don’t tell myself that anymore.

 

You have taken time away from me.  Not just the hours that I spend waiting to see doctors and taking tests.  But time that I spend worrying and being fearful and not present. 

 

If I let you, you will take my sense of peace, even my sanity.  I can’t let you do that.

 

So, good-bye.  Good-bye, dear Cancer.  I’m saying good-bye.  I’m done with you.  I’m letting you go.  I am going to try to make sure you can never come back.  I know we like a lot of the same things, like sugar.  I will try my best not to have much of that around to tempt you back in (though I can't seem to end my lifetime love affair with chocolate).  But there are other things that I know you don’t like that I do like – like kale and dancing and yoga and meditation and swimming.  I’ll try to have a lot of that so that you can’t get in. 

 

I am done with you, too, Fear.  I want you to loosen your death-grip around my neck.  I’m bringing out the pliers.  You’re toast.

 

I can do it – with a little love and a lot of kale, I have a fighting chance.  

Everything is fine

New Post coming soon.