Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Take Two. Let’s Try This Again.

March 31, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 5 Comments

E and his band mate A wait to go on stage.

Sometimes I just want to start over. Tear out the page. Crumple it up. Toss it into the nearest garbage can. Press delete. Delete. Delete. Begin again. Change everything. Rewrite the story.

Never have I wanted to do this more than with this story about E.

After the holidays, we settled back into our old familiar routine. The one we enjoyed before the thunderclap of cancer struck. It was as if all that crazy-making stuff never happened. Monday to Friday focused around our work. Weekends were filled with errands, chores, family meals, music and church. Smack dab in the middle of January we celebrated E’s birthday with joy and profound gratitude. After the roller coaster ride of December this mundane life of ours felt good. Humdrum was welcome. The unremarkable everydayness had lulled us into believing that things were back to normal. It was life as usual.

Not so.

Truth was, E’s appointment with the Radiation Oncologist was scheduled for the end of January. There was no denying, nor getting around that. This was “the meeting” where we would get the lowdown on this scary disease that had invaded E’s body. The results of the CatScan and the biopsy would be explained to us. This was where rubber would hit the road.

The Cancer Agency sent E a package of information to prepare him for this meeting. He filled out the forms, read the brochures, watched the DVDs and composed a list of questions. I borrowed a snazzy digital recorder from one of my colleagues to tape the session. We were prepared. At least so we thought.

I met E at the Cancer Centre on the afternoon of his appointment. It was a mad rush from work to the Centre with five minutes to spare. I flopped down in the seat next to him expecting a long wait. My plan was to scarf down a sandwich before meeting with the Oncologist. Two bites into my cheese and lettuce and we were called. I quickly stuffed the sandwich back into my bag and followed E and the intake nurse into “the room.”

We exchanged pleasantries with the nurse while she took E’s temperature and checked his blood pressure. A few minutes later the Oncologist appeared. It was one of those jaw dropping moments. She was nothing like what I was expecting. I was thinking someone more like Einstein or the original Dr. Who. Someone who looked like they could cure cancer. Not pose for the cover of Vogue. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, slim, perfect skin and hair. Beautiful smile. Stylishly dressed from head to toe. And by toe, I mean kick-ass high black leather boots. She was lovely in every way and immediately put E and I at ease.

I switched on the recorder. She began with a round of standard questions to determine E’s overall health. What other things besides the mess in his mouth were causing him grief. E rhymed off the litany of ailments that had been hurting, aching, paining, irritating and gnawing at him over the past two years. It reminded me of the Skeleton Song we all sang when we were kids. With the toe bone connected to the foot bone. Was there anything that didn’t hurt I wondered?

After the inquisition, the Oncologist probed and prodded his neck and throat checking for lumps and bumps. Looking for signs. Was the cancer on the move? Spreading like wildfire to the rest of his body or behaving itself and staying contained in the front of his mouth?

Modern medicine is full of wonders to behold. Technological marvels that are mind-blowing. Like the probe that allowed us to see inside E’s nose and throat. More like science fiction than science seeing this strange interior world so close-up and personal. Beyond the uvula. It reminded me of the Biblical story of Jonah and the whale.

After the examination the doctor discussed “the next steps.” This took both of us by surprise. We thought we’d be leaving with a surgery date and a pep talk on how this would soon be behind us. A little inconsequential blip in our lives that would be over with a quick snip and a stitch. Not next steps.

E wearing one of his favorite Hawaiian shirts.

What we quickly learned was that the results from the CatScan and biopsy weren’t one hundred percent definitive. Inconclusive. They didn’t know the full extent of the disease. Whether it had spread to other parts of his body. So this uncertainty meant more testing. Big Kahuna examinations. MRI and PET Scan.

The drive across town to home was dismal. Again I was alone in the truck. A Gloomy Gus. Consumed with worst case scenarios. The wind had just been kicked out of our sails. We had just spent the month believing that things were going to be okay. E was back to normal. He was feeling great. Healthier than he had in a long time. This wasn’t such a big deal, we thought. Certainly not deadly. Nothing to worry about. A piece of cake. Walk in the park.

For two smart people, we were seriously naive when it came to the Big C.

Back at the house, E and I spoke briefly about the appointment. I asked him how he thought it went.

“Not good,” he said.

Then I knew we were in big trouble.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. It Smells Just Like Yesterday.

March 11, 2013March 11, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Certain smells always bring me back. Flood my brain with memories. Ones I thought were long gone and forgotten. I love it when this happens. It’s enough to send me on a scent hunt. Digging up recollections like hidden clues to buried treasures.

Then becomes now in a heartbeat.

I can’t walk into a kitchen where baking has taken place without thinking immediately of Ma’s cookie baking emporium at 204. Oatmeal raisin. Hermits. Ginger Snaps. Sweet and spicy. Rich with love and motherly goodness. One whiff of Italian food and it’s a Spaghetti Saturday Night. The best comfort food smack dab in the middle of a brutal Northwestern Ontario winter. Cold as the Arctic outside but warm and deliciously cozy inside. Turkey roasting in the oven conjures up decades of Christmases enjoyed with our family. This mouthwatering array of aromas reminds me to count my blessings.

I can close my eyes and smell Ma’s Second Debut face cream. Breathe in her presence. Inhale it’s gentle loveliness as my lips brush against her cheek. Just like I did every morning before I headed off to school as a kid. This fine scent not only evokes memories of the softness of her skin but the kindness of her heart. In her later years she treated herself to a weekly hairdo. She would return feeling pampered and pretty, filling the house with the beauty parlor scent of freshly coiffed hair. Set for the week. I’m reminded that although true beauty blossoms from within, it’s also nourished with a dab of cream and a nice do.

When I wash with Ivory soap I think of The Old Man. A grimy bar sat in the soap dish next to the bathroom sink. As soon as he got home from work he washed off the grunge that clung to his face and hands after a long day on the road delivering Holsum bread and Persian buns. He’d emerge from the bathroom a new man. An Ivory man. Pure and simple. Now when I stand in the shower preparing for my day, lathering on this creamy white soap, I am reminded that hard work of any sort is honorable. No matter what you do. Sell bread. Or shoes. Fly to the moon. Or stand on your feet all day. Work, especially in service of others, is good.

Old Spice makes me think of Sunday mornings and going to church. Once a week The Old Man donned a suit and tie, and escorted Ma and me to Christ Lutheran Church on Walkover Street. We drove there, despite the friendly invitation to hoof it. All week he wore his stiff blue twill uniform that smelled of flour dust, sweat, and when I was really young, tobacco. But on Sundays, he dressed for the occasion. He was a stylish confident man with his two favorite girls in tow. Old Spice has always been a feel good scent memory. Yet also contradictory. Like The Old Man, in many ways. A peculiar blend of spirituality and carnal pleasure. Old time religion and hedonism. Fear of the Lord and the folly of the man. Imagine all that in just one sniff.

The mauve lilac bush at 204.

There’s nothing like the perfume from a mauve lilac. One hint and I’m instantly transplanted to the front yard at 204. There, a charming little tree bloomed every year in June. It marked the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation. It was a symbol of freedom and carefree days. A simple bouquet adorned Ma’s kitchen table and filled the room with such exquisite inimitable beauty. I’m reminded of the wonder and splendor just outside our door. The natural abundance of the earth. It’s symmetry and grace. And for that I am grateful.

Then there’s the fragrance of first love. I can’t walk in the early morning rains of April or May without thinking of him. Not every time. For the memory to come, the rain must possess a particular scent. A bittersweetness. Sadness in the joy. Longing in the reverie. Then I go back to this love that was beginning to unravel. So new yet tired of itself. Still, all these years later I think tenderly of him. Of us then. I know the smell of him. It reminds me to be inspired by love. To carry on. Love again. And again. Enlarge my heart. Grow it bigger. Until it beats no more.

And oh, the sweetest of all perfumes. My newborn babies. Tender. Innocent. Still so close to heaven in their scent. Still so filled with the essence of the divine. Without earthly tarnish. Nor painful sheaths sullying their pristine souls. Just perfection. I have been blessed to enjoy this redolence three times. Three times I breathed in their beautiful newness. Each time I was reborn.

I’ve read that the science behind this sentimental journey originates with the olfactory bulb in our limbic system, which is associated with memory. Called the “emotional brain” it allows us to conjure up memories in an instant just by smelling something.

I am grateful for this bulb in my brain that allows me to go back. Not just remember. But to be there. Time travel does exist. And the beautiful thing is, we all possess this wondrous gift of uncommon sense.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. What Were You Thinking?

March 3, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

E before he quit smoking.

I’m not a mind reader. I don’t have X-ray vision. No telepathic abilities that I’m aware of. I’m definitely not a clairvoyant and the last time I checked I don’t have ESP. But on occasion I do have an acute sixth sense. Like Spider Man. Sometimes I just know something’s up.

Such was the case the night we went to visit a gravely ill friend at the hospital.

After two decades together I thought E and I shared everything. Our thoughts. Feelings. Fears. But I learned that with this cancer thing, that wasn’t true. Fact is, no one really knows for sure what’s going on inside another person’s head. Nor do we know the things kept tucked away in timorous hearts. Our interior worlds are ours alone. We share what we share. Give what we give. Reveal only what’s comfortable or safe. We’re transparent at times. But more often than not, opaque. The proverbial window into a person’s soul is often dirty. Foggy. Obscured. Dark and scary.

We rode up the hospital elevator to the seventh floor in easy silence. Each in our own private world. Elevators have this affect on us. I watched attentively as the red digital numbers over the doors changed. Floor by floor. Thankfully no one else joined us on our ride upward. I wasn’t in the mood for company. A fleeting thought of our sick friend crossed my mind. Followed by an unsettling twitch of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I took a gulp of air and let it out with flapping lips. I sounded like a horse snorting.

Just before the doors swung open, I glanced over at E. There was something about his expression that concerned me. Did it bother him to be back in a hospital? Was he looking down the road to the day he’d have to return? Was he afraid?

The doors opened. We stepped out into the bright glaring lights of the corridor. A startling contrast from the dimly lit elevator car with its hypnotic hum. The steel box that confined and contained our emotions.

Boom. Reality hit. Raw. Intense. Chilly. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“How do you feel?” I blurted out.

“I’m fine,” he auto-responded.

“No, how do you really feel?” I persisted.

“I’m tired,” he exhaled fully, releasing weeks of held emotions. “And depressed. I don’t know if I’m tired because I’m depressed. Or depressed because I’m so tired.”

“I understand,” I said.

Finally some truth. A place to start.

For the first time in a month, E fully understood that he wasn’t alone. He had me. No matter what. Although the cancer was inside his body, the journey was ours. We were in this together. The good. The bad. And the ugly. We were a shameless spaghetti western. Clint Eastwood, this movie belonged to us.

The next day I sat down at my computer and wrote this poem.

The Truth About This Thing Called Cancer

Yesterday when we got off the elevator at the 7th floor

And we were heading towards room 721

To visit our friend who was back in the hospital

Having a blood transfusion

In preparation for surgery the next day

His third in nine months.
His body was covered in scars

From years of cuts and mends

Repairs and retribution

A missing foot

An ulcer on the other

Now in peril.
But this isn’t about him.
I asked you how you were feeling

Really feeling

No fake bullshit

No more keeping secrets.

I’m a big girl

I can hear the word cancer

The Big C

Without wanting to dive

Into the river of terror.
I’m your love

And you are mine

We’ll do this together.
So you confessed.
You said that even though

You laugh and joke

Put on your happy face

There are times that you feel tired

And depressed.
You sleep

Because you are tired

Which makes you depressed

So you sleep

To make the depression

Go away.

You can’t tell

The cause

From the effect.
I told you that I understood.
But the truth is

I only understand

Half of the equation.

I don’t know cancer

But I know depression

And the desire to sleep it away.
I know love

And the power it wields

The healing it contains

For both of us
I told you right from the start

That all I ever wanted

Was for you to

Tell me the truth.
And that goes for this thing too.

My Thing About God