Holy Mackerel

If you've read my blog for a while, you'll know all too well I try to inject a little humour (yes, that's what it's supposed to be ... now you know you're supposed to laugh) into my posts, regardless of how mundane or solemn their topics might be. Lately, however, I've been finding it kind of difficult to come up with the funnies. I can't explain it. These crazy and strange ideas usually just fly off the tip of my skull and onto the page without much effort at all, but recently, it's been a chore. A real chore. It's very hard being funny. And I don't mean funny-looking, because I do that real well. Funny-sounding, I also get top marks for. Especially lately, with my toiletting dilemmas. By the way, our upstairs toilet broke yesterday morning. And yes, I seem to have broken it, although Mr. Handsome thought it was his doing until I opened my big mouth and corrected him. If only I could learn to keep my huge gob shut once in a while and allow the ...

Part of the challenge of having a child who has had cancer is the after effects. Of course, when you're in the midst of the major challenge of trying to save your child's life, the poisonous drugs the doctors pump into him are welcome. Anything to make that ugly beast go away. Life after cancer is not something most people really think about. Get rid of the cancer, that's the goal. Although we were warned numerous times about how the doctors weren't really sure what the effects of the chemo would be on Dee, we knew we had no choice but to use the drugs in an effort to kill the tumour. This, along with everything else done to Dee, was in an effort to save his life. The nature of Dee's cancer (Stage 3 Neuroblastoma) required heavy artillery. In addition to numerous surgeries, there was a medley of chemos injected into his tiny body on a regular basis. One of the numerous and varied chemo cocktails injected into Dee was Doxorubicin, a drug the colour of blood. Doxo is...

The kids are back at school, and my heart is both heavy and happy. I have to admit I miss them when they're not home all day, and I'm not at work. The house seems too empty, too quiet. I don't know what to do with myself, because my days are usually full of taking care of the kids, making sure they're okay, that their needs are met. After all, that's my job. Not only that, but when they're home, their voices and bodies -- their souls -- fill any void in the house. It bursts at the seams with all the life and love, noise and boisterous activity. It never ceases to amaze me how just their footsteps coming up to the house at the end of the school day fills me up again, makes me happy, makes me smile and long to hold them, or even just to rub their arm, to let them know I missed them, that I hope they had a great day, and that I need them in my life. I realize that, when they're home, I don't often show those emotions, because much of my time is spent tellin...

Dee's annual oncology appointment on Thursday went swimmingly. Another year cancer free! Not that Dee needs any reason to jump off the living room furniture and do cartwheels. The sun rising every morning is reason enough for him. By the way, please excuse the mess in the living room. I've been too busy picking my toes.

I went out for dinner with my friend Slut the other evening. That's her new name. Slut. It used to be Pick, as in Pickerel, as in the fish. Now it's Slut. She's very nosy as well, so I could very well call her Nosy, but Slut is just much more appropriate. I suppose I could call her Nosy Slut. Or Slutty Nose. Something to think about. Why? I don't know. It just is. Well, there's actually a story behind it, but it's really too long and inane to go into here. Besides, it doesn't really matter because, chances are, she is a slut, and I just don't know it yet. I've known Slut for about 11 years now. Amazing, really. We met at CHEO when our sons were both diagnosed with cancer. Her son had leukemia, mine had neuroblastoma. Cancer is cancer. The same shock, the same terror coursing through every mother's system as they helplessly watch the poisonous chemo make its way through their children's tiny bodies, and hope that this is all just a terrible...

So, today's the day. "Dennis" is scheduled for his annual cancer check-up. We go this afternoon. I feel okay about it, really. Better than I did last week when I thought about it, after little Tuesday's passing. I still have some butterflies in my stomach, and I know I always will, everytime this time of year comes around. I won't show Dennis my fear, the tornado roiling around inside of me, as we enter what used to be our second home and is now just a place we come to every month or two, but would much rather not. Instead, I'll hold Dennis' hand as he gets his blood drawn, and as the doctor pokes and prods his belly and his glands and asks him lots of personal questions that a 10-year-old boy really would rather not answer. And I will try not to stare when I see little children on various beds, with their baby bird bald heads and big, scared eyes, and their parents sitting there, the look of abject fear on their faces. I will try to forget that that was ...

A rather uneventful weekend here, which is so very unusual, given that we are who we are. What I mean is, something is always happening around here, whether it be a car accident, someone getting a finger caught in the basement door, or having to throw the children into the dungeon for bad behaviour yet again. The reason for such uneventfulness this past weekend: the kids were sick. Our daughter, "Milly", came down with a nasty cold last week that seemed to eat the inside of her throat and nasal passages, creating raw patches that made her cry. So she's been home for most of the week lying on the couch with Kleenex stuffed up her nostrils and the remote in her hand, a creamsicle in the other. Pretty awful virus, I must say. Knocked her out for days, which is a bigger deal now that she's in Grade 8. Missing a couple of days is much harder to make up for than it was when she was in Grade 4. I felt for her as she lay there, comatose on the couch, which is so unlike her. ...

I thought of posting something amusing today because Saturday seems to be my favourite day of the week because I can stay in my pajamas all day long and drink coffee and Bailey's and ignore the world around me. But I came upon this, and I am so glad I did, and yet so very sad. Little Tuesday Whitt . Stage 4 Neuroblastoma. Such sadness this life brings us, and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why. And it again reminds me of how extremely lucky we have been with our "Dennis", that this terrible beast has not taken him away from us. What would we do without him, and his smile, his laugh, his happiness, his joy, his "boyness". And I feel so guilty that we have been "chosen" to be one of the fortunate ones who gets to keep their child. I will forever be asking "why?", but I know the answer: no one knows. There is no rhyme or reason. It just is. And that is one of the hardest things to deal with day to day. I will forever think of little T...

I hesitated to talk about this, but I so want to and need to, so I will. It's just a very sad, very difficult topic, and we've all had enough sadness, I think. This story comes very close to home, however. Too close for comfort. And I think it's something we all need to be more aware of, regardless of its horror. I've decided I know way too many little children who have died. There is something so wrong with that. A little while ago, I talked about a little boy named Dante who had Stage 4 Neuroblastoma , the same type of cancer my son "Dennis" had as a baby. Little Dante passed away last Tuesday, Jan. 6, in the arms of his mom and dad. He suffered with this cancer for a year, which was half his very short life. He fought hard, going through more than most people go through in a lifetime. So many of these children do, and that's the horror of it. Neuroblastoma is a nasty cancer, not that there is such a thing as a "good" cancer. The problem with ...

What do you do with yourself for a whole weekend when your kids are away? Anyone? Anyone? I face this dilemma a few times a year, and I know that really, I should be ecstatic, and I guess I am. My children attend various camps at Camp Trillium , which is a camp for kids with cancer and their siblings. We are very fortunate to have the opportunity, really. It's entirely free for the kids to go, and they love it. Absolutely adore it. They have the time of their lives. The only prerequisite is having a child with cancer, which is a bit of a downer, you could say. I jest. It's awful, the worst nightmare anyone could live through. Of course it is. There is no way you can even imagine how terrible it is. I can explain it like this: Imagine the worst possible thing that could happen to you, and multiply it by a million. Imagine a hole so dark and deep that climbing out of it is practically impossible. That gives you some idea. We are one of the very fortunate since our son has surviv...

I live in the Ottawa area. Hence, the propensity to say "eh" after every sentence, exclamation, and utterance. Eh. The above has absolutely nothing to do with this post, except that it stipulates that I live in the Ottawa area, which means I live in the Ottawa Valley. This actually happens to be a rather serious post about a rather serious subject, so I apologize for trying to be humorous above. I can't help it sometimes. Oh. It wasn't funny? Okay then. I happened to meet a guy a couple of years ago at an exhibition. Nice guy. Sitting on a stool. This guy, his name is Andy Parent, had a booth at this exhibition. A booth displaying his business: giving all animals a safe haven. Andy's business is situated in Kemptville, which is also in the Ottawa Valley. Hence, the explanatory phrases above regarding the Ottawa Valley and its subsequent accent and preponderence of "eh" everywhere you turn. Big Sky Ranch was established in 2002 by Andy, and privately fun...

On a less cheery note than yesterday's post (sorry, everyone...can you tell I'm in the depths of a depression?), I was surfing my fave blogs, and came upon Dawn's blog, titled " Because I Said So" , a great site if you have the chance to check it out. Her latest post was about a little boy named Dante, aka Trooper. This little boy is fighting for his life, going through his lifelong battle with a cancer called Neuroblastoma (see here for the full story). He's losing the fight, which is something I cannot imagine going through as a parent, although we ourselves came close more than once with our son, and we know many other parents who have had to deal with losing their child in exactly this manner. Please take a look at Dante's story, and send him a little of your love.

I just finished reading one of the most touching websites ever. http://www.alesecoco.org/ If you want to read something that both hurts and heals, this is it. This girl's story is unbelievable in terms of the faith she has in her beliefs, and the strength she holds through her five-year struggle with cancer. It's also an inspiring story of the power of family and friends. Alese's story hits me hard because reading it was like reliving the past with Dennis. What happens when you live through something like a bout with cancer is that it changes you forever, and slowly -- very very slowly -- melts into the back of your mind, and over a long stretch of time, you can go through the day without even remembering that you or your loved one had cancer. It took me over two years to be able to function relatively normally again after Dennis' situation had stabilized and we felt he was going to be okay. I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at one point because I cou...

It was exactly 10 years ago today that my son had his second surgery to attempt removal of his malignant abdominal tumour. He was 8 months old. Every Hallowe'en, I am reminded of this most horrid of all Hallowe'ens. Dennis (not his real name, but he is so much like Dennis the Menace that I thought the alias was appropriate) was born on a cold February afternoon, a chubby, almost-10 lb. angry little baby, whose cry was more like a banshee than a newborn. He was the picture of health. Almost from the start, we (the family) made fun of his extremely bulbous, large, basketball-like belly. We thought it was hilarious -- so big and wide. It was so large, in fact, that although he was small enough to fit into newborn-sized clothing, his belly needed 12-month-or-older clothing. It was quite the dilemma, believe you me. Two months old, and I begin noticing little Dennis -- who is no longer ugly and screeching like a banshee, but really really cute and fuzzy, and warm smelling like fresh...