When Hope Becomes Hopium

TL;DR: I have cancer again and maybe for the rest of my life but maybe not IDK.  

Something I learned very early in a non-small cell lung cancer diagnosis is that, while they may stage you according to a 9-step classification system, and type you according to dozens of genomic differences, there is ultimately a single dividing line that medicine uses to group all cancer patients into a simple binary: Can we cure them? 

(Cure rates in lung cancer are comparatively low. Abysmally low. Terrifyingly low. Almost 80% of NSCLC patients die from their disease within 5 years (compared to around 10% of breast and prostate cancer patients).  (Insert mandatory disclaimer about the usage of statistics to predict individual outcomes, and related blog post here.))

For many institutions, this is also informally expressed as "Can we cut it all out?"  aka "surgical resection".  The gold standard, despite its relatively high failure rate in lung cancer, and only available to the minority of patients who are diagnosed when the cancer is still contained within one lung and maybe some nearby lymph nodes. Beyond that, you're into systemic, "metastatic" disease. The dam has burst. Containment has failed. Any part of your body could be harbouring a mutant, murderous fugitive cell. We'll treat you, sure, but it's only a matter of time before one of them gets you. 

So my diagnosis (first at 2b, then 3a by the time treatment actually started) was delivered with a message of hope: I was a candidate for a cure. It would mean aggressive treatment. I gave over eight months of my life to being poisoned, irradiated, chopped up, poisoned again. And as treatment took its toll and I rapidly lost parts of my old identity - as a professional, an active parent, an athlete, a performer, a volunteer, a willing doer-of-things - I clung to this new one. I'm a SURVIVOR. I can be CURED. Inject that hope straight into my vein with the cytotoxic medication. 

Then I found out, partway through the adjuvant (post-surgical) chemo that could have potentially given me an additional 5% overall survival benefit, and definitely gave me permanent hearing loss and nerve damage, that there was another spot on what remained of my right lung. 

I know it's a terribly overused trope to say "I heard someone screaming. Then I realized...it was me!" I mean, I knew it was me the whole time, and it was not so much a scream as something that started silent then guttural, low in my belly, before it finally crawled out of my throat as a slow groan that ended in a wail. It was the sound of futility, of helplessness, of despair. I did everything they asked. I willingly threw everything to be burnt on the altar of "a cure" - my employability, my quality of life, my ability to confidently stray more than 50 feet from a washroom. I gave them every pound of flesh they requested. And it wasn't enough.

Or was it? More hope:

Lung nodules are common. This one's small. Too small to biopsy. Could be inflammation. Could be scar tissues. But if we say you're stage 4, you get access to more treatment. 

Not as invasive this time. A pill, once a day, that costs more than I like to publicly admit. Side effects, sure, but nothing like what I'd been through. Blood tests every couple of months, quarterly scans of my chest, every six months of my brain. If I made it through three years on this pill with no further activity, I could come potentially come off treatment. Back on Team Curable, baby. 

At the 18-month mark, my oncologist gave me an update. If it was cancer, the doctor explained, they would have expected it to have done something by now. We're downstaging you. Stage 3a resected. Welcome back to the team, we're increasing your dosage of hope, bet that feels good after all this time, eh?

I went wild, middle-aged mom-style. I browsed jobs. I upped my rehab goals. I looked at retraining and pre-ordered some textbooks. We planned our first family vacation in years. I bought pants that fit. I went into my June scan with considerably less anxiety than ever before.

If it isn't obvious where this is going by now, you haven't consumed enough popular media.

For 6 scans, that nodule hadn't done much. Stuck around, in a sucky, stucky way. But that 7th scan, apparently, it decided to make a move. Nothing too big, nothing too obvious. Just a little bit more solid than before. These things can change. It's minor. Still too small to biopsy. A PET scan, just to be sure. This type of scan measures metabolic activity through the uptake of radioactive glucose, and is partly responsible for the myth that cancer feeds off sugar (all cells feed off sugar, cancer is just hungrier). 

I left three messages with the oncologists' office asking when I would hear my results. As part of the vast organizational conspiracy by the administrative staff of the Cancer Agency to completely destroy my mental wellbeing*, not one of these messages made it to an oncologist. The doctor who finally called me fully believed that I already knew. Oh gosh, nobody told you that you'd been kicked off the team again? 

Or was I?

See, there's this hot new concept of "oligometastatic" disease which I'll help you Google but basically

means that there could be a step between local and systemic disease. Sometimes a disease comes back in just a couple spots. Sometimes the cat is only partway out of the bag - just a paw, maybe two - and by jove, in those cases, with the right touch of a new kind of radiation therapy, they can sometimes get the cat back in. 

Peace, love and targeted radiation.

So there I was, new treatment plan in hand, down the rabbit hole of research papers to try to figure out which team I was on. This study looked at people who had multiple tumours at once. This one used a different pattern of radiation. This one excluded people who had been treated with chemotherapy. 

And the more I read, the more I flipped between totally calm and uncontrollably frantic, until I eventually recognized that not only is the in/curable binary useless, but that it also conflated "cure" with "hope"...which was even worse. 

When "hope" means "cure", incurable patients are expected to throw hope away. Now it's a false hope, so-called hopium, right up there with strict diets and special crystals and that one podcast omg you have to listen to it he beat cancer with just mindfulness and a stick. 

I may let them poison me. I may let them irradiate me. I may let them cut me open and poison me some more...but I sure as heck am not going to let them tell me what to feel, goshdarnit it all. 

So I'm trying not to focus on which side of the line I'm on, or which team will have me. I'm trying to spread my hope around. Maybe for a cure, sure, but also: to be able to live a day at a time in a culture that expects long-term, predictable commitment; to understand and accept the limits on my life while changing what I can; to identify and live according to my truest values, so that when my time comes, as it does for every living thing, the pile of regrets is overshadowed by the tower of, if not joy, then at least contentment. 

And maybe, just maybe, for one more pair of pants that fit. 

*Okay, less of a conspiracy, and more of a complete ambivalence towards implementing functional internal communications systems and processes, which is SUPER DUPER FUN for someone who studied this topic at a graduate level and worked on such systems professionally for over a decade and will be over here making slow guttural wails into the void for the rest of her statistically shortened lifespan. 

Can't Spell "Gratitude" without "Attitude" or something IDK

No trigger warnings for this one, unless you are triggered by raw, unfiltered sappiness. 

I know that mostly I use this blog as an outlet for my fears and complaints, but heck! I am feeling good today. I've actually been feeling good for a couple of weeks, which is a long stretch for me, and instead of feeling despair that the rug is going to get pulled out under me, I'm going to just bask in the glow of goodness as long as I can, understanding that everything is temporary and life is what you make of it and something about lemons and lemonades. Can't spell "gratitude" without "platitude" or something else.

Wow - I really do not know how to write a positive intro. I AM OUT OF PRACTICE, PEOPLE. 

My point, if I have one, is that this whole "feeling good" thing has created a really cool space for me to feel gratitude. It's something I've tried to do the whole time on this journey, and I often managed it in bits and spurts, but now it's been happening for hours a day and it is just the most wonderful feeling to be able to sit and bask in the love that so many have shown me and my family since my diagnosis.

The people who brought meals. Who sent care packages. Who helped with yardwork and housework. I APPRECIATE YOU.

The people who sent messages. Who shared recommendations for entertainment and education. Who sent memes and adorable photos of pets and kids. I APPRECIATE YOU.

The people who touched base. Who sent word through mutual friends of their thoughts and best wishes. Who didn't know what to say but didn't hold that against me. I APPRECIATE YOU.

The people who offered a listening ear, a helping hand, a friendly voice. I APPRECIATE YOU. 

The people who have braved open mic nights to support my comedy/advocacy. The people reading my blog. The people leaving comments on my posts.  I APPRECIATE YOU. 

Cancer is a lonely thing. But y'all made it a little less lonely. And while I didn't always have it in me to say it at the time, or even to truly feel it, know that I am really, sincerely, wholly grateful. 

Cancer took a lot from me. But so many people have given me so much back. And while it's easier (and funnier) to complain, and I can tend to be a "the glass is half full and maybe it's POISON" type of person, all these acts of love can make even the grinchiest of hearts grow. 

Actual picture of me while writing this post. 

What little difference a year makes

At this time two years ago, I was sitting in Chair 18 at the Cancer Centre, starting the first of my four infusions for that day - saline, then Cisplatin, then Benadryl (yes, that Benadryl, because it turns out you can be allergic to chemotherapy) then Etoposide. The whole process took just over four hours, unlike the radiation treatment I'd had an hour earlier, which takes about 10 minutes, most of which is positioning and repositioning my body until my three tiny little tattoos lined up properly with the Giant Death Ray Machine. 

This is your hand on chemo. Well, *my*
hand, technically. 

At this point, my team was still discussing my future - when we'd know if the treatment was successful (May), when I might be able to get back to work (also May), when I would be done with this whole "cancer" thing (...you guessed it - May!) Treatment was going to be rough, and although I didn't yet know just how rough, I knew what I had to do: get through the suck, get on with my life. 

At this time one year ago, I'd had a lot more cancer treatment than originally planned. Twice the amount of lung removed, twice the amount of chemo. A daily pill I'd been taking for 5 months which, while not chemo-levels of suck, worsened my fatigue, killed my appetite and kept the makers of Immodium rolling in dough. But all I had to do now was buckle down - manage my symptoms, get on an exercise program, up my protein intake. Get through the suck, get on with my life.

So it's hard not to be demoralized when a year later, I appear to be no further through the suck, no closer to getting on with my life.

It's a weird place to be in. I'm grateful to be alive, and I'm angry to be alive in this condition. I feel betrayed by the medical system that saved my life, given false hope which I then passed on to people around me. If you're wondering why I'm not back at work, or soccer, or stand-up, well, guess what? I am too. In all my many conversations with all my many doctors, my options were always "either we'll cure you or...the other thing" (doctors, like most people, suck at talking about dying). "You might live for several years with a vastly reduced quality of life" never came up. And now that I'm here, it's like I'm off the map for health care providers. Here there be monsters aka people who don't fit into the boxes on the requisition forms. 

It's a failure - systemically, to meet the needs of patients; individually, by doctors and others in the profession who lack curiosity and imagination - but it's hard not to internalize that failure. Did I not do enough, prepare enough, try hard enough? 

Maybe if I really, really, really wanted to, I could get off this couch, make a kale and tofu scramble, practice mindfulness and yoga my way back to who I was before. 

Maybe if I really, really, really tried, I could stop being such a Whiny McWhinerson when there's war and famine and people who are not me dying of cancer, and do something meaningful with whatever time and energy I have. 

Maybe if I really, really, really, worked at it, I could come up with a profound, witty and thematically pleasing conclusion to another rambling blog post.

But I can definitely wrap things up here to finish my now lukewarm oatmeal and the last 40 minutes of Antoine Fuqua's 2016 remake of The Magnificent Seven with Denzel and Worst Chris. So that's what I'm going to do. 

Scanxiety, or how I learned to stop worrying 4-6 weeks at a time

Chronic scanxiety - an intense form of cyclical anxiety experienced by people with a life-limiting illness whose disease is monitored through regularly scheduled medical imaging. 

ONE MONTH BEFORE SCAN 

I become more irritable and on-edge than usual (which is already a fair amount). My insomnia starts to resist the various combination of chemicals and activities I use to control it. My appetite, already precarious, begins to dwindle further. 

TWO WEEKS BEFORE SCAN

I spend most nights scribbling furiously in my journal, or endlessly re-writing angst-filled blog posts that sit in the "drafts" folder.  Sometimes, I can't put the words down. When I need to get them out, I pace my kitchen in the middle of the night, monologuing half-coherently to the universe. Despite running on a few hours of sleep, I wake up easily and can't fall back asleep. I scour the internet for hours, researching my various aches and symptoms "AND lung cancer progression". Shockingly, this does not help me sleep any better. 

WEEK OF SCAN 

At peak scanxiety, I am constantly dehydrated from random bouts of ugly crying. Whatever doesn't make me sad, makes me angry. I get mean. I struggle to communicate with others. It takes nearly all my cognitive energy to relate, let alone respond in the most superficial way. The simplest decisions become simultaneously insurmountable and pointless. My world has shrunk to one question only: is my treatment still working? 

THE DAY OF THE SCAN

It's a familiar process and I'm good at it. I know the best route to the hospitals, where to park, how to pay. No, I don't have any symptoms of COVID. Yes, I know where I'm going. I have my hospital outfit on (elastic waist pants and a tank top, with my ID and phone in the pocket of my hoodie) so that I don't have to change into a gown and the techs have easy access for the IV. It's partially to make life easier for them, and partially because being told "good job!" by the staff at the imaging department is one of my few sources of external validation. 

I'm nearly always in a good mood during the procedure. The first time, I even did some fancy eye shadow! Then I left the room and began to sob uncontrollably. Now I know to add an extra 30 minutes to my parking pass for crying time. 

1 WEEK AFTER THE SCAN

The radiologist looks at the scan within 24 hours. For reasons that are backwards and patient-traumatizing, I cannot get a copy of their report for two weeks. My personal, life-altering medical information sits on a server unread until someone at the Cancer Agency gets assigned my file and has the time to call me. Sometimes, I get an appointment time in advance. Sometimes, it's someone I've spoken with before. Either way, it's usually within the week. I distract myself with television and drugs.

SCAN RESULTS - SO FAR

Arts and crafts help keep me busy!

The past four cycles, I've been told my scan "looks good". The same backwards and patient-traumatizing reasons mean that I do not get a copy of the report during the conversation with the doctor, so I try to get them to read the exact words to me. They DO NOT like this. So I usually have to settle for an oncologist's interpretation of a radiologist's interpretation of a machine's interpretation of what's going on in my body, which is a little too "broken telephone" for my peace of mind. 

2 WEEKS AFTER THE SCAN

I download a copy of the report from the patient portal. I read through, researching the unfamiliar terms as I go. Subpleural fibrosis. Ground glass opacity. Mediastinal clips. Apical fibrotic change. Parametrial varices. 

I compare to previous reports, and note the differences. More research - can these be explained by the scans being done on different machines? Different positioning? How well the contrast circulated through my veins? Different radiologists using different terms to refer to the same thing? Different radiologists having different views on what is worth reporting on? 

At this point, I usually have my monthly check-in/prescription renewal appointment with the Cancer Agency. I'm supposed to talk about my treatment-related symptoms. But I sneak in questions about my scan, too. I ask them until they placate me back into the land of a somewhat functioning person. The tightness in my chest unwinds and I am filled with gratitude for the beauty of life. I reach out to loved ones, laugh sincerely, eat heartily, cry daintily. 

The cycle begins anew. 

I get knocked down. Then I get knocked down again.

This time last year, I had just started my final chemo treatments. I was a veteran at that point, bald and bold and handling it like a champ. 

This time last year, the worst was about to behind me.

This time last year, I knew that recovery wasn't going to be a straight line. I knew there would be ups and downs, progress and setbacks. I knew that cancer treatment had put my body through hell, a calculated war of attrition where healthy cells are inevitable collateral damage. I knew it would be hard, that I would never get back to where I was, that it would require patience, resilience and managed expectations. I knew all this, little know-it-all that I am and have always been.

This time last year, I was ignorant as fuck.

I didn't know that every time I felt stronger or healthier, something would knock me on my ass. That I would go from doing 10,000 steps one day, to barely being able to get out of bed another. That my appetite would be robust then non-existent. That I would go from desperately seeking out human interaction, to equally desperately avoiding it. 

I didn't know that I would essentially be abandoned during my recovery, left to try and cobble together a plan from a scattering of academic and privately funded programs. I didn't know how angry and resentful I would feel towards the healthcare system that subjected me to life-altering treatments and then all but washed their hands of the consequences, leaving me to beg, cry and Karen my way to get any sort of assistance during the worst physical health of my life. 

Maybe that's hyperbole. Maybe it was worse when there was actual poison running through my veins. But at least then, I knew what was making me sick. I had a medical team at my finger tips, checking in with me, advising on what's normal and adjusting medications where they could. This time last year, during my my final cycle of chemo, I actual gained weight. (This was a huge win; after my first round,  I had dropped dangerously close to "too scrawny for treatment". Nobody likes a skinny chemo patient - like I said, it's a war of attrition).

The setbacks are frustratingly predictable. Of course I'm weaker than I was before being poisoned, radiated, chopped open, vital organs removed. Of course this miracle-life saving drug has severe side effects that come and go in duration and intensity. Of course treatment has irreparably damaged my heart, my breathing, my digestion, my mobility, my cognition.  Of course this whole thing has left me with grief, trauma, stress, anxiety, depression.  Doctor after doctor glances over my increasingly thick medical history before spending most of our few minutes together explaining why they can't help me. Wow, of course you're not feeling well. Here's why that's not my problem. 

I was raised in a family, in a culture that values productivity. What have you done today? What do you do? What are your achievements? What are your skills, your strengths, your abilities? For those few weeks where I have energy, where I can eat, interact, perform a convincing facsimile of "normal", it's glorious. Floyd's back, baby, better than ever. 

But those moments don't last, and the cost is high. Time and time again over this past year, my body will suddenly, thoroughly betray me, balking at the simplest activities. Changing my clothes, drinking an entire Boost (and keeping it down), walking around the block - these are my big achievements for the day. What did you do today? Gosh, I performed some of the basic tasks of personal hygiene and care. I didn't vomit, even though I felt like it all day. I only cried twice. An hour. 

In these periods, I have the sensation of not just failure, but non-existence. Who am I if I can't do anything? It's something beyond depression, whose intricacies are as familiar to me as the lines on my own face. It's an erasure that I cannot name, an un-doing, an un-becoming. I don't know who I am. I get messages of care from people I consider loved ones, but I feel unqualified to respond, an impostor. Sorry, the Floyd you know and love isn't here right now, please leave a message and she'll get back to you as soon as she exists again. 

It's hard on the bad days to reminisce about the good ones. The worst are the days where I wonder whether the good ones are all behind me.  

It's also hard reading the endless stories of crisis in our health care and social systems, the increasing number who have slipped through the cracks, lives lost to institutions lead by those who value efficiency and cost-savings and privacy and bureaucracy over people. 

It's a scary time to be sick, people. A terrifying time to be on the margins of society. So many of us are one "getting knocked down" from not getting back up again. If you can, if you have any bandwidth, any room, to advocate for us, to speak up and take action and help out the marginalized - now is the time. You might not be able to pick me up, but you can help repair a safety net that has been systematically shredded over decades of greedy and self-interested policies that blame the misfortunate for their tragedies and reward the successful for their avarice. 

Because nobody - nobody - stays healthy forever. 

Floyd's Gauntlet or How I Learned to Keep Worrying But Make Decisions Anyway

Author's note: I originally wrote this post in June 2021, when I had completed the course of treatment originally proposed for my cancer (aggressive chemoradiation and surgery). It never got published because the cancer rollercoaster took an unexpected turn before I could complete it. So here it is now, with some updates towards the end. PS. I *love asterisks*

******

The treatments went well. My body is healing. There is no evidence of disease. Now what?

I have always hated decision making. I am a chronic second-guesser, a "what-if"-er of the highest degree. Woulda-coulda-shoulda by nature as long as I can remember. And that way? Lies madness. (Or more specifically, clinical depression.) It's very, very rare that I ever have enough certainty, enough information, to know know that I'm making the right decision. 

Fortunately, I have had a few decades of trial and error, and error, and more error, to work on my decision-making system, which is sort of a combination between Pascal's Wager and a clip from an old Japanese game show, both of which I learned of during some pretty formative years.

The first major influence is pretty mainstream. My introduction to Pascal's Wager was in a 3rd-year Philosophy of Religion class.* I've forgotten most of the names and ideas, but Mr. Pascal's always stuck with me with its elegant, fearful symmetry:

	Believe God Exists	Believe God Doesn’t Exist
God Actually Exists	Yay! Heaven!	Uh oh! Hell!
God Actually Doesn’t Exist	Can’t feel crushing disappointment when you’re dead.	Can’t feel ultimate vindication when you’re dead.

Without getting into my opinions on its validity in a multi-denominational world**, this is still a dry, intellectual exercise that doesn't really get into what it means to make a decision and live with it. It doesn't account for the odds, how to improve them or mitigate harms, or even how to decide when to make a decision. 

So I like to combine Pascal's Wager with That Show Where People Run at a Door Without Knowing if it's Made of Wood or Paper, which was shown to me on one of those special days  in school that only People of a Certain Age will remember - the Day the TV Gets Rolled Into the Classroom. 

Now when I'm faced with a big decision, I run it through Floyd's Gauntlet. I figure out what's at stake, how many walls are between me and a good outcome, what are the odds I get through them, if I can live with being wrong, and when I have to decide. I imagine putting on my metaphorical helmet and running towards an allegorical door, and dealing with the hypothetical outcomes.

I've used it pretty successfully for some major life decisions (Should I have a child? Should I go back to law school at 35? Should I watch a new movie, or Tremors again?)***

And most recently - should I live like my cancer is cured?  

I'm a few weeks into my PLTC course (part of the requirement to become a lawyer in B.C.) which takes about about 110% percent of my productive capacity. Is this a good use of my life? Should I be pursuing 17-year-old Floyd's dream, carrying on as if this was just a highly unpleasant detour on the road? 

Using just ol' Blaise's framework, I came up with this:

	Believe Cancer is Cured	Believe Cancer isn’t Cured
Cancer is Actually Cured	Yay! I was right!	Yay! I was wrong!
Cancer is Not Actually Cured	F*CK ME	At least I’m prepared!

The answer seemed obvious. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst! Live like you're dying, carpe diem, mindfulness and kale and whiskers on kittens. 

And then I started imagining what the gauntlet would look like. It was hard, because lung cancer is chronically underfunded and understudied, so statistics around survival are often too broad or outdated to be useful. 

The generally accepted number is that 1 in 3 people survive 5 years after a stage 3a lung cancer diagnosis. 

There's a wall in front of me. It has three doors. One door is made of paper. Two doors are made of wood.

But my odds were better. I was relatively young and healthy, able to access and tolerate aggressive treatment, which had seemingly gone well. Maybe my odds were as good as someone who had been diagnosed at stage 1.

The wall has 10 doors. Nine of them are made of paper. 

Or maybe it's like that one study that most closely matched my circumstances.

Five of them are made of paper. 

Then my oncologist called to let me know that my treatment had been so successful that I no longer qualified for the "miracle drug" that had changed the face of treatment for my type of lung cancer. 

She suggested another two rounds of chemo. It had a proven 5% increase in 5 year survival.

There are 20 doors. 11 of them are made of paper.

*****

That's as far as I got in June. Because as I was writing it out...I kinda had a teeny-weeny, complete emotional breakdown. I've cried a lot in my life - happiness, sadness, frustration, embarrassment, forgetting to wash my hands after cutting jalapenos and then going to the bathroom - but tears of terror are in a class of their own. And I was sitting there, writing this blog post, and the understanding was slowly sinking in that behind the paper door was the future with everything I wanted (watching my child grow up, a rewarding career, supporting my family and friends, making the world a better place, recording my album of accordion covers of eighties music, etc.) And the fake doors weren't made of wood, but of a slow and painful death by cancer. 

I packed up my binders of legal materials and wrote to my supervisor, the Law Society, my PLTC instructor. Not right now, I said. Just a little more treatment. Just to be safe. 

Partway through chemo, another twist in the rollercoaster - the mystery spot on my lung. Maybe it's cancer, maybe it's an infection, maybe it's Maybelline. Too small to biopsy, too big to ignore. I am, on paper if not in reality, stage four. And the thing about stage four is, eventually, there is only the wall. There are no doors. 

******

*This course also culminated in what is probably my favourite final exam question of all time, "Is it possible to believe in God?", on which I enthusiastically handwrote several pages and hope to type a slightly shorter blog post at some point. (My answer, by the way, was "No".)

**Which God? "Believe" how? What if actions and not belief are what matters to God? HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY KNOW?!?! 

***Yes, yes, and, at least once a year, Tremors, because that movie is FLAWLESS.

What a difference a year makes

 Prologue

Fall 2020

CT scan: Hey, look, there's something funny in your brain. It's probably cancer.

MRI scan: Lol, jk. 

Summer 2021

CT scan: That thing is still there, only now it's slightly bigger!

MRI scan: Nope. Not even a single spider egg. 

"Happy" "Cancerversary" to "Me"

One year ago today, I came very very close to not going to the hospital. My heart rate and blood pressure had been up for a week, despite my best efforts to bring them down, but there were no other real symptoms of cardiac problems. When my doctor suggested I go to the ER just to get checked out, I had a dozen reasons not to. The labs would be open again tomorrow morning. It was my turn to pick up kiddo from after-school. There was a pandemic going on; the ER was probably full; I really, most likely, probably wasn't having a heart attack. I would have to go home and get the car; or carry the battery from my ebike around with me. 

I don't know what exactly made me decide to ride over to the hospital after all. Maybe subconsciously I knew something had been wrong for a while. I had spent the last few months begging off of my various non-work responsibilities, from volunteering to soccer to social events, too exhausted at the end of the day to do much of anything. I was napping more frequently, and less intentionally - I would sit down on the couch and wake up three hours later. I got out of breath walking uphill to our house. (It's uphill in every direction, which is great for tsunami-survival purposes, but not so much for mobility-limiting ones). 

That was me B.C. - Before Cancer. (Or, more accurately, Before the Cancer Was Found, but BtCWF doesn't quite roll off the keyboard the same way). 

And here I am now, starting year 2 A.C. I thought it would be easy to write this post, but I am often wrong about which things will be easy and which will be hard and this proved no exception. So much has changed - and yet so much is the same. I'm healthier (in the "having less, and maybe even no, cancer in my body" sense) but also less healthy (in the: "jogged 100m and needed a 5-hour nap the next day" sense, as well as the "chemo-induced tinnitus seems permanent this time" and the always pleasant, "better buy stock in the company that makes Imodium" sense). 

I still spend a lot of time online, but very differently than before. I've read more scientific journals in the past year than I have in my entire life (which isn't entirely surprising for an Arts major who hadn't studied science since the previous millennium). An unexpected side effect of the whole process has been an increase in respect/empathy for medical professionals, and a decrease in the trust I put in the information I receive from them. The prologue at the top of this page is just one example of the conflicting and unreliable results that medical testing produces, even before they're run through the inherent biases and predispositions of the individuals who interpret them. 

When I'm not reading the latest research or attending virtual cancer conferences, I do still go on social media quite a bit - but my feed is mostly filled with posts from strangers with whom I share the unfortunate and sadly comforting bond of this disease. When I'm up to it, I binge on my friends' posts, to revel in their joys, successes, travels, achievements, or empathize with their losses and disappointments. (Usually I need another nap after that.)

My to-do list keeps growing, as does my sense of dread of how much might be left undone (especially during those insomniac nights.) Most of it has to do with getting some sense of order back into my life; of tying up loose ends and sorting through the clutter.  But, pop quiz, hotshot - how do you determine what's useful and what's clutter when you don't know your own capabilities or approximate life expectancy anymore? Answer: With great f*cking difficulty. 

Epilogue

How do you walk when just to have to wheeze?

How do you talk when you can't trust a sneeze?

How to respond when your brain seems to freeze?

WITH GREAT F*CKING DIFFICULTY

How do you sleep when your ears start to ring?

How do you eat when you don't want a thing?

How do you live when, Jon Snow, you know nothing? 

WITH GREAT F*CKING DIFFICULTY

I'm okay (except for when I'm not)

After 8 months of treatment, including 6 weeks of chemoradition, a open thoracotomy removing 2/3 of my lung, another 6 weeks of chemo thrown in because hair is for suckers, and a targeted therapy that is as potentially miraculous as it is expensive, I am currently living with Schrodinger's Cancer. My last two scans showed two small but "suspicious" spots - one in my remaining lobe and one in my brain. 

There's a concept in Canadian criminal law of a "reasonable suspicion", a standard that's meant to keep police from exercising their formidable powers all willy-nilly and has clearly been a success in every way and HEY LOOK OVER THERE

There's a similar concept in healthcare. As one can imagine, the patient's idea of "reasonable suspicion" is often much broader because we're a teeny-tiny bit more invested what with the life-being-at-stake thing. "Rare", "unlikely", "improbable" - these are nonsense words to me now. 30,000 Canadians get diagnosed with lung cancer every year, and all but 600 of them are over the age of 50. Do not tell me the odds. 

And so my first instinct is that the word "suspicious" is suspicion enough. I want the full-scale response. I want the cancer swat team all over again and I want them to do their job properly this time because goddammit I did not go through all that for nothing!

But the oncologists, who actually do this for what I hope is a very good living, want more evidence before subjecting me to more "all that"  because I am still recovering from the previous rounds of "all that" and it would be both a waste of resources and pretty damn harmful to the patient to do "all that" when those spots could just be inflammation or blood vessels or scarring or spider eggs. ("Please, let it be spider eggs in my brain" has got to be near the top of the list of Things-Floyd-Thought-She'd-Never-Say). 

So I try to get through each day, waiting for the next scan, the next test. I sleep more. I cry a lot. I take a lot of pills for a lot of reasons. I spend hours online, gathering my own evidence: reading medical journals, attending virtual conferences, connecting with other patients through social media, trying to figure out whether I should be planning my life in months, years or decades. 

Motivational Poster for Cancer Cells

And the longer I live with this, the more I'm coming to understand that it is always Schrodinger's Cancer. There will always be a "next scan" as long as I'm alive.

Because that cancer, it is crafty. It can hide and hibernate. It can deke and dip and dodge whatever gets thrown at it: toxic chemotherapy, T-cells pumped up by immunotherapy, therapies targeted to its specific genetic makeup, razor sharp scalpels that take healthy tissue along with the malignant.  

It is endlessly malleable, relentlessly innovative, and ultimately self-defeating because, do you not understand that if I die, you die too? Huh? Didja think about that, smarty-cells? DIDJA?!?#$&%

And it's why no question stops me in my tracks faster than "How are you?" Because I am Schrodinger's Cancer Patient: I am healing; I am dying. I am cured; I am terminal. I should take up new hobbies; I should give away my belongings. I should make plans with friends; I should make funeral plans. 

I'm okay, except for when I'm not. 

How to Tell Someone They Have Cancer: Medical Professional Edition

• ER Doctor 1: Inform patient that all heart-related testing came back fine, but that the chest X-ray showed a "fuzzy spot" on the lung. Advise patient not to jump to worst-case scenario, and laugh politely at her joke ("Alien spores?"). Explain that it is most likely pneumonia, and if a CT scan confirms this, her colleague on the next shift will send said patient home with some antibiotics.  
• ER Nurse 1: let the youngish-woman pacing the now-empty waiting room know that the doctor is just waiting for the results of the CT scan. Realize that they have, in fact, come in. Lose all ability to make eye contact with said patient for the next hour, until it is time to bring her in to meet the doctor. Come out behind the barrier (which you have not done for the past 4 hours) and personally escort her, with a heartbreaking look of compassion, to a small, windowless room filled with couches and Kleenex boxes.  
• ER Doctor 2: Introduce yourself. Apologize (and feel secretly, if not understandably, upset) that you, and not the doctor who had originally been overseeing her care, is here to discuss the results of the tests. Repeatedly ask if the patient would like to have someone with her to hear the news. Eventually accept that your persistence in this matter is only making things worse. Explain that this is the worst part of the job.  Inform patient that the CT scan showed a mass that was "indicative of malignancy." Refuse under all circumstances to use the word "cancer", despite the patient's best efforts to trick you into this, such as by asking sneaky questions like, "Does that mean I have cancer?" Explain that this can only be confirmed with further tests, which are all being arranged. Offer Kleenex. Take some for yourself. 
• ER Nurse 2: Arrange midnight taxi home for patient. Personally escort her to the door. Attempt to cheer her up by informing her of the latest news that Donald Trump has tested positive for Covid-19. 
• Floyd's Uncle who is a Radiologist and also German and lives up to the stereotypical directness of his naionality: Read Canadian radiologists report. Tell niece that yes, it is most likely cancer. 

Tell Me, Tell Me, Tell Me the Answer

Back in the early aughts, yours truly donned the patented blue polyester uniform of a Parliamentary Tour Guide. The job combined two of my finest qualities: the ability to spend hours explaining things I find interesting to a captive audience, and being right about everything, all the time. 

There would, of course, often be that one person who wanted to play "stump the tour guide" by asking the most random, specific question they could think of such as:

1. What is the weight of the building? 
2. Who was the first person to enter the building using the tunnel from the East Block?
3. How many doorknobs are there?

There may be a better feeling than putting some smug troll in his place by instantly responding, but young Floyd had to yet to experience it. The smugness would slowly change to confusion as I rattled off the answers without hesitation: Approximately 33,000 metric tonnes when vacant! The legislative assistant to then-Fisheries Minister Brian Tobin! 1,464, including yourself!  

I'm proud to say that in all my years of tour guiding, not a single one of these jackasses stumped me, by which I mean that no one was able to make up a question so asinine, so nonsensical, so blatantly in bad faith that I could not instantly respond, thanks to another two of my fine qualities: the ability to make shit up on the spot, and deliver it with confidence. 

It's not that I couldn't say "I don't know". I could, and did, when there were genuine questions because, much to my continued chagrin, I did not and still do not know everything about everything. But sometimes, sometimes, "I don't know" is too hard to say. 

Not just when my trivial intellectual supremacy is at stake, though. Sometimes it's too hard to say because it's upsetting to the person asking the question. Sometimes, the question isn't an inane, useless waste of time, but a sincere expression of real, meaningful interest. Sometimes, the question is "Is it terminal cancer?". Not always in those words, but it's there. I care about you, friend/wife/mother/daughter/sister/loved one. Is this going to kill you? How can I help prevent that?

And I hate hate hate not knowing that answer. But I can't just make something up. Not just because Google is a thing now and even the smuggiest smugs who ever smugged can bring a mobile encyclopedia to a battle of wits.  In this case, there are ACTUAL CONSEQUENCES to getting it wrong, in the form of causing pain to people I care about deeply, which is not at all satisfying as compared to, say, telling some doofus, with authority and a straight face, that the person who first defecated inside the House of Commons was prime minister/architect of genocide Sir John A. MacDonald.

And there is absolutely nothing I can do about that. I don't know the answer because nobody knows the answer. Cancer is a wily beast, and statistics, though eminently valuable at a population level, are about as helpful to an individual as a fart during Question Period. (Hell, as an answer during Question Period).  But at this point, that's all I have. I know that 1 in 3 people with my diagnosis survive more than five years. I know that my gender and age bestow a small but significant statistical advantage—as do the unfair privileges attached to my race, class, education level, proximity to a treatment centre, otherwise good health history and lack of visible disabilities. 

I also know that I am fortunate to not have to worry about being bankrupted by treatment, and to have loving friends and family who can support me, a job that has been flexible and understanding, and an incredible team of medical professionals and staff dedicated to my care. 

But I don't know if that's enough. And only time will tell. 

Time, with all its elusive power, forever out of mortal grasp, but that we nonetheless try to capture in our own ways...

...such as the Parliament's iconic Peace Tower clock, home to an impressive 53-bell, 4 1/2 octave carillon. What's that? Why yes, I do know which single song required the use of the most bells, sir. It was an impromptu concert by an aspiring carilloner who snuck away mid-tour and made it nearly through the entirety of Bohemian Rhapsody, until he was stopped mid-mamma mia! by a veteran security guard from Penetanguishine, who forced her way into the room using only Lester B. Pearson's antique spittoon and, per protocol, sternly rebuked the scoundrel for ignoring Canadian content laws. 

(Yup. Still got it.)

How to Tell People You Have Cancer

There must be 50 ways to leave your loved ones stunned with the news that you are a 39-year-old with stage 3a lung cancer, but these are the ones I've tried:

1. Invite them over for dinner, after determining whether the tears of your parents pair better with the appetizers or dessert. 
2. Call them up out of the blue. Make small talk until the subject arises organically, which it will,  because, well, 2020 ("hey, speaking of that crappy things that happened recently...")
3. Lurk on the group chat for weeks. Wait for the right moment to drop the bomb. Follow-up with cute animal memes in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood. 
4. Stare at their contact information. Compose text. Delete. Compose. Delete. Compose. Sen--nope, delete. Compose. Open Reddit "just for a minute". Hit send 17 hours later. 
5. Procrastinate until your mom/husband does it for you. 
6. Revive your ancient blog. Get frustrated at new interface. Browse through old posts for hits and giggles. Get mad about that Punisher movie again. Debate whether to remove  ignorant language and opinions or leave them as a reminder of the importance of self-improvement and growth. Feel smug. Start doing creative writing for the first time in almost a decade. Feel less smug. 

In some ways, it does get easier - you get used to the basic reactions. People are sad, and they want to help, and suddenly the lasagnas are multiplying in your little freezer like some sort of pasta-based family of rabbits, for which you are both very, very grateful and very, very constipated. 

But in other ways, it gets harder, like that one week 20 years ago that I worked giving surveys over the phone, and would look at the list on my computer screen and think "Do I really have to go through this script again?", only worse because not quite as many people cry when you tell them you are calling about their opinions on Paul Martin's leadership qualities. 

It's the most awkward with the good friends that I haven't spoken to for a while. Whether we bonded over our mutual love of rugby, relentless pursuit of higher education, or searing disdain for <insert name of power-tripping narcissistic boss here>,  I've been meaning to call you for ages. I've wanted to reach out and see how life was going, and I never got around to it and now there's this golfball-sized mass of malignant cells hanging over the whole thing. Hi dear friend, been thinking about you lots, also I have cancer, and how are you? 

So if you are in category 6 right now, please know it's only because I feel I missed my window of non-awkward contact. (And hey, your existence has also got me blogging again...so, thanks!)( And, you're welcome?)

Got milk?

Nothing like reproducing to remind you that very little separates us from the animals (opposable thumbs, sense of self, reality television, etc.). Pregnancy is Cartesian dualism writ up close and personal - your mind's doing the usual things (barring the odd bout of spontaneous sobbing at particularly touching fabric softener commercials), but your body has gone AWOL and is not responding to orders:

Mind: Okay, time to tie up your shoes!
Belly: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA whatever.
Mind: Where the hell did that come from?!#$#
Floyd: [is late for work]

And then there's labour, where your body completely takes over, chasing your mind into a tiny little dusty corner, where it curls up, shaking, amidst rapidly fading memories of what it's like to be able to go more than three hours without peeing.

A life revolving around instinctual behaviour, bodily functions and satisfying the most basic needs for water, food, sleep and randomly howling at people - never before had I felt so close to my animal sisters. Never, that is, until I found myself breastfeeding in public.

Show-off

I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to - not because I have a problem with public breastfeeding, but because I have a problem with my breasts being public. And for the first few months, feeding in public was a tangle of squawking, squirming limbs and Winnie-the-Pooh blankets. On the one hand, no one made a fuss about it; but on the other, I'm pretty sure it's because they thought I was trying to smother a particularly bad-tempered hairless cat.

Flash-forward a few months - and there I am, sitting at the local coffee/hipster festival with nothing but a baby's head and a successful music career between me and a Janet Jackson-style nipple slip. And, despite my tendency to make everything political (movie nights! family dinners! the food choices of people in front of me at the grocery store!) this particular action wasn't. I was there, boob out in a public place, because at this particular point in our lives, it's the easiest way to feed my child.  No bottles, no battles, no cursing the Creator for giving humans a measly two arms...just me and my (no longer fussing) baby, sitting quietly and secretly envying how effortlessly cool everyone looks in their skinny jeans and pink high tops.

Did I offend someone with my public display of lactation? Maybe. But honestly, I barely have the energy to check my pants for spit-up before leaving the house, let alone concern myself with the delicate sensibilities of complete strangers in regard to a completely normal and unobtrusive action. And to be even more honest, people really do seem to have better things to do than get upset about it.

Liked this post? Try these on for size:

• Sorry I'm late - must be the daycare
• On Chivalry
• Get your own damn uter...er, coffee

What a difference two years make

Whoa whoa whoa...has it really been that long? My dear sweet Blogger, how I've missed you. There's been a giant, B shaped hole in my soul that neither Typepad nor Wordpress could fill.

But it's not like I haven't been busy - why, I've moved twice or thrice, had a couple new jobs, and watched many new exciting television series!

And then there's the dog, and the house, and the kid. No, not a baby goat (not that those aren't adorable because: yes they are) but the fruit of my very own loins. And though I am resisting the urge to be a mommy blogger (and by "resisting" I mean too damn tired most of the time to care about the most recent innovations and debates in child-rearing, like whether allowing your toddler to play with your shoes will result in emotional detachment and/or a lifelong foot fetish*) Little One is going to appear here and there because he's along for the ride now!

*both, although the emotional detachment will be caused by the increasing awkwardness of family dinners once the who and why of all those missing shoes is discovered.

On doctors and lady parts

Oh oh oh, it's TMI-time, travellers! This post has been brewing and stewing in my brain for a few months now, ever since a fateful day at the walk-in clinic proved to be the third strike against dudely doctors and dudes-who-aspire-to-be-doctors-but-instead-practice-what-is-largely-recognized-as-quacktacular-medicine.

Strike one occurred back in the 1980s when my mom's then-chiropractor responded to her not unreasonable request to examine her 8-year-old daughter's seemingly curved back with "She just has a large behind." Which a) I should be so lucky, b) is creepy and c) is a lazy, gross, patronizing excuse for medical treatment. (For the record, it is not so much the size of behind as the fact that it is constantly parked on the couch that accounts for my still lousy posture. Hey, do I get a pretend medical degree now?)

Strike two was back in the undergrad years, at the university's walk-in clinic:

Me: I'd like to get my pill prescription renewed, please.

Doc: When was your last physical?

Me: I'm a virgin.

Doc: Good for you!

"Good for you!", as if I'd spent the last eight or so years since menstruation fighting off an army of sweaty, shirtless James Masters-lookalikes, instead of being a gangly and self-conscious homebody who spent her spare time reading Stephen King novels and writing terrible poetry about not wanting to be a virgin anymore. "Good for you!" as if virginity was some sort of grand accomplishment and not the inevitable by-product of my particular blend of self-esteem issues, shyness and tendency to dork out to the extreme in front of any boy I liked. "Good for you!" as if 'virginity' is a medical term requiring no follow-up questions and not some sexist and heteronormative social abstract which means different things to different people and exists only in their minds, anyway.

Now that's a rant and a half, but I have saved the rantiest for last! Strike three happened just this summer when I, a grown lady who had spent a good half her life with (to the best of my knowledge) working lady bits, and had yet to cause some sort of international incident or natural disaster with them, went to get my pill prescription renewed yet again. In my mind, I was qualified  to a)make requests as to my reproductive needs, and b)receive medical advice in a professional, objective, and non-douchetastic manner.

BZZZZTTT!!!! WRONG!!! At least according to the douchiest of all dudely doctors, with whom I had an unfortunate encounter at the walk-in clinic I was frequenting while trying to find a family doctor in my new town. (Which I totally have now, and she is also a lady, and she is pretty swell).

This guy was such a douche, he earned his own three strikes within our five-minute appointment, for:

1) Telling me that once every two years wasn't enough for women with multiple partners, after I had just told him that I was in a long-term, monogamous relationship ("Whatever, slut!");

2) Looking so pointedly at my (wedding ring-less) hand the whole time that I finally snapped a "I'm married; we don't wear rings", which I hate because a)marriage is a legal relationship and NOT a medical one and therefore NOT RELEVANT to this particular conversation, dipstick, and b)when I have to pull the marriage card it reminds me just how patriarchal and sucktastic a lot of people want marriage to be and means that I am in the presence of someone who is probably against things like same-sex marriage, women's equality, and kittens. Because he is an asshole.

3) After the marriage admission, writes me a six-month prescription, "Since [you've] been such a good girl."

If ever you needed proof that Angry Floyd still has self-control - I am currently blogging about this instead of serving time for "aggravated assault with various medical implements". So there.

Ladies, gents and every in-between? Any douchestactic doctor experiences?

Another female athlete still waiting for my title and estate

Dear CBC sports,

"Lady" is the formal equivalent of "Lord" or "gentleman". Unless it's made up entirely of British aristocrats, it is a women's sport/event/competition.

Thanks,

Floyd

Meet the Stupid

Although the number one spot on the list of movies I hate is clearly, forcefully, undboutedly and angrily taken, it's important to remember that I only saw that particular pile of aardvark vomit within the last year - meaning there was, indeed, a different pile of aardvark vomit in the number one slot (and one before that one, and before that one, and yes my friends it is aardvark vomit all the way down).

Let's see if you can guess what semi-digested mass of termite remains once held the top spot with a simple hint: here's the article that made me think of it in all it's regurgitated glory:

Recruiting men to nursing remains a challenge (CBC)

Got it yet?

Here's another hint:

DeNiro makes a deal with the douchebag, OR
Suggest your own caption in the commments section!

I mean speaking, of course, of the totally irredeemable "comedy" Meet the Parents, which I saw on the plane during one of my frequents trips home from school, and by "saw" I mean "watched the first five minutes with interest and then slowly grew angrier and angrier as the plot unfolded before turning it off and trying to avert my eyes from the other screens lest my rage overwhelm me to the point that I must be tackled and restrained while trying to use the emergency exit at 10,000 feet".

Rather than recap the whole film (because, obviously, I didn't see the whole thing) let me present to you the scene in which two anonymous douchebags come up with the story:

DB1: Okay, so, our main guy, he's gotta be funny. How can we make him funny?Hmmm...He could be well-written and the centrepiece of a clever film? [pause] Naw, that's too hard.

DB2: Let's give him a funny name, like 'Weiner'.

DB1: Naw, too obvious...kay, let's get back to that f***ker later.

DB2: Focker! Awesome.

DB1: Awesome! [high-fives]

DB2: Okay, now we need to give him, like, a funny job. Something really embarassing...like, outhouse cleaner or something.

DB1: Hey, you know what's really funny to my emotionally-stunted mind? When men engage in activities considered by our society to be feminine, which, by illustrating the arbitrariness of gender boundaries and calling into question the rigid social structures based upon these boundaries, challenges my own innate sense of privilege based on my manly superiority to women.

DB2: Uh...what?

DB1: It's totally funny when dudes do chick stuff.

DB2: Yeah! Like, I have this cousin, and he and his wife run a ballroom dance school, and charge like $200 bucks for a lesson and he's always, like, dancing around with women and shit, and I'm like, dude - that's so gay.

DB1: Yeah, like, why don't you just go be, like, a male nurse or something!

DB2: [laughs uproariously] MALE NURSE! That's awesome. You can't make that shit up. I love it.

DB1: Yeah! So this Focker, he's a [giggles] male nurse, and he wants to marry this hot chick, but first he needs to get her dad's permission to take ownership of his property, because it's not like a grown woman is capable of making her own decisions, and would be angry rather than bemusedly tolerant of her father's inappropriate and borderline-abusive treatment of the man that she loves!

DB2: Whu-what?

DB1: Chicks know their place, and let the men duke it out because that's just how we roll.

DB2: Oh.

DB1: And the dad will be super-scary ex-CIA guy, but then he'll totally love sissy shit, like flowers and cats.

DB2: MAN WE ARE GONNA BE EFFIN' RICH!

And don't even get me started on the sequel. For the sake of my blood pressure, I try to pretend that it doesn't exist.

Related Posts:

• A Tale of Three Punishers
• Why You Do Me So Wrong: Episode II
• Why You Do Me So Wrong, Oliver Stone?

RIP, Ricardo Montalban

He's been in a lot of stuff, mostly things that I'm too young for (Fantasy Island) or too old for (Spy Kids) but Star Trek II? Just right.

And I still can't watch that ear-weavil scene.

Library Love

As in, love for the library, not love in a library, because then this would be a completely different kind of blog ("Dear Floyd, I never thought this would happen to me but [...] and then the reference librarian chased us out with an oversized atlas of northern Canada's waterways.")

No, this post is all about how much I love the library that I currently use, the ones I've used in the past, and the concept of libraries in general. Maybe I'm just on a library high because no fewer than five (5!) books that I've wanted to read for a very, very long time (like, maybe even, months!) all came in today and I just wanted to throw them on the bed and roll around with them but that would be gross a)for me and b)for everyone after me. So I didn't do that. But I did look at my bag o' books longingly all afternoon, waiting for the work day to end so that I could take them home and we could be alone...

Ahem. Moving on. Now, I'm not a super spendy (why yes, that is a real word, thankyouverymuch) person in general, but books have always been the exception that proved that I was a big liar. Graduate school was probably the worst time for this, because I spent so much time with smarty-pants academics with offices lined with smarty-pants books that I spent hundreds of dollars trying to look smarty-pants myself ("look" being the operative word, as the academics with their book-filled offices had, in fact, written or contributed to or worked with the authors of many of those books, whereas I mostly bought them, held them tight to my chest, and then put them on the shelf and admired them from afar) on a research topic which I eventually abandoned. (In a completely unrelated bit of information, if anyone's looking for some collections on the public sphere, I can totally hook you up.) It was just so convenient - go to Amazon.ca, click a few times, enter your credit card number and blammo! Brand new box of shiny books to be read once (maybe) and then collect dust on my bookshelf. I felt smarter just looking at them.

Now, film buff that I am, I've still never had this problem with movies. I love watching them, but I've never really owned many, mostly because there's maybe a few dozen movies out that I've actually watched more than once (although what I lack in quantity, I make up for in...a different kind of quantity, having seen The Lion King 30+ times back when it was the only kid's movie we owned when my oldest younger brother was...er, younger, not to mention having seen each of the Star Wars trilogy 25+ times). There's even fewer books I've read more than once, and yet I have such a hard time parting with them that I've finally realized the real solution is to just stop buying them.

And now, thanks to the power of the Intertubes, getting books from the library is almost as easy as buying, plus free, so if you include the work I have to do to earn money to buy books (which I do now, because that is how I roll) then the library is easier than a frat boy during rush week. (I actually have no idea what rush week really is, but I think it has something to do with frats, so that's my joke and I'm sticking to it.) Instead of going to Amazon, I go to the library site, look up the books I want, place a hold, and then go pick them up at the library when they're ready. IT IS SO AWESOME I WANT TO BARF, THAT'S HOW AWESOME IT IS. I pick out books, and the magical book fairies find them and email me and I come get them and sign them out and it's all FREE FLOYD AND LIBRARIES BFFFS 4EVA.

Of course I guess that makes me a business-hating, economy-killing, tree-hugging, freeloading socialist. So be it. They can have my library card when they pry it out of my cold, ink-stained fingers. Of course, then I'd just go to the customer service desk during operating hours and get a new one. And maybe browse the magazine racks at the same time, suckas.

Bountiful polygamy charges

It's about freakin' time. I never quite understood why they could be breaking the law so blatantly with no consequences. Time to give up your harem, boys! And by "boys" I mean "dirty old men who abuse their power as religious leaders to coerce young women, who would otherwise be involved with people their own age, into having sex with them, and by "harem" I mean "women and girls who have been raised to believe they are sub-humans whose sole purpose in life is to provide household, sexual and child-rearing services to dirty old men".

Random acts of wingnuttery

Via Pandagon, I found this site which details email forwards that get sent around by in wingnut circles. It's funny and terrifying at the same time (kind of like the movie Jesus Camp, where the Jeebus-fuelled antics of youngsters had me both cackling hysterically and hiding curled up in the fetal position, quaking in fear, under a blanket - sometimes both at the same time, like with adorable Levi with his spectacular rat-tail and precocious charm and public-speaking skills...which he used to preach fire and brimstone to his fellow pre-teens) in the way that only demonstrations of extraordinary ignorance coupled with insane amounts of hate can be.

"I may need a haircut, but you're going to hell!"

I've been on the receiving end of only a couple of these types of wingnutty emails (none that were nearly as bad as the ones on this site, thanks be to the Spaghetti Monster), but the few times it happened it's always a bit awkward. They only come from one family member (and people who know me can probably guess which gun-totin', rural-living', government-distrustin' one that is) who also happens to be someone I love, respect and admire. So what do you do when they display random acts of wingnuttery?

I've mostly taken the same stance with these types of forwards as the ones that tell me to Forward This to 10 Friends and Make a Wish and it Will Come True But If You Don't Your Hair Will Fall Out and You Will Get Scabies (Whatever That Is), or Bill Gates Will Donate $$$ If u Forrward this MessAge, or DANGER! my neigbor's SON/daughter/Goldfish was killed/raped/eaten because of HOT COFFEE EXPLODING IN THE MICROWAVE/Perfume bottels with DATE_RAPE druggs/HE tasted GOOD - ignore them.

This policy has worked pretty well for me in terms of emails, but it's often harder in person. I love me a good argument, but sometimes the time is just wrong, like the very uncomfortable Christmas dinner a few years ago where the host (a lovely man who is wonderful in many many ways) started in on the rabbi who had requested a menorah be included in the Christmas display at the Seattle airport, and how this was proof of the WAR ON CHRISTMAS!!! and part of the larger WAR ON AFFLUENT, STRAIGHT WHITE PEOPLE (PARTICULARLY MEN)!!!

Unfortunately, we were just about to eat, so I didn't have any delicious turkey on my plate, so I was actually listening to the conversation instead of stuffing my face and thinking "mmmm...tuuuurkey", and as a result I jumped in with "They could have just put up the menorah" at which point the conversation went south very quickly, and ended with the assertion that since Christian soldiers fought in WWII, Jews can never complain about anything, ever again.

Well, I couldn't think of which one of the approximately two hundred million things that are wrong with that statement to address first, then his daughter managed to change the subject, and the turkey was awesome, and we're still close with them, but boy did that memory stick out in my mind when I saw that website.

How about you guys? Any random acts of wingnuttery you've had to deal with?