the sweetest season
The Self-Made Woman is ready to eschew the lassitude and guilt of staying abed til all hours of the morning- or occasionally, shamefully, the afternoon. No reason to get up early? Cause a reason. For instance, make a coffee date with a friend for 10am.
That's what I thought I did, arriving briskly on time at a friend's local espresso joint on Broadview. As the minutes ticked by, and the yoga mommies and retired guys came and went, I checked our chat conversation again and noted that I'd requested 10:30, not 10, which made him not late but me very early.
My muse (whose online name I cannot remember, so we'll go for now with his own nickname: HB) arrived in due course and we had a pleasant chat, continuing on down to a favourite diner which has mysteriously lost its liquor license. I really enjoy our conversations- we know each other from two different spheres of life so have several different nodes of contact, and also he is political pundit of sufficient notoriety (all good, I must note) that he is sometimes recognised in the street, or in this case the cafe, by people with Opinions To Share on city governance. And in other news, I collected four separate "I love your hair!" compliments from strangers. (In case I haven't written about it, my now-naturally curly hair is deep blue with violet and turquoise highlights.)
Two years and one week ago, I found out I had cancer. (My hair was its very usual straight self, cut to the shoulders, dark red with dark pink highlights.)
A year ago today, I walked out of my final treatment- the last of 25 radiation appointments. (My hair was a very short cap of dark steely grey, just beginning to be curly.) I shot a pic of myself smiling on College street with a thumb up, and texted it to Rob. Then I walked down University Avenue to have a celebratory lunch at Osgoode Hall with Fitz, who I believe may have worn a suit for the occasion, because he knows how exotic and attractive I find men in suits.
So today I begin my second year in remission. One down and four to go, and then the doctors will consider me to be cured of cancer, and the oncologists will bid me adieu. It's already penciled in my calendar.
It was especially good to be reminded today that HB has been seeing me for coffee since all this began, and a year and a half ago, or even a year ago, I could barely manage a half-kilometre walk to my local cafe. And when we talked, my concentration would flag- eventually he'd be asked to change the weighty topic because my foggy brain could not keep up. He remembers that well- and I kind of remember it- so it's a nice measure of both my healing progress, and also our long acquaintance.
Yesterday was a good appointment with a doctor, followed by a nice cappuccino taken solo at my favourite Brazilian bakery. Then a meeting at Gilda's- which began with me tired, obstinately hungry,and accordingly peeved, but which ended as is usual with a sense of shared support. Not that any of us like the battle analogy, but it really is like hanging out with war buddies: only someone who's been there can truly relate.
Instead of taking the bus between these appointments, I walked along residential streets, stopping now and then to literally smell the flowers. It's such a gorgeous season right now: still late spring, so the trees are all covered in blossoms and lilacs are in bloom. The air is sweet-smelling. Grass is growing thick and green, old men in straw fedoras watering their lawns with garden hoses. But the temperature lately has been full summer, mid to high 20s, so in all the freshness of spring time flowers, people are very happily walking and biking in shorts and sandals and fresh little sun dresses. I love this.
For the first time since moving out, I feel up to acquiring a little container garden of my own. Herbs, flowers, and appropriate pots now line the windowsills in the solarium. My little aloe cutting has grown into a majestic beast that badly needed to be repotted, and now it looks splendid in a big ceramic tub.
Everything is blooming outwardly. The self-made woman is working on coaxing an inward blossoming, as healing progresses.
That's what I thought I did, arriving briskly on time at a friend's local espresso joint on Broadview. As the minutes ticked by, and the yoga mommies and retired guys came and went, I checked our chat conversation again and noted that I'd requested 10:30, not 10, which made him not late but me very early.
My muse (whose online name I cannot remember, so we'll go for now with his own nickname: HB) arrived in due course and we had a pleasant chat, continuing on down to a favourite diner which has mysteriously lost its liquor license. I really enjoy our conversations- we know each other from two different spheres of life so have several different nodes of contact, and also he is political pundit of sufficient notoriety (all good, I must note) that he is sometimes recognised in the street, or in this case the cafe, by people with Opinions To Share on city governance. And in other news, I collected four separate "I love your hair!" compliments from strangers. (In case I haven't written about it, my now-naturally curly hair is deep blue with violet and turquoise highlights.)
Two years and one week ago, I found out I had cancer. (My hair was its very usual straight self, cut to the shoulders, dark red with dark pink highlights.)
A year ago today, I walked out of my final treatment- the last of 25 radiation appointments. (My hair was a very short cap of dark steely grey, just beginning to be curly.) I shot a pic of myself smiling on College street with a thumb up, and texted it to Rob. Then I walked down University Avenue to have a celebratory lunch at Osgoode Hall with Fitz, who I believe may have worn a suit for the occasion, because he knows how exotic and attractive I find men in suits.
So today I begin my second year in remission. One down and four to go, and then the doctors will consider me to be cured of cancer, and the oncologists will bid me adieu. It's already penciled in my calendar.
It was especially good to be reminded today that HB has been seeing me for coffee since all this began, and a year and a half ago, or even a year ago, I could barely manage a half-kilometre walk to my local cafe. And when we talked, my concentration would flag- eventually he'd be asked to change the weighty topic because my foggy brain could not keep up. He remembers that well- and I kind of remember it- so it's a nice measure of both my healing progress, and also our long acquaintance.
Yesterday was a good appointment with a doctor, followed by a nice cappuccino taken solo at my favourite Brazilian bakery. Then a meeting at Gilda's- which began with me tired, obstinately hungry,and accordingly peeved, but which ended as is usual with a sense of shared support. Not that any of us like the battle analogy, but it really is like hanging out with war buddies: only someone who's been there can truly relate.
Instead of taking the bus between these appointments, I walked along residential streets, stopping now and then to literally smell the flowers. It's such a gorgeous season right now: still late spring, so the trees are all covered in blossoms and lilacs are in bloom. The air is sweet-smelling. Grass is growing thick and green, old men in straw fedoras watering their lawns with garden hoses. But the temperature lately has been full summer, mid to high 20s, so in all the freshness of spring time flowers, people are very happily walking and biking in shorts and sandals and fresh little sun dresses. I love this.
For the first time since moving out, I feel up to acquiring a little container garden of my own. Herbs, flowers, and appropriate pots now line the windowsills in the solarium. My little aloe cutting has grown into a majestic beast that badly needed to be repotted, and now it looks splendid in a big ceramic tub.
Everything is blooming outwardly. The self-made woman is working on coaxing an inward blossoming, as healing progresses.