It's been a lot of less than stellar news out of hospice lately. In time, so long as I intend to remain honest (and I do), that is inevitable. I have low days, I feel the pain of loss of my outside life. But I mark little milestones, celebrate little pleasures, and do my best to be a little silly every day.
I don't always succeed. Succeeding isn't the point. Remembering that I have tried before and can try again is whats been keeping me going.
Gangs all here ❤️👻
It's been a lot of less than stellar news out of hospice lately. In time, so long as I intend to remain honest (and I do), that is inevitable. I have low days, I feel the pain of loss of my outside life. But I mark little milestones, celebrate little pleasures, and do my best to be a little silly every day.
I don't always succeed. Succeeding isn't the point. Remembering that I have tried before and can try again is whats been keeping me going.
Halloween is the second most important day of the calendar year (second only to August 2nd, my Cancervercery). So important that the collage I constructed is chaotic and wonderful compared to what's come before.
I want to see another Halloween. Halloween is my present stretch goal at 112 hospice days, if I make it past Thanksgiving I'll make some plans for it.
I'm going* to see another Thanksgiving. I'm going to enjoy the best turkey drumstick (with the crispiest, best spiced skin) and pumpkin pie (with real whipped cream). Obviously, I'm sharing that turkey with the poodles. Thanksgiving is at day 95.
Today, I've lived in hospice for 73 days. I've been in hospital longer, but we count from my happy hospice home, the place all you wonderful people came to visit me and brighten my life. And here's hoping the second best holiday gets to do the same.
*In case error, enjoy an autumn sunset with your favourite seasonal drink. I'm fond of pumpkin spice ice caps, cellar temperature Guinness (the zero alcohol is excellent and what I'd be drinking), extra chocolatey hot chocolate, vanilla porters (any brand, alcohol free or otherwise), Coke (obviously), or a perfect glass of ice water (ideally sourced from the Canadian Shield, but not required). Repeat annually as memorial as desired.
After a long hiatus, Thomasin finally made it back to hospice yesterday! Her first visits were very tentative, and it took her ages to leave the kennel. This time was more of a "to hell with these bars, there's exploring to do," and much exploring was done.
Today she really showed off her gregarious personality, love of exploration and just a little bit of daring. The exact combination that brought her from a successful street beggar cat in Balm Beach to become the chubby, hqppy well cared for house cat she's bedom these years later.
It's nice to know that she's still got all those skills, though.
She's never been a grudge cat, so if she happened to be holding a fridge for moving her from the only home we've ever known (Balm Beach) only to abandon her shortly after for the hospital, she was over it in fifteen minutes of exploring and several cat treats. I think that's just how long it took her to calm down. Hopefully next time she's sleepier, and the weather is cooler, and we can share that little nap.
If I'm going outside, but not leqcinf grounds, I say I'm going to the courtyard. It isn't really a courtyard, a small garden seperates the chapel exit (which is closer to the elevators, too) from the main entrence and exist, used by general admission, emergency, and all other patients. The garden offers some privacy, some quiet, although its frequently broken by people using the exit as an exit.
During the high summer, the heat in the courtyard was strong. Surrounded on two sides, with the other two hardly open, the heat could build. To a lapsed chemo patient like myself, that heat was desirable, but occasionally overwhelming. But there was plenty of shade on those dog days of summer (often literally) and those days were magnificent.
As the sunsets have marched steadily West, outside the angle I can see from bed (the change happened so fast I barely noted it, but I know I stopped talking about their magic and the importance of daily observance. ADHD recall is a real thing, after all, and apparently you can forget your own star). And the sun has decided to hang low in the sky, like a bauble I can nearly reach.
The sun hanging like this, and the long shadows it causes to fall, is my favourite time of year. The weather it brings, and the harvest festivals, and the flavours (I'm already waste deep in pumpkin spice, and I didn't even like coffee until last month) are all the greatest. But the way the sun hugs the horizon most of the day, taking a lazy trip low into the sky.
In the courtyard, in the afternoon, there's no escape from the sun. The courtyard is under direct sun until it falls far enough that emergency itself provides shade, when the sky itself is exploding in colour, and maybe someday I'll take a sunset hidden like that, but these days I have a hallway I can share, and sometimes do.
These long shadows are nothing like the kilometer long shadows Tiny Marsh used to provide me. But they're still beautiful, and still remind me of the unknowable, unrecognizable part of everything. Of the little bit of unknown and spooky we love about the season. I think the harsh winter of. Elliot Lake would render my little courtyard too cold for all but the smokers, and spring the joy of sunshine and the plants recovering. But I shouldn't be seeing those. And that's fine, the geese and shadows returned to me one last time, and we accept our little blessings.
If I'm going outside, but not leqcinf grounds, I say I'm going to the courtyard. It isn't really a courtyard, a small garden seperates the chapel exit (which is closer to the elevators, too) from the main entrence and exist, used by general admission, emergency, and all other patients. The garden offers some privacy, some quiet, although its frequently broken by people using the exit as an exit.
During the high summer, the heat in the courtyard was strong. Surrounded on two sides, with the other two hardly open, the heat could build. To a lapsed chemo patient like myself, that heat was desirable, but occasionally overwhelming. But there was plenty of shade on those dog days of summer (often literally) and those days were magnificent.
As the sunsets have marched steadily West, outside the angle I can see from bed (the change happened so fast I barely noted it, but I know I stopped talking about their magic and the importance of daily observance. ADHD recall is a real thing, after all, and apparently you can forget your own star). And the sun has decided to hang low in the sky, like a bauble I can nearly reach.
The sun hanging like this, and the long shadows it causes to fall, is my favourite time of year. The weather it brings, and the harvest festivals, and the flavours (I'm already waste deep in pumpkin spice, and I didn't even like coffee until last month) are all the greatest. But the way the sun hugs the horizon most of the day, taking a lazy trip low into the sky.
In the courtyard, in the afternoon, there's no escape from the sun. The courtyard is under direct sun until it falls far enough that emergency itself provides shade, when the sky itself is exploding in colour, and maybe someday I'll take a sunset hidden like that, but these days I have a hallway I can share, and sometimes do.
These long shadows are nothing like the kilometer long shadows Tiny Marsh used to provide me. But they're still beautiful, and still remind me of the unknowable, unrecognizable part of everything. Of the little bit of unknown and spooky we love about the season. I think the harsh winter of. Elliot Lake would render my little courtyard too cold for all but the smokers, and spring the joy of sunshine and the plants recovering. But I shouldn't be seeing those. And that's fine, the geese and shadows returned to me one last time, and we accept our little blessings.
A week or so ago my corgi pal Minnow came back to visit! It was a bright spot in an already great week, so it slipped my mind among the bear sightings (no photos, sadly, too quick and bumbling for me) and shooting stars (also too fast) and such.
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.
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[1] 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)
[1]: 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.
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's 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.
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.
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 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.
More information on the sculpture garden can be found here.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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