2019

It's the last day of 2019.  On one hand, I can't wait for this year to just end.  On the other, I wish I could just freeze time to this day.

 For the past decade, I've fervently hoped, every New Year's Eve, that the next year would be better.  It had to be better.  Yet, each new year brought more heartache and hardship.  Some people say those were challenges, I prefer to say they were bullshit. 

The part of me that wants 2019 to end is the part of me that wants to get the next chapter of my journey started.  I want the stabbing, constant pain where my tumour is to stop.  I want it gone and I want the anxiety to end (even though I know that it won't).

The other part of me wants to stop time and go back to being normal.  Back to when I knew nothing about breast cancer. Back to not being a total hot mess of an emotional trainwreck.  Back to when I didn't fear every single little ache or pain.  Especially back to when my own mortality didn't invade every waking moment. 

I don't want to be part of the Cancer Club, even though all of the other members that I personally know are the most extraordinary people in the world.  Thanks for the invite, but I wasn't looking to sign up.  2020 means that my membership is renewed for it's first annual cycle.

2020 will be the year of "the uniboob" for me.  The left one will go just 2 days shy of it's 55th birthday.   The 2020 birthday won't exactly be a hoot.  Incisions, drainage tube, pain, and whininess aren't great selling points for a birthday fete.  Prostheses, ugly bras, changes to my usual wardrobe choices, and tissue stretching exercises will be on tap for most of the winter.  Treatment, likely in the form of chemo (because why change my luck now?) will take up the spring into summer.  Hair loss, pale skin, nausea and general yuckiness for Spring Break.  Whoo hoo!! 

I imagine that 2020 will be the start of looking over my shoulder forever.  I know that I will never have a day that I won't worry about recurrence, because I'm a worrier by nature. It's what I do (and I'm damned good at it).  I'm also a planner. Constant worry creates solid planning and preparation skills.  This one though, I didn't plan for.  I had worried about many things, and prepared for my many imagined "what if" scenarios, but not this.  It was never on my radar.  So it stands to reason that because I can't plan or control the outcome, I'm going to worry from now till eternity about cancer.  I've already become a hypochondriac. In the last month, my swollen foot meant that I definitely had diabetes; my migraines became other tumors; my acid reflux turned into an esophageal blockage....and on, and on.

This will be the year where I lean on my beautiful daughter, instead of the other way around (which it should be). She has already become my rock and this coming year won't be easy on her.  That's not what I wanted 2020 to be for her and it breaks my heart.

To sum up, 2020 terrifies me.  The term "Happy New Year", in my case, kind of seems a bit silly.  I'm sure as hell not going to be particularly happy.  I can guarantee my family that I'll likely be more of a snarky, sarcastic grouch than usual, and that's saying something.  I can guarantee my friends that there will probably be long stretches of radio silence.  I'm going to need to retreat, and it hurts me to know that this will hurt some of them.

I don't want to let go of 2019 yet.  It was one of the worst years for me, but also one of the best. The bullshit of 2019 brought some good.  The best was the feeling of being loved. I honestly didn't realize how many friends I had, or that people can care as much as they do.  I've been touched by so many people that I still don't know what to do with that, and I can't thank them enough.  New friends, old friends and new old friends.  It makes a walk down Cancer Lane a lot less scary.

I can't stop the arrival of 2020 but I will ask it to please be gentle.  For once, can you please just enter and exit peacefully and reasonably?  I don't want to have to hit you up the side of your head with my fake boob, but I will if you're a bitch.

My thoughts on Let's Talk

It's Bell Media's Let's Talk Day, but this blog won't be trying to spread it's message. It won't be sent individually to every friend, acquaintance, co worker, neighbor or near stranger in my contact list.  It won't be texted, messaged, snapped, or tweeted. No tagging, hashtagging or neon colored post background.  It will be quietly placed on my social media accounts, where very few contacts will even open the link.  That's ok though, this is my own form of therapy right now so it's more for me than anyone else.

I'm not a huge supporter of the Let's Talk Day, but I'm also not a hater.  As someone who has experienced mental health issues first and second hand for a good number of years, I'm somewhere in the middle on this initiative.  On one hand, I applaud the fact that a well known organization has tried to reduce the stigma of mental health problems.  On the other, I'm afraid it sends a false message that talking and asking for help will result in actually getting the help that you need.

I won't recount all of the failures and abysmal treatment processes that I've been exposed to because this is a blog, not a novel.  I will however, describe what I experienced today as I think that should sum up my thoughts on the topic.

Like so many others, I have suffered occasionally with mild depression and anxiety.  I am currently battling another round, and have been since November.  After Christmas,  I realized I could use a bit of counseling so that I could get back on track before it got worse.  Four weeks ago, I called my Employee Assistance Program to arrange an 8 week counseling plan.  The counselor they matched me with dutifully called me within 48 hours to schedule an appointment.  Not a bad start.

Two weeks ago he called to change my Monday appointment to  3 PM Tuesday.  I haven't seen him since.  Tuesday came and along with it messy weather and a migraine.  I called early that morning to reschedule, and left a voicemail asking him to call me back.  By Thursday, with no call from him, I left another voicemail.  Then another. On Friday I finally reached him.  By that point, he had no availability for a week and a half.  Today was my rescheduled appointment.

Now, part of my current issue is that I have suddenly become terrified of driving in any kind of  messy weather.  It's a long held anxiety, but one that I had overcome in recent years.  For some reason, it's back.  Today we had messy weather.  Today was my appointment.

Not wanting to go another two weeks with no support, as I will be in BC next week, I spent most of the morning worrying about how to get there without driving in the snow/ice pellet mix that had started after I drove to work.  Thankfully I have amazing coworkers.  I left my car at work and one work buddy dropped me at my therapists office, with arrangements made for my daughter to pick me up afterward and another coworker to drive me to work tomorrow.  Problem solved.

My therapist works out of his home with a separate office entrance.   The door was locked.  I rang the bell, no answer.  I called his number, no answer.  His car was there,  there were lights on in the house.  I rang the house doorbell, no answer.

So, I'm stranded in his driveway with no car to sit in or leave in.  It's now pouring and getting colder.  My daughter isn't scheduled to pick me up for another hour.  My sister doesn't drive much any more so I didn't want her venturing out in bad conditions to come get me.  My data plan is low, so I can't Google cab numbers.

I ended up walking a good 15 minute trek to the nearest grocery store and payphone.  I'm not dressed for this.  The sidewalks and roads are a messy, slippery mush of ankle deep snow and water.  I got about 10 feet before my trendy yet impractical boots were filled with water.  I think I cried for 3 blocks out of frustration, despair and self pity.

After exhausting every cab number to no avail (apparently they also don't answer phones), I finally called my sister to come get me.  By this point, I was unravelling and quickly.  Thankfully my daughter called and it helped bring me back down to a reasonable level of human. Enough that the grocery store security guard stopped eyeballing me.


During most of this ordeal I kept thinking to myself "it's Let's Talk Day.  But I can bet my ass that no one is talking about this kind of farce".  This kind of thing, my dear readers, is unfortunately more the norm than the exception when it comes to getting help when you need it.  It's sad, it's unacceptable and it's dangerous.  But that's what it is.


So, you can likely now imagine my thoughts on Let's Talk, at the moment.  While quite a few colleagues were sitting in Let's Talk presentations, I was navigating my cold, wet, tear streaked self to a phone booth to try to get home when I should have been spending that time getting the help I need. I certainly can't say it wasn't for a lack of trying (on my part).

Ironically,  the only part of me that stayed dry was my head.  Likely due to the Bell Let's Talk toque that I got at work and had shoved in my pocket for "just in case". If nothing else, their toque worked for me.

My Little Blog of Mistakes

Mistakes.  We all make them, because we're human.  Some of us make more than others, due to sheer stupidity, synchronicity, or plain old bad luck.  That's where I come in.  I have a fondness for writing and penchant for bad luck.  I have toyed with the idea of blogging again for a while, but a lack of subject matter kept holding me back. However,  I recently remembered something that I'd been told once about teaching what you know.  I'm going to hope that this philosophy also works when writing about what you know.  I know a lot about mistakes.  Therefore, I shall start a little blog about the mistakes I've made (some humorous, some not), and the lessons I've learned (don't get too excited, I didn't learn much).

As I wrote that opening paragraph, a little voice in my head said "you probably picked the wrong blog site, Dumbass".  I also heard "no one is going to find this blog, let alone read it", followed by "you're going to ruin your wet nail polish for no good reason".  But I digress.

This could well end up to be another mistake, but at the very least I will improve my typing speed and perhaps clear the clutter from my mind.  As a middle-aged woman, currently housing a young adult daughter and her main squeeze, their two geckos, a senior aged sister and her two shitzus and two cats, my mind can tend to get a bit cluttered.  So can my house, but that's for another blog.

I could likely go back to my childhood for mistake topics to write about, but I think I'll just save everyone the heartache and take it back about five years ago.  It's a good starting point, as it was right about that time that I started an entirely new life chapter.  I think perhaps the book was upside down though, because not much turned out the way I had originally planned my story.

Why five years back?  Because five years ago I became "uncoupled" (as Gwyneth Paltrow termed it), and the mayhem began.  So if you're willing, or have nothing else to read, check back frequently as I start to recant my tales of mistakes.  You'll either laugh, cry, or beat your head against the screen.  At the very least though, I hope you get some enjoyment out of this and maybe learn a little something from someone else's mistakes.