The cancer diaries: I've earned this ear

This is my ear.
Have a gander at it.
It won't look like this for long.
A surgeon is going to take a hunk out of it to get rid of an aggressive cancerous lump that's been growing there for years. I didn't notice it because I didn't know what basel carcinoma was. I just thought I had dermatitis. That's what the doctor said I had, too.
Bad, bad doctor.
Give me your medical licence. Hand it over, right now.

I don't have dermatitis, or a bed sore. I have full blown cancerama.
The good news is that there's an innovative technique being used here in Ottawa, called the Mohs Technique, which involves shaving and cutting off the cancer while a pathologist sits by and monitors the procedure. When the pathologist rules the cancer is gone, the surgeon stops.
Holy shit! That is so cool.
I'm still going to be missing part of my ear, which is not at all cool, but I'm okay with that. I could simply adopt a new hair style, join the Red Hats, or find some sort of upper ear bling that would cover it. Not me. Knowing me, I'll show the cashier at Loblaws, and anybody else who wants to see it. And a lot who don't want to see it.
The other upside is that it will be easy to identify my body should I fall out of the boat at the cottage or be found stabbed in the parking lot without my purse.
"Oh that's just Rose," the CSI will say. "According to the relatives who reported her missing, she only had one ear."
Sorry, I work with pathologists.

When it comes to my skin cancer, I'm a glass is half full dame. It's not going to kill me. It's in a place that I personally can't see, so I don't really care. And I never go out in the sun anymore, anyway.
As my dermatologist says, if you're going to get cancer, this is the best one to get.
Really.

I'm turning 60 in a few months, and I'm entering the Third Act. That's the time in life when the chickens come home and shit all over your head.
We've all done stupid things in our lives, and if we live to see the Third Act, we're sure as hell gonna pay for it. Cancer. Heart disease. Wrinkles. Muffin tops. Dripping pricks. Pee Pants.
I don't know many people -- including doctors, and I know a lot of those -- who live perfect lives. Even those who profess to follow doctor's orders have dirty little secrets.
They might not drink, but they sure as hell eat a lot of cake and drink a lot of Coca Cola, which is the Spanish word for drain cleaner.
They might play sports instead of sitting in bars, but they have artificial knees and hips.
And SKIN CANCER.
I accept all of this, and hope against hope I don't get anything else.
Which I probably will.
Because I'm a sinner.
I've done it all, and had a ball, and I wouldn't change one minute of it. I wouldn't have traded that golf game or tennis match and wouldn't have given up drinking on the 19th hole.
When I die, the headstone's gonna read:

She had a high lifetime average.
Of Everything.

Red wine, sports, sex, video games, dirty jokes and laughter.
I have no guilt, and lots of good memories.

So bring it.
I've earned this ear.

What Bell isn't telling you about Fibe TV

Update: This week, we switched back to Rogers after spending far too long using Bell's crappy television service. For those with Bell, read and weep. For those considering Bell, think twice even if you hate Rogers. RS I've always been an early technology adapter. I had a Betamax. That tells you everything (if you're over 50 at least). My first computer was a "Portable". It weighed 40 pounds and I had to lug it around town on a gurney. I've been through probably 15 computers in my lifetime. Apple is the best. It's also too expensive so I have a piece of shit HP, the one I'm writing this blog on. I've had cable, internet and now Netflix. American Netflix . That's how far ahead of the curve I am. I get all the newspapers for free. How? I disabled my cookies so they can't track me when I'm on the newspaper sites. Even the New York Times hasn't cottoned on to that trick. Hahaha. That will be a fifty buck consulting fee. Bein...

Ashley Simpson: Please sign this petition to help her family

Those who read this space regularly know that my family is frantic with worry about my cousin, Ashley Simpson , who has been missing 40 days now. Both her boyfriend and her landlord reported that she had left with no money, no car, no resources from her Salmon Arm, B.C. home after a domestic dispute over money. Since then, there has been no trace of her. The RCMP now considers this a homicide investigation, but the family has not heard any updates from them in more than three weeks. Just after she disappeared, her father, relatives and friends set out from St. Catharines on a long trek to B.C. to find her. They all left their work, and their lives, intent on finding Ashley who had always kept in touch. It was completely out of character for her to lose touch. Her parents have been consumed by worry. They have been unable to work, and are having a hard time functioning. As a result, they are now relying on donations from family and friends to keep the wolf from the door...

The strange case of Greg Etue

I got out of the daily news reporting game, I'll admit, because I didn't have the stomach to cover the many sad stories that came across my desk. I remember clearly once when I had to call an RCMP sergeant after his young son blew his head off with the officer's service revolver. "Please," he pleaded. "I really can't talk right now." "It was your gun, is that correct?" He slammed down the receiver. I was ashamed of myself. People have a right to some privacy in difficult times like that. I also used to hate having to go to the door of a dead child's home and jostle the competition for a picture. Really, it felt more like ghoulism than journalism. That said, I still believe that these stories must be told in an honest and forthright fashion with all the facts and none of the flourish and emotion that is all the rage in reporting these days. Over the past two years, we, in this community, have been treated to a lot o...

Rose's Cantina

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