How Do You Feel?

Dedicated to all those who wrote to me and to Nick in the past couple of weeks and all those who rallied 'round to help Nick move into our temporary flat, to those who didn't yet get the news and those who happened to pause at this blog out of idle curiosity.

A couple of weeks ago, when I got what I thought was the usual bladder infection, I took the usual bladder infection medicine that I keep on hand. When it didn't do its usual job, I went to the doctor. Hmm, she thought it might be stones or, even, cysts and sent me for a sonogram. That doctor thought it might be cysts or something worse and sent me for an MRI, a CAT scan and blood tests, including marker indicators. The MRI guy thought I might have an infection, which is one of the things the markers can indicate and my GP was willing to go along with that. The CAT scan guy mumbled some of the same stuff, but when I asked flat out, “Do you think it's cancer,” he answered, “Yes,” and marched me over to the other side of the clinic to meet with the surgeon. The surgeon sent me home to pack and return the same afternoon to the hospital for surgery. That was last Monday.

I've lived the last 25 years in fear and terror of breast cancer. My mother died after her cancer had spread to every part of her body. My maternal grandmother had done likewise 25 years before that. And my aunt, my mother's sister, was a breast cancer survivor. Was. I don't know if she still is. She stopped talking to the family many years ago, but that's another story. I have a mammogram every year. Which is still clear, by the way.

Two years ago, when the endocrinologist found the tumours on my thyroid, my reaction (out loud, to Nick) was a terrified, “But I'm supposed to die of breast cancer, not thyroid cancer”! Anyway, the thyroid tumours appear to be benign, if lack of growth is an indication.

Back to the present, I went into the hospital on Monday and was operated on on Wednesday. Thursday morning, waiting for the good or bad news, I got the bad news. I'm not wholly clear on this, but I think the tumours have spread around my abdomen and /or are too big, so the surgeon just closed me up, again. He wants me to have a few months of chemotherapy to reduce the size or the tumours and then he will operate. He's making the appointment with the oncologist (23 August) and then perhaps all be clearer.

Since I don't know exactly what is wrong, I have no prognosis. So far, they've been easing me into the knowledge, sort of a day at a time. Also things could be worse than they're telling me. So I should be panicked, right?

Wrong. I feel like the usual me.

Maybe it's shock. Or maybe the antidepressants I've been on for the last few years (paroxetine) are even better than I think they are . Or, maybe it's the report I read last week about France having the best cancer treatment in the world (along with the United States, but here it's so much more universal). Or gratitude for not being in the U.K. (rated somewhere with the rest of the third world). Or it could be that age has made me into a philosopher. Or. . . damned if I know.

I realise I could die. And it seems better to face that possibility, since we're on the verge of buying land for a house that we intend(ed) to build ourselves. Even if I come out of this alive, I'm obviously not going to be in any shape for housebuilding for a few months, so it had to be discussed. Like, can Nick build the house while I keep him company or should we buy one? If I die, will Nick be better off in the village where he knows people or in Nyons where there are more distractions available? So we discuss it.

But I don't feel bad or sad or scared. I feel like. . . normal. Just get on with it and see what happens. I'm going to die – or not. It will be soon – or not. I don't know a whole helluva lot more than I knew a couple of weeks ago about my mortality, so I don't feel a lot different.

Some of my decisions, of course, have to take an imminent death into consideration; things like, uh, maybe I won't get a new puppy for awhile. On the other hand, the clinic where I currently reside is about 150 meters from a small shopping centre and, since they want me to get out and walk, yesterday I walked to the hypermarket and bought a pretty set of towels (slate blue and mocha; I'm planning on brown for the new bathroom) and new sheets for our new queen-sized bed (which we haven't bought yet). And a T-shirt, 7 pairs of knickers (a sale), and a kitchen timer.

There you have it. The new me and the old me, one and the same.

This status report should get rid of some awkward questions, like: what do you say? Answer: the normal things. You can ask questions, too, about my treatment or how I'm feeling physically or whatever you're curious about, just as you would about my thyroid treatment or myriad knee injuries. I don't mind. Shame about the puppy, though.

P.S. Our phone is being transferred to the apartment and we won't have the internet for 10 days. The next time you hear from me will be from the hotel/restaurant/bar up the road where they've just installed wifi.

The Squeeky Wheel

It's amazing what threatening to take your notaire business elsewhere can accomplish. And just in time, too. All of professional France is now on vacation until the end of August.

Yayyyyyy! We're signing the papers for the land on September 1.

Where Are They Now?

Not making a lot of progress, actually.. Mostly running around to get official records changed and finding "experts" to do this and attest to that. That's for the sale. The land purchase is moving at the speed of lawyers. But, to keep you up to date. . .

We can't find workshop space, so in return for a making a door/window for the new owners, leading directly to the garden (I wanted to do that!), Nick will keep the workshop where it is until we get the new one built.

We'll probably be moving on the 19th of August. That's the day France Telecom is going to change over our phone. But not the internet. The internet will take up to an additional two weeks. No one can explain this to me. I'm not sure if going cold turkey is going to kill me or provide a vacation. Arghghghgh!

The new owners must be out of their house on the 21st of August, so they arrive here a few days before we sign the final papers on the 26th. To keep the notaire happy, should she or her clerk discover (we're not telling) that we're letting them move in early, we're charging them for "B&B." Ten euro for the four of them for the week. For that price, I told them, they have to make their own beds. And their own breakfast. They didn't get the joke, but we finally straightened things out.

We have another lead on straw. A local farmer grows épautre, a sub-species of spelt cultivated in parts of Provence. It has mostly died out elsewhere as wheat gives a much bigger harvest and is less labour intensive. You cook it like brown rice (or even real white rice) and it has the same uses, but has a firmer, almost crunchy texture. Delish. Anyway, Laurence has the straw baled after harvest. The bales are not quite as tight as some others -- her neighbour, who does the baling, has an old machine -- but we think it's good enough, and we would rather buy from her than go commercial. We're waiting to see if the harvest will render 1,000 bales.

The July 14th vide grenier ("empty attic") went very well. We arrived with two and a half van-loads of stuff and came home with only one. The next vide grenier is part of the the fête votive (the village fair) on the 18th of August and we will try and unload the rest of it there. What remains will be donated to a half-way house about 20 minutes away.

We will be moving into our temporary quarters with a bigger family. A friend has decided to spend most of his retirement in Morocco and cannot take his dog and cat. The dog-sitter wants the dog, but he hasn't found a home for the cat. "Well, Jeanno," I said, trying to butter him up for workshop space, "if you don't find a home for her before you go back in September, I'll take her." Two days later, when we next saw him, his greeting was, "Still O.K. for the cat?" "Jeanno," I said," you've stopped looking, haven't you"? He laughed.

Moving Right Along

I can either cut and paste all my emails or just blog. Here's the blog. (I thought a bit of bolding would help to cut to whatever chase interests you.)

We are now counting down the days to moving -- during the week of 14 August. We have an apartment in the village to rent until May. By then, it will be warm enough to either camp out in whatever part of the house or workshop has walls and a roof -- or just camp. The apartment has a ton of storage space, should we need it, a lovely terrace and a garden. Are we lucky or what?

We have free storage space in the village, thanks to another friend. Yes, we are lucky.

We have a lead on space in the village for the workshop until the new one is built.

We can't get the straw locally, after all; no one produces enough. But we have found a supplier. We hope. It's a bit late in the year and we haven't managed to contact him, yet.

Our buyers were here over the weekend to register their kids in school, measure everything, and tell us that they have sold their house. "Good thing for you," they said. "Better thing for you," Nick thought, but did not say. "Now you won't be losing your deposit."

So, we are signing the final papers for the sale in the third week of August and the papers for the purchase about the same time.

We're offered a used cement mixer. When did I ever think a cement mixer would make a great gift?

We have another four days to clean out the house for the July 14th vide grenier -- empty the attic -- a sort of garage sale. I lo-o-o-o-o-ve throwing things out.

Of course, now is when I pick up two translation jobs. Isn't that always the way?

And we're doing 10 days of B&B because I couldn't bring myself to turn down some regular clients who aren't aware that I've retired. Then, again, one of the guys is a landscape architect. . .

Ununited Aconeal Process

Learned a new word(s) today. For my birthday (shut up! don't rush me), my MIL gave me 50€ and Nick offered to give me 30€ toward the Obama campaign if I wanted the T-shirt. I took the 30€, added some debt, and got what I really wanted: a visit to Io Jima's orthopedic surgeon so I can find out what's actually wrong with Nala and what, if anything, to do about it. She fell going up the stairs the other night and had one helluva time getting going, again.

He did X-rays. The first ones. (It took 3 people to hold her; like most Chows, she hates being laid down.) So, right: she's got arthritis. Not in her left shoulder as we thought, but in both elbows, the right one being the worst. How odd! It's the left leg that appears to constantly collapse on her. Anyway, worst is the operative word. Dr. Garcin said he'd never seen such awful arthritis. Ever. Looking at a line on the X-rays, he believes that she suffered a trauma when young that gave rise to Ununited Aconeal Process, which gives a worst case prognosis for arthritis.

Nothing much to do. He approved of the Cosiflex. I asked after joint replacements. Hips only, he said; there is no procedure, yet, for elbows.

We discussed NSAIDs. I said she'd tried them all; made her sick. But we've agreed to try the Metacam, again. She did better on it; took a week for her to get diarrhea. But I'm giving her a half dose and he's prescribed Cytotec to protect her stomach.

Let's see. 30€ for the Metacam. 20€ for the Cytotec. 28.50€ for her eyedrops. 10€ for the other eyedrops. 23.50€ for the Advantix because it has to be given every 2 weeks for the Leishmaniosis. 12.50€ for the sebhorrhea shampoo, the only thing that lasts longer than a month, so lets say 5.00€. You add it up.

So, I said to the pharmacist -- after I found out the price of the Cytotec -- Nala tolerated the aspirin pretty well, too. Could I give her the Cytotec with aspirin instead of Metacam. No, he said, it doesn't work with aspirin. But it does, according to the site cited above.

Pretty soon I will buy her a harness to help her get up the stairs.

Meanwhile, I wish Dr.Garcin were our regular vet. He immediately identified Nala's on-going eye problem (now that the entropion has been surgically corrected), as ectropion of the right eye; hence all the infections. (To the above list, add the antibiotic ointments for her constant eye infections). He took one look at the X-rays and knew what the problem was. He grimaced when I said she hadn't been X-rayed before. And, in general, he seems to know everything.

The only good news. The visit, meds, X-rays and all came to 137€. If it weren't for running costs, we'd be in clover.

End of whinge.

Canoeing on the Drôme - June 20

We went canoeing on the Drôme. If you wonder how we went canoeing on our département, almost all départements in France are named for rivers within their borders.

It is not as spectacular on the Drôme as it is in the canyons of the Ardèche, our neighbouring département, but quite beautiful nonetheless and we had a fine afternoon with picnic. Nick and I only turned over once (with camera) as did the others, except for the girls. They turned over many, many times, but I think it was a strategem to meet boys.

The person covered from head to foot, including socks with sandels (gagh!) is I. This is how I have been coping with the sun since childhood, except for the times when I forget and wound up with second degree burns. Chic, huh?

Nadine, whose house we are helping to build, is to the left. Polo is behind the camera. If my storage disk recovers from its swim, I may have a picture of him.

That's Nick on the right.

Nightmare Dog-Owner Graduates School(-house)

May I speak about my great running week first? I've had two 15-year Personal Bests. Having kept at it since last summer, I finally got a run below 7 minutes per kilometer, 6:58 to be precise. Babies crawl that fast, but you know how childish you can become as you age. And I did my first 10K run today. O.K., 9.5K; I need to dream up a new course.

We are selling our house, the Valley School, as it translates into English. Or Combe School if you're English. Funny, we've lived here for fifteen years, at least 3 times as long as I've ever lived anywhere, but I feel no regret at leaving it.

We are going to build a straw bale house. (Please, we've heard all the 3 Little Pigs jokes.) And we're building it ourselves. If things go well, we will be leaving the schoolhouse in August. If they don't, we'll be leaving sometime, anyway. We don't have land, yet, but we have hopes and will keep you posted.

More than posted. I am setting up a new blog, name to be decided, to journal our activities. In France, anyone who is building their own house (un auto-constructeur) blogs or joins bulletin boards. They share techniques, budgets, resources, mistakes and other joys of building with like-minded souls and some of the like-minded souls show up on your building site to learn and to help.

We, in fact, have been helping some friends in the next village build their hemp brick house. We've learned a lot of what to do and what not to do. When their house is finished, they will help us. (Don't feel that you have to be a friend or acquaintance to volunteer. Anyone who wants to help will be welcome. Free room and board. How hard can it be if I'm doing it?) Last week we spent a day plastering (clay and lime) a 6² meter of this house to learn the technique. And learned more of what to do and what not to do. I feel certain, however, that there are plenty of mistakes left for us to make, too.

Nothing daunted, armed with little cash, several animals and a ton of books on straw bale building, we march forward.

Ah, no, we don't yet know where we're going to live in the meantime.