Grey Undertones and Silver Linings

We are well into November now. T.S. Eliot had it wrong: November is truly the "cruellest month." Rain and then snow. Rain and snow. Sunset at 4:30. Nothing but potatoes and squash in my organic bin every week.  General gloominess. Naked trees. Toxic agents administered intravenously. Anyone who took a survey course in English Lit could tell you that Eliot was bemoaning April's cruel capriciousness (and refuting the opening lines from Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales):

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Whatever. Give me April any day. (At least by April - deity or stars willing - I will be nearly done with this nonsense!)  

I spent the first half of this month feeling pretty much like a "dull root." It took me awhile to get back on here. Surgery wasn't so bad. It's nothing compared to thoracic surgery and was definitely the easiest surgery I have had yet - even if it was, in a sense, the most dramatic of the six. My gyne oncologist was able to excise laparoscopically this time (also known as "belly button surgery"), so, with the exception of a two-inch incision along the bikini line, which is barely visible, I only have three other very, very tiny cuts: one in my belly button, and one on either side. The plan was to attempt a laparoscopy, but there was a chance that she'd have to make a larger cut again, if there was too much scar tissue from my last surgery. Thankfully, there weren't too many adhesions, so it worked out ok. There's a world of difference between a laparoscopy and a large-incision abdominal surgery in terms of recovery time and post-op pain, so that was a relief, at least.

Unfortunately, however, I didn't have the smoothest recovery anyway. My bladder was bruised or knicked in the process, as I had - pardon the absence of euphemism - bloody urine that was not clearing up. To my disappointment and dismay, I got sent home with the catheter. What an indignity! I argued and pleaded with them to let me go home sans accessory. But the residents couldn't scan me to check for a bladder injury, as I have an anaphalactic reaction to CT contrast dye, and so I had to go home with the ol' pee pee purse until my bladder healed itself. Fantastic. Like I don't already feel like I am ninety years old. Bladders are amazingly resilient, but having an injured bladder that leaks urine into your abdominal cavity is a tad dangerous.  So I relented.  Anyway, my feminist sisters, I know that we all talk about the injustice of having to pee sitting down, complain about the awkward squat 'n pee we must do when camping ... yeah, yeah, yeah ... I peed standing up for eight solid days, and it totally was not worth it.

(How did I go from Modern British Literature to peeing?!  This is my worst post yet.)

Morphine. I would like to write about morphine. It's overrated. People who have never had surgery before dream about it like it is the nirvana of nirvanas. Yes, it mostly takes away the pain, and makes you very spacey, but you always pay for it when you get discharged. At least I always do. I thought this surgery was going to be a breeze, but I spent the entire week following discharge lying on the couch, unable to lift my head, and devoting all of my focus to keeping ice chips and flat ginger ale down. I couldn't even take any of the painkillers that had been prescribed for me, because I was having enough trouble with the nausea as it was. Oh, to be a 97-lber pumped full of narcotics. It's never really the high you are looking for.

November did, however, bring a glimmer of hope amidst all of the gloominess in the form of Barack Obama's history victory.  Thankfully, the U.S. Election was unfolding while I lay chained to the couch. I was so grateful for the wonderful distraction!  I think that, in sum total, I must have watched at least 60 cumulative hours of CNN. I now know so much about voter demographics, Obama's siblings, swing states, Sarah Palin's three-piece suits ... I really could tell you anything.

Though I am not American, Obama's victory inspired me - as it did many Canadians. Of course; "Obama Fever" is spreading faster than the avian flu on a crowded subway car. "Laura, can we turn off CNN?" Earthy asked me the other week while a correspondent was speculating for an hour's slot over what breed of dog Sasha and Malia might possibly select in January, "I can't take any more 'celebrity Obama.' "

At any rate, I think that I can speak for most in saying that we were all pretty disillusioned up here following our own very recent, highly unnecessary Federal Election. And I know that I am not alone in quietly wishing that we could do a leader swap.

Obama's win of the presidency was also a win for cancer patients

across America.  In a speech that he gave a month prior to the election (and also in a campaign ad entitled 'Mother'), Obama voiced his concern about healthcare, deeming it a very personal issue, as he remembered his mother Ann's brave battle with ovarian and uterine cancer and how she spent the last moments of her life more concerned about how she was going to pay her medical bills than how she was going to fight the disease.

Now, I have read some pretty shocking criticisms of this campaign ad. Some accused Obama of using the memory of his dead mother to win votes.  Others accused him of being a "bad son" for not being with Ann Dunham at the time of her death - a son who could have easily afforded to pay for his mother's medical bills because he was "a lawyer who went to Harvard." Whatever your political stance or your opinion of Barack Obama, his central message is this: healthcare should be a right, not a privilege. Having cancer is frightening and difficult enough; filing for bankruptcy because your cells failed on you is a double indignity that no one person should suffer.  As a person who depends heavily upon the healthcare system, I feel very, very strongly about this. Having cancer just plain sucks, but I feel very fortunate to live in a country that offers quality healthcare that is available and equal to everyone.  I am a patient at one of the world's top cancer care facilities, and I have never, ever had to wait long for a scan or a surgery.  I never have to worry about whether I can afford to visit my family doctor.  I can have as many MRIs or CTs as necessary, and I was given surgery less than a week after diagnosis.  This probably sounds like a rant, and I certainly am rambling, but it's the honest truth.  Our system may not be perfect, but it has not failed me.  I guess that is the silver lining.  

Thank you, oh thank you, Tommy Douglas and Lester B. Pearson.

As a final thought, and random digression, I have been thinking about what to do while I am chained to an IV as an inpatient for treatment next week.  I went through all of my ipod lists today, and came across my "just-get-through-this-song."  It's "Pass in Time," by Beth Orton, the British folktronica goddess of Chemical Brothers collaboration fame.  I forgot about how this song got me through radiation.  I hope that you find it as inspiring as I do.