the lottery

I am not going to bother to go in to where I have been and why I have taken such a long blogging hiatus. I'll save that for a rainy day or never, but something is coming up that I felt like writing about. Who knows if anyone is still reading, but if you are, feel free to give your two cents worth.

Next week I am scheduled to take part in a massive study. If I consent, they will take a DNA sample to find out if I have 'the breast cancer genes'.

If you have the genes, you basically have a 70% chance of having breast cancer and also a much higher than normal chance (I forget the percentage) of ovarian cancer.

If you are positive you basically have three options. You can:

(1) Prophylactically have your breasts removed, and/or your ovaries removed;

(2) Take medications to reduce your risk (i.e., tamoxifen); or

(3) Watch and wait (with frequent and intensive screening).

None of these options sound particularly appealing.

The chance that I have this gene is extremely small, but that being said I can't help but think how my life would be altered if I do.

I think I already know what I would do. I would get pregnant right away and as soon as I had the baby and maybe finished breastfeeding, I would have my ovaries and breasts removed (and then breasts reconstructed).

Who knows what I would really do if faced with the decision, but that was my initial instinct.

But it is even more complicated than that. Even life insurance or health insurance policies become a problem once you have this kind of information, not to mention the change in how you see and live your life. How about going through surgical menopause at 33? Not the most appealing idea.

So what's better? Not knowing?

My doctor was the one who said this was a good idea, and at the time I completely agreed, but now I am getting cold feet.

It reminds me of the way I feel about the lottery. I have never dreamed of winning a 100 million dollars like most people seem to. I have never longed for an irreversible transformation. I want my life, as hard and lonely as it sometimes. It can also be great.

And it's mine.

I am at a loss.

bright and shiny

I ordered the new James Frey. I never read A Million Little Pieces. Not because of the controversy. I have no issues with his version of the truth because I know there is no such thing. I just never got to it. There are so many books sitting in my apartment just waiting to be read. But I haven't been able to commit to words as much as I normally do. I've been thinking of them, using them obviously, but I just haven't been able to commit to them long enough to read a book or even write a post.

I ordered the new James Frey because I can not walk past a book store without losing myself in the aesthetics of the book. I have fallen for it like no other since that compact burgundy package that brought me the Catcher in the Rye.

I don't expect the impact that J.D. Salinger had on me by any stretch, but I went ahead and ordered it. And I ordered the new David Sedaris book.

And I feel like I'm taking some chances here. And that's how I am, in case you were wondering.

dead on the wall

It's taken me 33 years to come to this; to taste the truth. I know there is nothing we can do to rub the stains out, to prevent it from going to rot. I have to force myself to look at it, trust it, and let it be. Somewhere in there, between the mess of conception and a pile of dirt, there are moments so magnificent you couldn't possibly dream them up let alone devise them; harness them at best, but this kind of thing can never be contrived. Once you try to pin it down it ceases to exist. It is literally a specimen, dead on the wall. And that, my friends, is what has happened to me.

All of this can be summed up nicely by a quote from The Princess Bride.

"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something".

It was either going to be that or my favourite, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die", but I couldn't figure out how to make that one fit.

I can't be sure I will survive this. Actually, the one thing I can be sure of is that I won't. And neither will you. I guess it is just a question of time. To see it for what it is is painful in and of itself, but I was always a soft hearted kid. At least that's what my father used to tell me on drives home from his apartment Sunday evenings as I choked back sobs. He would say that and I would stare out the window trying to imagine what a soft heart looked like. I already knew what it felt like; a pain in my chest that never really went away.

big red dog

We cut between two buildings to get to St. Clair. There was this slightly frothy puddle in the ally.

"Careful, don't walk in that", he said, a gentlemen-like warning. "Looks like someone took a leak".

"I don't know why, but I was thinking it was a drool puddle."

He looked at me, like what?

"I know. I don't get it either. I was picturing Clifford the Big Red Dog or something." I shrugged.

He laughed like he got it. I wondered how.

***

Just now as I was writing, I heard this sound from somewhere down on the street. At first I thought it was a woman, or women plural, screaming. It was agony, I was sure of it. I got a glimpse of it and it was bad...until it wasn't.

In a millisecond I knew it was music blaring from a passing car. That's all. But it could have gone either way; about as likely as a big red dog drool puddle.

Nothing's impossible. We should all know that by now.

good as gold

It's always Sunday night that I feel a desperation to post something, last minute before the sleeping pill kicks in. Sunday night, the brink of a new week of unknown, where my constant state of anxiety makes the probable monotony to come the welcome alternative.

Tonight I called my parents at a time that I thought they should have been home watching the news or reading in bed and there was no answer. I called my father's cell phone, and when there was no answer there, my mother's. My brother is in Israel and I know he has a bad flu right now. I contemplated calling his phone next, but it was the middle of the night there. There are times when the hysteria would win out over common sense, but I forced myself to wait a little longer. I tried the whole routine again: parent's house, father's cell, mother's cell. Finally she answered.

There were all kinds of things that could have been happening. I have an incredibly vivid imagination [if only I could harness it]. All kinds of things happen all the time, so you can't really say it's irrational. Bad things happen.

Sometimes the things that happen are so bad I find it hard to believe anything good is possible.

That's why statistics never worked for me. Do you know how many times people have tried to use them to talk me out of my fear?

"Do you know your chance of dying in a car accident is much higher than..."

There was a time in university where I went crazy over probability trees. None of my friends could figure them out, and me, the one who had a full-time math tutor from the seventh grade on got them right off. Even loved them perhaps. I thought I had finally discovered a way to take risk out of the equation, to make sure bad things wouldn't happen, but there was still this number at the end. No matter how many precautions there were or how many back-up engines a plane had, the risk was never zero. There is always something.

I admit, being afraid isn't a good way to live. I am so much better than I was. At least now after all of these years I know that calling my brother in the middle of the night on the other side of the world when he is sick with the flu is not going to change the outcome. If it is going to be bad [and I hope with all of my heart that it is not], no amount of vigilance will change that. And even if it could, do I want to spend my whole life in that state to prevent one bad thing from happening? I don't think so. I'm still a little too vigilant, but if it interferes too much with my life I have the capacity to walk away from it. I have the balls to do things I never thought I could do.

There are still things that bring it out in me; bad news and change to name a couple. And Sundays, which are basically a combination of the two.

fresh start

There was a certain comfort I got
From cleaning out the bathroom.
They were coming in the morning
To redo the ceiling in the shower.
I took every single item out.
All that was left was a tin sound.
A hollow echo;
An empty stomach;
An aching beacon.

I never know if I have come far or just gone in circles.
I'm flying in the dark again
Off the coast of Newfoundland
And most of the time
I can marvel in the thrill of it all.

There was a time I craved the comfort of a carpet.
Its feigned warmth and welcome
Like a paid professional
Pretending to be your mother.

down the drain

I dropped a fake diamond stud down the drain; one of my favourite pairs of earrings. I could see it with a flashlight, sitting about 6 inches down, in a bed of who the hells knows what, on some kind of a ledge.

I was running late for work. I put in another pair of earrings and decided to think about what to do during the day and come home with a plan.

That night, I felt like I was at the hospital doing some kind of procedure on a patient, only the patient was my sink. I could still see the earring. I put the flashlight down for a second, went to my purse and took out a piece of gum, which I chewed while I looked through my utensil drawer in the kitchen for some kind of a tool. I found a chopstick that I thought could fit the bill. When the gum was just soft enough I stuck it on the fat end. Holding the flashlight with my left hand, I slowy lowered it into the drain. I felt like I was playing that old game Operation and that if I touched the side it would buzz. I took a deep breath and lowered the chopstick until it stopped. I pressed the gum into the earring trying not to think about what might come back out with it. I carefully withdrew. An inch from the opening, the gum fell off the chopstick, presumeably with the earring attached. And like that it was gone, into the abyss of hair and crud.

I gave up. I even ran the water, like if I wasn't going to get it, I might as well send it on it's way.

Later that night I stood over the same sink brushing my teeth and I remembered a phone call from many years ago. Tears rolled down my cheeks. It's amazing that it still does this to me. It's amazing that my brain takes me to these places. It's like acid flashbacks without the acid.

I was in my childhood room, but already in first or second year university. I picked up the phone to call Tamara back who was living in Vancouver with her boyfriend and their other roommate, the one who answered the phone. Tamara was out, she said, and asked if I had already heard the news.

"What news?"

She stammered something about how maybe she shouldn't tell me. Maybe I should just speak to Tamara. Blah, blah, blah.

"It's about Z", she said. "Apparently he killed himself."

"What do you mean, apparently? What happened?"

It had to be a mistake. Z lives in the same city I live. How would they know before me, all the way across the continent? I was angry at her for saying something like that.

"We don't have all the details, but he jumped off some bridge out there", she said.

As soon as she said it I knew what bridge. I knew it was true. I don't even remember her name.

Every once in a while I am hit with it, like everything else miserable in the world, it is hard to believe that humans can suffer as much as they do. It is hard to imagine he is dead, he died like that, that these events unfolded the way that they did, and that bad things happen every day, everywhere. It is hard to then get into bed and read a book. Hard to get up in the morning, shower and put your make-up on. It's hard to go look at condos with a realtor, to run on a treadmill at the gym, to sit in a theatre and watch the big screen. I've never been good at it; coming to terms with all of the crud. I can't figure out if it's guilt or fear.

It's so much easier when you don't look down the drain.

did, did, did, did, you hear the falling bombs?

Has anyone else noticed that the birds are louder this year?
Maybe there are just more of them.
Or maybe it's that the winter was so long and cold.
It's a good sound.
It makes it seem like everything is going to be alright.

wet nurse

Anna called me mid-morning. I was preparing for my first big meeting with the head of the department.

I was pressed for time but I put my notebook down. She was telling me about the house she was looking at when I remembered my dream.

"I had a dream last night that I was breastfeeding a newborn baby."

For a moment I forgot about the meeting and I forgot about the phone, lost in the details; the dark haired baby, swaddled firmly in white flannel. There was a time when swaddling sick babies was my specialty. But this was different.

"It was so real."

"Ew", she laughed, bringing me back to the conversation. "You were a wet nurse?"

She might as well have kicked me in the stomach.

The more I think about it the more it bothers me. I mean, is this how my friends see me? I can't be a mother even in my own dreams?

I am the best friend a girl could ask for; I have perfected the science. I love their children. I am their Tia Rachel or their Auntie Rachel. But I am more maternal than most of my friends put together—they would tell you that—and yet a dream like that to Anna could only mean I am lending out my services in some sad role straight out of the dark ages or some la leche breastfeeding cult.

If she had time to consider her reaction she wouldn't have said it. I know that. She didn't mean to hurt me. I guarantee she doesn't even know she did. But the message was loud and clear, from a place that never lies.

As I type this the phone rings. It's Anna.

"Fuck you", I say to my empty apartment. I let it ring.

my indents

My two indents,
One on the left hand side of the couch.
One on the right side of my bed.
Those are the two places I spend my time
And somehow the self-indulgent ramblings matter
When there are no other people to bear witness.
If I die tomorrrow
What will I leave behind?
The many items of clothing
Hundreds of books
Hopeful furniture
Blue bag of recycling
Canned diced tomatoes
Zinfandel I've been saving for the right time.
Three boxes of whole wheat matzoh
Take out menus
Photographs of my friends and their children.
My artwork
And the spaces;
I have two.

if the dizzying highs don't subside overnight

This weekend was exactly what I needed. Sunshine, glorious sunshine. Double digit temperatures. Finally it feels like spring has arrived. I even saw a robin when I was running today. It was the first time I've been running outside since the fall.

I bought some clothes for work, did laundry, pressed my own shirts for the first time since I worked in the restaurant industry ten years ago. In fact back then I used to pretend I didn't know how to do it so that my roommate would do it for me. That and sew on buttons. As the granddaughter of tailors, I should be ashamed of myself. Truth is, I know how to do both. I am actually pretty good at it, and I like it. How did I not figure that out until now?

Friday night I found a new burrito place in my neighborhood and a friend and I tried it out along with a very good bottle of wine. Burritos and malbec; a great combination.

Wait, let's go back to Thursday night. Went for dinner at mini market with my brother's girlfriend. That's my second time there and I have to say the food is great. The grilled calamari is perfection. I can't wait to go back just to have that with the spicy chinese long beans. Plus little italy never gets old for me.

Went to see Emily Haines a week ago tonight. Stayed out pretty late for a school night. Haven't had that many vodka and sodas since... Well, a long time. Let's not go there. I was so much better behaved this time around.

One week later and my night looks very different. I am sitting on the couch watching the Junos [Go H!] in my PJ's, with a tomato sauce stain on my left boob, in a t-shirt that says, 'that's how I roll'. So it is.

Back to Emily. I love her voice; I love the music, although I am more of a metric fan. Apparently she is too. She wasn't really into playing her solo material.

"Maybe I'm just happier now", she suggested at one point when she was having trouble remembering how to play a song on the piano.

She said she was working on a new Metric album and maybe that's part of the reason she wasn't feeling it.

Still, she was incredibly interactive and she captivated the audience. She even sang a little sex pistols. A girl after my own heart.

About 45 minutes in, in the middle of Dr. Blind [my favourito], she stopped playing. She asked if anyone in the audience could play it and then she sat off to the side and let three or four people come up, one by one, and make their attempts. A few minutes later she joined them back on stage and sang a Metric song while one of them played guitar. Part way through that she thanked everyone and walked off stage, leaving the group of audience members to finish the song without her. And that was the end of the concert.

Some people were annoyed, but she sounded great, she kept the audience on their toes and completely engaged. She was unpredictable and I loved it.

As you can see, I can not for the life of me take pictures properly without a flash [I kind of like this one though]. I was given some good advice on this once, but I clearly need to review that lesson.