Recovery Begins

Hi Friends,
Julie returned from Italy on Monday night with a very lovely gift: a bottle of Inferno red wine in honor of my last radiation treatment. How appropriate is that?

I'm stupid tired today, but that's to be expected.

We had a nice weekend with my mother. She arrived on Friday night, and on Saturday we got a call from a florist saying that a bouquet was on its way over for her. The flowers were beautiful, and the card read that they were from Ann Clarke. "Momma" Clarke (Barb's mom) has been like a second mother to me during these last eight months, and during that time she has sent her poetry and prose, cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving meals, loaves, wine, to just name a few items. When my mother realized who had sent them, she started to cry and talked about how much she has wanted to be here for me (I asked her not to come but to take care of my ailing father until I was better) and how appreciative she is for all of the support I have received. She really appreciated that gesture, from one mother to another. Thank you, Momma Clarke.

On Sunday, my mother, Catherine and I had brunch with my cousin Ellen and her husband Gary, who were in Toronto. Ellen is recovering well from chemo, but has entered into a post-treatment fear of recurrence. It was really good to see her and once I feel stronger I look forward to being an emotional support to her in this new reality.

Then on Monday we went down for the last treatment. When Mom walked into the radiation waiting area she lost it again. Setting foot in there made my experience of the last few months more real for her, and it brought back the 25 visits to radiation she made with my father 14 years ago. So it was an important catharsis. (I should also point out the music for the day: on the drive down, U2's "Beautiful Day" was playing on the radio. Then the last song on the radiation table was Madonna's "Like a Prayer." On the last beam I heard the lyrics: "Life is a mystery/everyone must stand alone...I close my eyes/I think I'm falling/Out of the sky I close my eyes/Heaven help me..." How fitting.) When I was finished the technicians asked her to come back to meet them, which was really lovely. Then we went for tour of the hospital so she could see the various clinics (we skipped the chemo ward) and be able to visualize where I return for my follow-up appointments. I had imagined that walking out of there the last day of treatment I would be pretty emotional, but I found myself watching her to make sure she was alright. Perhaps that was for the best, although the fact that I have finished hasn't really sunk in yet. Maybe it will feel more real once I get my energy back and my skin starts to heal up.

In Ruth Rakoff's book *When My World Was Very Small,* a memoir of her cancer treatment, she talks about the "cancer gift" - the item you get to buy yourself for getting through this ordeal.
So perhaps the finality of all this will all sink in when I set foot in the new leather boots I've been visualizing...
Love,
Kip

Last Day of Treatment

Hi Friends,
After eight months of treatment, it feels like Christmas Day. If I were a dog, this is what you would see here today. There are more posts to come this week, but I want to take this moment to say thank you for all of your tremendous support.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
With much much love,
Kip

Treatment Card

Hi Friends,
Above is a copy of my radiation card. At the bottom is a scanner sticker, so each time I enter the waiting area for an appointment I scan this card. My photo comes up to confirm my identity, and the treatment unit is informed that I have arrived. Then the computer in the unit brings up my radiation specifications. When I walk in the room they ask me my birthday to confirm it's me, and everything else in in place. With 457 people getting radiation at PMH each day, this system makes it all run very smoothly. Another reason for me to be thankful I'm getting treatment down there.
Today, Catherine, Susan Fast, my mother and I went to see a movie. It's nice to have my mother here, and we have had a good reunion. Tomorrow my cousin Ellen--who had ovarian cancer--is coming into town and we will all have lunch together. Then the countdown begins for the last day of treatment...I'm excited and scared.
Mostly excited.
Much love,
Kip

Two More to Go...

Hi Friends,
We are getting so close to the end, and it won't come soon enough. The left side of my chest and neck are now raw and sore. I keep reminding myself that it just means that the radiation is working. The fatigue is interesting: it hits hard about an hour after the treatment and I have to sleep, then it eases up a bit. Each day it's a little harder to recover, not at all surprising. People getting treated down there are so tired, day after day. One man with whom I talk each day has a protocol of 20 days of radiation, with two treatments a day. He waits around and sleeps in various parts of the hospital between appointments. So when I feel draggy and sore, I just think of him. At least I get to come home when I'm done.
Tuesday I got a virus on my computer and it totally froze on me. It was one of those nasty ones that disguises itself as something else and I spent too much time and energy trying to get it to work. Yesterday we got it into the shop and then went down to the hospital for the day - doctors appointments, treatment, physio. In between we went to the brain cancer wing on the 18th floor where they have really nice comfy couches and where I could lie down. The physio was working on the fluid on my right side; she did a massage treatment and then taped my side. The skin lifts in four channels so that fluid can more easily drain to my back. I'm now practicing lymphatic massage while I meditate. I learned yesterday that the lymph system responds to both the sympathetic and para-sympathetic nervous system. So it moves more quickly when you have a raised heart rate as well as when you are in a meditative state. I'm working at meditating and massaging that side of my body back to health.
Last night my mother called to say that she's coming to Toronto tomorrow night. My brother is moving in with my father for the weekend, and my mother is coming here for a few days and my last treatment on Monday. It will be good to see her.
I suspect after these past eight months, it will be a teary reunion.
Much love,
Kip

Run From the Cure...

Hi Friends,
Today was the beginning of "graduation week" for my radiation cohort. Today was Miss Rose's last day and she brought donuts for the celebration. As she, Catherine and I chatted in the general waiting area, we were joined by a woman named Tawabish who is now just starting her second week of treatment. Tawabish and I met on several days last week as we waited to go into the radiation rooms, all gowned up. As the four of us chatted, Miss Rose was called in for her treatment; she asked them to go on to the next person so we could have a visit. Saying goodbye to new friends is both happy and sad: I'm so glad she is through her treatments, but I wonder if she will be ok. Her pathology report was not good and she lives alone in north Toronto. My fingers are crossed for her.
Miss Rose, Tawabish and I compared chemo experiences and talked about how the "treatment" make us feel so much sicker than we were before we began. Next week both Tawabish and I will finish and I commented that we will both run from the hospital. "Yes" she said, "we will run from the cure." How true.
I have attached above a photo of the multivitamins I am taking during my radiation treatment. Radiation works by creating free radicals that damage all cells in the affected area; antioxidants protect cells from free radicals, so there is a limited amount of vitamins I can take (a child's dosage) in order for the radiation to still be effective. I haven't chewed my berry-flavored vitamins in many years. It's just another example of my miraculous rebirth.

Love,
Kip

An Uncanny Resemblance?

Hi Friends,
Many thanks to Ruth, Catherine's sister-in-law, for sending us a Shaggy Chia Pet (anonymously) after we posted the Chia photos. Shaggy is now growing hair on the kitchen windowsill and is quickly catching up to me. Catherine gave my my first trim yesterday (not a lot of hair, but a bit of a clean up). Julie took that hair with her yesterday as she left for Italy for the March break. She will scatter that new hair on Lake Como, where Giselle placed my old hair in the fall. Catherine and I won't be able to get to Italy this year as we had hoped, but I'm really glad Julie is able to make the trip.
Not much to report today. Four weeks are now over, and only six more treatments left. My left rotator cuff began yelling this week from the treatments (the surgeon said this might happen), so I was in to the physiotherapist again yesterday; she did some heavy-duty stretching with me, gave me homework stretches and already it feels better. With only six treatments to go I'm confident I'll get through it ok.
This afternoon I'm watching the news coverage on Japan and feeling overwhelmed by the devastation. I feel incredibly fortunate to be sitting here in my home with Catherine, sipping tea, safe and warm.
Love,
Kip

Cuts for Cancer

Hi Everyone,
My friend and colleague Margaret Walker in the School of Music is participating this year in Queen's Cuts for Cancer. She is donating her long, lovely hair on behalf of everyone in our department who recently has been touched by cancer (this includes myself, Karen Frederickson and, I just learned, Istvan Anhalt, a retired composer from the School of Music who is now in palliative care at the Kingston General Hospital). If anyone would like more information on the event, please go to:http://www.qhha.ca/cuts/
Thanks, Meg.
I'm holding up, tired, a bit swollen, red, but, as Catherine reminded me, today I "break the back" of this week. The burn increases on the left side and up through the neck area (they are radiating the lymph area of the neck as well just to be sure). Yesterday the technicians showed me all of the computerized images of where they are radiating, where the beams are directed, etc. Talk about looking like a cyborg, and it would be totally fascinating if it just weren't my body. Best not to think about what's happening in there...
Much love,
Kip