Three long weeks

Five weeks ago, I had an appointment with my rheumatologist. My right ankle was still sore following a bad fall in Brittany, a couple of months earlier. It didn’t take him long to find out why. I had broken my malleolus hence the discomfort. He marveled at my resistance to pain which made me laugh. Really.

I probably reminded him that I had been through a lot of physical pain those past ten years because I mentioned that my next check-up was coming up two weeks later.

“It’s only once a year now, I imagine,” he said. Well, not exactly. “Still every three months.”

It all started two weeks ago. It was “the-only-genuine-breast” checking time. We usually start right away with a MRI but not this time... I really don’t know why since I didn’t care this much and never got to ask the oncologist, three months ago, why and why not... It was so much more exciting to talk about Popeye’s new boat and taking pictures than to ask questions about a check-up that is turning so much into a routine after all.

Instead of following orders, I decided to scrap the mammography and to go directly for the echograph... probably because it is totally painless and allows me to have a nice chat with my dear radiologist...

I meet M. all the time at the hospital but it is one thing exchanging a few words in a corridor and a totally different one having a heart-to-heart talk during and after the echograph in a nice sort of cozy room. You see, my radiologist and me, we have been through so much together for so many years that we do have heart-to-heart talks!

I know enjoying echograph time probably sounds really strange but I guess I have grown so used to feeling good that I do forget from time to time that cancer can come back anytime.

The echograph went very well. Everything looked just fine. We amiably shared stories and good laughs. But M. is a radiologist and so he said: “I’d like you to have a MRI done though just to be on a real safe side, you know. And you really should have a mammography too.”

No problem even if MRI are not my preferred moments because of the very delicate blood vessels in my left arm. I hate it when the vein ruptures right in the middle of the MRI and they have to start all over again, preferably sticking the new needle in my ankle or my foot.
Oh well. This does not happen every time...

Actually, the most painful moment is waiting for the results... for quite a long time, seems like. Then you get to talk with the radiologist who will come up with a smile on his friendly face or who will look really worried if... He has been smiling every time for the past five years,

Not this time though.

“I am so sorry but a lump lighted up. It is 1 cm in diameter. I did not see it during the echograph. I’d like you to have a mammography done as soon as possible and then I’ll double check with a new echograph.”

The bubble I had been living in ever since this weird miracle happened five years ago when all cancer cells suddenly disappeared from my body, leaving only one scar in my right lung... besides... oh well, this bubble exploded right away.

“Don’t worry,” said M. very reassuringly. “It looks more like a cyst than like a tumor.”

But I have been there twice already so I almost collapsed. I would have broken down if Popeye had not been with me.

M. wanted me to have the mammography done two days later but we really had a very important appointment in Brussels with our mean landlady so we agreed on doing it yesterday.

Mammography and echograph.

Popeye would be stuck at work but M. said that he’d know how to take care of me if things were really bad. (Which is so true!) Besides the fact that Popeye would be working a mere ten minutes away from the hospital so I said I’d manage very well on my own, thank you.

Usually, a check-up only lasts a couple of days. We were getting close to week #3.

I’d go to sleep at night and then I’d wake up as if someone had punched me very hard. I’d gasp. “This can’t be happening. Not again.”

I did not cry nor felt sorry for myself though. I was too busy balancing my near future if... Would I agree to go for a third chemo? Knowing very well that if cancer was coming back, I probably wouldn’t stand a chance to be alive in December.
My shrink kept telling me that I was a fighter. Had I not been several times at death’s door and had I not survived against all prognoses? Good point! But I kept waking up in the middle of the night and totally loosing my sense of humor.

Gone were the days where I could answer with a smirk to: “What sign are you born under?”
“Cancer/Cancer”
“Impossible!”
“Not for me!”

So today was mammography time. Before getting to the X-ray department though, I went to the lab department where my blood tests results were waiting for me.

The girl handed out the envelop to me while having a good laugh with her colleagues for some unknown reason. I remember feeling quite upset. How could she be so heartless? Twisted mind, I know.

I slumped on the closest chair and opened the envelop. I’m pretty good at reading my cancer markers... especially when they look so normal! So normal even though there is a 1 cm growth in my left breast. So... So...

M. did not comment on my smiling face. He smiled back.. Mammography was over in a few minutes. He had told the technician to take three images. Only three! Thank you, M.

As soon as they were developed, I was taken to one of the echograph rooms where M. was waiting for me. Yes, the mammography was showing the growth (and nothing else - nothing bad that is.)

Actually, they were getting worried about micro calcifications which can turn out to be cancerous, the way it had happened in 2005... and only detectable with a basic mammography.

He started looking for the cyst which he found at last! Thanks to the MRI measurements...

He is such an excellent radiologist that he was really upset he had missed it during the first echograph. (i.e. Saving me and all of us so much worry and stress!)

I like the guy. He was genuinely cross at himself... I had to joke about it. He laughed and all was well after all.

Of course, now there will be a mandatory echograph every three months no matter which part of my body is checked up at the time. That is - until the cyst melts away which I am pretty sure it will.

A mandatory echograph every three months, he said. Wow. Great! We’ll have more heart-to-heart talks over and over again!

Wait. I am being totally crazy there. As early as tonight, I shall start willing this cyst away! And away it will go. Eventually.







*Good Luck, and Good Night*

The Aching Void

Yesterday, after spending a long, a very long time walking on the beach, I came home and turned my Mac on... straight to Facebook. Trying to make up for loneliness, I guess.

A girl I am very fond of had posted an article from the NY Times I had tearfully read a few hours before... All about an odd form of dementia. Actually more a love story about an aching void.
 
Last Friday night, our friends Bernard and Yvette drove Popeye home from the station. It was very late because of train trouble on his way from Paris.

Since I no longer can drive when it gets dark, Popeye who was feeling quite desperate aboard a train stopped in the middle of nowhere called Bernard.

Why Bernard? Because whenever we have a problem in Brittany, who do we call? We call Bernard, of course.

Bernard and Yvette are very close friends ever since we moved to Les Tertres. Actually, before Bernard retired, he used to farm our fields... We used to laugh a lot about it! And... fight about it too!
 
Even though we differed on many environmental issues, we still got along well enough to be part of their extended family. Throughout the years, a game has been going on... I'd start talking about ecology and there he'd go ranting and raving (at me, of course). Then I’d laugh in his face. Got you!

Well, sometimes I was not joking at all. There were very serious issues at stake. Bernard is very bright and knows that they are serious... Then the fight would get a little bit more serious. At least it used to get serious.

Nowadays, there is no fight because you see, my friend Bernard is living with ‘an aching void’, his wife. And he loves his wife a lot, so much, so much.

‘Aching void’ may sound mean but those of you who have been sharing a lot of time with someone suffering from Alzheimer's disease will understand.
 
Yvette is my friend. She’ll be my friend until the end that is getting closer and closer. But spending time with her is more like facing ‘an aching void’ than a real person, the real person she used to be and will never be again.


She was diagnosed very late because her family doctor thought she was going through depression. (She was only 56 at the time.) And it took me a long time to realize what was happening because I was going through cancer #2 at the time. I did not spend a lot of time at Les Tertres for almost one year with going through surgery and chemo, etc.

We kept in touch by phone but it was like being a galaxy apart, really.

Yvette had been crying on the phone while she was telling me she was having troubles reading because her vision was deteriorating. She was complaining about being unable to take care of the farm accounts. The main point though seemed to be that she couldn’t see very well anymore.

Bernard was getting desperate because she obviously had no sight troubles but she was crying a lot and getting worse.

When chemo ended, I came home to Les Tertres.

I remember Yvette was smiling and quite happy again. She still had 'sight' problems but she had decided that she was probably suffering from MD, just like me. And since I had been able to recover partially, she was hoping she’d be just as strong and recover too.

By then, her family was getting terribly worried. She’d leave the farm and get lost while going shopping. Daily life was becoming definitely weird. Her doctor sent her to a specialist in Rennes. I can’t even say that it was too late because AD leaves you without hope. There is nothing to be done. Especially in places like Brittany, in a rural area.

When the family members learnt the dreadful news, some decided it couldn’t be true. Some did believe the neurologist and decided to try to find a way to help her. There was a lot of crying and despair.

She was not told about the results of the tests because this was the unbelievers’ wish. At the time, I wondered whether it would have changed something. I still do.

I knew a lot about AD because in Brussels, I had worked with a young movie-maker who was filming a documentary about AD patients. I remember being aghast most of the time... But I did not really knew those people so I did not feel emotionally involved even though I was very disturbed at the time.

I begged my neurologist to take Yvette into a medical protocol. He said that he had to subject her to some tests before making his decision.


She came over to Paris with her husband and one of her daughters-in-law (they already did believe she was suffering from AD). They stayed with us (Popeye was in Mexico at the time). We went to the Opera which she loved very much. Such a great memory.

And then we went to the hospital. She wanted me to attend her tests. “She’s my friend,” she told the neurologist.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been there and sometimes I am glad I witnessed the whole process even though it was one of the most painful experience I ever went through. (Even today, on a scale from 1 to 10, I do think that witnessing her struggle through very, very simple tests was worth a 9 while learning I had cancer was barely up to 6, at least for cancer #1.)

Of course, it was way too late. The neurologist was very kind but it was too late.

For a while, life could still be a lot of fun even if we had to watch over her like a child. AD was spreading so fast that a good day was to be cherished and enjoyed without ever thinking about what would happen next.

Yes, she was like a child. Weird especially the day she turned 60 and 61 and 62 and 63... Why should I concentrate on days and times while everything was going down the hill so fast and so irrationally?

Her husband is wonderful with her. Really wonderful. He never complains. There are days when ‘she is doing fine’ and there are days when ‘she is feeling rotten.’

‘Fine’ is so pitiful and ‘rotten’ is so awful. But he is there.

They had planned a lot of fun things and traveling they wanted to do when he’d retire. Well, he is retired and fun things are not even talked about anymore. She no longer even wants to get in the car to go visit her sisters she was so fond of.

Nowadays she’s physically aging a lot and very fast. One week does make a difference.

I know she no longer knows who I am. She’s still nice, most of the time, with me, that is. The other day, she even said: “I like you a lot, you know.” And I went through this phase: “Who is ‘you’?” but I smiled back at her: “I like you a lot too.”

I have to accept to be ‘you’. At least I’m still a little bit present in her life.

Cancer is so much easier to deal with. You don’t believe me? I am terribly serious.

Cancer is cells gone crazy. AD is brain destruction. You can try to fight against cells gone crazy. How can you fight AD with something which is no longer a brain?

You get very sick with cancer. But you still get a chance to survive.

You can’t survive AD. And you are terribly sick all the time. Sick is not the right word. You go through hell every day. And your family goes through hell every day. And you never get a chance to survive.

Tomorrow, I will go to the farm. She’ll be sitting on the sofa, so still and silent. I don’t mind her being silent because she tends to be quite incoherent nowadays. She will sigh a lot and look at her lifeless hands resting on her thighs. Then she’ll say: “Do ‘you’ want to take a walk?” I’ll agree. She’ll stand up with my help. But since her ‘brain’ has lately quit to tell her how to walk, at least most of the time, she’ll grab my arm. We’ll take a few steps. She’ll start complaining about pain in her feet and then we’ll turn back. We’ll sit down on the sofa.

A few minutes later, she’ll say to me: “Do ‘you’ want to take a walk?’ I’ll agree and...

Maybe tomorrow there will be a respite and she’ll be able to walk around the room and even go outside in the farmyard. And I’ll be so happy she can move around for a while.

But if there is no respite, I’ll be so frightened again.

It is up to 10 these days on the pain scale.





*Good Luck, and Good Night*

Weaning off drugs

©Bigstock

In 2004, several months after chemo #1, I started suffering from excruciating pain in my limbs, muscles and joints. I could no longer stand up without help except that I would start screaming to the top of my lungs because my skin felt like it was on fire whenever someone was touching it.

I had been quite sensible about cancer and its ‘enemies’ (my 'friends' - surgery, chemo and radiotherapy). But suddenly I was feeling like I would not be able to survive such  pain and I was quite vocal in my distress.

This crisis happened when we were in Brittany for Christmas. By the time we came back to Paris, it was getting worse and worse. I truly was going out of my mind.

To make the story short, the doctors at the AHP finally made the right diagnosis - It was an acute onset of fibromyalgia caused by an overdose of stress (PTSD)... mainly due to chemo.

They put me on TCA (Laroxyl) plus Clonazepam (Rivotril) plus Bromazepam (Lexomil) plus pain killers... The dosage was quite high. You’d think that I would turn into a zombie. Not at all. The pain disappeared and I resumed a fairly normal life, even with the suppressant.

A few months went by. The neurologist was talking about downsizing the treatment. I was already off painkillers and bromazepam.

And then in 2005, my world exploded again. Cancer was spreading fast while becoming a potentially swift killer.

I had two big operations before they could even start chemo.

The doctors were adamant. No way the fibromyalgia treatment was to be downsized after all. I was back on bromazepam. And they doubled the dosage of TCA and Clonazepam... to be on the safe side...

Chemo was hard and long. But fibromyalgia did not come back! Wonderful, isn’t it? Cancer, yes. Fibromyalgia, no! A miracle!

I left the hospital in August 2006... hoping I’d survive without chemo. It had been such a terrible experience that I even quit thinking about the fibromyalgia treatment.

Years went by. Lucky me. Obviously my oncologist had managed to scare  Cancer #2 away, once and for all! Talk about being positive!


Two years ago, I was feeling so good (and surviving so well) that I started dreaming about discarding the suppressants.

I had long talks with my neurologist who just didn’t like the idea. Not at all. But he’s a kind and understanding man... I made my point. I was just asking about downsizing the treatment and I’d do it very slowly and very respectful of his prescription.

I am not this crazy. I know that those drugs are very addictive and that  the weaning would take time. I did not care how long it would take. I knew I was ready to get rid of them all.

I knew there wouldn’t be any substitute to make my journey through freedom easier but I was so willing to start!

One year ago, I finally managed to reduce the intake by half without any problem. I was very surprised actually. I never thought it would be this easy. My doctors who worked again as a team monitoring my weaning were quite surprised but very pleased... They joked about it.

The unsinkable Olive Oyl had done it again... defeating (probably) cancer and getting rid of such a strong treatment! Laughing at doctors! Like a child. ‘See, I told you. I told you!’

They had asked me to wait for one whole year before getting on stage two, which for me meant complete weaning, once and for all.

Six months ago, I got the green light. I managed to reduce the new treatment by half. I was no so cocky about it. From time to time, it became a little bit hard.

I’d feel faint while walking around. So dizzy that I had to stop and sit down on the closest bench. Then I’d feel allright again...

No way I would quit ‘quitting’. I was pretty adamant about my ‘journey to freedom’. It would take quite a long time... but I would do it.

In November 2011, the posology was down to 10 drops of Laroxyl and 5 drops of Rivotril. Quite a success if I tell you that in 2010, I was still ingesting 50 drops of Laroxyl and 25 drops of Rivotril every night.

The funny thing about it was that I could not tell the difference. I did not feel ‘undrugged’... probably because I never really was aware that I had been this drugged after all.

I had excuses.

It was so hard going through the whole experience of  the cancer relapse and so very hard to recover from a very strong chemo that my mind  probably forgot that I was on TCA, etc.

In January, on the day we left Venice, I told Popeye I was more than willing to quit taking all those drugs even on a very low dosage. Once and for all.

We talked about it. It had been quite easy... despite the fact that I had been very moody, Popeye added.

I made an appointment with my neurologist who knew exactly what I was going to say! I hate it when I am so predictable. And he said no. And I said yes. Please. And he said no. And I said yes. Please! Please!

He gave up as I knew he would because he knows me well and he trusts me. Besides the fact that I’m never too far from the AHP... He checked his schedule to make sure he wouldn’t be away while I was going through the last part of the journey.

And I left with a new prescription. On my way to complete weaning.

Last night I took my last drop of Rivotril and within ten days, I’ll be off from Laroxyl as well.

And yes, it has been an awful experience from the very start. Very surprising actually. It had been so easy...

I imagine my brain finally registered it would never get access to these drugs again (hopefully) and fought a very mean battle against my will!

I’ve quit sleeping... No kidding. Last night was grand! I slept for four hours! (My average - two hours per night for the past two months!)

I feel dizzy most of the time. I quit eating (well, this is NOT the worst part). My body goes through hot flashes while I am shivering and feeling utterly freezing... anytime anywhere...

I have the hardest time to keep my eyes focused... the hardest time to read... (No wonder being so sleep deprived...)

At first I thought it would be a great idea to keep walking and walking for hours whenever I was in Paris until my legs gave up on me. I really was hoping I’d feel so tired that I’d fall asleep and I’d sleep for hours and hours, maybe days...

Sleeping it off...

I don’t feel tired though. I am exhausted. And yet I feel hyperactive... and totally numb at the same time.


I go through weird gaps... forgetting my phone number, for example. But when I try hard, it comes back, don't worry! It just feels weird and spooky for a few minutes.

I almost forgot to mention that I am always in a very bad mood! (There, I said it...) Foul temper aft starboard. Worse mood aft on the port side... Poor Popeye!

Hello, brain, why can’t you accept that your drugged bliss is gone?

Hello, brain, we are going to have a brand new life, you and me! A fun life! A drug-free life!

Hello, brain!

Hello, brain? Hel-lo, brain?



Do not worry, my friends. I won’t give up. ‘Brain’ shall understand. I am the unsinkable Olive Oyl after all!

©E. C. Segar

By the way, I should soon be back with a new 'episode' about Venice! I only have to make a deal with 'brain'.





*Good Luck, and Good Night*

'Bald Is Beautiful'

Last month was all about breast cancer... Posters and pink ribbons everywhere. Messages on Facebook.

Five years ago, one of my very young friends was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was just getting out from cancer #2... I mean, getting out of chemo #2. We talked a lot. She was very brave and recovered well.

A few months ago, she had great news to tell. She was pregnant. We all rejoiced. A new beginning after such a scare.

In September, she called me from Paris. Cancer was striking back and she was pregnant. Too early to give birth. Her oncologist decided to start chemo anyway. (This is how I learnt that far too many expectant mothers go through cancer and chemo during their pregnancy. So there are «special» chemos for them.)

I was worried of course. But my friend is a true fighter. She started chemo in France while her husband was working in a faraway country. Brave girl.

She called me not too long ago.

«Guess what? My hair has totally fallen out,» she said.

We had a good chuckle about it. Yes, I know it may sound strange... But this is the way we are. (And the topic of my post.)

«This means that your daughter will be more hairy than you when she’s born!» Now I feel really stupid of course... because I should have known better.

«Well, not really. She’s having chemo too, remember?» (Yes. For the past three months.)

My friend is a very pretty young woman with a beautiful and curly mane of hair. But I know she never felt bad when she lost her hair during chemo #1. She wanted so much to survive to care about it!

When they are told that cancer has struck (or worse - has struck back), most people kind of fall apart when they realize they may loose their hair, I know. And they should not. The problem is not theirs. It is in the eyes of the people they will meet.

Loosing your hair does not mean that you are sick. It means that you are fighting cancer with a treatment that is hopefully unkind towards cancer cells. Meanwhile your daily life and your physical appearance are quite disrupted. I’ve been through all this in one of my posts.

Today, I know that my friend’s daughter is about to be born. One hairless baby from one hairless mother. I also know that she will be one of the most beautiful babies I have ever seen.

Because you see, ‘Bald is beautiful.’ It may not be obvious to you but it can turn to be very beautiful when you fight such a dubious fight with all your strength, with all your heart.

I know that in our modern society, we tend to wish for perfection, physical perfection meaning for a lot of women having beautiful hair... besides long and thin legs! (By the way, do men really love to be bald?)

My friend’s baby will be unaturally hairless but so beautiful, I know.

Let me tell you a little story to help you understand how the problem of baldness from chemo or because of other health problems that cause alopecia only exists in your mind.

A while ago, French teenagers were asked to write a screenplay. It was a national competition. Its aim was to change the way we look at people with cancer.

The winners were 13 yrs old kids from the Junior High School of a very small town.

Here is a summary of their screenplay which became a one-reeler by Luc Besson.

It is quite cold and windy. Several mothers are watching their kids play in the public garden.

A young mother is holding a baby in her arms. She is wearing a silky scarf on her head.
The baby drops her pacifier. The mother bends down to pick it up. A gust of wind. Her scarf flies away.
She looks stricken but she cannot stand up to go get her scarf because the baby is crying now and she wants to calm her down.

The other women look away. They are obviously shocked and embarrassed.

A young girl is going down the slide. As soon as she is back on her feet, she runs to pick up the scarf.
She walks to the young mother.

«I found your hair,» she says with a huge smile on her face.

The young woman is hairless and looks deathly pale.
 
But she smiles at the little girl.
«Thank you so much, sweetie,» she says.
«You’re welcome,» the girl answers while she runs back to the slide.

All of a sudden, the other women start smiling too, looking relieved.

We then hear a voice: «Their hope lies in the way we look at them.»

This is the story that won first prize at the competition.

Do we need to wait until children set the example of what to do for us to change?

Yes, ‘Bald’ can be beautiful, my friends.


Welcome, welcome, dear baby girl to be born any second now! Your bald mother loves you so much and your father loves both of you, you hairless girls.



*Good Luck, and Good Night*

"Green Algae" and Pollution in Brittany

Today, I heard on the radio that there is a huge conference in Chicago about cancer. They mentionned that one child out of three born this year will develop cancer in his/her life, sooner or later.

Four main causes. The first one is environmental. The second one is linked to tobacco. The third one, to alcohol. The fourth one, to prolonged exposure to the sun.

The first cause and the fourth one are obviously linked. It seems quite easy to fight the second and third causes.

I have already written a few pages about pollution in Brittany and the heavy toll it takes on people’s lives.

Cancer and Alzheimer are considered to be epidemics here. To be specific, most of the cases there are known to be linked to environmental problems.

Agriculture is not really regulated. Since it is very intensive, farming requires a lot of fertilizers, weed-killers, fungicides, insecticides, growth substances and pesticides.

Impossible to leave out the intensive farming of pigs and poultry.

All this pollutes ground water in a rather frightening way.

During the past thirty years, a very visible type of pollution has appeared. We call it «marée verte» since it is caused by the «algues vertes». (green waters as opposed to oil slick - «marée noire» in French)

The «algues vertes» known as «Ulva» do not pollute unless their growth is altered by the nitrates discharged into the sea by the rivers heavily polluted because of the very intensive farming.

This has been getting worse during the past ten years.

I take most of my pictures outside, in the wild. And I have worked a lot on the foreshore and around mussel beds. It is a long story I’ll tell you one of these days.

There is a place I love not too far away from our home. It looks like a huge beach at low tide except that people farm mussels there. So it ends up looking like a crazy forest, filled with stakes where mussels grow.

My first encounter with «green algae» there was very surprising.

I usually work barefoot whenever it is warm outside. It’s easier for me to walk along the foreshore and inside the mussel beds.

Boots (which I do wear when it gets cold) tend to overload me. And since I’m already carrying a very heavy equipment...

So I go barefoot.

My first green algae were beautiful. The sea was slowly ebbing away. Fresh algae up to my ankles. Green over the golden sands. Pure magic.

I had no idea what I was getting into. By the time I was through taking pictures, the sun was much warmer. It was hot, very hot. A very strong smell was coming from the algae, no longer green but turning into a sickening brown mush while they were drying under the sun.

I started feeling really sick and nauseated and so sorry I was not wearing boots.

My beautiful magic green carpet had turned into a sickeningly slippery and stinking quagmire.

Visible pollution in action. Quite impressive.

Those green seaweeds are growing on inorganic nutrients (nitrates in Brittany mainly from pig farms). As soon as they start to decay, they produce sulfuretted hydrogen, all this within a couple of hours at low tide.

Since my first encounter, I have a very strong relationship with those «algues vertes». A love and hate relationship.

I love them because they can be beautiful. They sure add a new dimension to the landscape. They float ashore leisurely and come to rest on the sand. Their green color is amazing. And they are almost ethereal and translucent.

Then I hate them. They are a sure sign of nutrient pollution. They rot away very quickly. Then they turn very ugly. They are terribly dangerous.

This pollution kills. Not insidiously. Instantly. It can be a matter of minutes for some dogs or even a horse once down into the trap like last summer.

Two years ago, a worker died after spending a few days gathering them and taking them away to be buried in a field. Too much sulfuretted hydrogen in his lungs... and a bad heart.

The «algues vertes» invade our beaches (not all of them, though) as soon as the water gets warmer. They tend to disappear when fall arrives. But they come back, again and again.

They have been present in Brittany for the past thirty years now. And nobody knows how to fight this pollution.

So nowadays, as early as May, you’ll see tractors on some beaches and people gathering weeds, green weeds twice a day, day after day until the summer is over.

People in Brittany are not growing some kind of lettuce on the beach. They are trying to keep up with pollution our consumer society is breeding, we are breeding, you and me.

I’d like to end this story with a very positive touch but I’m pretty sure that our «green algae» in Brittany are only the tip of the iceberg.





*Good Night, and Good Luck*

And the show must go on...

Sunday was the first day of May. «Le premier mai». This is a very important time of the year in France and other (few) countries.

It is May Day. Yes, May Day and not «Mayday» (the distress message which is French by the way. From «Venez m’aider.» Cock-a-doodle-do).

May Day was on Sunday. The International Workers’ Day. A great day, at least in France when it allows people to get an extra long week-end. In 2011, bad day. No extra long week-end. A real day of rest on Sunday.

In France, we have another tradition, not as yummy as the Easter bells. But it’s nice. We give away lilies of the valley (muguet) to our neighbors and friends. It is supposed to bring them luck. (And please do not eat «muguet». It’s highly toxic.)

Since the «premier Mai» was on Sunday, I postponed my giving away the lucky charms till Monday.

Sunday tends to be a family day in Brittany and you don’t want to intrude on people, looking very stupid with only one sprig for the head of the family (usually the woman but only on this particular day).

You end up facing a lot of people you know and you don’t feel like giving  them lilies of the valley anyway.

So I waited until Monday.

In the afternoon, since most of my friends and neighbors are retired and would be home, I filled a sack with lilies of the valley, all of them ready to be planted out. (My contribution to ecology. And I walked around. I did not use my car. Thank you.)

I know that one should never infringe traditions. May Day was on Sunday. Not on Monday.

Stormy weather outside when I started on my social whirl.

Everything went well at first. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Talk, talk, talk. See you. Bye bye.

I had decided to end my good luck charm dispatching day at Henri’s and then at my last and closest neighbors, J. and T.

Henri. Do you remember Henri? He was married to my dear Yvonne who passed away almost one year and a half ago. Well, Henri has not been feeling well lately. Very bad backaches all the time. Not eating properly. Feeling really depressed.  (I told you they were lovebirds.)

On entering the garden, I noticed that JM, one of his grandsons was there. (At least, his scooter was there.) The door was open and the tv blaring.

Knock, knock. JM tells me to come in. Henri was nowhere to be seen and JM was fixing some shelves, looking teary.

Bad day. Henri had been rushed to the «big» town hospital at noon. As a precautionary measure. Henri looked very, very bad a few days ago. I felt shivers down my spine. I handed the lily of the valley to JM and we shared a few tears because Henri is such a loving person and we are very  worried about him.

Hopefully, it will be a scare and he’ll get back on his feet again. Hopefully. Hopefully. Hopefully.

Then I left JM to give away my last lily of the valley to J. and T.

We never became real friends even though they moved in their house more than 10 years ago. But they were good neighbors. We do make a point to invite them over whenever we organize one of our «friends and neighbors» nights... (That’s what you do when you have no real neighbors at all. You tend to socialize with the people closest to you even if they live more than a mile away!)

So I rung their bell. I saw right away something was very wrong. I had not seen them for quite a long time.

He had lost at least 40 pounds and he looked haggard and worn out. His wife looked exhausted and worried.

What could I do besides handing her my gift? I sat down with them in their kitchen and I learnt that his prostate cancer had metastatized in his liver. Oh bad, very, very bad.

I hate cancer.

J.’s main problem though was that he’s supposed to start chemo next week. And I found out that chemo scares the hell out of him. Not cancer. No. Chemo. Chemo and its side effects.

I guess it wasn’t much fun to have lived around a neighbor who had gone through so many courses of chemo.

After all, they saw me distraught and exhausted and sick. And hairless since they use to come to our place without even knocking... the Brittany neighborly way (whenever we forget to lock the door which happens very often).

Well, anyway, there I was, sitting in their kitchen, trying to find all the good points of chemo. And telling them my «tricks of the trade» to fight the side effects. I am a pro after all.

Oh, I was brilliant. Maybe not very efficient. Maybe not efficient at all... because all I was thinking about was: «Not another chemo. Please. Not another chemo.» Besides the fact that he had the hardest time understanding that the main point of chemo is to fight cancer (and hopefully defeat it).

Is chemo a punishment? Yesterday, in their kitchen, it sounded like it really was a punishment. Maybe this was the reason why I hated my chemos so much, after all.

But there I was sitting in their kitchen and staring at my very sorry lily of the valley.

Traditions, traditions. I should learn to outgrow them before they outgrow me, shouldn’t I.



*Well, while I was writing this post, I decided to take a few minutes off and I called Henri at the hospital. He sounded very happy and was feeling much better. They obviously gave him efficient painkillers. He has already started to walk around his bedroom without help.
Great day!



*Good Luck, and Good Night*

"Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference." Winston Churchill

Ⓒ

When our Canadian boy announced on Facebook that he’d be taking part in a cycling trip through Quebec to raise money for cancer research, he dedicated his pledge to his friend Eric who died of cancer not too long ago (and quite young).

While I was reading his pledge, it brought to my mind all my friends who have been fighting this terrible illness, so terrible that in France, people still hesitate to name it clearly. Cancer’s name is ‘a long illness.’

It upsets me a lot since I believe that you can’t fight something with no name.

So cancer it is and cancer it will be.

As I said before, many friends fought or are fighting cancer. Some won the battle. Some are on their way to victory. Some were defeated and died.

I come from a family who has been totally cancer free which amazes me a lot mainly because I do not enjoy being the exception that proves the rule.

We were cancer free but a few members of our extended family did have to fight cancer.

When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2003, a cancer specialist thought it funny to welcome me into the ‘big cancer family.’ I hated the idea but it is true that somehow cancer patients are bound together, a little bit like family members. We all go through the same anguish and fear, the same treatments (more or less) and we all hope we are going to pull through.

When a cancer patient dies on you, you are loosing a part of yourself too.

My cousin Pierrette who was ten years older than me belonged to this cancer family.

She was my cousin’s wife (on my mother’s side). They met in high school when they were 14. They became very good friends and then they fell in love or maybe it was the other way around.

My Bonne-Maman’s brother, Martial and his wife, ‘adopted’ her when my cousin brought her home to meet them when he learnt her story (quite impressive considering that this happened in 1948).

She was an orphan raised by her sister who was 10 years older than her. The two girls had lost their father, mother, sister and brother to cancer in a very short time.

My cousins  got married very young, right after graduating from high school. They went to the same university. They taught PE in the same high shool. They were briefly separated when he had to do his military service. But he managed to come home every week-end. By then, they already had two sons.

Both were accomplished athletes with national and international fame. He was a volleyball player and she was a famous swimmer.

They were happy people. As I grew up, I got very close to her. When you are a teenager, you desperately need role models. She was my role model.

In 1964, they decided to try to have a baby girl. Well, they got another baby boy!

He was six months old when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Cancer? At the time, little was known about what was to become a national scourge.

We were devastated. It was so unfair. There she was, so young and athletic and living such a healthy life. Of course, there was her family history but the cancers they had died of were not related to breast cancer.

I was sixteen at the time. My Bonne-Maman and I, we left home to spend a few weeks with them. The children needed us, especially the baby.

Surgery had been extensive and quite rough. This was the only way known to try to cure cancer at the time.

She was a fighter and pretty soon she resumed her life without caring too much about all her scars and pains and worries. I remember her laughing about it all, saying that anyway they had decided not to have a large family.

In France (and maybe elsewhere), when you get cancer, you are kind of ostracized. In the 1960’s, the school system didn’t want her to go back to teaching PE. She fought hard but to no avail. She was feeling perfectly fit but she had been through cancer and this was the end of her teaching career.

She then decided she could do a lot of good to unwanted children... children with Down’s syndrome. She took classes again and she found a job in an institution. She taught them well. She loved them and never complained. An unwanted woman working with unwanted children.

She was feeling so good though that we started hoping that she would survive after all. We did believe that some day, someone would discover THE therapy... This was the end of the 60s.

We hoped and hoped.

One day, she felt really sick again. Cancer had come back. Metastases. By then they had started using chemo, a deadly treatment at the time. She needed a lot of blood transfusions. So we went and gave our blood. It became so natural to give our blood... One phone call and off we went to the hospital.

She was a fighter and she survived quite a few years. In between chemos, she tried to live a normal life for her children’s sake. She was too weak to resume teaching but she still was hoping that one day...

But for her, there would be no miracle.

I still think a lot about her. Over the years, the pain and the hurt and the anger have softened. She was very present in my heart when they told me I had breast cancer. Because I knew what I was in for.

I was very surprised though when I discovered that chemo no longer was the appalling form of torture she had been through.

But I was even more surprised when I realized that doctors were still completely at a loss to explain cancer and the chances one had to survive.

I know that during those past seven years, she has been alive in my memory and many times I have found strength in her fierce will to survive.

In Southern France, we have very strong Northern winds. When you are playing ball on the beach and the ball flyes away to the sea, it’s impossible and even very dangerous to swim and try to catch it. Its speed on the waves is amazing and it disappears very quickly... on its way to Africa. (This is what we used so say!)

My dear cousin was the only person we knew who was able to recover our lost balls. She was such an amazing swimmer even when she had been through extensive surgery a few months before.

Maybe some of you will think she was crazy. I believe she was the bravest woman on earth. She was a fighter.

Everytime things would get very rough for me, I’d bring back to life my cousin Pierrette who had so much spunk in her to dive into a very cold sea to bring back their runaway ball to her children even though she was  so disabled.

The cure we had been hoping for when she was still alive hasn’t been found yet. 47 years later.

A lot of things have improved though, enough to give hope to whoever is diagnosed with cancer. New screening tests. New chemos. New treatments.

And now all I have to do is to close my eyes and rejoice because my cousin never failed to recover our vanishing balls after all. For years and years.






*Good Luck, and Good Night*

Valentine's Day will never be the same again

I’m not very fond of feasts or celebrations. I dread Christmas time. I’m not too keen on Mother’s Day either.

I became reconciled with my birthday ever since cancer #2 because it is definitely fun to get old.

I used to kind of like Valentine’s Day though. Maybe because Popeye and I, we still are in love and we go boating together. And those red hearts popping all over the place are cute and funny!

Now I feel pretty miserable on Valentine’s Day ever since 2 years ago exactly, my best friend decided to let go forever. On Valentine’s Day 2009.

We shared the same first name. We lived in the same street, a few houses apart. We 'shared' our children who grew up together. We were very, very close. As close as sisters can be, I think.

She’d sew or do her ironing while we’d be talking. She’d paint while I was taking pictures. We read together. We went to art exhibits. There was always a time during the day when we’d get together while the children were away at school and our husbands at work. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year.

We shared a lot of very private thoughts and feelings. She was much quieter and calmer than me but I made her laugh. She’d say: «You are completely crazy, you know but I love it!»

She trusted us enough to leave her children to our care while she was working. (She spent every school holiday working with children who never went away.)

When she turned 50, we threw a big surprise party for her where we invited 50 friends, brothers and sisters of hers. She was a very faithful person. Once someone had become her friend, it was for life.

I loved and admired her so much. Her life was not easy but she always managed and kept smiling. She was an extraordinary gardener and a better cook even. She was so sweet and nice.

Of course she was going through times filled with despondency. Her husband was very self-centered and sometimes scornful. And her children were a little bit hard to manage, mostly because of their father.

I loved them though - to be honest, only two out of three. One girl who was Swee’ Pea’s age and one boy who was 6 years older and was acting as SP’s older brother. They were part of ‘our’ children and they came very, very often to Brittany.

When I went through cancer #1, she wanted to come and take care of me. (I was already living in Belgium.) I did not want her to because I thought it would be too harrowing for her. She would worry about her family all the time. So we had long talks on the phone. We managed to laugh a lot, I remember.

I was still feeling awfully tired in April 2005 when her daughter decided to celebrate her 60th birthday at home. They had a wonderful garden, filled with flowers. The weather was very nice and we had a lot of fun.

In November 2005, she was with me in Swee’ Pea’s appartment when I got the first tests results. Bad, very bad. We cried a lot.

In January 2006, after the first surgery, she was again with me in my son’s appartment when my oncologist called me with very, very bad news. We cried again. We were so sure there wasn’t much hope left I’d ever celebrate my 60th birthday.

But somehow a miracle happened after a very hard chemo. I did survive (not too well at the beginning) but I got stronger as time went by. She was extremely relieved because she knew how close I had been to a very unwelcomed end.

We were living in Belgium, but at the time, I needed a lot of rest and I stayed quite a long time in Brittany.

In July 2008, I turned 60. She had decided to throw a party for me in her lovely garden but in October since she’d be working in July and I would be staying in Brittany until the end of September.

So October, it would be. We talked a lot on the phone. She was feeling tired because she was still grieving over the death of one of her brothers, in February. But she insisted on planning the party.

I called her on our way back from Brittany. Her daughter answered the phone. Her mother had fallen down in the garden, that very morning. They had called an ambulance and she was to spend a couple of days at a nearby hospital.

When I got there, I discovered that she hardly could walk or stand up. I was appalled that none of her children (one is a nurse, her daughter-in-law is a doctor) had tried to find a better place for her, where they would start clinical examinations and tests.

I was quite adamant that she needed help and very quickly. She then had this weird crooked smile: ‘Don’t start worrying about me. I need rest. They are driving me crazy at home. I only need some rest.’

I came home crying because I knew that something was really wrong with her. I was sure that she had brain cancer. And I felt that every minute, every hour without proper care would be crucial.

Weeks went by. Yes, weeks. They had decided at the hospital that she probably had suffered from a CVA. (There are bad hospitals in France after all.)

It was so hard to get her family to try something else. So hard. I got mad at them. I yelled at them. Her son and daughter-in-law finally remembered that they knew an oncologist in a very good hospital in Paris. They called him.

They moved her there and scans were made. Brain and lung cancer. (She never smoked in her life.)

She called me from the hospital to let me know the results. And she said: ‘You showed me a while ago that you survived the worst cancer ever. Tell me I will survive.’

And she added: ‘I am so sorry you won’t have a birthday party now.’ So much the old 'her'!

I jumped in a cab and I very seldom left her side. They used radiotherapy on her brain. She started to walk again, not too well but it was a start. When you are this sick, every small improvement makes your day and the days to come.

Then came chemo for her lungs. I was there. I never thought I’d be strong enough to hold her hand during chemo nor to literally carry her around after chemo but I found out that I was very resilient after all (even though my oncologist was getting more and more upset and worried about me).

I’m still boiling with anger and rage. Her family was completely unconcerned. They were in total denial (remember, one nurse and one doctor).

Popeye came along with me as much as he could.

I kept on telling my friend that she was there when ‘cancer #2’ struck. I reminded her how bad it had been and yet I was there, well alive. I kept on telling her that she had to fight and she’d come out of it, just like I did.

But as weeks went by, I realized that because of those deep differences that had once been a source of fun, me being restless and almost scatterbrained and her being so calm and sedate, it was not going to work even though I was desperately trying to give her all my strength.

It didn’t last long. She fell down in her garden in October 2008. She died in February 2009. On Valentine’s Day.

She had gone back to the hospital a couple of days before for some last chance surgery which they did not try after all.

She called me from there and her last words to me were: ‘My cancer was very bad after all.’

She then fell into a coma and never woke up.

As I said, I am still very angry at her family. Popeye and I spent the whole day with her while she was dying. We talked to her. We held her hand. We stroked her forehead. Because she was still there.

Her family was there too except for one of her sons who came and left because ‘this wasn’t something he liked.’ They were staring at her not quite believing that she was dying.

And then she died peacefully at the end of the day. Valentine’s Day 2009.

I think I would never have noticed what day it was if someone hadn’t mentioned that now she had ruined this day forever for them.

Great! I still feel so mad.

Her daughter (the nurse) called me a few months later to ask me how I knew that it had been cancer.

How did I know? I don’t think it was because I had been twice through this. I think I simply used my mind and my heart.

I thought for a while I was going to be sick again. Until one day, thanx to a long talk with a doctor at the hospital, a doctor who knows me well, I realized that my friend letting go had actually started the very day she had told me that she needed rest because they were driving her crazy at home.

It is so sad that for her, resting meant dying. It is so maddening for me.

She hasn’t ruined Valentine’s Day for me. It is only a day in February. But it’s been so hard to accept her abandon and the fact that I had fought so hard for nothing.

I want to live so fiercely that I have such a hard time accepting that  she could have let go so easily. Because she could still be alive.

While my friend was ‘resting’ in the crummy hospital, her younger sister fell into a coma. When she came out of it, she was diagnosed with the same cancer exactly. She is still alive, two years later.

Spring is coming. I wish my friend was still alive.

Spring was her season because she loved her garden and she loved the slow awakening of nature.

I love Spring too and I have discovered that I love it even better now, for me and for her.

Except that I am still very angry.







*Good Luck, and Good Night*

It's raining in Paris. It's cold in Paris but I am so happy!

Why do I worry so much every time I go through those cancer tests?

If the results are good, they are good and then there is a lot of rejoicing.

If they are bad, ok, what can we do except fight again and again? I use «we» because the three of us do fight together even though I’m the only one to go through surgery and chemos. But that’s allright, I’m a girl. It’s much easier for me! Just kidding.

Why do I worry so much? I spent a sleepless night. I woke up early enough to have breakfast with Popeye... Then he left for work (hard day for him because he could not be with me) and I started my ‘I’m really worried’ walk through the apartment... picking up a book, trying to find my glasses, patting Byerly (who was clearly getting nervous too), back to the computer and again ‘Where is my book?’ until I  barely had enough time left to get ready, run downstairs and get a cab: ‘Good morning, Monsieur. I’m going to the American Hospital, s’il vous plaît.’ (Maybe hoping he’d answer: ‘Sorry, but I won’t do it because it does not please me.’)

The driver was very sweet and nice. He was very worried about the fact that humans can be very cruel and animals are not. Good question. You never see a lion kill a gazell just for fun or for political/religious reasons, do you? Good point then.

When I left his car, he said to me: ‘Within the hour, you will know that you are cured.’ Very kind words indeed. I’m really wondering why some cab drivers are not working in the hospital instead of driving people there. They are so optimistic all the time. Of course, it wouldn’t be good to hear: ‘You’ll drop dead within the hour.’

We got to the AHP a long time before my appointment. I had to wait a long time in the oncology department waiting room.

A few months ago, it still had a very comfy and small waiting room... almost humane. Now that the AHP has become one of the leading cancer treatment centers in Paris, the waiting room is huge. Lots of oncologists (most of them quite young) and lots of patients too which is quite hard to stand.

When they look awfully sick, I feel so bad for them. I feel almost guilty for feeling so good (even though I don’t know the blood tests results yet).


I know I shouldn’t feel bad because I’ve been sick too, very, very sick. I’ve been there, you see. But they do make me feel terrible and helpless.  

Some of them are well past hearing: ‘I was very sick and I’ve been surviving for the past 7 years, off and on, that is.’ Yes, I’m sure it wouldn’t be a good idea at all.

So there I was, waiting for my oncologist to show up. I know he’s always late. It’s getting even worse now that he’s the head of such a big department. But he’s still very nice.

He was one hour late (because he’d been upstairs in the real oncology department - the outpatients’ waiting rooms are definitely not like the oncology department... People who are there are still able to move around even if it is in a wheelchair. (I don’t mean to scare you.)

He finally came down. There were two women before me which meant that he’d be one more hour late... But since we are ancient history, I was not feeling too distressed about it after all.

Because as soon as he saw me, he gave me a big friendly smile: ‘Ah, Marie, Marie, Marie is here.’ I hate so much attracting attention in an oncology waiting room! But his smile did mean: ‘Ok, girl, you are allright, once more.’

So I started feeling real better and trying not to show my relief. I immersed myself in my book and waited.

In his office, he had this big grin on his face. He knew I was waiting like crazy for my results but he started talking about photography. The guy drives me crazy sometimes and knows it! After a while, he picked up a few sheets from his desk and said: ‘Guess what? Your results can’t be better and this is month 46! Well done, Marie!’

And back to photography. I was feeling outrageously happy. We left his office still laughing at some joke he’d been telling me (about his camera)... We kissed good-bye. My next appointment is scheduled in January. But we’ll meet some time before then because he needs help with sorting his pictures.

I help him sort his pictures and he makes me healthy. Quite a deal!

Maybe he’s been trying hard to save my life so that I’d sort his pictures... No matter what, it doesn’t matter. He did a great job with the big mess he had to deal with 46 months ago!

(He kind of blew it 7 years ago but I trusted him enough to go back to him. After all, who really knows how cancer works? He doesn’t and he’s very blunt about it which is the reason why I trust him. I know he does his best but sometimes cancer wins in the end. And anyway, we all die, don't we?)

My men and all my friends did a great job too! Wow! Wow! Wow!

May I mention though that I did fight a lot too and that I do hope I’ll grow to be a funny crazy old lady. (I promise I will try my best not to become a cranky old woman!)


Today is a beautiful day. It’s raining and it’s cold in Paris but it really is a beautiful day.




@my cab driver - it did take almost three hours!



*Good Night, and Good Luck*

One bitter 'victory' - A story about pollution (Part 2)

Yesterday night, we had crêpes with B. and Y. at the Bellevue, a friendly crêperie.

B. is Bernard, our farmer friend I talked about in my previous blog.

There were a lot of customers and so we had plenty of time to talk. And talk we did.

We talked about our children. They have two sons and one daughter. They also have 7 grandchildren ranging from 3 to 13 years old. Of course, since we’ve be around for quite a long time now, we know every one of them quite well.

One of their grandchildren is an amazing classical piano player. He’s a wonderful boy, so filled with a deep inner happiness one seldom sees in a child his age.

So we talked about our children and politics of course. A true french meal can’t avoid small talk about our politicians. France is going through weird times. Since we agree about almost every issue, it was a relaxing time.

Bernard was the one to open the ‘debate’ about pollution. It took a long time. But he did start the discussion about the liquid sludge waste issue.

He asked me whether or not I had an inkling where the spreading would be done. I answered that I imagined they had rescinded their contract with the city hall.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He said that all the waste that was to be spread in our fields would end up in theirs, including the large one behind their beautiful home, very close to their well.

He sounded almost relieved to have made this decision. But we were not happy with it.

It would still be polluting, wouldn’t it?

‘Well’, he said ‘they have to get rid of the waste so someone has to do it. Why not farmers? It pays well after all.’

It always amazes me when someone who is supposed to be very close to nature can’t see the harm done to the very world he’s getting his living from.

His world before being mine.

The farmer is the closest person to the land, the soil, whatever name we want to give it. And yet he does not understand the dangers (which I don’t believe is true because Bernard is very bright).

He doesn’t want to see the dangers because he needs to make a living. Even if to make a living, he’s destroying the potential future of the earth and his own world, this world that already belongs to his grandchildren.

Of course he’s not completely guilty. There are home and world market pressures. We are greedy consumers. But the producer (the farmer) does not get as much as he should from his hard work, at least not in France. So to make ends meet, it’s obvious that an offer as juicy as the one from the city hall is to be accepted.

I’m very stubborn. I was quite relieved that the fields close to the sea wouldn’t get polluted but I had to make another point.

The government has recently conducted a study about farmers’ health, especially in Brittany (where pollution is really high both from manure and waste spreading). They have noticed that cancer rate is getting much higher in Brittany, especially among countryfolk. Life expectancy is also much lower in rural areas than in the rest of France.

They also found out that several cancers are widespread in those areas (prostate, lungs, breast and colon), all of this probably due to heavy and unchecked pollution (fertilizers and pesticides) for years and years.

Another terrible illness is also unusually common to those areas: Alzheimer’s disease.

You see, Bernard’s wife, a very wonderful and sweet woman, is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. The onset was very brutal. (She wasn’t even 60.)

This was four years ago. I’m very close to her even though nowadays, from time to time, I’m not even sure she really knows who I am. At least she’s still very sweet to me which I’m really grateful for. Because she’s no longer very kind to most people.

Her health and mind are deteriorating quite fast. This is really heartbreaking.

So last night, I took my courage in both hands and I said: ‘Bernard, what about cancer and...’

He looked at me, very pained: ‘It hasn’t been proved yet.’

What can you answer to this?

End of discussion. We turned to other subjects, safer issues which did not obliterate the pollution problem.

Maybe next year, he’ll find reasons to refuse the city hall offer. But if he does say no to them, they will find other farmers to do the dirty job. We’ll never see the end of this.

Unless our town council becomes more efficient in its waste control.

After all, we have one of the most beautiful golf courses in France and maybe Europe. Now we have a brand new thalassotherapy complete with first class hotel rooms... but it was not allowed to open its treatment space since the sea water they were pumping out is too polluted.

This could be a funny story but it is not. This is truly symbolic of Northern Brittany.

Natural beauty so marred by (almost) imperceptible and creeping pollution.




*Good Luck, and Good Night*

Spooky Me

At the HAP, the waiting rooms are wide open spaces. So when you’re waiting for a doctor’s appointment, you get to see lots of people passing by, patients, nurses, secretaries and doctors. Some of them stop by and chat with me from time to time.

Since it is not a very big hospital and I’ve been through most ot its departments, I get to know an awful lot of people (well ‘awful’ just because it’s not a good sign when you get to know so many people in a hospital).

By the way, now I still have to go to the hospital quite often because last chemo, besides cleaning up cancer cells (which was amazing), destroyed a lot of good and healthy things... But that’s allright even though I sometimes feel like an old bike tire with lots of rubber repair patches.

Last Monday, I was waiting for an appointment and I was engrossed in a very interesting novel by Le Clézio about the birth of the State of Israel.

Someone stopped by me, this someone being a lady doctor. But it took me quite a few seconds to realize someone was intently watching me. Still kind of lost in my book, I raised my eyes. The lady was smiling at me.

I was sure I knew her from somewhere but who was she?

She didn’t seem to be in a hurry because she kept smiling at me. I smiled back, still wondering who she was.

Then she said: ‘Olive Oyl? How are you?’

She knows my name. Wow!

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

‘Well...’

She grinned at me.

‘I’ve been your anesthesiologist ever since 2003.’

It’s hard to remember an anesthesiologist’s face since you only have one meeting with him/her before surgery. Then you get to see him/her for a few minutes in the operating room and that’s about it.

She did come to check on me several times after surgery n°2 which had lasted 8 hours (2006). I was so heavily drugged during several days afterwards that my memories are kind of hazy. But I remembered her as being  a very, very nice person. And after a while, I forgot all about her because I was fighting something that seemed bigger than me!

Back to the waiting room...

‘How are you, Olive?’

Oh, oh, she does look concerned.

‘I feel fine. I really do, thank you.’

‘Do you? Really?’

‘Yes. Thank you (very much for looking so shocked/surprised).’

‘Well, how are you really doing?’

You must be kidding, dear Doctor. I am alive, very much alive. Can’t you see it?
Oops. Has someone been lying to me?

‘I’m allright, I’m allright. I feel fine, really, everything is ok.’

Then she looks at my breasts area.

‘What about your breast cancer?’

Now would I say I’m fine if I weren’t? I know that in this hospital, my name is cancer-related. I know but please, this is not a joke.

’43 months since last chemo and still cancer free...’

If she keeps looking at me like this, I don’t know what I’m going to do. She does look worried but she’s still smiling. So there is hope somewhere... Maybe she’ll start believing me!

‘You look good anyway. I’m so glad you are still alive.’

This is awesome...

I’m well past enjoying the situation but I do manage a smiling ‘thank you’.

I’m totally flabbergasted. I know she meant well but...
who would enjoy to be taken for a ‘ghost’ even for a few seconds?


*Good luck, and Good night*

Fighting Cancer

Right before Christmas, my oncologist decided time had come to try a four months interval between check-ups (instead of every 6/8 weeks). I got really scared! What if.... Then time went by quicker than I thought.

Of course I spent the last two weeks going out of my mind... Funny how imaginative I can be!

Today was my last day of quite harrowing tests. (I still have my appointment with my oncologist, in ten days with the results of my blood test but that’s ok. We’ll end up talking about photography.)

Well anyway, the main tests are over. I’m quite bruised due to my poor exhausted veins but I’m alive and well!

My last chemo ended in August 2006 (on the 4th of August to be precise)... I can’t believe I’ve been cancer-free ever since.

43 months! Wow! Seems like a whole life... 90 years at least!

Last time, cancer came back less than a year after a very strong 8 months chemo. It also had increased considerably. (I like the word «increase»... «Metastases» is a word I hate to use.)

I no longer have to go through X-rays nor sonograms... I’m sent directly down to the «older children’s playground» (in the depths of the American Hospital...), i.e. the RMI and ET Scan Department...
Hence the bruises on my only «good» arm. The «older children’s playground» is not this fun after all but it has its good sides though. I know almost instantly whether I’m allright or not.

Otrherwise I’d start with X-rays, then sonograms and I'd end up inevitably in the RMI or Scan departments because something would look «weird»... Lots of worries and lost time too.

So this morning, after the last ET Scan, when my dear radiologist called me back to the secluded place where they tell you if...., he smiled at me and said: «Let’s kiss! You’re perfectly fine. You’ve never been this fine.»

Now, I don’t want you to think that radiologists are perverts, taking advantage of their patients. Mine isn’t, I promise. He’s a very nice young man.

But it’s become quite a habit for the past two years. (Before, my future still was very uncertain.)

RMI and scans getting good and better = a big kiss to and from the radiologist! (Even when Philippe is there... even though they don’t go this far as kissing too!) We also chitchat for a few minutes! Precious minutes.

The American Hospital in Paris is filled with really nice doctors even if you’re as close to dying as you can be. They still are very nice!

Most of them are extremely good in their field (or they don’t last very long there) but they all are extremely humane even though they tend to go straight to the point... at least that’s what they did with me. (And I liked their straightforwardness.)

For a long time, there were posters in the halls: «Here you are not merely a patient but a human being.» Which probably spelled to desperately sick people like me: «We-love-you!»

Understanding and care so close to love are important when you get very sick. A lot of patients also come from foreign lands and feel really lonely and lost.


I have been very sick but I’ve never felt lost or lonely there. This feeling is also very true concerning the nurses. They help a lot too.


In June, it’ll be 7 years ever since cancer first struck (or should I say, was discovered) and I’ve been to the A.H. so many times now it almost feels like home which maybe is not really a good thing after all, when you think of it.

But for me, it is almost «home» because I feel a lot of care and love there... And I’ve been through almost every department since almost everything fell apart, sort of!

Can’t say I really love being there but I kind of like being liked and cared for! By the way, no, I’m not back to sucking my thumb.

Of course, you start with one doctor and then you end up with your dream team!!! At least, I did, lucky me.
Well sometimes it was more like a nightmare tho!

The first member of this «dream team» was my radiologist. He was the one who first assessed the visible damages, the second time around... He was the one I yelled at, screaming that «No, it can’t be true. Not again.» But he also was the one  who listened calmly and let me express my fears and rage and despair. He took time (out of a very busy day) to help a crazed woman pull through the pain. He kind of held my hand and found the words to soothe me and my husband.

So he’s never left my life ever since. He’s my radiologist, a very bright and talented young man. I do admire him. For many, many reasons, some of them very personal.

When it comes to cancer, radiologists usually are the first ones to face the monster and the patient. This is not easy at all.

So now, you know why today, it all ended with kisses. And a promise to get together pretty soon and spend a few «minutes» talking about something else than cancer.

Let me remember the day: April 8th, 2010. All this happened yesterday... yesterday already! Not bad. Life keeps going on! And I should get to bed...




*Good Night, and Good Luck*

The day my taxi driver told me I was well on my way to recovery...

In Paris, I’m a «subway» girl.

I quit using it when I started my first chemo in 2003. At the time, I felt it’d be much better to get the flu or whatever from a friendly taxi driver than from an anonymous subway user... It made sense to me, besides the fact that I was feeling too tired to use the subway anyway!

Another thing: I love perfume. Sadly enough, chemo is quite incompatible with perfume. At least, that’s the way it was for me.
Then one day, I found THE perfume... the one that kept smelling good on poor me. It was conveniently called «Dior Addict».

So in a desperate attempt to feel feminine (sort of), I started using "Dior Addict" and I loved it! Maybe sometimes I used it too generously. (I had also kind of lost my sense of smell!)

Chemo ended in May 2004 but I still had to have radiotherapy 5 days a week for almost 3 months... which meant that I really needed to take a cab every day.

The taxi station is very close to JC’s appartment.

I’d tell the taxi driver: «I’m going to the "H." Clinic». And he’d know instantly what my problem was... besides the fact that I was wearing a headscarf in May. Usually, it’d be chitchat all the way to the clinic, which was good since I’d kind of doze off and just made a few friendly sounds from time to time. It usually was a 30mns drive.

Until one day...

There was a long line of cabs at the station. You are supposed to  get into the first one in line. Actually you have the choice but it’s much better to start with the first one!

So there I was, walking up to the first taxi, when the taxi driver (about my age) suddenly jumped out of his car to open the back door for me... much to my surprise!

It made me feel like a queen!  I got a big smile from the taxi driver and I smiled back at him:«Thank you very much, monsieur».
And I flopped down into his cab as graciously as I could...

«Where are you going, Madame?»

My answer was rather grumpy. It was the end of the second month of radiotherapy and I was feeling terrible.

And then the guy said: «May I tell you that I love your perfume, Madame? And you look lovely today.»

By then I was fully awake.
A pervert! My taxi driver was a crazy pervert!
Liking my perfume could be ok. But who can find a cancer patient lovely after one whole year of «barbaric» treatments? Especially me who was hiding under my scarf and very big and dark sunglasses!

What should I do? I was too tired to jump out of the cab. No phone in my purse...

The guy was grinning. (He didn’t look this crazy after all. Actually he looked nice.)

«How long has this been going on, Madame?», he asked me with true kindness in his voice.

I gave up. I told him how hard those months had been. I did not complain. Just the mere facts and as concisely as I could.

He listened intently.

And then he smiled to me again: «I know what we’ll do then. You deserve a break. No radiotherapy today. I’m driving you to Deauville. We’ll spend the day on the beach, go to a nice restaurant and then I’ll drive you back home later on. This is my treat.»

Deauville is 2 hrs away from Paris,  in Normandy. The guy had to be kidding or he was definitely crazy.

«Oh no, my taxi driver is crazy.»

«This is a joke. It has to be a joke.»

«I need my radiotherapy. I need it!» (I’ll feel very bad one year later when I’ll learn that cancer is back, spreading from the area where the radiotherapy had been too  strong or whatever!)

«What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?»

«Calm down. Calm down.»

I told him how kind he was. I told him that I was very happily married and that my husband would certainly not appreciate me going to Deauville with another man... I told him I could not skip my radiotherapy treatment. I told him... I told him...

He kept smiling and rephrasing his offer over and over. He really was trying to convince me.

Since he had kept driving towards the clinic, I was slowly feeling better! We finally got there. I got off from his taxi (after he had jumped out of it to get the door open for me before I could do it!).

He refused to take his fare. «My treat, I told you, even though I’d rather be in Deauville with you.»

I started walking towards the clinic door (To safety? To my doom?) when he added with a big grin on his face: «Hey, you really are lovely. We’ll meet again one of these days, Madame. We’ll meet again. Good luck to you.»

And then I thought: «You’ve got to be kidding... There are more than 15.000 taxi drivers in Paris. Besides, I’m going back to Brussels at the end of the treatment.»

This could be the end of the story... because you see, once the nightmare was over (or so I thought), I came to realize that this man had truly brought a little bit of sunshine in a very dreary life. And then I forgot the whole thing.

One year later, they discovered cancer had soared... Blah, blah, blah!
My last chemo ended on the 4th of August 2006. I went directly to Brittany where I spent two months licking my wounds.

I had to go back to the hospital every two months for an intensive check-up.
Things started getting better and better. Then they were looking better and better!
And even though I haven’t been declared officially cured, I’m feeling better all the time and the results of my tests are excellent.

Six months ago, I needed to go to the hospital for an appointment with my rhumato (yes, I’m getting older, in a natural way, which is a real treat!).
So I walked down to the taxi station.

I was in a hurry so I got into the first taxi in line and said: «Bonjour, Monsieur. I’m going to the HAM, please.»

And then I heard:

«I still love your perfume and you are even much lovelier now, you know.»

Oh no!

(By then, the number of taxis in Paris had grown from 15.000 to 20.000...)

Well, we talked a lot. Of course, he asked me all about those past 5 years or so. I told him.

Then he said: «It’s obviously never my day with you. I’ll never get to drive you to Deauville now! But I am so very, very happy for you!»

By then, we were at the HAM on time. We said goodbye. We both were grinning broadly. And he left.

And this was the day I fully realized cancer could be over and done with!

"Good Night, and Good Luck"