If you’ve never experienced baby magic, or scoffed at the idea, I’m here to tell you the effect is real. I felt the magic in December, about six weeks after my surgery, and will never forget how it relieved my pain.

Recovering from major surgery is not a fun endeavor and it takes a long time. Aside from staying well-hydrated and rested, my most important task was to avoid pain. My surgeon said, you can’t have pain because it will interfere with your sleep; and if you don’t sleep you won’t heal. Sleep is when the healing happens. 

So I created a regimen of taking extra-strength Tylenol four times a day and stuck to it. I was told not to wait until the pain flares up, but to anticipate the pain and head it off at the pass. 

And pain, well, I had in quantities. It was this referred shoulder pain that first alerted me that something was wrong. I’m talking sharp, shooting pain on the top of both my shoulders that made it difficult to use my arms. That pain was bizarre, but after my abdominal pain started, I knew they were connected somehow. In fact, my first Emergency Room visit was over this referred pain. It was horrible.

Then there was the abdominal pain I felt as my newly stitched-together colon was learning how to do its business. Eating small amounts of soft foods was still a challenge for my poor system and I could feel my intestines trying like champs to pass my meals. 

I also had pain in my upper thighs and my back. There were times, in addition to taking Tylenol, I used a hot pad to soften my screaming muscles.

Pain had become my silent, but annoying friend.

By the time the baby arrived, I had started chemo and had been drugged for a week. Immediately following the removal of the infusion bottle, five days before Christmas, my intestines went crazy. My bowls acted like a washing machine on the spin cycle. Back and forth the waste flushed around as if there were no tubes enclosing them. At one point I imagine the excrement flowing freely among my organs, like waves washing in and out. This symptom laid me out for two days.

Later that week, I vomited after dinner and thought, boy did I overeat. I was miserable for two days prior to Christmas. And Christmas Eve was when our daughter, her husband, and baby were due to arrive! The house needed to be put in order and cleaned. And the suspicious rug needed to be 86’d. If it was emitting toxic dust then I didn’t want my grandson breathing around it.

We weren’t even sure the little family would make it from DC because a huge snowstorm was due to hit over the holiday was just getting started on the east coast. They did get out of DC, but they had to hustle to make their connection in Toronto, and wonder of wonders, the flight left in reasonable time. Miraculously, at 11:30 on Christmas Eve, they walked in while I was still prone on the couch, watching White Christmas.

And there was the baby. 1 year-old Ryan Soren shone like a golden light in our apartment, his blond hair standing on end like a mini Boris Johnston, who didn’t enjoy the journey but liked the destination. He walked around with Frankenstein arms, waving the tv remote control, reaching for ornaments on the Christmas tree, radiant in his enthusiasm and desperation to touch the kitties. I was totally delighted. 

I don’t remember if I took pain killers before bed that night but I want to say no. I was trying to wean myself, but the previous night’s barfing might have been a prompt.

Next day, on Christmas, little Soren looked super cute in his Christmas-themed pyjamas as he opened presents of yet more cute baby clothes. He was like a Christmas present on his own, why didn’t he just open himself? Still, the kitties wanted no part of him, no matter how much love and desire he threw at them. And I couldn’t get enough.

I spent the whole day feeling grateful to have this whirling dervish in my life. And, that my daughter is so happy with her baby, and with her husband. And, that they flew all the across the continent to see me, the post-surgical cancer patient, during the biggest Christmas snowstorm of this century. I felt so lucky to have these people with me on the schmatziest holiday on the calendar.

I hate the word, “blessed” but now I feel cornered to use it. I felt blessed.

That night, after everyone returned to their AirBnb, I got into bed and laid there for a while, thinking, what a beautiful day it was. So easy, so relaxed. The baby went down early and slept long while we dined, allowing us the ability to hang out and talk like adults. That’s how good he is. A totally chill baby.

And as I lay there revisiting my beautiful Christmas Day, I stared at my bare legs and had a sudden realization: I had no pain in my body. Where was the new pain in my thighs, the varied pain I still feel in my abdomen, the back pain, and most astounding of all, that burning pain in my shoulders. It was gone, kaput, AWOL! I felt no physical discomfort at all. And, I couldn’t remember when it went away.

This was bizarre. In 48 hours I went from being sick to my stomach to enjoying total physical comfort. Did the munchkin sprinkle healing fairy dust to make me well? Did the Christmas spirit fill me up so much it pushed out the pain? Christmas miracle or just a coinkydink? Who knows, but that’s what happened. 

My abdominal pain still comes and goes, but the other pains have not been felt since Christmas. 

I’m just going to chalk it up to baby magic.

I can’t believe I have stage four cancer.

I just can’t believe I have stage four cancer.

I really cannot believe I have stage four cancer.

This is a thought that pops into my head on occasion, just when I’m doing something perfectly normal like getting dressed, tying my shoes, making coffee. The thought enters my mind and makes me stop short. It makes me shake my head and feel like I have been transported into another person’s body, someone who would get cancer, not me. I think, Oh yeah, I’m fucked. I let my body become irreparably diseased and now I have to pay the price. My body will never be the same. I will never be cured. The most I can hope for is maintenance. Keeping the cancer tamped down with chemotherapy so I can live more years. It’s my only choice.

The reality that I’m in a world of hurt doesn’t obsess me. I try to compartmentalize it as much as possible.

Every two weeks, I dutifully march down three blocks to the BC Cancer Agency to get my dose of Oxliplatin, 5-Fluorouracil, Folinic Acid, and Bevacizumab. The nurses there are lovely and concerned, especially when I start barfing, which I’ve done in three out of the seven treatments I’ve had. I’m convinced the nausea comes because I haven’t taken the fourth anti-nausea pill early enough. When I barf the nurses scurry around, accessing Gravetol IV’s, taking my vitals, calling in a doctor to check me out. I can tell they feel they’ve let me down somehow. I feel like I’ve let them down by succumbing to nausea.

They finish the session by hooking me up to an infuser bottle full of Bevacizumab, and they tape all kinds of tubes and connectors to my chest, next to my port-a-cath, or port. The port is a small cylindrical device implanted under my skin with a catheter connected to a jugular vein next to my heart. It works like an IV, but gets the drugs into my system more quickly. And the nurses don’t have to stick my arm every time. They just puncture the skin over the port and go to it. After the main event is over the port is connected to the infuser bottle, which delivers more of the same drugs for the next 48 hours. Then, I return to BCAA to have it removed, which takes about 10 minutes. 

I then spend the following two weeks absorbing these poisons into my system. This absorbsion comes with a host of symptoms starting with what I call tingle fingers, better known as peripheral neuropathy. My fingers go numb and tingly with the first whiff of cold. Sometimes they act paralyzed and I can’t even button my jeans after peeing. I used a hot pad to pull things from the freezer or to pour from a cold bottle. Then there’s a day of fatigue. My poops stay solid for a few day and then diarrhea sets in. Along the way my system gets unsettled and digestion becomes a concern. There have been times I swear my intestines are like a washing machine on spin cycle. Roiling, churning, flushing and cramping become the norm, making this the part I hate most. I don’t get queasy, per se; I just get a shitty feeling that makes me want to lie down and not get up. 

The second week, prior to the next treatment, is usually much better, and my poops get more solid. When I have good, well-formed poops, Billy is the first to know. For a while he wanted to check them out. And just when I’m feeling somewhat normal, the cycle starts again. Chemo, bottle, feel like shit, feel better, and…repeat.

I ask myself, how long can I do this? How long will I have to endure chemo in order to live longer? And, will chemo ever really end for me?

I can’t believe I have stage four cancer.

One thing chemo really puts a damper on is travel. I can only be away for nine or ten days at a time. So I worry how will I ever be able to spend summers at our farm? How can I go to Europe between treatments? And what about living in Forestville? I don’t have a medical plan in the states. If we were to spend any length of time in DC, will I be able to travel to Ontario to get treated. This is a plan I have to ask my new oncologist, the one taking over for my old oncologist who is now on maternity leave.

Before my diagnosis, Bill and I were planning to be traveling between Oliver BC and Forestville, and to the farm and DC. Occasionally, overseas. But all that is impossible now. We are selling the house in Oliver. Living for any length of time in Forestville is like a dream to me now. The farm and DC are possible only if I get a intra-province clinical allowance, because they are so far away I would not want to limit my stays to ten days. 

So, basically I’m fucked. 

I can’t plan much of anything. My future holds no assurances. I can’t believe I have stage four cancer.

What are the upsides to having cancer? All the love you get from friends and family. Everything you might have done to piss someone off is forgiven. People look at you with knowing expressions and ask how you’re feeling. I have cancer, pity me.

On the downside, nothing else about me is interesting. No one cares to hear about my writing or my web design business. They just want to speak of chemo symptoms and the cannabis oils that are helping me. I’m no long Mari Kane, the moderately talented writer and web designer. Now I’m Mari Kane the colon cancer patient. It’s so depressing.

But this is my life now. 

I can’t believe I have stage four cancer.

When a mouse ran across the floor of our new Vancouver apartment we said, we have got to get ourselves a cat. 

I went to the local SPCA and found a female tabby with beautiful tiger stripes and big wide eyes who, unlike the other meowing cats, seemed indifferent to being adopted. I thought that was the perfect attitude for a cat so I chose her.

The minute the cat climbed out of the cardboard carrier, she began to explore her new home. She walked straight to the bathroom and inspected the bathtub as if to say, You have one of these?

We quickly learned about all the things their new kitty liked. Direct sun, fresh flowers, plastic bags, and the sound of Bill’s saxophone when he played. We decided to name her after our favorite jazz singer, Ella Fitzgerald. 

As Ella settled into her new life, she found some favorite places to lay and sleep. She laid on the window sills, on chairs near the windows, on the bed, in an old basket, but her most favorite place was the back of the couch. 

When it was cold she enjoyed laying on the kitchen table next to the radiator, or on the Chinese chest by the big radiator. While Mari or Bill worked at their desk, she would snuggle on or around their computers. She was one heat-seeking kitty.

Ella was such a good sleeper, she often snored. When friends were over, they often heard her gentle snore as she lay on the back of the couch. During the night, she sometimes snored as loud as Bill, confusing Mari about which of them to nudge.

Ella really liked to lick things, especially faces. It you put your nose against hers, she would lick it. Every morning when Bill’s alarm went off, Ella climbed on his chest and licked his face. Sometimes he counted hundreds of licks. 

She also liked to drink out of people cups

After a few years, we bought a property in the Okanagan Valley, a four and a half hour drive from Vancouver. We began to take Ella with them in the car and found that she was an excellent traveler. She enjoyed stopping at the Hope Chevron, Princeton’s Cowboy Coffed and at the No Frills in Oliver. Once we arrived, she loved to explore the house, the cottage, and the yard and especially the swimming pool. She thought the pool was one big water bowl and liked to drink from it!

One day, we brought home a new male cat and the minute he meowed, Ella sat up and stared. Who. Is. That? The new cat, who we named Dizzy Gillespie, was younger and bigger than Ella and he was jealous of Ella’s dominance of the apartment. 

Dizzy wanted to dominate and so he was very mean to Ella. He picked fights with her and attacked her after she visited the litter box. After two years, we gave Dizzy to another couple, and Ella learned to relax again.

Ella was not only pretty but also very good at posing for pictures. Every Christmas and Hannukah Mari took pictures of her to use for holiday greetings. She made a very good model.

Ella always had fragile health, and around the age of 14, she got very sick. The vet said she was dying. We were deeply saddened, and made sure Ella enjoyed her last days. We let her do things she never could before. Like laying on the kitchen counter, sitting in the kitchen sink, drinking milk and eating off our plates. 

We fed her as much and as many different foods as she wanted. And when the time approached to put her to sleep, we gave her a thing she’d always craved: chocolate. She eagerly licked chocolate frosting off our fingers and noses, and her wide eyes showed what a revelation it was for her. Ella loved chocolate.