Honest To Blog...*

I suppose that there’s a certain amount of symmetry in writing my first entry on the 23^rd of October. In addition to being the day that the Smurf’s first appeared in print (1958) and the first time that the UN General Assembly convened (1946), it is also my mother’s birthday. So many things we shared together; some out of necessity as all mothers and daughters do, but others out of a desire to truly participate in one another’s lives. This was a pattern that had ebbs and flows, as all relationships invariably involve, as we grew both together and apart, particularly during our dual ascension into the abyss: my tumultuous teen years versus her murderous menopause. But, I am gratified to say that when my mother did pass away, it was during a really great time in our relationship. The months leading up to her death were fraught with devastating news and incomprehensible realities, with timelines, medications and terrifying schedules. But, they were also a time for connections and laughter, for openness and clarity and for the certitude that we were (perhaps finally) starting to truly know one another.

And, unbeknownst to us at the time, there was also a deeper connection and an unforeseen symmetry to my mom’s illness and death; her cancer diagnosis proved to be the catalyst for my own health struggles with Ulcerative Colitis and Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. But, unlike my mom, I can say almost three unbearable years later: I am still here. I am still fighting.** And both of these truths will still be true tomorrow.

I hope for this blog to be a place where my story can be a told. And by telling my story, I hope to be able to provide a forum for other’s who struggle with these diseases to share their experiences. Despite the serious nature of this first entry, I should warn you that my sense of humour has been warped by both circumstance and the company I keep** and will inevitably weave throughout my tale. I should probably apologize in advance, but I’m not really sorry because I really believe that sometimes the ability to hold onto laughter, even if inopportune and inappropriate, probably saved my life. To paraphrase something I read in a book once, “maybe if you’re given a handicap, you’re also given a few extra doses of humor to take the edge off.” Sometimes I feel like having a well-developed sense of humour is a pitiable weapon when compared to the medical and emotional battles being waged, but eventually I remind myself: I am still here. I am still fighting. I will continue to fight. And, if all else fails, I find that oxy contin helps level the playing field.

   

* That is a reference to the movie Juno. I will apologize in advance for this: I am a pop-culture junkie. I consider myself OCD, but I think that’s just a convenient way of labeling my behaviour when I become lost in the artistic accomplishments of others. Speaking from the perspective of someone who actually repels any type of creative expression, I really do find something extraordinary in artistic endeavour: music, film, television, novels… you name it, I’m a sucker for it. (And probably have an appropriate quote or lyric recitation to share with you in any given situation.)

** The fact that I am still here, and still fighting is undoubtedly a tribute to my colossally “too-good-for-me” friends and family. They know it, I know it. They sometimes like to rub it in. Again, assholes. Be that as it may, without them…[use of ellipsis is both for effect and because I do not have the vocabulary to properly articulate what my life would be like, (if it would even exist) without their continued support and encouragement (and, yes kids, calling me a dickhead and planning my future profile on “Intervention” continues to count as support in my book ]. So, thanks Team Crapbag. You rock my face off.