Blog Posts – Page 2 – sparkledame

It’s Handled

“Did you have a nice time with your father? I like your hair that way, you look pretty.”

“You’re not supposed to give me compliments about my looks, remember? That’s old-school parenting.”

For the love of God.

“Dad took me to that vintage store I’ve been wanting to check out and bought me some rad stuff. Then we went out to lunch with Marie, I like her, she’s cool.”

Who the fuck is Marie?

“Wash those clothes, you never know what could be on them.”

“You’re kidding, right? They’re already clean mom. Anyway, Marie is getting me a pair of jeans from the denim company she works for. Their jeans are made in a really nice, eco-friendly factory right here in LA, not like a sweatshop in Bangladesh.”

“I bet they are. I bet their workers have health insurance and paid sick days and proper lunch breaks and good air conditioning in their work rooms.”

“Mom, chill. Marie is cool. Be happy Dad is not dating a 21 year old actress hyphenate, because he totally could be. All my friends say he’s a silver fox.”

A silver fucking fox.

“We’re having vegetarian lasagna tonight. Does that meet your current eating standards?”

“I actually started eating meat again this weekend.”

Jesus Christ.

“Marie said I don’t have the right blood type to be vegetarian. She said that to maximize my health and well-being I should be eating free range chicken, grass-fed beef and non-farmed salmon five times a week. But lasagna is fine too.”

“Okay then, well I’m going to maximize my health by drinking a glass of wine right now. Go do your homework.”

“I’m not ten. You don’t need to tell me to do my homework. And by the way, I’m getting like almost straight A’s, so maybe just take it down a notch Laurie.”

She did not just call me Laurie. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Jessie went to her bedroom, grabbing a bag of caramel popcorn off the kitchen counter on her way.

Laurie popped the lasagna in the oven then poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. In the livingroom she watched an old episode of Scandal for the tenth time. There was something soothing about watching the show over and over again. Olivia Pope wouldn’t be dealing with a ridiculous teenager and someone named Marie. Olivia Pope would “handle it,” and then go have sex with Jake, or the President, or both.

Maximize her health and well-being. Go fuck yourself Marie. How is it that Mike is introducing Jessie to the woman he’s dating? Does that mean he’s in a serious relationship?”

Laurie texted him: “Hi. Jessie had a nice time with you and Marie. R u two in a serious relationship? Pls keep me in the loop. Thx.”

Jessie came to dinner wearing a black Joy Division t-shirt.

“So that’s one of the vintage pieces your dad bought you? Do you know the lead singer committed suicide? There’s a documentary about the band if you’re interested. He suffered from horrible depression.”

“Good lasagna mom,” said Jessie, ignoring her mom’s comments.

“Thanks, I’m glad you approve.”

“Mom, I don’t want you to freak out or anything, but I got the feeling that dad and Marie are really a thing. Like really together. I’m just giving you a head’s up.”

“That’s sweet of you, but don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I want your father to be happy – I’m glad he’s met someone.”

Wow. That was fast Mike. We’ve been divorced for less than nine months and you’re already in a serious relationship.

Later that evening Mike texted back:

“Hi. Yes, Marie and I are together, we’ve been dating exclusively for five months, I was going to tell you. She wants us all to get together for dinner. Can you do Friday night? I’ll have my assistant book us a table. Thx.”

Five months? Dinner together?

After throwing in a load of laundry Laurie went out by the pool to smoke a cigarette from her secret stash.

“Sounds great. Looking forward to it!” she texted back to him.

FUCK.

“Why did you say sounds great and looking forward to it?! You cannot go to that dinner alone, we need to find you a date,” said her oldest friend Molly the next day.

“No, that would make it worse. It would make me seem desperate and sad and I’m not desperate and sad, I just wasn’t prepared for a ‘Marie’ yet” answered Laurie, checking on the non-farmed salmon.

“Gotta go. Jessie just got home and tonight she’s bringing a friend with her. This morning she actually told me what to wear and asked me to “act normal,” at dinner. Love you.”

“Oh Lordy. Love you too girl.”

Laurie had followed her daughter’s instructions and worn her high-waisted jeans with her hippie blouse tucked in and her large gold hoops. She had even put on mascara and lip gloss. Last time Jessie had a friend over she had been more than just a friend, so she was expecting the same this time.

“Hi mom, we’re home and I brought an extra guest!” yelled Jessie from the hallway.

“All good!” Laurie answered as she set another place and added more salad to the bowl.

As she put out an assortment of drinks for the kids to choose from, she poured herself a glass of wine.

“I’ll take one of those too if you don’t mind,” said a deep voice.

Who. The. Fuck. Is. That?

The most handsome, swoon-worthy man was standing in her kitchen doorway. What was her daughter up to? She wanted to strangle her, kind of.

“I’m Daniel, Emily’s father. Sorry the girls sprung this on you. They’re such operators.”

Laurie handed him a glass of wine, glad that she had put on mascara and lip gloss.

“Not a problem. I should have known something was up when Jessie told me what to wear for dinner,” she said laughing.”

“Can I do anything to help?” Daniel asked.

“Thanks but everything’s done. Let’s go outside for a few minutes and relax.”

From the cupboard Laurie grabbed a bag of Salt N’ Vinegar chips:

“These go really well with wine.”

“I like the unicorn pool floatie,” Daniel said.

“Me too. Jessie is mortified by it, but she’s mortified by most of what I do and say, so you know…” said Laurie crunching on a chip.

“God these chips are good,” said Daniel with salt stuck to his upper lip.

Those lips. Wow. Stop staring Laurie, you freak.

Daniel continued:

“Is it wrong to say I hate teenagers? I just want to fast forward to the college years or whatever this generation is going to do instead of college. I can’t take it.”

“I know, it’s brutal. Jessie has started referring to me as Laurie.”

Daniel laughed hard, almost spitting out his wine.

The laughter and chatter continued until the oven alarm went off and they went inside for dinner.

“So girls, how was school today?” asked Laurie.

“The usual,” answered Jessie.

“I love the usual,” said Daniel, digging into his salad.

Jessie took a selfie of Emily and her.

“No phones at the table,” Laurie said. “Also, are you two a couple?” She could feel Daniel hiding his smile.

“No. We’re trying to make Emily’s ex-girlfriend, Sarah, jealous” said Jessie.

“Got it. Well hope it works.”

“Are you guys ready for your science test tomorrow?”

“Of course we are Dad,” answered Emily, rolling her eyes.

“Just two more years,” whispered Laurie to Daniel. He tilted his head and smiled at her.

Laurie caught Jessie sneaking a photo of her and Daniel.

“What are you doing? I told you, no phones at the dinner table. Stop it already.”

After dinner Daniel and Laurie cleaned up and continued chatting:

“Thanks again for dinner, it was delicious. And sorry about the ambush…”

“It was my pleasure. I had a lovely time.”

“I would love to bring you out to dinner, no teenagers, just us. Are you free Saturday?”

I’m free right now. Kiss me. Please kiss me.

“I would love that.”

Later that evening as Laurie was finishing some editing work, Jessie stopped by her office. Leaning against her mother’s desk with a popsicle in her mouth, she said:

“Did you like Emily’s dad? Isn’t he cute? I thought he was your type.”

“You are quite the little trickster,” said Laurie, grabbing Jessie into a playful bear hug.

“I knew you would like him,” Jessie said, giggling like a little girl. “I just knew it!”

“You are an amazing young woman, you know that? Don’t ever forget it” said Laurie, kissing the top of her head.

Friday night, at Fia in Santa Monica, Laurie and Jessie met Mike and Marie for dinner. Marie had that effortlessly slouchy-chic look: a satin slip dress under a belter cardigan and vaguely western ankle-boots.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Marie said as she extended her hand.

“Likewise,” answered Laurie smiling.

“I ordered you a Chardonnay,” Mike said kissing her cheek.

“Thanks.”

A tray of drinks and appetizers arrived and they all raised their glasses.

“To getting to know each other,” Marie exclaimed.

They clinked glasses and Laurie took a long sip.

“Dad, I wanna show you something,” Jessie leaned into him so he could better see her phone screen.

“So, I hear you work for an eco-friendly denim company, that sounds really interesting.”

“It is. It kind of combines my two passions: fashion and the environment.”

“Who’s this?” Mike asked Laurie as he was looking at Jessie’s photos.

Laurie looked as Jessie flipped the screen to show her.

“Oh that’s Daniel, Emily’s father. They were over for dinner the other night.”

“Mom is going on a date with him tomorrow night,” said Jessie proudly.

Marie looked at the photo:

“Wow, he’s handsome. He looks like Mark Ruffalo.”

Laurie sipped her wine and smiled.

Yes he does.

Sephora’s Best Seller

“An ileostomy is a surgery that makes a temporary or permanent opening called a stoma. A stoma is a pathway from the lowest part of the small intestine, called the “ileum,” to the outside of your abdomen. This helps solid waste and gas exit the body without passing through the colon or the rectum.”

Does this description sound both gross and a little X-Files-ish to you?👽 It does to me too. It’s been five years since my cancer surgeries, (for Peritoneal Mesothelioma) and I still have a tough time accepting my stoma. I know today’s ethos is all about celebrating and loving your body the way it is, but I truly struggle to do that.

Yet, since there’s nothing I can do to change the situation, I gave my stoma a name: Ron. Ron is actually a beautiful shade of red. If Ron were a lipstick he would be Sephora’s Best Seller.💄 He lives two inches below my belly button and three inches to the right of it. He’s smooth and shiny and he’s shaped like a tiny mound.

Ron moves too – wtf? Sometimes he’s smaller and almost flush with my tummy, other times he enjoys showing off and gets bigger and longer. The first time he pulled that trick I was terrified and yelled out to my partner to bring me a measuring tape so I could measure Ron in the shower.🤣 Mostly though he’s about the size of a small tootsie pop – remember those?

Ron is Celebrity-style high-maintenance. He requires a special 3-piece outfit on him at all times, which includes a small beige bag 👜 to collect liquid-y waste. I empty the waste or, “output,” into the toilet, ten or more times per day.

Ron is extremely picky about food. I used to eat a mostly plant-based diet, but Ron let me know – in dramatic and painful ways – that eating vegan was not an option. Most fruits and vegetables give him trouble, particularly their skins.🍅 Nuts, seeds, legumes and beans are also difficult for him. There is literally almost nothing in a plant-based diet that he likes except green juice, smoothies and creamy vegetable soups.

What does Ron like to eat? Basically he loves hospital food. Give him a piece of plain chicken with mashed potatoes and a tiny cup of ice cream 🍨 and he’s the happiest little red intestine mound you’ve ever met. But if you dare try to fake Ron out with foods he doesn’t approve of he will make you suffer.

Once, in a moment of weakness and right before a Flaming Lips concert, I decided to eat half a grapefruit – one of my favorite fruits. I chewed it carefully, (with ileostomies you have to chew everything a million times), but I forgot that grapefruits are encased in those little linings/skins. Well, halfway through the concert Ron lost his fucking mind!🤯 He erupted with thick paste, resulting in his 3-piece outfit peeling off my skin, causing gross mayhem.💩

I must say though, if ever there were a perfect concert to have a stoma accident, it would be The Flaming Lips. Everyone was high and dancing, there were unicorns 🦄 and I think the singer was in a giant clear ball, so no one noticed me racing to the bathroom.

I always travel with supplies because you just never know. Luckily the bathroom had great speakers, so as I cleaned myself up and put on a fresh new outfit for Ron, I was still able to enjoy the concert. Though I can laugh about it now, accidents are stressful and they make me feel vulnerable. In all honesty, I am never fully relaxed when I’m out and that is emotionally exhausting.

Body Image & Fashion:

Most people I know have a favorite body part that they often highlight when they dress. Maybe they have legs for days, a long graceful neck, or defined yoga arms…I used to like my mid-section. I didn’t wear crop tops, but I liked high-waisted, 70’s style wide-leg jeans with a top that hit the waistband. I wore lots of other styles too, I enjoy using clothing as a form of creative self-expression. Now I’m no longer able to wear anything fitted.

My stomach is split in two sections, separated by a 12 inch scar (the scar doesn’t bother me). The left side of my tummy is its normal self, but due to surgery, my right side is now slightly rounded, as if it just binge-ate an entire baguette. 🥖 I hate it. While I don’t spend my days obsessing about it, I do sometimes feel sad. Also, I’m sick of wearing long, flow-y tops.🤦🏻‍♀️

Ultimately though I’m very grateful to Ron.🙏 Because Ron, along with my incredible surgeon & HIPEC & lots of luck, have allowed me the privilege of living much longer than anyone expected.

A final few ileostomy facts🤓 :

– There is no smell.👃🏽 No one will ever smell your stoma or bag.

– Ileostomy supplies are extremely expensive.💰

– You can swim and play any sports you want.🏄🏻‍♀️ There are accessories to help keep the bag secure.

– Partial bowel blockages are fairly common & scary. I’ve had 6 of them in the past 8 months, so my Dr. is investigating.🔍

So that’s what it’s like living with an ileostomy, for me. It’s Ron and I together for as long as I get to live.👫

Ron’s 3-piece outfit:

Stretchy “donut,” it goes around Ron/stoma to help protect the stomach’s skin from rashes.

The “flange” (redheaded Lady is standing in for Ron/stoma 🤣) This adhesive flange goes over the stoma & over the donut and sticks to your tummy. (You cut the centre to fit your stoma)

Finally, the bag, which snaps onto the flange.

xo 💖💩💜

24 hrs

https://society6.com/mulltoons

Instagram: @mulltoons

So maybe there were a few red flags. Like a tree’s worth of red flags. Like picture a cherry tree, but instead of beautiful blossoms there were 500 glittery red flags. But you know, our insecurities our powerful mutherfuckers and sometimes they run the show. So I got engaged.

At the time I was working for a fashion designer and she and the CEO toasted my engagement with champagne, the CEO said:

“Well obviously she’s going to design your dress.”

No. No. No. I had planned on finding and wearing a vintage dress. Plus, I was friends with the designer and I knew she was stressed, the last thing she needed was the pressure of making me a dress. But I said,

“That would be amazing, thank you!” because at thirty-six yrs old I still had trouble asserting myself – sad but true.

The fittings were difficult, sprinkled with moments of laughter. She was my friend and boss, which is a complex dynamic. From the beginning of the process I felt unable to speak my mind, hold my ground or say “no.” Though I found it hard to breathe in the dress, like really hard, she told me, “that’s how it’s supposed to fit” and I stayed silent. It was bound to end badly and it was all my fault.

Hop a plane with me now would you? As we fly from Los Angeles CA to Ottawa Ontario, Canada’s lovely capital city where I grew up and where the wedding dress debacle continues…

At the hotel I came face-to-face with what I knew before but could not admit: the dress was beautiful but I did not feel good in it. I did not feel confident in it. I felt exposed. Plus, you know, I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I was wearing a beautiful nightgown, bias cut silk-satin gorgeousness. All the dress needed was a cocktail, a cigarette and a handsome lover. Walking down the aisle in it would feel like wearing haute couture lingerie. I had to buy a new dress and I had two days.

The hotel suggested a boutique where I found an antique-y vibe pouf dress. Was it what I imagined my wedding dress would look like? No. But then again I had never been the girl who dreamed of her wedding day and bridal gown. I had dreamed of getting a dog and and visiting Paris. But I felt confident in this dress, like I was wearing big pouf-y armour. And I could breathe. There was only one tiny problem, the dress was three sizes too big. It would have to be altered in 24 hrs. No pressure.

Meanwhile, in Red Flag Land, on the day of the epic alterations I found out my fiancee had lied about a major financial issue. I forget exactly what it was because I’ve worked hard to block it out, but it was something big enough that I clearly remember thinking:

“I could legitimately pull a Runaway Bride move here. Now is the time in the Rom-Com where the bride-to-be runs away with the help of her friends.” And my friends, who by the way are each pretty badass, would have 100% supported my decision. But I didn’t tell them. I was too busy worrying about all the relatives who had flown-in for the ceremony, for some it was their first time in Canada.

https://www.vulture.com/2011/11/see-runaway-bride.html

“I can’t cancel the wedding because it’s not fair to the guests,” is what I thought. Did I mention I was a chronic people pleaser? Emotionally it felt impossible to cancel the wedding, but had I possessed more self-love, more self-confidence, I would have apologized to the guests and walked away.

Wedding day involves a flurry of activity and frankly Xanax should be given out to everyone. Part of the flurry is getting hair and makeup done. Having not lived in Ottawa for a million years I didn’t know the scene, so when it came to choosing hair and makeup professionals mistakes were made. The result was a bridal look that aged me ten years, including heavy 80’s makeup and early 2000’s pin-straight Rachel from Friends hair.

On the balcony of the hotel my dad walked me down the aisle. He looked so handsome and somehow vulnerable too. What was he thinking? Had he seen all the red sparkly flags? After our vows and the breaking of the glass – “Mazal Tov!” – one of my favorite songs, The Cure’s “Friday I’m In Love,” played. I wasn’t in love, but it was Friday and I was now married. Dear God what had I done?

Despite the wreckage that my insecurities and I caused, everything worked out in the end. My former boss and I became even closer friends. My ex-husband and I are still in touch and keep each other up to date on major life stuff, like: “Did you get your Covid vaccination? Is your family alright? How’s your dog doing?”

I still struggle with standing up for myself, speaking my truth and saying “no.” But my insecurities no longer run my life. They may ride alongside me as I live my life, like a trail of bugs, but I swat them away when they come too close.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=0thnAQKadpo

#weddingdrama #life #runawaybride #redflags #TheCure #losangeles #weddingdresses #marriage

The Peas Are Working

The city of Toronto is run by raccoons. We have north, south, east and west-side gangster raccoons. They are afraid of no one and do as they please. One summer we could barely use our deck due to an east-side family having taken up residence there.

The raccoons are the reason I currently have two metal pins sticking out of my ring finger. Two weeks ago I took our dog Lexie out for a midnight pee. A massive pandemic-fat raccoon named Fred was perched on our backyard fence. All 34 pounds of Lexie went ballistic. But Fred didn’t move an inch, he just stared at us with a look that said, “you are inferior to me, go away.” Lexie wanted to battle Fred over her turf, but instead I dragged her down the alley and around to our front door.

Turns out that during the drama Lexie had, on her adrenaline high, pulled me quite hard. My ring finger was swelling quickly and turning black and blue.

“I’ll just ice it with some peas, it’ll be fine,” I told my partner as I grabbed the frozen bag. He eyed my finger, then eyed me like I was completely nuts.

“Your finger is twisted, you probably fractured it.”

“It’s fine. It doesn’t even hurt, these peas are already working.”

The next day, after emailing finger photos to my doctor, (by then even I had to admit it looked a bit crooked), she immediately sent me to get x-rayed. After x-raying me the technician said:

“Ya, it’s totally fractured, go to the hospital right now.”

Yay, it was only fractured, I thought, not realizing that fractured was the same thing as broken, (I have zero excuse for not knowing what fractured meant.) A couple of days later I was operated on by a lovely plastic surgeon, awaking from surgery to find two metal pins sticking out of my finger. I also had a large cast that because of the anaesthetic felt like a 100 pound salami.

Throughout the week as I became accustomed to the cast, (I’ve never broken a bone before), I started doing more things. I decided that my lockdown-hair, (Ontario has been in lockdown for a thousand years), needed to be twisted up in a bun. I almost had the bun complete, though to be fair it wasn’t the chic-est of buns, when I realized that my hair was caught on the two pins sticking out of my finger.

“Oops.”

“What did you do now?” my partner asked.

I walked over to him with my arm stuck to the top of my head.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I just wanted to put my hair up in a bun, I…”

“Christ Almighty.”

He carefully extricated my hair from the pins without having to cut my hair (though to be honest a little haircut wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world). He sighed deeply.

“Can you please just take it easy, this thing needs to heal, it’s serious.”

“I know it’s serious. It’s just that, what am I supposed to do with my hair? I look like Crystal Gayle from the seventies. Remember how long her hair was?”

“For the love of God. I’m going to Costco. Don’t touch your hair while I’m out.”

#torontolife #torontodogs #raccoons #personalessay #pandemiclife #pandemichair

Fringed Purse

**Short fiction based on a true story**

“Where’s my fringed purse? Don’t let anyone take my fringed purse.”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry. I’m literally holding it.”

“Ok but be careful because if it’s not snapped shut then all my stuff will fall out.”

“It’s snapped shut and it’s secure.”

“Alright, but keep it with you. You have no idea how many compliments I get on that purse, it’s a highly desirable accessory. It’s from a British-Moroccan company, I forget the name.”

“Relax, everything is fine.”

“This place smells disgusting. Like urine, vomit and desperation. I’m so humiliated.”

“Don’t worry, no one is judging you.”

“Someone *literally* just stared at me like I was a sad low-life who had hit rock bottom. Though at least my purse makes me look less pathetic. I mean that’s the power of a good accessory, a great purse or a pair of stunning shoes can literally change your life. I…”

“Sir if you could just move to the right, we’ll get her on the stretcher. Are you riding with us?”

“Yes I am.”

“And he’s bringing my fringed purse with him. Don’t let him forget it. I’m feeling better anyways, maybe I don’t need the stretcher. Plus, I kind of like it down here. It smells gross but the cold tiles feel soothing. Maybe I can just lie here a little longer?”

“Ma’am, we’re bringing you and your purse to the hospital on this stretcher. Why don’t you just try and relax.”

“Okay, I’ll try, though relaxing is not my specialty. I’m more of a go, go go person, you know?”

“Could you please stop talking and let them do their job?”

“Alright, Jesus. I’m the one picking up god knows what diseases from the subway platform, you’d think you’d be nicer to me.”

“If you don’t stop talking I will leave your fringed purse here.’

“That’s cruel.”

“Mr. Paramedic Tom, you said your name was Tom right? This is my first ambulance ride, it’s a little exciting, you know? Like with the lights on and everything, swooshing through the streets…”

“Well, if you’re lucky, this will be your last ambulance ride.”

“Good point. You are very nice. Thank you for being very nice, I appreciate it. I’m just going to close my eyes for a few minutes.’

“Good idea.” Tom said.

“Ma’am? We’ve arrived at the hospital.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Paul, do you still have my fringed purse?”

“It’s right here, don’t worry.”

“Oh thank God. I see a man over there, barfing and that other guy looks like he’s shooting up. People do drugs right outside the hospital? Oh God, those poor souls. Tom, I think you and your partner need to help them, I’m fine. They need you more than I do, I can walk into the hospital with Paul.”

“Ma’am, just let us finish our job, okay? We can’t take you off the stretcher, we’re not allowed.”

“Oh, sorry. Sorry to be a pain.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“Paul, can I have my purse? I just want to hold it.”

“Here, I’ll rest it next to you on the stretcher.”

“I feel like I’m passing out, even though I’m already lying down. Why did I collapse like that? I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Everything is going to be okay, it’s all going to be okay.”

Sparkle Brain

I never, ever remember that I had a brain aneurysm coiled a few yrs ago, but I just found this…

I can now officially say that I have a sparkly brain! On Wednesday I had my brain aneurysm “coiled” with platinum – so swanky! The surgery went smoothly, for which I’m very grateful. But My God Almighty, I have never experienced headaches like that. I spent the night riding waves of intense nausea mixed with the most brutal pain.

As with all my medical experiences, it had an absurd, comical side to it: the patient next to me had a visitor, (dressed head-to-toe in bedazzled splendour), who was blasting Celine Dion while performing a weird interpretive dance (in an ICU-type recovery room). And no, I’m not exaggerating.

The doctors wrote me a prescription for Percocet to help with the headaches and I was paranoid that I would become addicted. That I would end up like Nurse Jackie, doing anything to secure my next high. Once home though the drugs were a godsend and I spent most of the day dreaming of Iron Maiden – who were dressed like Wizards – flying through the sky!

(Author’s Note: A special thanks goes out to my cancer! Had I not been in the hospital being treated for Mesothelioma – where I ended up with “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome” after a bad reaction to a drug – I never would have had my brain scanned and my aneurysm would have gone untreated. So thank you Mesothelioma!)

Spaghetti Can Flowers

This summer I received wild flowers in a tin spaghetti can. The flowers arrived with a package of butcher’s bacon. Yes, that’s right, I received flowers and bacon together.

At my B & B in small-town Quebec there was a knock on my door. I checked that I was presentable, threw on my Covid mask and opened it.

A thin, sun-hardened arm reached out and passed me the flowers. They were lovely and had clearly been arranged with care, not simply tossed in the can.

“These are beautiful, what a sweet gesture, thank you so much, I…”

The same thin, sun-hardened arm reached out again and passed me a package wrapped in brown paper.

“It’s for your breakfast with your friend. You’re going to visit her today, right? It’s bacon.”

Wearing a black goth-y mumu, hair in a giant bun, floral mask on, I stood holding the flowers and bacon. I felt like an actress in a scene from a quirky indie film. The gift-giver was my ex-boyfriend from 30 years ago, we had dated briefly when we were just twenty years old.

I had come to Quebec specifically for a late summer, covid-safe outdoor visit with one of my oldest & most beautifully eccentric girlfriends. When I realized my old-boyfriend lived nearby I thought it would be fun to have a coffee or a glass of wine with him and catch up. I was not prepared for flowers and bacon, nor for what I had experienced the night before.

The previous evening I had spent sitting in a field with my ex and two other men, one a close family friend of his and one a straw hat-wearing man whom he appeared to loathe. A somewhat alarming-looking fire roared nearby in a metal barrel and a giant pirate’s flag decorated the outdoor workspace behind us. Music blasted from somewhere as we drank wine from jam jars that had seen better days. At various points in the evening the guys took turns peeing outside.

“If u need to go pee, you can just do it out here, don’t worry, we won’t look and you’ll be safe. I’ll protect you,” said my ex.

On the walk over to his artist-meets Hells’ Angels living quarters, I discovered that the man I once knew was buried under layers of pain. He had a hard time making eye contact, he fidgeted and he was drunk. Though he smelled like beer, he smelled more like suffering; layers of suffering. Like a trauma layer cake with his old self as the bottom layer. Followed by a layer of deep grief and loss, then a layer of un-treated depression and self-destructive behaviour, iced with a thick layer of sadness. I knew he had been in the Service, so added to the layers were sprinkles of PTSD.

I felt his spirit had been so badly broken, that he had given up and now resided at the bottom of the trauma cake, unable to cast off the layers.

Later that night, alone at my B & B, I was overcome with sorrow. Deep sorrow, sorrow so intense that it alarmed me. I wanted to help him. I wanted to witness him with his spirit intact again. I wanted to smash that trauma cake.

So no, I was not prepared to receive flowers and bacon the next morning. But I will never forget them. The moment was tender and real and awkward and despite the sadness I had felt the night before and still felt, it was also beautiful.

#trauma #oldboyfriends #lifestories #quebec

Finding Urethra

“Let’s have you pee in a bed pan today!” My nurse exclaimed with an air of excitement, like we were about to go see our favorite band.

I had been in the hospital for almost four weeks, (to treat Peritoneal Mesothelioma, a rare cancer), peeing through a catheter the entire time. I was game to try going on my own, but I was weak and wasn’t sure I would have the strength to pull myself up on the bed. My nurse took out my catheter then helped me into an awkward position, crouched above a cardboard pan.

The pan looked like a larger version of those biodegradable herb pots, with my vulva like an alien spacecraft hovering above the brown pebbled earth.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” said my nurse, leaving the room.

I looked out the window at the falling snow. No urine was exiting my body. “I command you to pee!” I said in a theatrical voice to an empty room. Nada. Not a drop. I was sweating and wanted to lie down, the position required too much strength to hold.

The succulent-crystal gurus say, “Ask The Universe – with love and gratitude – for what you need. Then visualize having what you need – and poof! – you will manifest it.” So I asked the universe to help me pee, in what I hoped was a loving and grateful manner. Then I visualized a long river-like flow of urine exiting my body – swoosh! I paused, ears tilted, in full manifestation mode. Nothing. Maybe the universe was busy helping people with more serious problems, like those living in war torn countries. I couldn’t blame the universe, I’d do the same thing if I had magical powers & everyone was hounding me for help.

I was sure I was due for another blast of Hydromorphone. After two surgeries and HIPEC, (hot chemo poured in the abdomen and swished around), I was ablaze with pain. I buzzed the nurse’s station:

“Hi. I can’t pee. Nothing is coming out. Also, I think I’m due for more painkillers.” My nurse responded, “be patient, keep trying, it’ll come. And no, you’re not due for more pain meds yet.”

I stared gloomily at my crotch. “I know you’re in there, come out come out wherever you are!” Still nothing. I tried reaching for my water cup and fell into the pan.

My nurse appeared, “don’t worry sweetie, your bladder is just waking up from a long sleep, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

She helped me lie down and inserted a new catheter and we chatted about her weekend plans. I loved my nurse, I loved all of my nurses – they were like athletic shoe-wearing angels tending to me with care and quiet confidence.

“I’ll see about your pain meds” she said, as she handed me a damp towel for my sweating brow.

After five weeks in the hospital – and no peeing on my own – I was transferred to a Rehab Hospital to work on regaining strength, gaining weight and learning to walk again. My left femoral nerve had conked out during surgery, (from being splayed out for so long on the operating table) and I had awoken to find that I couldn’t move my leg.

The nurses at the rehab hospital were hardcore, they were like the Marine Corp of Nurses. They immediately took out my catheter and started “bladder training.” They seemed confident that I would be peeing in no time.

I was instructed to try peeing on my own every two hours. I would slowly make my way over to the bathroom using my walker, trying my best to avoid looking at my emaciated body in the mirror. Sitting on the toilet with the sink water running, I would wait five minutes, then get up and do my haunted girl shuffle back to bed.

Bladder training required waiting six hours before being allowed to have a catheter inserted to void the urine. In between physiotherapy, sleeping and doing my laps around the floor, my bladder would fill up to the brim; it was horrible. At this point I was no longer on pain meds, but I would often sneak a Xanax from my private stash just so that I didn’t completely lose it.

The nurses were required to scan my bladder to see how much urine I was retaining before they were allowed to insert a catheter to drain me. A catheter, in this case a long rubbery one which looked like a hose, was lubed up then inserted into my urethra. The urine would then drain out into the brown organic pan – it was called doing an “in and out.”

Then came the day when one of my favorite nurses dropped a bomb: “you’ll be going home very soon and your bladder nerves are still not working. So today I’m going to start teaching you how to do your own in and outs.” Dear God, have mercy on me please.

Thus began a brief chapter in my life called “Finding Urethra.” Because if you want to drain your urine, you first need to find the hole that it comes out of. And by hole, I mean a really tiny, almost imperceptible slit that is kind of hidden by the rest of the female bits. Maybe I’m in the minority or I missed a crucial health class back in high school, but I honestly didn’t really understand where the urethra was. So I used a mirror to watch the nurse and at night, under my blankets, I examined myself by the light of my cellphone.

I had an irrational fear of doing the procedure on my own. It’s like all my anxiety about having cancer was projected onto this one procedure and I couldn’t imagine that I would ever master the skill. I envisioned myself at home, swollen like a balloon with unreleased urine, until one day I just exploded, spraying pee everywhere.

But like anything in life, when your back is against the wall and you have no other options, you figure things out. One day, having finally located my elusive urethra, I successfully performed my own in and out! I basked in the glory of the moment, telling everyone on my floor my good news. I celebrated by eating an extra cup of ice cream (side note: the little hospital ice cream cups are, unlike all other hospital food, strangely delicious).

A few days later I was discharged from the hospital with a supply of tiny, clear catheters, lube, a giant splint on my leg, a walker, crutches and a cane. It would be six more months until my bladder woke up. Then, one day, while sitting on the toilet, I suddenly heard a beautiful noise – the swoosh of urine! The universe had finally granted me my wish.

Author’s Note:
My bladder nerves only partially woke up; I still have to self-catheterize twice a day. This is what the little catheters, aka, pee sticks, look like:

Rituals

With the Covid nightmare, trick-or-treating is not really happening – at least it’s not supposed to be here in Toronto. Yet this year I found the rituals of Halloween soothing, but in an odd way. Soothing in the way that putting calamine lotion on a mosquito bite calms the itch for 2 min but then you need to put more lotion on. Like a slightly obsessive compulsive soothing.

I probably went to the Dollar Store 15 times, each time buying a couple of skulls, or ghosts made out of hideous flammable materials. I would stare at the walls of merchandise, (while wearing my mask of course) and think, “I just need to find the perfect witch…” Insert “and everything will be alright.” A vaccine will be found for Covid. Biden/Harris will win the election. I will get to visit my brother in NYC and my Oncologist will find solutions to treat the weird symptoms I’ve been experiencing lately.

I would return home and add the decorations to our postage-sized front lawn. Then I would stare at it, as if I were a fancy landscape artist trying to decide where to plant an expensive shrub. And each time I would think “it just needs one more hanging ghoul, or sparkly pumpkin and everything will be perfect.” Of course perfection never came and finally I had to cut myself off from what was becoming an unhealthy compulsion.

It’s now Halloween evening. I have two giant bowls of chocolate bars and chips and I’m wearing a sparkly unicorn headband. So far we’ve had one early trick-or-treater whom we had planned on seeing: our neighbour’s one and a half year old child, dressed like a terrified fox. He picked a matching fox-orange bag of cheetos from the bowl, a socially-distanced bowl. And for a minute everything felt normal. Our face masks not withstanding, it felt like just another Halloween. A joyful night filled with candy and costumes and faux scariness. The real scariness temporarily swept away by the Dollar Store witch’s broomstick. It was a lovely moment.

~~Continue reading “Rituals”~~

Teatime

Today I’m trying CBD tea for the first time. I’m hoping it will help my anxiety, which recently has taken possession of my stomach, making it difficult to eat (though I wouldn’t say “no” to a cookie right now). Now that I think of it, I think this little packet of CBD tea, (which I ordered from the Ontario Government), should come packaged with two shortbread cookies. Perhaps the cookies could be in the shape of pills – how fun would that be?!

Like most, (or perhaps all), CBD products, this tea has a tiny amount of THC, 1%. Now to most people I know, 1% of THC would be laughable, it wouldn’t even count. But I’m one of the those THC-sensitive types, it tends to make me paranoid instead of mellow. So let’s see how this experiment goes…I don’t want to end up in the ER again like the time I took too many bites of a pot cookie. 😬

photo from the website envisioningtheamericandream.com

#cbd #edibles #anxiety