the tumblefur ball

I feel that I am perpetually covered in fur. It sticks to my clothes, settles onto the dash of the car, integrates itself into any fabric surface, is stuck to my socks, always ends up in food. When I sit down at my computer at work it is static clung to the monitor and lines the back of my chair. It doesn’t matter if I vacuum, because even when I’m done a fresh new ball of tumblefur dances across the floor out from wherever it was hiding, picking up speed and more fur like an out of control snowball down a slope. We take turns before we leave the house using a sticky roller to remove as much fur as possible from our clothes, which incidentally, come out of the dryer, still covered in fur, only to arrive at our destination, re-covered. I just don’t understand how that happens. A big white furry tumblefur ball follows us everywhere!

I love my two fluffy beasts, but this is getting ridiculous.

*update* Sent randomly from a friend this morning - a link to a new pet vacuum gadget... maybe he noticed my black shirt covered in white fur? Anyway, apparently this is how it happens:

sunday photo

 

radiation sucks

Leuk watching out the window

It poured rain pretty much all day. Leuk is done with the idea of outside. David asks him in the morning, door held open, “Do you want to go outside?” Giving him the choice. “He doesn’t want to” he tells me, I get out of bed and push Leuk out the door. “He’s a dog, he doesn’t get to have a choice” I respond, just a tiny bit frustrated to have to get out of bed before I wanted to. Leuk lasts about two minutes before beginning to launch himself at the door. He spends the rest of the day lounging on his chair, watching outside from inside.  

irobot is hard at work in the living room right now. Leuk and I taking turns dodging it as it weaves haphazardly back and forth and back and forth across the carpet. Mins the cat going for the occasional attack. It just had an error 6. Stuck on a piece of furniture, it asks me in a very professional, unaccented female voice to move it to a new location and press CLEAN to restart. Ok. Moved. It hums on.

David’s away looking at fish spawning in a river. His report so far, “It’s cold.” I opted out of the trip, happy to have a little time at home alone. I spent most of the day driving down to Victoria and back. My neck aching due to a horrible sounding and feeling series of cracks that started my day compounded with the stress of my white knuckle driving on the highway in the pelting rain. Reminding me that I am getting older, and it’s getting colder, and it’s raining.

I spent most of the drive lost in my thoughts. One in particular standing out – leukemia sucks (Richard's right). And remembering why David and I had such a tough time accepting the total body irradiation as part of his bone marrow transplant conditioning. Sure, we understood that it was necessary. But it kinda really messed up what we wanted in life. A family. Of course my mind was stuck on this today seeing that purpose of my trip to Victoria was to attend an adoption information session. We’d heard so many different things about adoption - the cost, the timelines - that I decided to hear it for myself. And my drive back wasn’t exactly filled with enthusiasm towards the whole process. If we decide to go ahead we are looking at years of assessments, paperwork and thousands of dollars. And that could be the easy part, we also have to hope, or convince David’s doctors that it’s reasonable for David to go through with such a plan. And then we have to find a country that will accept someone that has had cancer. Yeah so anyway, I’ve decided to stop thinking about all this now, and instead am going to sit down and watch Amazing Race with a nice cold beer.

sunday photo

transplant video

David showed this video to his class on Wednesday. I think the topic was stem cells. He told me a few of his students were in tears after. It seems like an 'old' video to me now. I re-watched it. No tears. Just a weird feeling of "Really? When did all this happen?"

we love mins too

We arrived home this afternoon, a lonely cat mawowing mawowing. Some pictures of Mins today, because we love him too.

Oh, and it`s not quiet anymore. David`s chattering about a new game he`s made up called `uncover the boots`, which is basically him burying my new purchase in unfolded laundry. He figures I`ll have to clean up if I want to find my new shoes. Ha. Wrong. I just moved the pile of laundry off the boots. Foiled.

walk for leukemia

Sunday night. It’s quiet. Cleaning the house has turned towards more interesting endeavours for both of us. David on one computer, I on another. Earlier I put on the new band that I liked, again, and David finally said it’s growing on him. I suggest `every man for himself dinner` which prompts a high ten from David. We eat alone, whatever we want. Every man for himself dinner is a rare occasion, but a hit in our house nonetheless, mostly because we don`t have to think about what to make, don’t have to plan an elaborate meal for two. 



Our elephant joins us. Elephant cookies were handed out
at the walk. Just a weird coincidence.

 Last night was “Light the Night”. We made the trip over to Vancouver to walk with friends and family. In the last two weeks David’s ‘dog named leuk’ team raised $1650 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. As the donations continued to come in I’m not sure we knew what to think. We started wondering if we could make the minimum recommended 100$. We ended completely overwhelmed with support. Thank you, thank you, thank you. To everyone who’s helped us so far. And for David and I, walking with Mom ,Dad, Kertis, Marina, Alexis, Amaia, Blue, Shirley, Ross, Bev and Andy was an honour. The night became so busy I think we forgot about leukemia for awhile, which was good because when David and I arrived early, alone, we were caught up in emotions we try not to get so caught up in most of the time. 



For Shelby and Chad. And everyone.

We spent a moment before the walk… before our team arrived. David writing Shelby and Chad’s names on a wooden heart and placing it in a plant, in memory. We didn’t know them well, but we know they were the same as David. Lives shortened by unforgiving disease. We wish they were still here, beautiful people, this walk is for them.

Leuk tolerated his angel costume like a champ – sorry for the embarrassment Leuk, but everyone seemed to get a kick out of it – and he pulled David through the walk like a mini-truck. Weaving amongst walkers, planting wet Leuk-kisses on babies and trying to launch himself at the occasional low flying balloon. I lost the whole group within seconds attempting to take pictures in impossibly low light, with a broken lens. Catching up, falling behind and running to catch up to our team, fragmented in the crowd.

The walk seemed to be over in an instant. We weaved through Stanley Park, a crystal clear Vancouver twinkling across the water. A parade of illuminated white, red and yellow balloons snaking along the seawall. A beautiful sight, on a gorgeous night.

White for survivors, red supporters and yellow in memory. I wish there were no yellow's and more white's.

More pictures here...

light the night

David and Leuk walk for leukemia

sunday night

Peach vodka from the back of the fridge. Sparkling water and a spash of lime. My favourite band playing in the living room. Helping me forget that it’s Sunday night. Mins sleeping curled into a box of electrical leftovers from the attic pot light installation. Leuk napping outside, his nose pressed against the door. An irobot clean floor. And on the deck, a new doghouse nestled under the kitchen window. Half-clad in beautifully installed cedar shakes. For everyone that thought the day would never come – well, they were wrong - it did. Leuk’s turning one this week J He’ll have a cosy abode for his second winter.

I’m leisurely making dinner, David in the back room. Preparing tomorrow’s lecture, a little reluctantly tonight. As I walk from the living room to the kitchen I pass a letter sitting on the edge of the banister, enveloped and ready for a stamp. I get a little emotional thinking about its contents, knowing that when it finally hits the mailbox reality may be able to find us. In the letter, David releases his personal information. If David’s donor agrees, they will be able to contact one another.

A chance to say thanks. That’s all we want. To say that the difference you made in our lives will never be forgotten.

super hero

Yesterday was one of those days.... All I wanted to do at the end of the day was go home, sit down, play on the computer. Not talk. I was outside throwing a stick for Leuk when David got home, earlier than I was expecting, just a few minutes after me. He had plans of a walk on the beach, dinner out. I said maybe sometimes people just want to stay home instead. He didn’t buy it. We went to the beach.

I was reluctant until we arrived. Pulling into the parking lot and getting out of the car, the ocean air hitting my lungs, drawing me toward the shoreline. It was crisp, cool and everything looked perfect in the fading light. We wandered along the rocky beach, littered with sun bleached driftwood, towering Garry Oak trees winding their way along the shore, outcrops of tiny sedum, David’s favourite, clinging impossibly to the cliffs, their tiny stomata breathing the sea’s air. I took pictures, the dog paddled around and around and around, searching for rocks hidden beneath the water's surface, eating seaweed. David left me to my camera. A good selection of birds to chase from shore to try and capture with my new lens. The last light of the day clinging to the North Shore mountains across the straight.

After, we went to Costco, bought food for the dog and a robot vacuum for us. We had macaroni and cheese casserole for dinner. We watched a new episode of the Office, pvr-ing through the commercials. I told David I was happy now, and that he was my super hero. He smiled, cause he knows that he is.

Thanks for getting me through this day and showing me again, life.