life – Tough Bananas

It’s Only Hair

“Do you have any questions?” my surgeon asked.

She’d just delivered the news that my recent biopsy came back positive for breast cancer. She explained the general treatment process and assured me that the outcome for my diagnosis was very good.

Do I have any questions? Sure do.

Me? I’ve got cancer?
How is this real?
How did I get here?
Is this a mistake?
Could the biopsy results be wrong?
What am I supposed to do?

I didn’t voice those questions, they’d all jumbled together in my mind and I’d nodded along as she outlined the next steps: surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and then longer-term drugs to prevent a recurrence.

“Will I lose my hair? I know it’s not a big deal in the greater scheme of things, but…” I quietly inquired.

“Yes. There are so many things we can do for side effects, but not that one. You might want to explore cold-capping, there is evidence it can be effective.”

It’s only hair, but it wasn’t really “no big deal”. In my family there are about 25% of us with curly hair. I inherited it from my dad and one of my four sons got it from me. It’s a trait that connects us.

Dad was also known (by only a select few) in his childhood as “Bubbles” due to his fluffy crown of curls. My mom tells an anecdote of a clerk in our hometown asking her if I was Bob’s kid because “if that isn’t his daughter, then I don’t know who could look more like him.” I’m proud to take after him. My second-born is the only one who looks like me and is also a reminder of my dad, it’s a little bit like our own tiny club.

It’s only hair, but I’d finally figured out how to manage it effectively. I’d embraced the grays that were showing up and had used them as a reminder that growing old is a privilege. I had a whole hair routine down pat and had long given up trying to straighten out my locks. These curls are also what confused some of the students at my school who often mistook me for my coworker friend, brown curls being our most similar feature. Their double-takes when they saw us together was both hilarious and endearing. It was another tiny club I belonged to.

It is only hair, so I cut it. My oncologist had advised cutting it shorter before it started to fall out and she was right. I gave myself a bob I did not like. Funnily enough, that made losing it easier – it wasn’t the me I was used to. In a time when I had little control over what was happening to my body, this felt empowering.

Round two of chemo and showcasing my hair styling skills

After the second round of chemo, my hair gave in and fell out. It was more sudden than I’d expected. Wednesday it was business as usual and then Thursday it started coming out in clumps. So I took my husband up on his offer and he buzzed it for me. I then spent Friday sitting on the couch and rolling a sticky lint remover over my scalp to catch the strays.

Did you know that when you lose your hair to chemotherapy, you don’t go completely bald? Most hair falls out, but there are some stubborn little bits that hang on for dear life. Those downy pieces reminded me that it was only temporary and my follicles would return eventually.

It is only hair, but now that it was gone, the reality of my diagnosis, treatment, and months of recovery became real. Now I looked like a cancer patient. This became especially true when my eyebrows and then eyelashes also disappeared. I did alright with pencilling them in, but on more than one occasion, after washing my face for bed, I scared myself when I looked in the mirror.

When they say you lose your hair, that includes your nostrils. I never fully appreciated my nose hairs until I ate a hot honey pizza when out with friends and my nose could not keep up with the heat. It’s amazing all the small things about our bodies that we take for granted. For a time I became that person who always has a pack of tissues in her pocket.

Everyone’s journey and approach to chemo-induced hair loss is different. I opted not to get a wig. I can barely tolerate tags on clothing so I knew that was not the right option for me. Instead, I got a large selection of cotton beanies to wear. When the weather warmed up and my hair began coming in, I couldn’t handle how hot they made me feel, so I mostly go about my day as-is now. The first time I took my beanie off in front of a non-family member I felt incredibly vulnerable. But I’d chosen well, this friend had gone through her own cancer journey a few years earlier, so was unfazed by my slightly fuzzy noggin. This emboldened me to do the same the next day with another friend. Slowly, I realized two things: one, I care more about my baldness than other people do and two: I don’t care anymore (well, maybe just a little bit).

The first part of my treatment was months of losses – loss of mobility from surgery, hair loss, energy was sometimes non-existent. I felt like a stranger in my own body as the drugs caused water retention (my record is four pounds!) and puffiness and brain fog. I felt like I was in a perpetual penalty box with short bursts of time out for good behaviour. I’m not done with active treatment yet, but it now feels like I am in my gains-era. Gaining strength and stamina, mental acuity, and also the thrill of watching it grow back – I’m like a human chia pet.

It’s only hair, but I’m glad it’s back.

This Isn’t About the Tree

Last year at this time, I discovered that our pre-lit tree no longer lived up to its name. I sat on the floor snipping strings of lights and unwinding the strands from faux branches.

The phone rang. I missed it as I had been sitting on the floor and am not as limber as I was once. It rang again almost immediately which set off alarm bells and I whispered “uh oh, that cannot be good” to myself. It was an unknown number with a very known number exchange.

“Is this Janice?” Reader, not many good things follow someone using my government name. This time was no exception. This time it was the news that my dad had been rushed to the hospital. We said our final good-byes only hours later.

This piece isn’t about his death.

It is now almost one year since that day and this week felt like a good time to get out the tree. I am very much a “done is better than perfect” type person and typically I hurry through the set up so we can just enjoy the soft glow of the Christmas lights a little bit sooner. Good enough suits me just fine.

This year, I slowly took each layer of tree out of the box and took my time fluffing and straightening the branches. I found some rogue light strands that I had missed last year (please see above reference to “good enough”). I tested the replacement lights before I strung them and even took them all off and started again because they just didn’t look right. In the quiet of this process I felt peace and calm.

This isn’t about the tree.

Traditions are part of the fabric of life. Making memories is kind of the point, isn’t it? I don’t want every November to be a sad reminder. So I am embracing bittersweet and resetting things. November will be for pausing and taking time to do things right, not rushed. I think from now on I will set the tree up on my own and take that time to think about my dad, his love of Christmas cake, mint Laura Secord chocolates, and his cover of Peggy Lee’s song “The Tree“. I will remember telling him there were less dramatic ways to get me to come visit. I will reflect on my gratitude that I could be at his bedside as the veil lifted and assure him that we would be okay, he could go.

I am certain he heard me then and I think he’d be happy to see this reset now.

Middle Age – It Was There All Along

You don’t realize middle age is upon you until you are in the thick of it, but there were signs it was approaching.

It starts off subtle. You find yourself tilting your head more often to see the total payment due, but it can’t be because you need bifocals. No, no, no, the tech manufacturers are just cheaping out and making the screens smaller and with extra glare (those monsters).

Middle of the night wake ups are no longer due to small children needing your attention, but are a result of a poorly-timed cup of tea before bedtime. This is tough to accept since you now plan your evening beverage consumption with military precision.

When you use a device a child or teen was on recently, you have to first increase the brightness to supernova level. However, the increased font option is still on an as-needed basis. You’ve decided that stretching is a helpful recommendation. You now do that regularly with your arms when trying to read anything on your phone, not because you can’t see it, but because healthy habits, guys.

Walking, gardening, baking, and reading are not just fake hobbies you listed in the “tell us a bit about yourself” sections of forms. They are now your preferred activities. I recently found myself contentedly pulling up clover in the front garden while listening to an audio book when it dawned on me that it was a Friday night and I couldn’t be happier.

You wake up one morning and realize that instead of being irritated with the birds chirping outside your window at 5am, you are very invested in learning which ones are making which calls. Hence, the addition of a bird watching app to your homescreen. Also, did you know that there are seven types of chickadees, but only two are found in Ontario?

Gradually you have come to the realization that yacht rock is seriously underrated. Christopher Cross and Michael McDonald are treasures that must be protected at all costs. What a fool believes, he sees. No wise man has the power to reason away. What seems to be is always better than nothing. Than nothing at all. Preach it, Michael. Preach it.

Staff room lunch conversations about movies and current events have been replaced with discussions about which supplements everyone is taking. Magnesium biglycinate is a game-changer when it comes to managing the middle-of-the-night heart racing. No more playing “is it a nightmare, anxiety, or am I dying?” The answer is now “you just forgot to take your magnesium with the ashwagandha chaser, silly”.

Home clothes are now just your clothes. Life is too short to be uncomfortable. Anything that requires a belt has been purged from your wardrobe. Ditto for shirts needing to be tucked in (and yes, that includes the French tuck, no one has capacity for that on top of trying to get through the work day).

The first app you open in the morning is the weather forecast because knowing the humidex value for the day is now critical. The second one is Goodreads followed closely by the aforementioned bird identification app. You now interact more often with the public library’s book holds system more than with your own children.

Injuries that once were caused by too much heavy-lifting or evening volleyball games are now a result of sitting at a weird angle to watch a murder documentary. Other causes may include: putting your jacket on, getting up from the couch too quickly, or the very risky decision to sit on the floor. You get light headed from stretching too hard.

Your brain starts to do weird and random things, such as reworking the lyrics of a song from your youth:

All of these signs accumulate until one day you look in the mirror to discover more gray hair that previously noted and a few age spots you had been in denial about. And then the truth really hits you: you don’t care. Getting older is part of life. Aging is actually a privilege and grays are simply confetti celebrating that you’ve made it this far. Sure, your body is beginning to betray you, but you’ve got this.

You’re doing great, middle-ager.

But seriously, try taking magnesium.

That Reminds Me

It’s been one month since you left. The past thirty-one days have been the wildest buffet of feelings and memories. You have always been a part of the fabric of our lives, but it has been felt more keenly these four weeks.

Did you know that I often quote or refer to you to my class?

“As my dad always says, let’s do this just for kicks.”

“If my dad was here right now he’d tell you to pick up your feet.”

“You’ll never be a card shark like my dad if you don’t learn your addition facts.”

When I sing an instruction to them (they secretly love it, I’m sure), I think of you. Not every time, it is just part of who I am now, but I know it’s because of you.

I tell them they are my favourite grade fives and they always answer “we’re your’re only grade fives!” Just like you always told us we were your favourite ten-year-old, oldest child, youngest child, or any other descriptor.

For years I thought you just had songs for various things. Someone in the family asked, “who shoved all the Tupperware in the cupboard and just closed the door? They all fell on me!” You could be heard from a corner of the house singing, “Must be Janice, must be Janice.” I did not know until I was in my twenties that that was a cover of Raffi’s “Must be Santa”.

Did you know that one of your grandsons does this all the time as well? He’s always got a tune going, it’s more about whistling with him, but it reminds me of you. I can hear him from corners of the house and always know he’s home.

When my boys were little, I had so many songs individualized for them, but copyright laws prohibit me from sharing them online. I still do it now, with our puppy (he’s the fluffy boy I love a lot and Denver is his name-o).

When I taught kindergarten I’d often piggyback teaching themes onto known songs. That’s how we reviewed the seasons, and how to put on our winter clothes, and so many other skills. That is not a coincidence, I was taught that from you all along, even if the lessons were a bit sketchy. I clearly recall hearing you sing (midsummer):


The tree, the tree
Let's go and steal a tree
We'll string it up with stolen lights
Where no one else can see

It’s Christmas and that always reminds me of you. You’d set up a gift-wrapping station in the front room and we would bring you presents. Like a machine, you’d produce perfectly creased, cut, and folded packages. There was no item you could not expertly wrap. We all love the story of how you learned that skill: wrapping period products in the fifties-era drugstore. You were oblivious to the contents of the boxes and just went about your job. The whistle-loving grandson asked me to teach him to wrap and I had to tell him that I never learned as you always took care of that.

Friends and I were recently sharing what we have bought for Christmas and how to hide it from our kids. Of course I had to share the story of the year you bought a cassette case and hid it so well that we never found it.

when you died
your magic didn't vanish
it is carried by those who love you
like we swallowed the sun and every star.
we don't tell your story to make the world darker.
we tell your story to make the world brighter.
no one will see that light shine again
if we never get to let it out.

-Sara Rian

I miss you. I miss hearing “hey kiddo!” when I call. I miss your shoulder-shaking laugh. I miss stocking up on your favourites before you came for a visit.

I miss you, so I will keep sharing your stories.

Thanks for the Memories

There was a double rainbow in the sky the other day. I went to text you and ask if you remember making rainbows in your backyard with the garden hose.

Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best” came on the radio during my drive home. Do you remember your babysitter, Vicky, who listened to this album on repeat all summer and humoured us and our endless dance routines? She was double-jointed and we begged her to show us how her elbows bent. That must have been a very long July for her. Remember that?

We played Barbies past the age when we wanted any other friends to know. I’d carry mine in a grocery bag over to your house and we played for hours in your basement. There was that time that you filled your Barbie pool with water and claimed your mom had given her blessing (she had not).

Remember all the jumps we made up in my pool? I still do them sometimes with my kids, despite their protests. The Sprinkler, the Granny, the Dolly Parton. We were swimming stars.

One time you told me that your cousin blew a bubble so big that when it popped she had to have an operation to remove the gum from her head. I use that story to teach my students about tall tales. You were so convincing.

I was devastated the day you sat me down and said you might be moving to be closer to your grandma’s house. That was until you clarified it was one block over. Yes, those 500 metres would be a real time-saver in a two hour drive.

Remember when we went to church together and saw the older man make change in the collection plate? He dropped in a twenty and took his time rummaging around for smaller bills. We couldn’t stop gawking, then we couldn’t stop laughing.

We made our own band and tried to sell tickets to a concert on your front porch. Remember when we tried to sell the mud pies we’d made from actual mud? Or when we went door to door selling pebbles from your driveway?

Biking riding. Remember when we were allowed to go all the way around the block without asking first? And how we would trade bikes? Remember your yellow bike and how it would always skin the inside of our ankles?

I came over once and you were low-key showing off how you’d solved your Rubik’s cube. I pretended not to notice that you’d just moved the stickers around. You always were a bit of a rascal.

I think of you almost every day – in one way or another. When I make spaghetti I think about eating raw noodles in your kitchen. When I bake I remember your mom saying you had to ask your brother if he wanted to lick a beater. You whispered it as quietly as you could so you’d have plausible deniability when he (shockingly) didn’t hear and so we got both. Every time I stack the dish rack way too high, I want to text you a photo and see if you can top it.

We became friends so long ago when we were so little that I cannot recall a time I didn’t know you, you’ve just always been in my life. Even when we grew up and moved away, some random memories always made us reach out to check in and ask, “do you remember…?”

I remember.

There are memories that our siblings might share with the two of us, that we’ve told other people, that we experienced as a group. Our parents recall things we’ve long forgotten. But there are some that only you and I hold.

And now you’re gone and it’s down to me.

So I will remember for the both of us.