my small comfort list


I’m drifting away from my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment from two years ago. Time gives me the ability to reflect, although I can easily be thrown back into the well of despair that epitomized that dark time in my life.

Sometimes I get messages from other women who have been diagnosed with breast cancer. I wish I could tell them: do this one thing and you will feel better. Alas, I have no one thing and no easy solutions. Healing is highly individual and one size sadly does not fit all.

I tried many things to calm the f*ck down. This is a list of the things I attempted over the past two years to make myself feel better. If you are going through a dark time for whatever reason, you will make your own list. It won’t look like mine. I tried a lot of things on for size. Maybe one of these ideas will give a wee bit of comfort, even for a little while as you find your own way.

1. Walks Outside
I promised my daughter that I’d walk every day. At first I begrudgingly kept that promise, then I became obsessed with getting my steps, but now I’ve settled down and look forward to my daily walks. I actually allow myself to enjoy the combination of fresh air, nature, movement and time to myself.

2. Mental Health Therapy
I tried the public mental health system first, but I was only was assigned four appointments at the Cancer Agency. Then I had to find my own private therapist. Asking around for someone who understood cancer stuff helped. Anywhere that advertises cancer supportive care would fit that bill, like Callanish or Inspire Health in Vancouver, or Wellspring elsewhere in Canada.  Do not be surprised like I was that our public system does not offer these services.  Publicly funded oncology care is medical, not holistic.

3. Small Comforts
I started scratching around for small comforts, like stopping for a coffee before oncology appointments and going for cheap sushi and to the bookstore afterwards as a little gift to myself. This helped me endure rude receptionists and cold oncologists if I knew I was going to treat myself well afterwards even if others did not.

4. Cancer Retreat
This is about finding ‘peer support’ or what I call friendships with others going through the same thing. I wrote about my experience at a cancer retreat here. Many retreats have subsidies for registrations to help you access them and if you can manage to take some time away. It is an investment in you.

5. Meditation
I’m no meditation guru, but I went to a few classes run by the Calm Monkey and picked up some basic tips. I used meditation techniques when I was under the radiation machine, waiting for the doctor to come into the treatment room or being squished in a mammogram device. Breathing and counting helped me calm down, even a little bit. I think it gave me back some control. Here is a quick and fast version that I watch in the mornings to start my day.

6. Music
When I drove to oncology appointments, I played the Tragically Hip really really loud on the car stereo. Yeah, Gord Downie had cancer and there is something about his heartfelt pre-cancer lyrics that speak to me. Courage, my word, it didn’t come, it doesn’t matter Courage, it couldn’t come at a worse time. Find your own Gord Downie (or borrow him.  He’s great).

7. Water
I was lucky enough to go snorkeling after my treatment. Sometimes when I can’t fall asleep at night, I think of that feeling of floating with the fishes. To re-enact that feeling, I tried out a few sessions at the Float House.

8. Love of Good People
I struggle to feel myself worthy of love. (Long story). So I purposely lean into hugs from people who love me unconditionally and not to push them away. This means embracing love from my husband and children, taking phone calls from my open-hearted, non-advice-giving friends who make space for the listening and I try to fully accept kind words from others. (This means I had to also get rid of the love of bad people who hurt me, which wasn’t exactly comforting but it was a necessary evil).

9. Podcasts
I listen to podcasts on my walks. Mostly the Good Life Project and Everything Happens. There’s a podcast out there for you if you are like me and struggle with finishing an entire book.

10. Mindfulness
I like to watch this video. I also sometimes think: ‘stay in the moment, this is all you have,’ so I don’t zoom ahead with fret about the future.

11. Purposely Seeking Joy
Yeah, I’m one of those people who push away joy too. I have to purposely seek it out and pause to enjoy it (see #10). Joy mostly resides in the little moments, like my son’s laugh or the birds chirping in the tree, which are always there for me if I just pause to pay attention.

12. Writing
Obviously I wrote a lot in all my various states on this blog. I also took a poetry class. This was healing for me, especially if I found out that my words were helpful to other people. You don’t have to share or publish your writing for it to be useful to you.

13. Reading
I kept a list of books that helped me. The Emperor of all Maladies helped me understand the stupid cancer. Audre Lorde’s work about speaking up was very important to me. Like music, find writers who speak to you.

If I didn’t have the energy to read a whole book, I’d glom onto quotes from podcasts or Instagram or Twitter, like those from dearly missed @ninariggs, @cultperfectmoms and @adamslisa.

15. Art
I’m no visual artist, but my friend Lelainia kindly spent the day with me teaching me how to collage my photos from my radiation therapy days. This was extremely healing for me. In lieu of actually creating art, looking at art helps too, which is why bookstores, art galleries and museums are some of my ‘calm the f*ck down’ places to go.

16. Distraction
I was mostly too upset to be distracted. The geographical cure helps if you can swing it – even short road trip or a 20 minute ferry ride to Bowen Island was comforting. My friends kindly distracted me for taking me out for nice meals or meeting me for a drink too. Accept kind distractions.

17. Mindless Entertainment
Related to distraction is mindless entertainment. Here’s where I actually take a bubble bath and read an US magazine and enjoy it. (Note that bubble baths are buried in about 50 other things I do and bubble baths are not the only solution as the self-care movement wants you to think). Movies, Netflix (Ali Wong!) and plays work this way too. I can only watch comedies now, go figure. It is important for me to laugh.

18. Medication
Yeah, I’ll be honest here. If I’m really freaking out, I’ll take a prescribed Ativan. There’s nothing wrong with asking your physician for medicinal help. I also shamelessly like a glass (or two) of a full-bodied red wine. Marijuana has never done it for me, but I know of others who use it and bonus, it is legal now in Canada!

19. Being OK with Feeling Shitty
In the end, sometimes life is just shitty. My therapist said: maybe it is okay to feel sad or upset or angry. I used to shove those hard emotions away. Now I can say: this is okay. It will pass. I won’t always feel this way.

The wise Kimmy Schmidt said: “Do you think you can handle this for 10 more seconds? I learned a long time ago that a person can stand just about anything for 10 seconds, then you just start on a new 10 seconds. All you have to do is take it 10 seconds at a time.”

Get through the first ten seconds and then the second…sometimes putting your head down and getting through one step at a time is all you can do. Sometimes you have to lie down and take a rest. Mostly, cut yourself some slack.

To the women who have approached me who are in their own dark time, I want to say this: accumulate your own small comforts. You are deserving of finding peace in your hearts, to temper the suffering life offers us, even for a few moments.

Ps: I’ve written about the whole self-care/self-compassion thing here: Leaning Out and Beyond Bubble Baths.

Twenty Days Last May


I took one photo for every day of the twenty days I was in radiation treatment last May.  Here’s what happened when an artist friend generously taught me how to create a collage.  These are images from a time I’d rather forget.  But those twenty days are etched so deeply inside of me that my only way out is to weave that time into my very being.

This is why telling our stories – in whatever form – is so important.  By gathering our experience into a story, we make sense of random or traumatic events.  It is only then that we begin to heal.

a portrait of the patient experience

I strongly believe that patients should tell their own damn stories, in whatever way makes sense to them.  Do you want to support someone who is suffering as a loved one or health professional?  Listen to their story, no matter how difficult it may be for you.

While I’m a word person, I’m fascinated by those who use other forms of art to share stories.  The Portrait of the Patient Experience is a TEDMED talk about the intersection between health and art.  Ted Meyer is a visual artist from Los Angeles who has created visual art, first from his own scars and then from the scars of others.  He facilitates discussion between artists with chronic diseases as the Artist in Residence at the University of Southern California’s Keck School of Medicine.  He does what I call The Important Work.

Here’s a favourite quote from his talk:  People always say – art should be about something until art is about something and then they don’t really want to look at it.

On a personal note, I shared the podium with Ted two years ago at Collaborating Across Borders, an interprofessional conference for health academics.   While I spoke about this, Ted impressed with his humour and creativity.  I knew he’d go far and that he did.

He says about patients:  Pre and post scar narratives are held together by their scars to give their life a new meaning.

I strongly believe that we can inspire, motivate and educate by sharing our stories in whatever form that makes sense to us.  Importantly, telling our stories also helps us to heal.

Arthur Frank references Judith Zaruches in his formative book The Wounded Storyteller,  Stories have to repair the damage has done to the ill person’s sense of where she is in life, and where she may be going. Stories are a way of redrawing maps and finding new destinations.

There are many ways to tell your story: a private journal, the whispered word, poetry, visual art, music, dance – or any other artistic form.  Creativity is an expression of you.

For those supporting wounded storytellers, it might be difficult to look at these scars.  These scars remind us that we all have the capacity to be broken and vulnerable in some way.  It is a great gift to those of us who are suffering not to look away.


There are so many secrets in the land of being a sick person – secrets associated with being that sick person and secrets in the health care world we are immersed in.  Now I’m no Oprah and I know nothing for sure.  But I do have a strong sense that the telling of these secrets will help set us free.


The Affronts to My Human Body

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As I get older, I have become an accumulation of scars. A hernia repair when I was 8 years old left two faint, raised scars. Two attempts to remove an ovary resulted in a keloid in my belly button and other healed wounds from laparoscopic oophorectomies. (The term oophorectomy still makes me giggle). My partial mastectomy early this year left a one-inch scar that just peeks out of my bikini top. I have another scar and a lingering hematoma under my arm from lymph node removal.

I understand the medical need for these scars. They are evidence of removing things that were causing me trouble. But there have been other, unnecessary, affronts to my body.

In the process to be diagnosed with my bleeding disorder (von Willebrands, a common malady that is not hemophilia, but it is severe enough I wear a Medi-Alert bracelet because of it), a lab tech cut me three times with a razor-blade. She cut me. I couldn’t freakin’ believe it when it happened. I said: YOU ARE CUTTING ME WITH THAT? She said yes and then she cut me. They wanted to see how long it took me to clot without medication, with a bit of medication and with a lot of medication. (They administered the medication by stabbing me with a needle in my stomach, which was not pleasant, but at least it was temporary).

The three scars left from this bizarre diagnostic procedure are not temporary. They are on the underside of my forearms and they are permanent. It looks as if I might have had a cutting problem (I didn’t).   I am not pleased that nobody has thought of another way to test for von Willebrand’s without cutting people with razor blades on visible places on their body.  I think we can do better than that.

Along with scars, breast cancer gifted me with a blue nipple (that is thankfully fading) and two permanent radiation tattoos. When I was in for the appointment to prep for radiation, the Radiation Therapist took out this box thing with a needle and ink. And then she proceeded to poke me with it in two places – right in my cleavage and on the side of my ribcage. This was bizarre and these tattoos look like blackheads. I asked if she could at least make them into flowers but she didn’t think that was funny.  They put stickers on me, too, and drew on me each radiation treatment with a pen. That didn’t bother me so much, but it does disturb others. One woman on Twitter recently said the markings made her feel like a piece of meat. I can totally see that.

I asked a friend who is a Radiation Therapist – why the need for permanent marks for radiation that is over in four weeks? She told me that we get tattoos because other ‎marks or tape wash off and there isn’t a semi-permanent alternative.

This all seems weird to me and falls into the category of: what is a big deal for me isn’t a big deal for health care professionals.  What I don’t like is the permanent nature of something that the hospital only needs for a few weeks.  This seems to tread on my dignity.  It strikes me that there are many ‘side effects’ from procedures in the hospital that are shitty for patients, but convenient for clinicians so nobody does anything to change it.

My friend did add: there is quite a bit of research looking at alternatives like henna, UV lighting and “invisible” tattoos and external surface landmark light systems.  To this, I say: YES DO MORE RESEARCH. As a patient, this is important to me. I don’t want a stupid blackhead tattoo looking at me for the rest of my life. If patient like me were engaged to set priorities in cancer research, I’d ask to figure out a way to get rid of the damn permanent tattoos, pronto.

Little black dots might seem minor in the grand scheme of things, but I didn’t like losing even more control of my suffering body one little bit. I asked my nice oncologist if it was medically okay to get a tattoo on my breast to cover up their tattoo. He said very solemnly, ‘there are no counter-indications to getting a tattoo.’ He probably thought: this woman is clearly in the middle of a mid-life crisis and losing her marbles, but he was too polite to express any judgment.

So I travelled to Hawaii and got my very own tattoo to cover up the radiation tattoo on my breast. I went to a place in Maui called Hula Girl Tattoo. The young dudes working there have seen everything and they didn’t even blink at my request. I told them they were doing good work covering up a middle aged mom’s cancer tattoo.

Part of getting my tattoo was to say: Take that health care system! I am in charge of what permanent marks adorn my body!  I’m also going to send the cancer agency the bill for the tattoo and see what happens. It was $200 US. (KIDDING. I AM KIDDING).

More seriously, I have this pipe dream that one day patients will work together with health professionals to set research priorities to figure out how to minimize the many indignities that are inflicted on us in hospitals.  Then we will no longer have cuts on our arms or permanent radiation tattoos.

I love the way every personal tattoo has a story behind it. (I also have three birds on my shoulder that symbolizes my three kids growing up and spreading their wings).  My new radiation-cover up tattoo is a constellation of hearts with a sprinkling of stars. A purple star has replaced the ugly radiation tattoo. One of the hearts is for my husband Mike, who has been my unwavering rock these past few awful months. (I didn’t think a tattoo of a rock on my boob would be very attractive).   The other heart is for me, to remind me to love myself. I’d post a picture, but the tattoo is in my cleavage. I know my extended family already think I share too much on my blog so I won’t mortify them further by posting boob pictures.

It hurt to get the tattoo, especially the part near my sternum, but Mike was there to hold my hand, exactly as he’s done the past eight months. Tears leaked out of my eyes, not because of the pain, but because I felt grateful my treatment is done, my cancer was caught early and I’m alive to tell this tale. My new tattoo is a symbol of my own story having cancer. This is my story to tell, not cancer’s. Slowly, slowly, I’m taking my power back, one heart in my constellation at a time.


his tell-tale heart

tell-taleAt lunch yesterday, Aaron was busy trying to us something he recently learned in English class. He said: the guy had a bird eye! A vulture! His heart was beating out of his chest! He was buried underground!

It took some Googling to figure out what he was talking about. He was referring to Edgar Allen Poe’s short story The Tell-Tale Heart.

This is what happens when you include a kid with a disability in a high school English class. Did he ‘get it’? Yes, he got it more than I did – me with my fancy English university degree, me who doesn’t know much Poe at all.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. A few weeks ago, Aaron arrived home from school with his journal.   In it, he had printed: We learned Romeo and Juliet today. It is a superb story by William Shakespeare. Later, his teacher told me he took a comprehension test about the play. He understood everything: who loved who, who hated who, who died. This is a kid who loves drama in real life. Of course he’d be drawn to it in literature too. He is his mother’s son.

Beth Foraker wrote a lovely piece on her blog about her son (age 14, who also happens to have Down syndrome) and his love of Macbeth.

There is a lot for both educators and parents to think about with these anecdotes. What preconceived notions do we possess about what kids with differences can and cannot learn? I thought about all the myths I carried about Down syndrome when Aaron was first diagnosed: that he would be mindlessly happy all the time (WRONG), that he wouldn’t understand sarcasm (WRONG), that he wouldn’t be a consumer (WHO TOLD ME THAT? SO WRONG). Did I think he would understand Edgar Allen Poe or Shakespeare? I hang my head in shame – no, this version of reality had not crossed my mind.

This holiday season I am thankful for Aaron for having proved me wrong, over and over again. I am grateful for educators like his English teacher. You never know what this kid might learn – we all just have to give him a chance. As Beth points out, this means giving our kids access to curriculum at school and access to rich experiences in life. She so eloquently says: Because we can never guess or know what will touch their hearts and speak to their soul.

making your money count


Photography by Sheri-Lyn Seitz

One of the many old fashioned things I like to do is to mail handwritten thank you cards. I find joy in settling in to write on pretty handmade cards, carefully choosing my words, licking the envelope, applying a stamp and mailing a card. I think it reminds me of all the correspondence my grandma and I sent to each other over the years – back and forth in the mail, no email yet on the horizon.

This habit has extended to my place of work. I feel blessed that we now have families come to our health centre to share their stories, knowledge and wisdom with staff and students to improve the family experience.   Afterwards, I like to write a personalized note – not just saying a generic thank you – but cards express why I am saying thank you too.

I work for a hospital that cares for and serves children with disabilities. I am fortunate to know an awesome social worker there, who has the experience of going through rehabilitation herself. She is the person who introduced me to Pottery Works, which is a collective of artists who are overcoming challenges through artistic expression.

I’ve had a long week and I was out of thank you cards. I normally would have stopped at Chapters and grabbed a box of cards, but my friend’s recommendation was on my mind. Pottery Works has a retail store in New Westminster’s River Quay. This is far away. But I got in my car and sweated through the classic semi and garbage truck gridlock traffic on Columbia Street to the New West, half-cursing my decision along the way.

I paid for parking and walked along the Fraser River waterfront to the Pottery Works store, which is tucked in beside the River Quay administration offices on the second floor. It is a little corner display of colourful pottery and – jackpot! – hand-made cards. Artists who have disabilities create all the gallery’s work. These artists also take shifts working at the store.

I picked out a hearty tea mug with a bright purple flower. The young lady in the store showed me the cards – these ones have photographs, she pointed out shyly. I stood for a long time, choosing ten different cards. One with a photograph of flowers, another a power line with sneakers hanging off of it, another a picture of graffiti that said, ‘you are beautiful’. They are well-composed pictures, clearly taken by a photographer with a keen eye for lines and light.

I’ll take these, I said. A big smile broke across the face of the woman serving me. These are mine! she said. This is the best! she said. I smiled too, biting my lip so I wouldn’t start crying. I could feel the tears threatening beneath my eyes. They are great cards, I said, explaining that I work for a children’s hospital and that I would be sending out to families. It is super for families of younger children to know what is possible, I croaked out, trying hard not to succumb to the tears, thinking this would look weird or be upsetting. I flipped over the cards – the artist I was speaking to is named Sheri-Lyn Seitz. I work here too, she added, and I get paid. GOOD, I said – you SHOULD get paid. My tears were now rumbling furiously, almost at the surface.

Never had a simple retail transaction had so much emotional meaning for me. After Sheri-Lyn packaged up my purchase, I scurried off to the washroom and burst into happy tears in the stall.

I came to Pottery Works looking for greeting cards. I thought it would be cool to support artists who happen to have disabilities. I ended up buying cards because the photographs were lovely and the cards were well-crafted. I cried because this little extra effort of driving to this gallery ended up paying me back a thousand times.

Pottery Works reminds me what is possible for my son. All he – and others with disabilities, too – needs is someone to give him a chance. Pottery Works offers opportunity – and opportunity is everything. Here’s to spending our money somewhere that really counts.  It is worth the effort, folks.  Trust me on this one.

pay attention to where the suffering happens…

...for that is where the healing begins.

I felt very fortunate to attend Dr. Rita Charon’s lecture at the Vancouver Institute last night with two wonderful colleagues from my children’s hospital workplace.  Dr. Charon’s talk was entitled The Power of Narrative Medicine and it was a beautiful marriage of literature, art and medicine.

I hung onto every eloquent word she said.  It was as if Dr. Charon had heard me preach about active listening, storytelling and reflective practice over all these years, but then she took my simple thoughts and draped a complex intellectual layer over them.  Her lecture was very smart and I can’t stop thinking about what she said – I cannot recall being that mesmerized by a presentation before.

The premise of her lecture was this question:  how do we be totally present with another human being?  While I talk to medical students about simple things, like eye contact and not appearing rushed when they meet with patients, Dr. Charon goes even further by teaching health faculty students how to read and to listen to stories written in the literature so they understand how to pay attention and to recognize that every single word counts.  This human skill of careful attention can be applied to work with patients, who often crave one simple thing: to be heard and understood.

Once we understand how unified we are at the human lived experience, then our troubles (in health care) are over. 

She spoke about boundaries, and how the artificial borders we place between each other as ‘professionals’ and ‘patients’ are actually permeable.  She wondered what methods she could use so she did not have to be a stranger to her patients, and concluded that this can only happen when she was listening closely to patients with a mixture of curiosity and wonder.

Pay attention to where the suffering happens.  This is where the healing begins.

Dr. Charon spoke for just over an hour.  I could have listened to her forever.

I thought about my English degree and how I bring the ‘soft’ right-brained stuff into my scientific, technical work environment.  I’m often dismissed and misunderstood, but I keep my head down and continue on.  I don’t underestimate the influence of initiatives like new art on the walls, a book club, TED Talk showings and inspirational quotes that I tack onto the hospital bathroom walls. I’m interested in nudging my colleagues to think and feel in different ways.

The conversation on the way home with my two work friends (one a clinical librarian also with an English degree, and the other a leader with a graduate degree thesis in storytelling) was the most interesting.

We all wondered if the work of health care was meant to be purely embedded in math and sciences.  Isn’t caring for patients in itself an act of humanity, and not a function of  science?  

(Here’s a snippet of Dr. Rita Charon’s wisdom.  Take the time to watch it carefully.  She does not have a sound byte-like style of speaking – and that’s what was so refreshing about her talk last night.  You have to work to listen and understand her words – they will not be spoon fed to you.  It made me realize what a rare gift Dr. Rita Charon is in our rushed and frantic world).