Scrap Book
My cancer era allowed for many adventures. From relatively small ones, visiting local landmarks and historical sites, to full day trips visiting Bankroft, a paradise for rock hounds like myself. Some photos ended up in the Diary:, but many didn't. It is my hope that this page captures the joy I got to experience while facing my own mortality. It was a ballancing act, and one I'd happily take from now until time's end.
I really lucked out that the software I chose at random for my digital scrap book had a perfect cover page for me. I get to choose joy and wonder and whimsy and to experience the beautiful madness of the world because of all of you supporting me throughout the whole of my cancer journey.
I've seen Cats (2019), conservatively, over 250 times. The Covid-19 layoff period was one of hyperfixation for me. Somehow, through all those viewings, my only partner was Thomasin, and I think she was more into our group watches for the quiet cuddles rather than the cinematic masterpiece.
One night in hospice we decided it was time to watch it. I was too afrade that people close to me wouldn't enjoy it that I didn't let them have the choice.
My youngest brother, Joseph, and my partner, Alicia, took the plunge with me, probably for the final time.
For me, some of the magic was gone. The warm glow of hyperfixation has long passed. I still adore the music the way I always have, still love the dedication to bisexual lighting, and still love the weird little story they crammed into a musical that did not need it. I remembered the hours I spent pouring over vintage maps of London, trying to figure out the geography of the world. After the movie was over, I listened to The Flop House Cats episode, just to draw out that feeling I'm hoping is a nontoxic nostalgia.
My partner and my brother both had a good time, too. It was fun to rehash the old talking points, all of which kind of come down to not a singe choice being made correctly during production. I don't think it'll end up on either of their top ten lists, but we were happy to share that particular bit of madness together.
A Cancervercery marks the anniversary of an important event in your cancer journey. August 2nd, 2022 marks the first time a doctor uttered the word and changed the direction of my life irrevecobly.
The Cancervercery is not a celebration of diagnosis, it's about survival. Cancer is a truly monstrous thing, and marking another year with it is good and right.
For my first Cancervercery, August 2nd, 2023, my best friend Lilly Hill helped me throw a tea party for some of my favourite plush friends. There were adult drinks (which i couldn't have, its hard on a liver already harmed by the cancer), tea, cake and, finally a fire in the evening.
It was a wonderil day of whimsy and make believe, the perfect escape from a reality that can be unkind. Plus, cake!
My last solo adventure was a trip down King's Highway 17, starting at the turnoff to Elliot Lake and ending at at Echo Bay. The destination was adding a second oversized coin to my collection, the Giant Loonie at Echo Beach (the other in my collection is the Big Nickle in Sudbury, which is much bigger and more impressive). I visited a few landmarks, got pretty lost on some backroads without any cellular coverage at all, and found some artisanal sourkraut in a valley I didn't know existed.
The only thing I can recommend without reservation from this trip is a visit to the Black Bear Cafe on St. Joseph's Island, they had the finest buttertarts I've ever purchased and a lemon bar that I somehow managed to savour over a few improbable days.
The Loonie is just off the highway, though, so if silly roadside nonsense is your thing (like it is mine), then it's an easy thing to cross off your List Formally Known as the Remission List. The sourkraut was really good, and I'm upset I don't get to finish eating it, but I have no idea how to return to that location, so it's lost to us all.
I've said on more than one occasion that I've had nothing but teriffic luck with my interactions with the health care system. The surgeon who originally had my case in Midland took my pain complaints seriously, my medical and surgical oncologists did absolutely everything they could, and, finally, my doctor in Elliot Lake took me on as a patient the moment she got my case out of the ER.
My Elliot Lake doctor gave me my Daley, the tasty tasty noodle boy. He's my broth buddy, picked because I've been on a fluid only diet since early July (even though I'm not even really eating that, either).
I know my experience is not typical, I'm familiar with other people's horror stories. But I'm so grateful for the care I've received, and I hope we all can get what we deserve in the future.
*I'm not forgetting nurses, at least on purpose. I feel confident that my stay at Mt. Sinai would have been days longer if not for two specific nurses taking special interest in my case. Here, as a palliative patient, I have nurses who will stop by for a chat, sharing bits of their lives outside the hospital walls (children, dogs, cats, a goat, skeet shooting, a little bit of everything). It keeps me grounded and in the world. Also, the nurses do all the real labour or care, for which I cannot possibly express enough gratitude for.️
September 2002, just finished chemo cycle 1, at the boardwalk on Woodland Beach in Tiny township.
August 2023, the main chunk of surgical recovery complete, I'm ready to have my autumn of adventure, exploring central Ontario. Picture taken at Science North in Sudbury, as part of a day where we honoured our grandfather by doing the activities he used to take us out for.
August 2024. Last night. Hospice Suite, St. Joseph's Hospital. I'm noticeably weaker and more tired than I was, but I still have my good moments. There's still joy to be found.
Returning from outside for the corgi and concert with my brothers. Joseph is driving, Willy accompanying, I'm in the wheelchair, too tired to risk using my own body. Like many, I wish I'd spent more time in with my siblings, and I'm truly grateful for the time I've been able to spend with them here at the hospice.
The List Formally Known as the Remission List has a wide variety of weird and fun things to do on it. From visiting all the historic locks of the Trent-Severn Waterway, to hearing each carillon in the province (country?) play a piece, to participating in a lottery and seeing certianly animals that are dear to me. And while I like moose and beaver and painted turtles, no animal was closer to my heart than the beautiful corgi.
I genuinely expected this to be an easy one. I'd be out walking, someone else in the park would have a small wiggle of corgwen. I'd ask to pet them, mark something off my list, and have a moderately better day.
Instead, I had a magical day with my new corgi friend Bennie, and the band she brought along (coming in a future entry!) catapulted the moderately better I expected from crossing off this item to one of the best days I've had in the whole of 2024 (and I got to meet Wiarton Willy this year, a life long goal of mine).
Corgi Band day would have been nothing without the wonderful humans who showed up and made it happen. From left to right in the group shot, they are Thor, Catherine, Bruce, me, Alison, and Tom (The Jammers). Plus Bennie the corgi. These people made a very sick person's day (and week and month), for which im tremendously thankful.
I maintained my weight during my full course of my chemotherapy treatment. From September 2022 until this spring, I fluctuated 2kg around a stable average. I am genuinely proud of this, and credit much of my end game physical resilience to this fact.
Lilly introduced me to the wonders of Taco Bell, the kind of wonderful place where ordering one of everything is possible, fun and not too outrageous (even if I never did it). The kind of place where those life giving calories are easy to eat. There were other fast food restaurants that I went to more, that contributed more to my stability, but Taco Bell was special.
Our two nearest locations were about a half hour away, which is the perfect length for one of those conversations I only seem to be have on road trips. We'd always get the same things (Delux Box + Crunchwrap Supreme for me, Taco Bell leftovers do great in a toaster oven)., but always talk the options.
We went to real restaurants, too.. More sushi than I can recall, pho, wings and everything we could find in the area, but it's the Taco Bell, and the little adventures it required, that is the strongest, most joyful of the mundane memories I call back on when the cancer pain strikes.
The nearest Taco Bell is in a mall in Sudbury. Two hours away. A doable distance, but it would never work with my nasal tube. I'm forever cut off, but the memory of food and friends is more than strong enough to keep me going
Today, my friends from university, Leslie and Josh, were in town to visit. After some chit-chat-catching-up, they took me out for my second outing since entering hospice a month ago.
First, we did a raid of the LCBO (Liquor Control Board of Ontario, the booze store) pretty much like we did in university: buy one of everything that seemed new or interesting (it was a good day for Collective Arts Brewing of Hamilton, who had the most new and interesting stuff to us) and a few old favourites (I couldn't find the wheat beer I wanted, and forgot the name of the one I did buy, but I know I've enjoyed it in the past and look forward to it tomorrow).
I had asparations of visiting the Miner's Memorial on Horne Lake, and the always enjoyable to me Fire Tower Lookout (if you ever came to visit me in Elliot Lake, these would have been on the itenary), but I just don't have the energy I used to, so we skipped to Elliot Lake, the lake, itself for some photos and experiences.
The most important thing for me was wading into the lake, even if it was only a bit. When I got the Port-O-Cafh inserted, I was promised that I could go swimming. The access point was under the skin, not a tube sticking out through the skin, and safe from the elements. But as it stands I have the Port, three subcutaneous access points (pain pump, Nozinan, general use) and an IV.
There will be no swimming for me, but the feeling of the lake on my skin and sand between toes was everything I hoped it would be. Today was a cool, overcast day, which lessened the magic of the moment slightly, but I imagined the heat wave we had a few weeks ago, and felt the heat, and found a moment of perfect stillness.
I'd have stayed in that quiet forever, but their was silliness to get up to with Tomara. She needed an accessible beach scooter ride (truth be told, I'm the one who was in need, or nearly so), wanted to go on the swing (not pictured) and have a few fun photo ops.
It was a day of ups and downs. I had a great deal of fun, got to taste (and plan to taste) new things. I had scotch, a tiger tail milkshake, and delicious pho broth. But I ran up against my strength and endurance, hard. It's good to know where I stand, but I wish it was elsewhere.
Still, though, another great day in hospice with the people that give my life meaning (and a pretty spectacular and unexpected sunset).
I visited Huntsville, Ontario (the only Huntsville of consequence) when I wanted to take a break from exploring the Trent-Severn Waterway, but still wanted to see some historical locks, the Brunel Locks. It's just a single lock in a pretty little park, nothing special other than the fact if exists at all.
Huntsville's more navigable past is also on display at their decommissioned swing bridge, located downtown.
But really none of this is why I visited this little city. Huntsville is home to dozens of murals inspired by the works of Tom Thompson and the Group of Seven. I chose this as a perfect place to push myself, physically, a bit to see how I was recovering from the failed surgery earlier in the summer. I managed to find most of the outdoor art with listed locations, and did find all of the pieces that mattered most to me.
I ate at That Little Place by the Lights and had their Diavola pizza, and I genuinely regret not getting two more kinds as takeout so I could try them later.
Huntsville was a easy adventure for me, lots of sight seeing, as much exertion as I wanted, fantastic lookouts, a little bit of mystery (why is there a single lock in the middle of no where?) and the exact sort of food I craved.
While I was taking these trips, it was as much about proving to myself I was still capable of living a life worthwhile, even in the face of death krwld, as it was generating the positive memories that would carry me through the (in hindsight, not so) harsh winter. And Huntsville, with its statue of Tom, abundance of his works and a pizza I remember fondly nearly a year later, may be as close to the platonic ideal of what I was doing. It was beautiful, the sun was warm, the cola was icy and the dough had just enough of that yeast flavour I crave so much.
A perfect day in a place I'd have never otherwise visited. There's a lesson there, but it is left as an exercise for the reader
Summer 2023, the whole of my mother's side of the family got together for a baby shower for one of my cousins. My brothers and I (along with partners) decided to extend the weekend into our own celebration of life for our maternal grandfather.
When we were much younger, my grandparents would take us to Science North, a science centre in Sudbury, Ontario. We'd usually take in a show, his term for any film, but in this context an Imax nature documentary, we'd occasionally visit the exhibition space, especially if there was a dinosaur exhibit (I never grew out of my dinosaur phase) and finally we'd explore the main hall and all its wonders.
We missed the Imax showings this time, they didn't really fit in with my brother's bus trip back to Ottawa, but we did spend time in the wildly lit event space and the main snowflake.
This was the third big outing I had post surgery, the first being the trips from Toronto to Elliot Lake, where I spent my recovery period, and from Elliot Lake back to Midland when I felt capable of living on my own again. This was the first big outing I was excited about, both the family reunion part at the baby shower and the Science North part.
The highlight of the dinosaur exhibit, for me, was the stegosaurus. Stegosaurus has long been my favourite dinosaur. It's not the largest, fastest or strongest, but I adore their plates and spikes and tiny little heads.
Summer 2023, the whole of my mother's side of the family got together for a baby shower for one of my cousins. My brothers and I (along with partners) decided to extend the weekend into our own celebration of life for our maternal grandfather.
When we were much younger, my grandparents would take us to Science North, a science centre in Sudbury, Ontario. We'd usually take in a show, his term for any film, but in this context an Imax nature documentary, we'd occasionally visit the exhibition space, especially if there was a dinosaur exhibit (I never grew out of my dinosaur phase) and finally we'd explore the main hall and all its wonders.
The main hall has largely remained unchanged since I was a child. The stairs in the main hall are dominated by a magnificent fin whale Skeleton. There's geology exhibits (and the whole site is built into a mighty fine geological exhibit, the Canadian Shield). Other highlights include local wildlife, including a stunner of a porcupine, turtles, bat's an a collection of insects. We didn't take in any of the short shows or interactive activities aimed at children, but did spend some time in the butterfly room, where I, still recovering from chemotherapy after months off, enjoyed the extra heat and humidity.
After we were done enjoying our healthy nostalgia, celebrating our grandparents in a way that I will always most associate with them, we took a swing by Jak's Diner in New Sudbury to relive a powerful food memory I have. In the case of science North, I found the memory enjoyable to play in. With Jak's, even though nothing had seemingly changed, the strands of nostalgia escaped me, and while the food was good, it wasn't the same. It was an interesting lesson in nostalgia for me, but thankfully one that didn't set the stage for my future trips.
After departing Sudbury and returning to Midland, I felt a more solid footing in my relationships with my siblings, the exact sort of place I wanted, and needed, to be going into what all my oncologists were calling my final year to year and a half of life.
The Deer Trail Touring Route is a circle of highway running through Elliot Lake, Iron Bridge and Blind River. Its got some neat geology, has some different forest types, has plenty of lakes and takes you along the Mississagi River where it is most calm and joyful. Since my parents made the move to Elliot Lake, it's something that's been on my list.
Today, my partner and our Squish Squad crossed it off The List Formally Known as the Remission List. I don't know if it'll be my final road trip, but all future trips have to take Highway 17, a highway I've been familiar with my whole life, which cuts the sense of adventure.
I tried to find a good puddingstone outcrop, but construction equipment and blind corners foiled us. Puddingstone is a rock with large cobbles embedded in a fine grained matrix, and the Southern Province of the Canadian Shield has some excellent outcrops.
We looked at rivers and river stones, the Little White River meandering across the landscape, leaving marshy oxbow lakes full of water lilies and lily pads. Areas with deep, rich soils supporting mixed wood forests, and wind blown sand deposits dating from glaciation, covered only in jackpine.
As we came out of the forest and began to approach Iron Bridge (no longer home to its bridge), we entered the pasture land that we always looked forward to growing up, because I've always been an animal person and cows are just not a thing you saw in Chapleau. I don't recall seeing any today.
We resupplied (aka bought props) in Iron Bridge (the bridge is mostly iron, but it's not the bridge the town is named for) and headed off to the Mississagi River Rest stop for our little picnic photo op. In the past, I'd have been too self conscious to bring that kind of silliness into the world where others could see it, theoretically, much less a dozen people seeing it in actuality.
This is the sort of strength and resilience I've grown over the past two years. I've grown free of parts of myself I needed to let go of. And it's never to late to relish that kind of joyful freedom.
I never had a phase in high school where I experimented with my look very much. Never dyed my hair, never experimented with makeup, never even really changed up my clothing style until after I graduated from university. It's not that I didn't want to (for differing amounts of want), it's that I wasn't brave enough to take the plunge.
I recieved my last prepandemic hair cut in December 2021 (I always tried to clean up a bit for Christmas) and, when I first met my medical oncologist in late August 2022, I'd grown quite the head of hair. And that I was likely to lose it during treatment.
My partner and I picked the blue that I was supposed to end up with, and Lilly Hill and I set to work transforming my brown hair (accidentally, beautifully) green.
In hindsight, this is the first item crossed off the Remission List. Something I had long wanted to do that I needed the excuse of cancer to finally push myself into. Learning to paint my nails slots in here nicely, too. Doubly so because chemotherapy weakens your nails and raises risk of them falling off if you aren't caredul.
It helped set the stage for accomplishing every difficult or embarrassing or otherwise challenging thing I'd face at least until at least the time I'm writing this: I need to have the strength and stubbornness to say yes, to be willing to chase after the things that are important or joyous or worthwhile for me, but I can borrow a whole lot of that strength and skill from the people I'm lucky enough to have in my life.
And I'm very lucky to have all of you in my life, in whatever little capacities we can exchange.
In 2019, I took my first real vacation with Alicia. We visited my parents camp at Healey, Ontario, near my hometown of Chapleau. As close to any place in the world ever could be, Healey is my home. It's where I spent my summers until I departed for university, and where I hurried back to when those university summers allowed. It was special to me in a way no where else could be.
Alicia and I spent the week exploring the lake (Como Creek, Grazing Inlet, the falls, the ghost town of Nicholson, packed with living Petroskys and Tremblay), fishing, hiking and exploring dead logging roads. Plant and animal identification guides in hand (soft cover books, your kilometres, or a lucky hill, away from reception) we looked at flowers and mushrooms and tried to figure out which red berry was which. At least sugar plums/service berries/Saskatoon berries, blueberries and raspberries are easy and rewarding to identify.
Chapleau is a place with little left for me, although I was looking forward to my final visit this summer. I was going to plan it like one of my central Ontario outlines, focusing on claims to fame, old restaurants, weird signs and the like. There's have been enough for an afternoon and a video. And I'd have liked to have done that.
Alicia got an informal version of they trip, the adventure that came four years before the first cancer adventure. It was nostalgic for me, and as always just a little bittersweet. Chapleau isn't the Chapleau I knew (nor should it be, I left).
The next trip I planned with Alicia was past the pandemic, past a mental health crisis or two, past diagnosis, HIPEC's failure and past this last round of chemo. On July 5th, we were to set out towards Alberta to meet dinosaurs and the ruins of Frank and accidentally be in Calgary during the stampede and none of it ever happened. Because that week the cancer won.
The cancer was ways going to win. And I don't care that it has. My capacity for adventure has decreased, but I'll wake up every morning seeking it. And these days, I'm pretty good at finding it, too.
An advantage of a small town hospital that isn't always available to larger centres (where administrators can be found on weekends) is that sometimes you can get a surprise dog visit. This weekend I won the Golden Retriever lottery and got to spend some quality time with the lovely and extremely soft Maverick.
His sidekick, Goose the cat, stayed home.
Maverick belongs to one of the staff members here and is known to come in and cheer up the patients when the human has time.
I, for one, am full of gratitude and joy at being included in this visit, these days I'm 100% in camp poodle, but growing up I was in love with the world's dopiest Labrador (and imagine the competition for that title) and barely drew distinction between the various retriever breeds.
Maverick was the smiling sunshine coloured ray I needed, and she was kind enough to leave behind enough golden glitter to keep the cleaning staff busy for days.
Sitting on my mother's recliner, recovering from my aborted cytoreduction+HIPEC surgery, I had plenty of time to watch YouTube videos with my parents and join them (well, largely my father) in sharing interests. Selected highlights include the extremely well web cam covered city of Ust-Kut, Russia, a visit to Bourbon Street most evenings, and following ships through the Great Lakes-St. Lawrence Seaway. Plus, of course more 40s and 50s detective stuff than it seems possible for a human to get through. It was a nice time.
Ocasionally, we'd split the live feeds up with people's travel videos, short documentaries, and silent walk throughs. And I got inspired. While, in terms of years, I had little time, but in terms of free hours, I had more than I needed.
That inspiration became fixation one day when we were looking at videos of odd locks. Bathtub hydraulic locks, like the kind at Kirkfield and Peterborough, fancier versions of the same that sweep circular arcs, large shipping locks. But the one that caught my attention most and quickest was not really a lock at all, it was the Big Chute Marine Railroad.
Big Chute is part of the Trent-Severn Waterway, a national historic site(s) located in Ontario, allowing water traffic to travel from Trenton, Ontario, to travel to Port Severn on Georgian Bay, bypassing Lake Erie and the St. Claire River (which made a lot of sense in the post War of 1812 days). It's also only about an hour from where I lived at the time, and was a perfect picnic outing to start my living at home surgical recovery.
Operation is simple, the railway has a car, pulled by cables in a central wheelhouse, to which boats attach. When the car is full, or there's no one waiting, the cables pull the car to the other side. It was fascinating for me to watch, I ended up canceling another stop for the day and listening to podcasts while eating tuna sandwiches at a picnic area nearby.
The reason they didn't construct a conventional lock here (like they did on all but a few other locations on the canal) are that the rock would have been prohibitively expensive to blast, being hard precambrian shield, as opposed to much younger sandstones and limestones. The vertical drop added to this issue. These days, it's good that they didn't go this way, it allows the Big Chute to remain passable to spawning native fish, but an impenetrable barrier to of concern invasive fish. This engineer likes it when oddities of engineering are functional as well as weird, and Big Chute really counts for that.
Big Chute was my first stepping stone to recovery, and the fall of 2023, when I was off on a silly yet exciting, to me, adventure every couple of days. I taught myself how to make videos, to document, and to have fun doing it. Getting through eight months of chemo, and actively deciding not to give up after the failure of the surgery I gambled so much on, started to pay off here. I choose to be my day's best self every morning (even if best self is a slug who eats Doritos in bed and watchs Archer on repeat for three days and does nothing else), and Big Chute is an important inflection point. Yes, I was doomed. But I was still alive. Still here. And making something of it was going to be a delight
Today the truly benevolent god of corgwen have blessed me with a generous gift: time with their precious child, Minnow.
Minnow is a corgi mixed with another sort of herding dog (which I forgot, because there was a corgi to play with) and is as soft as he is delightfully stubborn. Which isn't necessarily what I'd look for in a canine companion, but is a lot of fun on a Thursday.
Minnow knows a few tricks, and I was able to capture a few on video. They're in the comments.
Like Bennie before him, Minnow was an absolute dream come true. I love animals, especially the common dog, and few creatures have the power to steer your mood quite so powerfully. Today, my mood needed no correction, today was as sunny in fact as it was in metaphor. Minnow pushed me over the top.
I am truly glad that an item I had given up on for the Remission List was vanquished handily twice. Maybe there's hope for getting to see the geese leave me one last time.
Crossed paws.
The first time I tried coffee was a cold October morning in 2005. The natural high I had from successfully escaping from my dying town and landing in my very first choice for a university program was finally being worn down by the twin powers of first year chemistry and linear algebra. Everyone else was getting their wakefulness fix from coffee, and it made sense to give it a go.
I poured myself a medium cup of Columbian medium roast and left with it black. Maybe, if I had a guide, I'd have added some sugar or milk and enjoyed it. Maybe I'd have been too stubborn ("I know I like sugar and milk already"). Regardless, I took a sip, burned myself a bit, let it cool and decided it tasted exactly like poplar bark (a flavour I was familiar with from childhood games where we pretended to be beavers).
The next time I tried coffee was on a Taco Bell run after my April trip to the hospital in Midland. It still tasted of tree bark.
But once I entered the hospice suite? Give me every coffee treat. I have limited time and so much to catch up on.
Photos of myself follow a similar path. I used to try and remove as much trace of myself as possible, like I was embarrassed to exist. I could spend a lot of time with a social worker trying to work through those feelings. But I don't have to, because the diagnosis came, and I realized I needed to leave something behind that indicated that I existed, I lived, I thrived and I loved.
Like my new found taste for coffee drinks, I've grown to love the camera. And, in its modern form, the camera includes the whole editing and filtering and playing suite of tools available on your phone.
I'm no wizard at this sort of thing, and time is strange in hospice. Every single moment has the gravitas of possibly being your last, but you still count down until the weekend because that's when people can make time for you. So I pass the time recording videos and taking pictures and editing it all into something I hope has meaning.
I don't think these have meaning. I don't intend them to, at least. They're just four flavours of coffee drink I tried and liked well enough to share with my friends. I like them, even if they're a bit overworked. You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.
Alcohol is a heavy subject, and this one is about my relationship with it. My relationship with it is largely positive, and my little naritive will reflect that, but I know that isn't everyone's experience.
There was a time, between dropping out of grad school and taking on the apprenticeship that would become my career, where I seriously considered bartending. I adored making cocktails, traditional sorts and the usually delicious abominations that reared their heads at juicemorn.
For years at family get togethers, if anyone wanted something more complex than a beer or a glass of wine, they were coming to me. And I loved it. Understanding how different flavours come together and balance was always a thrill.
But then came the symptoms which would eventually point to cancer. At first, the surgeon I was seeing thought it was a problem with the liver itself, and by the time we had the actual root cause determined, I was starting chemotherapy. Alcohol and chemotherapy is not only a great way to destroy your liver, it's also a good way to dramatically reduce the effectiveness of the drugs themselves.
I figured I'd never have a drink again. And while I'd have preferred to have marked the occasion somehow (a nice scotch, or Beach One Cervasa and a smoked meat sandwich down at Balm Beach Smokehouse, or both), I was okay with it. The extra time was easily worth the lost pleasure for me.
Fast forward two long years of chemotherapy and surgery and recovery and alcohol free adventure (so many fish and chip meals demanded something I just couldn't give them). I jokingly asked my doctor if I could have beer. And, more seriously than I expected, she responded that, at my disease state, it was fine.
Drinking in the hospital is a weird experience. Sharing that experience with my brother and my friends is stranger still. Should we have imbibed during Cats or Repo? Probably. Palliative care is about patient comfort,. And trying new things from the LCBO is apparently part of it for me. Especially when I can share the experience.
I really intended this to be a whimsical post about being drunk under the table by a giant benevolent ramen (how good would a ramen like that be after the party's over, just savouring the flavours) (lets ignore the canabalism implications) person. But instead you get something serious.
To make up for it, I'll share a secret. I didn't quit alcohol the whole of my treatment. I did go to the Balm Beach Smokehouse three of four times last summer, ordered my favourite beer in the world (Wasaga Beach Brewing Company Beach 1 Cerveza, it's objectively just fine, but I love it), ordered the Cubano sandwich, ordered the braised brisket poutine, ordered the Balm Beach burger, ordered the house special.
The only regret I have about this is that I never went with anyone, I felt like I was sneaking a forbidden treat. And now that I can have those drinks, I cannot eat. Which would feel like cosmic punishment if I still didn't love talking about food and drink
After saying goodbye to the wonderful Big Chute Marine Railway, I noticed that I had a narrow window where I could also fit in a visit to Coldwater's Canadiana History museums.
Like many indoor/outdoor museums of this type, you'll have a mock blacksmith shop, maybe an optician and a dentist, old fire engines, early tractors, and the like. And I didn't record pictures of any of that here. Because I started in the farm house (which also houses the chemist).
Friends, in every possible seat, bed or chair was a doll somehow more haunted than the last reminding you not to sit on the antique furniture lest you lose your Immortal sou.
I had a great time, recommend grabbing whatever the special is from Linda's Corner Cafe, located in the Legion in Coldwater proper.
I was in and through Collingwood quite often. Through it was one my my favourite junk shops in Thornbury, and the whole south coast of Georgian Bay all the way to Owen Sound (and even Wiarton Willie), plus being the path further into south western Ontario.
But I only spent one glorious afternoon there. Passed a old grain mill is a spot called the Collingwood Millennium Overlook. It sticks out into the Big Water like a breakwater (and probably was constructed at least in part as one) and is covered in parkland, neat historical trinkets and, while I was there, perfect weather for spotting where you live across the water (see comments).
The highlight of my day was a food truck called Han's Beach Bites, where I learned of the greatness of currywurst and curry fries. Not going back here, especially because it was so close, is a big R regret, the good was magnificent. I probably should not have eaten the leftovers for food safety reasons, but I did, so my car smelled like curry all day long and it was amazing.
On a weekend, with more food trucks, this would be a really exciting and fun spot. As it stood, on a hot day in the middle of the week, there was no wait for my food. I'd have liked to be around people, but the next part of the journey (Thornbury) makes up for it.
I can't say I ever made it to Haliburton proper on my adventure. Yes, I stopped in to have some fish and chips at McKecks Tap and Grill (and I really felt the absence of beer this time, the fish were fantastic and could only have been improved by a better drink), but we were too close to chemo starting, physically too far from home, and I'd seen half a dozen deer in the way into town. I'm crazy, not a lunatic.
The sculpture garden was one of the most magical places I had the good fortune of visiting during the whole of my travels. It's attached to Flemming College at Haliburton and, so long as you can get there, free to explore.
There were several of beavers which I particularly enjoyed, as I love my fat rounds, but I think the stone hemisphere where you could sit in the dark and quiet and humid has left the longest impression on me. I wish I'd written this post quickly, and then again later, periodically.
The Sculpture Garden is with a visit, maybe even a detour visit. I ate at a perfectly good bar and grill, because I came on an off day. You could likely do something more special to match the weird erie, possessed feeling of the place.
Yesterday, I left the hospital for a few hours to visit my apartment, visit my parents for dinner, and most importantly visit a pretty little orange tabby with an enormous head.
She was a bit shy at first, but warmed to me and the extra set of hands petting her quickly. She's the sole resident of my apartment right now, but gets plenty of visits from everyone and lots of attention. I'd rather her live with me at the hospital, but logistically that's not possible.
We're still working on getting her settled in with the dogs, but there was a but if a medical setback during the heat wave we need to address first. Things are still looking good for her, though, and I'm not losing sleep over her just yet.
Today, I woke up with an oxygen tube in my nose. Nothing unusual in a hospital, in fact both rooms in the hospice are plumbed for it, but I went to sleep without it.
Today, the surgeon who generally checks in for a chat at the end of his shift (a man truly in possession of the best bedside manner I've ever had the fortune of experiencing) visited during lunch. He overheard the plan my mother and I had of spending the day looking for a walker because I'm at the point where I really could use one. It's a small town, and his aunt runs a medical supply store. She was able to get me a loaner I could keep as long as I needed. I walked out of the store with it. It took fifteen minutes, five was spent on petting dogs.
So last night I went to sleep breathing insufficient air, and with mobility problems. Today I rest back at home, problems all solved satisfactorily, at least for the time being.
Outwardly, these are massive losses of autonomy. To me, they're the tools I need to maintain what autonomy I can possibly have left. They aren't proof in no longer capable, they're how I remain capable in the face of whatever that sneaky assed cancer is up to.
I really like these hallway chase scenes. I don't have much to say about them, I think they're fun and more than any photo I post on here they capture the mixed joys of the moment perfectly. I'm so glad I got my mother in one.
I enjoy the smiles, because I have to look very silly with the selfie stick in order to capture them. I enjoy the lighting challenges in editing. But mostly I like making it a game for my driver. Moments pass slowly here, but days are devoured. I hope these little races anchor a few moments in place, so we can better savour them and live within them.
No medical device of mine is going to remain plane. The oxygen tank, unfortunately, gets replaced too often to personalize in any meaningful way.
But it's Halloween at Dollarama, finally, so my memento mori skulls are out. Three little charmers adorn the front, with a light pattern that is supposed to (and mostly does) look like a spider web. I am excited to add a couple stickers in the morning (bearing in mind its a loaner and that I don't want to ruin other people's still too much).
The important thing, for me, is that while my physical form continues to be buffeted by the cancer and the chain reactions it's begun, I remain silly. I remain whimsical. And I, even though I haven't properly eaten since July 5th, still want to talk about food.
I'll succumb, eventually, and I'll go down dreaming of the 40 Creek whisky barbacue sauce chicken wings from Cellerman'd Ale House circa 2018. Because I've fought this monster for years now, and I just want a snack of those wings, of civiche I had in Miraflores District in 2012, Domino's pizza as it first tastes out of the box, just a little too hot to eat but you can't help yourself (Canadian, in this dream), the butter chicken poutine you used to be able to get at The Bombshelter Pub, the double pulled pork poutine (order a bibimbap for Alicia and another for yourself or you'll regret it) from Minji's, onion rings from a local convienemce store that just melt away as you eat them, a bacon cheeseburger from Lucky's on Highway 17 and, because I'm not unreasonable in my dreams, coarsely diced tomatoes, salter and peppered, eaten as is.
The Cancer could still take these memories and desires from me, but for now they're safe. And with these absolutely delicious memories, I am safe.
And writing this list was so, so relaxing for me. I'm in such a better spot having recollected something important to me, in a way I hadn't so far. Pleasant dreams.
After the Grand Adventure that was every province west of Ontario, especially Alberta and British Columbia, I had no plans to slow down. I knew I needed smaller plans, that would fit between chemo sessions, and something like Manitoulin Island was a perfect little challenge.
As an asside, I don't know how I expected to manage anything under treatment. It was a race between the disease and the treatment to destroy my body. I was never going to be able to take the Manitoulin trip as I imagined.
On a beautiful, sunny day my aunt Nancy Fallat, uncle Terry and I set out for a quick tour of the eastern part of the island. We ate at the Anchor Inn (they messed up my order, but the order I got was probably safer for my condition than the loaded perogi I pined for.
Other highlights were the Ten Mile Point gift shop, stepping foot into Lake Manitou (largest freshwater lake on an island in a freshwater lake), and, best for my interests, we saw the swing bridge swing.
Plus, lots of Joey, the brand new (and very nervous) rescue dog. His nervousness had me leaving him alone
Tiny Marsh was my quiet piece of tranquility (except during hunting season) for near seven years. The Pond was round, crossed by two intersecting dikes, with a path they covered most of the circumference. Part of the circumference path had a boardwalk and lookouts. It was one of those perfect places in the world, maybe it could be improved, theoretically, but some of the real magic or the place would be lost in the transaction.
Tiny Marsh, more than any other place in southern Ontario is home to me, on an emotional level. It's where I'd go for a walk to clear my head (frequently after a unnecessarily convoluted drive to get there, because sometimes your head just needs that much of a clearcut). I recorded dozens of videos there, and until the Hospice videos started coming out was by far the most emotionally honest recording there vs home or my parents' place.
It's special. It contains real magic, the sort I've chased my whole life. It's not just the geese (although it is absolutely the geese, and their water fowl friends).
Around the east side, it has a small bunch of feral apples. Not the tastiest apples you've ever had for sure, but after all the walking you've done up to this point, they're exactly what you want. Round the west side there are lookouts, and a groundhog mountain (hill? wiser men have debated this). Sometimes you even see the little critters. But in the fall, what you do see are cascades of leopard frogs, bounding away from you with every step you take. If you're quick, maybe you can catch one, but why? Let them flow like water across the path, away from you in all directions. It's more beautiful this way.
We haven't even talked the turtles, foxes, rabbits, turkeys (and other land fowl). Or the green heron, strangest bird I've ever seen with my own eyes. We discussed swans, but not swans in the spring, singing to each other, or in the fall, calling out and learning to take off for their preposterous flights. We haven't talked the dark passages through the trees carved out by the paths, the strange bridges, drainage ditches, the carp and bass (maybe, I'm only good at identifying caught fish), the cat tails, reeds and sedges.
Tiny Marsh is a place of wild magics. I cannot share a story about it because they're all beautiful, but they bleed together. Like many things, sharing the details would spoil the whole. So I'll leave the exploration of these spaces up to you. Just be kind to the spaces, and talk with the geese. They love that.
When it comes to Cats, my love is for every production I've encoubtered. I need say no more about the 2019 film for I think I've said it all, several times, at great detail. I've further worn our fairly warm out compact cassette copies* of the original Broadway cast (tape one isn't even really worth listening to anymore, but tape two has McCavity, Skimbleshanks and Memory, so you make do). I've got both the London and Broadway cast recordings on vinyl (London is my preference, but I don't have to choose so I don't).
And then there is the 1998 cast recording. The only way I'll ever experience it live. I'll always pick the theatrical movie, I'm much more about film than I am about stage. But state is still such a treat. And this recording is simply very good.
My mother wanted to watch Cats with me. There's a lot of that going around, and I cannot fault anyone for wanting to share it with me. It became so important to me at such a strange time in all our lives. Watching a stage recording with someone else feels more alive and real than watching it alone, not like the real thing, which is a capital R regret, but even one other spectator added so much to my experience.
It's Cats. It was beautiful. There were no dry eyes in the house after Memory, as it should be. I'm glad I've been able to share this with my family, because I'd honestly put this fixation largely behind me, terrified that it no longer had emotional power over me.
That fear was unfounded, I loved every second of sharing this weird period in my life with my loved ones. A small r regret is that I didn't do it sooner.
I forgot I kept my traveling stage show Mistoffolees holo ticket, and now they were scrapbooking (digitally and irl) I'm so glad I'm a pack rat. Mr. Mistoffolees is my cat, and it feels so right (even though Thomasin is absolutely a 1998 Jennyanydots)
*I bought the cassettes because I was looking for long lengths of tape to make tape loops out of as part of an extremely lofi synth set up I was building (built the synth, built some tape toys, never made those loop tapes), so the first Cats thing I bought, the tapes, I bought explicitly to destroy because I was confident, so fucking confident, I'd never want or need them. That they were less worthy of preservation than the same Anne Murry tape that was in every store a dozen times. This is just a lesson that it is possible to be as most wrong about something as possible, and somehow, stumble back into the right path. The world is a wild and wonderful and beautiful place, and it is good and glorious to make mistakes, but also to make magically somehow avoid making the same mistake so many times they you end up with a deeply treasured possession. Sometimes luck is just with you.
In hospice, most days are not easy. There's a parade of pills, injections, infusions and pumps that have to be gone through to maintain the balance of health that is visible from outside the walls. It is the hard work the medical staff constantly do so that I can be as joyful about the little things I still, happily, get to experience.
And sometimes I need a stronger reminder. And today, I need an extra strong reminder. Which, happily, I have in the form of Healey and Balm Beach.
Healey, the only place in the whole oblate spheriod that's ever had the fortune of being home. A place where a railway meets a bay on a lake, where trains traveling from east or west light up the land and water in dramatic effect, passing each night. Where the full moon turns the gently rippling water into billions and billions of fish scales, seperating the millions of fireflies stuck in the sky from the cold dark where the scaled ones really live. The place I like to swim, to campfire, to watch the sun silently set, night after night, as I do here, in hospice.
The home to the last of my railway demigods, totems to a telegraph age long gone by, replaced by fiber and reliability. Replaced Healey. There's no where like it, yet everywhere is or could be. It's just my spot.
You shouldn't visit, there's nothing but ghosts left, and they're not you ghosts to play with. Balm Beach is much more inviting, has a similar sort of specialness to me, but in a sharable sort of way. Its ghosts are inviting, at least during the summer months, so you have a little time left to acquaint yourselves with them. It would be more rewarding, try yourself the brisket poutine and a Wasaga Beach Cerveza, it comes with a recommendation from the living James, too.
Today was a wonderful day because my Poodle Pals (and parents) came to visit me in the hospital courtyard (actually just some benches next to a little garden next to the main entrence/the emergency entrence. It's a small hospital.
Last time we had Bessie visit me in my hospice room alone. Being alone in a strange place stressed her out so badly that she wouldn't interact with me much at all, which was heartbreaking for me.
She's a silly girl so we were all pretty sure it was the situation, and not that my best poodle had suddenly rejected me, but the confirmation was still deeply appreciated and freed me from much anxiety.
Seeing them run and play in the sun and beg for pets was also very good for my mental health. But even such a little outing, just to outside the hospital, drained me much more than I anticipated. I've been in this end stage for months now, and it's really starting to wear me out.
But I'm still here, and there's little more joyous and wonderful than Bessie excitedly running from person to person, every one her favourite, to catch an ear scratch, before moving on to someone else.
The Toronto Zoo is one of my partner, Alicia's, favourite places in the world. And over the course of our relationship, in the various forms it's taken, it's become one of mine as well.
As friends, it was a group outing we'd almost always both attend. Alicia, because she was the driving force behind nearly every zoo trip I ever went on. Me, because I went with the flow and an afternoon with friends and cool animals was always a delight. These trips were usually taken in the heat of the summer (now, as a zoo expert, I know know that summer is a fool's time to visit the zoo, it's full of children and the animals are all asleep, but, as groups, this is the time we had together).
Years later, and after many more trips, Alicia and my first real date was to the zoo. We knew we were a thing, of sorts, the day before. We'd had our conversation, started to define the nature of what we would be (which lasted about a month, before we realized we were just another romantic couple (attached, polyamourously, to another romantic couple, Alicia and her wife, Catherine)). That was the most memorable trip to the zoo I've ever taken, although I'll be damned if I remember much of the animal content of the trip. It was late August, 2018, it was hot, and the animals were all sleepy. The parrots were entertaining, monkeys rambunctious, and we drank so very much bluraspberry slushy (because we always did). The zoo membership discount was a compelling and silly argument to always have more, while the powerful daystar beating down upon us was a powerful and overwhelming argument in favour of hydration by that delicious fruitish flavoured drink.
The big cats are still an impressive sight in the heat of the sun. They're what I remember best from that trip. Basking all together, the lions especially retain their majesty and wonder more than most other animals, although a pack of wolves (which we did not see that day) can have similar effect. The tigers are somewhat less impressive, but sprawled out in the shade of their enclosures, but still radiate their beauty. Alicia and I are fundamentally cat people (even if I'm a pretty even split on dogs), observing the big cats do anything, even if it's as close to literally nothing as possible, is still a treat for us. Its an opportunity to pretend that our house cats are like the big cats. Thomasin is a Sumatran tiger, stalking the underbrush. Nemo, Alicia's cat (a sleek black house panther if there ever was one) is most like the clouded leopard, the way they both move through the trees (or bookcases, in Nemo's case) is similarly mesmerizing.
The zoo is a place that I will always think of as an us place, maybe even The Us Place, a place where we could always just be a couple. We haven't always been able to be out, career's and religion don't always agree with polyamory (or our bisexuality, but mercifully that was rarely a concern), but the zoo was far enough away from home that it was always safe to just be us, and to be an Us.
The zoo is Alicia's natural date location. A good date doesn't have to include the zoo, but a great date is going to have a targeted zoo visit. One where you pick a section and thoroughly explore it, planning things so you get to see a feeding (ideally the otters) and maybe a zookeeper talk. The whole zoo is too big for a day, and it took me a long time to realize this. The whole zoo is for tourists and families and school outings. A zoo date visits a third of the animals, then departs before you're too exhausted to enjoy a nice dinner.
Toronto has all the dinner options one could want, and we'd generally pick some nationality of food that's harder to get to in the Midland area, often stopping for dimsum before the zoo or whatever east Asian option struck our fancy as we were leaving. I generally did the legwork picking some restaurants so we'd have an easy time dealing with choice paralysis on the way home. We always ate well.
During the pandemic, these outings became how we saw each other. Which so much outside time, we didn't have to stress as hard about transmission. This became even more true after I got diagnosed with cancer and started chemotherapy. The outdoor portions let us be close, because I was always immunocompromised and Alicia is a primary school teacher. A difficult combination any time, but especially with covid-19 still surging. These outings are where we got to play pretend things were normal, and have our dates.
After the first round of chemo ended, and my surgery failed, we started taking a lot more risks. Zoo trips became more normal and frequent. We spent more time inside the pavilions, greenhouses and other indoor spaces. At the worst moment in my life, we had a special place to visit, to spend time at, and to enjoy the big cats and fatrounds. It took months before I was well enough to make the trip, but it was a highlight of that adventuring period in my life.
The Toronto Zoo did not start as a special place to me. I grew up too far away, it was a neat commercial I'd see on TV sometimes, on par with Marine Land and the occasional cross border ad for an American zoo or aquarium or African Lion Safari or similar. But it's a special place to me now, one of the most special and important in the world. Home to most of my favourite fatrounds, all of my favourite non-house-cats, and more memories than I'd care to count.
Of all the adventures I can no longer have, it's the one I'd jump at first for a do over. Fall's nearly here, the weather is just right for the large carnivores to be active, and soon Alicia will have a small break in her work schedule, just after report cards are in (school just started a week or two ago, but that's how school does), and we could have one more perfect little afternoon.
Growing up where I did (the forest, the swamp, the bedrock, no farmland), I missed a lot of experiences that were common to a lot of friends. This is no complaint, growing up with the woodland creatures and awesome knowledge of the true age of things helps define me to this day, but I didn't see a lot of corn or pumpkin or any other crop, Halloween associated or not.
All I got to see were the occasional stalks of corn in a neighbours garden, rarely more than a dozen plants. One year we didn't get to carving a pumpkin, the whole thing (with seeds) ended up in the compost, the eldrich horror that took over the back yard was as close as I could ever got to visiting a pumpkin patch. People planted other gourds and there were always displays at the grocery store, but it wasn't Hollywood, it wasn't the TV Halloween special.
Last fall my my friend Claire and I set out to try and fill this gap in my experiences. We researches pumpkin patches with selections of gourds, looked at the fields to find one appropriate for my state (I still had most of my energy, but the fall was running down, I was getting close to restarting chemo, and I couldn't run the risk of actually getting lost). Wagon rides were an added bonus.
We found what we were looking for, but in an uncharacteristic moment picked a location much, much too far for our day trip, and instead quickly decided on a different farm near Alliston.
This farm had a field of beautiful, delicious squash, some photo opportunities, plenty of farm goods to buy, but no maze. It just had a path through the corn. My maize maze dream remains just a dream.
After loading up on squash and buttertarts and sparkling fruit juice (most of which I accidentally froze and didn't get to enjoy, further proof the trip was cursed), we visited a little Friedrich Banting's home and failed to uncover the secrets of its giant concrete sphere. We visited a little English store (called the British Shop) in Allison, where I failed to procure a deerstalker in my size, but did get a lot of sausage roll, before moving down the highway to Shelbourne for lunch/dinner at a place called The Tipsy Fox (chicken Caesar wrap, very good).
I got my pumpkin patch, wagon rides, cider and snacks. I never, and still haven't, found my maze. And at this point, I never will. And there's beauty in that, it was a perfect day that stubbornly refused to become perfect, and instead became what I needed from all my little adventures: a distraction from the horrors of daily life and a memory to escape into when I need it. I cannot explain why this particular memory is so strong (I can almost step into it, and I see it all so vividly), but I'm glad to have had it, and especially to have shared it. Thank you, Claire, for a silly fall day that went perfectly by constantly going silly.