The dawn of a new era

There is a lot of activity at the corner of Alta Vista, Industrial and Riverside and it doesn't have anything to do with traffic.
There is a new building going up ... and it will be a home-away-from-home for the thousands of cancer patients and their families in our community.
Each time I drive by the construction site I am reminded of the impact we are having in this community.  With the MAPLESOFT Centre we are going to be filling a gap for cancer patients - by offering them one place where they can go to get the support they need and deserve while they are facing the disease.  I am proud to tell you that we have already begun to pilot a number of programs that will be offered at the house once we open the doors in Fall 2011, and we'll continue to expand the list each month.  I encourage you to read about the FREE programs we are offereing, and register for them.  All the information can be found online at www.ottawacancer.ca/registration.aspx.
The MAPLESOFT Centre is a great source of pride for all of us at the Cancer Foundation - and in honour of that I wanted to share with you some pictures from the construction site. (photos:  Courtesy Valberg Imaging)

September 7, 2010
Mayor O'Brien signing the official paperwork for the MAPLESOFT Centre build

 MAPLESOFT Group President & CEO Jody Campeau, along with Cancer Foundation President & CEO Linda Eagen and Mayou O'Brien.

Construction photos taken September 13, 2010

Living

The longer I live, and it’s been seventy-seven years already, the stronger my personal conviction becomes that a human being’s basic nature does not change much. Nature and nurture play huge roles. Early childhood experience particularly shapes our perspective. Choices make all the difference.


We make choices constantly on any given day, without thinking about the fact that we are choosing. I just chose to cross my legs. It doesn’t matter why. I merely use it as one small example in a multiple-choice day. By God-given choice we pick a course, select direction, stick with or choose to veer from it. Sometimes our choices are extremely limited, seem almost non-existent, yet the truth is that deep down we do choose how to react, how to act, how to follow this newly-charted, unselected path. Character ploddingly grows through adversity, blissfully gambols through the rest.

My parents, an electrical engineer and a public health nurse, provided my genetic code. My early world was populated by caring/sharing siblings. What a fortunate child I was, and still am, and know it. Appreciation fills my days. Not everyone is half so lucky.

If gaps or holes exist in our basic structure, we are threatened. Of course we are scared. Of course we are ill prepared. May we know who we are in order to build on our strengths. A team of psychological and scientific experts are dedicated to assist us. We should all be truly thankful. Honest, unconditional appreciation, the kind that resonates within one’s soul, enables the healing process.

I do hope you have found some word this week that has worked for you.

Editors Note:  Nancy has added this entry to her blog - and wanted to share it with her readers.

As many of you know, my older brother Bruce died last week. The last meaningful visit he and I had via Skype was about this final blog. He was always my wise mentor, and more often than not over the years I ran my writings by him for approval. This blog was no exception. He did have one editorial correction to make. I referred to an electrical engineer and a public health nurse having provided my genetic code. He said: an electrical engineer and a public health nurse did not provide your genetic code. Your parents did. Thus you will read that my parents, an electrical engineer and a public health nurse, provided my genetic code. Otherwise, he approved the blog.


"Living" is dedicated to the memory of Bruce Henderson Buchanan M.D., D.Psych

The Look

I have not really played with fashion since I was a child playing dress-up. I have been one of those women shoppers who seek, find and leave. Since the loss of my hair, fashion has become a fun thing for me again. What look shall I achieve today? Will it be Johnny Depp, pirate of the Caribbean, with bandana and loop ear-rings, or will it be some entirely new look for me?

Sixty years ago, when I was a seventeen-year-old Toronto schoolgirl, I was selected to be the representative for Humberside Collegiate on Eaton’s Junior Council. At that time Eaton’s had in place a highly effective marketing tool in the form of this Junior Council. Every Saturday morning during the school year kids from each high school in the city, a boys’ group and a girls’ group, congregated in Eaton’s downtown business offices for meetings. We were paid ten dollars to attend each meeting, were provided personally-fitted, Council-crest-emblazoned navy blazers, which we wore with pride. Under the guidance of an expert communications facilitator we shared ideas on subjects introduced, provided feedback to Eaton’s from our particular perspectives. We also participated in the Santa Claus Parade, among other activities. I tell you all this because of one such participation.

We Junior Council members acted as models in a fashion show during afternoon tea in the seventh floor Round Room Restaurant of Eaton’s College Street store.

During an intermission in the runway presentation, a film of hats was displayed. Five of us girls at a time were filmed seated at a curved soda fountain, heads forward but down, each in a beautiful hat, sipping sodas from straws. As the camera panned the group, we were instructed to one at a time raise our head, smile at the camera, move our head slowly from one side to the other and back again before lowering our gaze to our soda once again, all the better for the viewer to see the particular hat each of us wore to its full advantage. Sound easy? Yes.

The first good belly laugh I ever remember having at myself was after we had viewed the film. The other girls were poised and gracious in their actions. Me? My face appeared from beneath the brim of the hat looking like the stage-frightened mouse that I was. A quick grimace came and went with remarkable rapidity before stony countenance turned left to right to left, grimaced once more and disappeared beneath the brim.

A twenty-three year old blogger on this cancer blogspot earlier wrote that she had learned not to compare herself or her situation to others. She expressed truth. I did not laugh aloud when with the other girls watching the film, but I certainly did after getting off the street car and walking on the Toronto sidewalk to my home. It was early evening by that time. I walked alone and laughed out loud. A couple going the opposite direction on the other side of the street looked at this strange girl as if she’d lost her mind. Of course, that made me laugh even harder.

My favourite look, would you believe, is bald. Bald is not my out-of-home look. It is my at-home look, but only when we have no visitors. My husband likes it, too, but mostly, I suspect, because it is most comfortable for me. I stroke my bald head and smile. He strokes my bald head and smiles too. The smile is not a laugh-at smile; it is an appreciative smile. The bald head states that I am in good care. That look is the outward symbol of the inner healing taking place. Why would it not make us smile? It is warm today, but when the cooler weather arrives I may very well prefer the Wee-Willie-Winkie look on a regular basis.

Yours truly,
Nancy

P.S. Web cam and I couldn’t resist a photo shoot … reminiscent of Eaton’s Round Room circa 1950 … although the face certainly has changed.

Insomnia

8:41 a.m. Shall I do this? Why not?

Last night I took a sleeping pill about nine o’clock. Insomnia has bothered me several nights in a row, so I decided to break down and take 5MG of Zopiclone as needed. While waiting for it to take effect I proceeded with some regular anti-insomnia activities: made and drank a hot chocolate accompanied by two arrowroot biscuits; played a few hands of solitaire; left my bed companion husband asleep in prep for his early morning golf game; checked his snoring self as my by now languid self slid under the covers beside him.

Did it work for my insomnia? NO! Those restless legs started their ritualistic dance. Pillow armed, I crashed into all the furniture that managed to rush out to meet me between our bedroom and the living room couch, where pillow and I flopped in sunken softness, momentarily lulled into hoping we’d found the spot to sleep. No such dream. Those rubbery legs propelled us (pillow and me) to the den couch. Flop time again. No such luck. Those five legs and three arms managed to cope with the distance between couch and floor before scattering off in all directions, forcing me to try to catch them in order to store them in splintered wooden boxes with no lids. There they danced and cavorted on their own while pillow and I fled to the living room ottoman. Pillow landed first. I hugged her like a friend, better to take stock of the strange happenings around me. OZ this was not.

Get a pencil, the wee voice said. Write it down, the wee voice ordered. Tell the nurse, my mind echoed. Keep a record. Deserting pillow, I turned on a light to better grope for pad and pencil. Kitchen counter, under the temperature and medication charts. Got it. Back to the dining room table. The clock says 3:30 a.m. How can that be?

That medication to make me sleep certainly didn’t work. Zena stumbled barefoot, pillow crashing from room to room in the dark, screaming primeval for six hours looking for a place to light, or hibernate -- the bear rather than the butterfly analogy being the better choice here. No couch worked. No chair worked. No piece of floor, carpeted or otherwise worked. A job with a pencil calmed the mind, focussed me, allowed me to deal with the situation. A final, awkward, heave-ho of the den pull-out couch, straining all physical reserve to the max, definitely worked. I crashed in the best meaning of the term.

What’s this? Wide open eyes? Golfing husband departed and the clock is saying: time to talk to the pharmacist. Zopiclone has now been erased from my list of medications.

Ciao,
Nancy

The Blob Blog

During the forty-eight hours subsequent to my first chemo therapy treatment I was a blob, a barely functioning, boneless mass of heavily medicated reactive tissue. Keeping track of thirteen medications, with much needed help from my ever concerned husband and the chemo home care nurses became my one and only priority. That and retaining fluid in my system took precedence. From some unknown source, energy within emerged to enable me to create a medication chart on the computer, though the exercise took several brief sessions interspersed with lengthy blob times. All required tools of the healing trade were then at the ready.

A couple of days later when a modicum of energy made itself manifest, I tried to read. Reading has always been a reliable resource for my particular state of well being. Reading did not work. The old head on top of the blob could not hack it. Feelings of oppression ensued.

Never give up. There is always a solution. In my case, with rain pattering in sympathy on the windows, I actually sat myself on the piano bench. Now I am no pianist, but seventy years ago my disciplined father insisted that his four children all learn to play the piano. That early learning led my fingers. A few notes raised my spirits. A few more raised my caring husband’s spirits as well. Just like riding a bicycle, I was able to draw simply on a relatively thoughtless primary skill in order to raise the mood of the day. Art therapy at its best.

Find your inner strengths. You have them. Allow your soul to sing that gray song. The colours of the rainbow just may peep through.

Cheers,
Nancy

Living With Cancer

My name is Nancy Freeman and I am living with cancer. I am a wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, former teacher and published children’s author. My perspective is not from a podium. Rather it is from a bench. I am the one in the middle of the bench, listening to what one of my very interesting cancer-survivor friends has to say.

My motto throughout this blogging experience will be: Sing what you know. Sing what is true. There isn’t much better this person can do.
I hope you may find a word that helps you on your own private journey.

The Cancer Survivors Park

The Survivor Park is in full bloom and is a joy to visit. This was the first opportunity for the Ottawa Regional Cancer Foundation to get into the real estate business and this was an important decision for us. Thanks to the tremendous leadership of Chuck Merovitz and a group of dedicated volunteers, bureaucratic mountains were moved and partnerships were shaped and a fateful decision by the Richard and Annette Bloch Foundation to support the endeavour meant that the Cancer Foundation took on a moving train and had to mobilize quickly to keep up. Here was an opportunity to plan and deliver something tangible that would alter the landscape of Ottawa – for the better in my humble opinion.


The Park is certainly big enough to find a spot for solitary reflection but there is magic in the opportunity to share stories and experiences with others who are or were in the same situation. This to me is the true power of the Survivors Park.

I have visited the Survivors Parks in Dallas and New Orleans and they too are part of the urban fabric. As one can appreciate, the New Orleans Park may have had its share of visitors who have had more than cancer on their minds and the facility itself has struggled along with the rest of the city. I visited it a year after Katrina and New Orleans was still reeling. My visit last year showed a city on the rebound – that Super Bowl win certainly helped with the spirits of the city. The site in Dallas is in the very heart of downtown and the impressive sculptures and impeccable landscaping truly stand out.

One of the challenges that we now face is to make the best use of the energy and power of the Survivors Park. Do you have any ideas?