slightly weird

14th April 2026

Breast Cancer Journey – Collateral, misses, and chaos

Saturday, 11th April, 2026

This post is a bit of an overlap, but it’s all because of my breast cancer that they had to happen. I must also warn you that there is plenty of whining, and I’m not really sorry. OK, I am, but there it is.

It was a hectic week once a peaceful Easter Monday was done. It was also a week full of frustrating but hilarious failures. What was it I called those days in Torino when things didn’t go as planned? Horrified that I now forget.

So much rain this month. April showers, more like April downpours

My eyes:

On Tuesday, I had an appointment with the Eye Cancer Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. They’d phoned to let me know to expect to be there for four to five hours, and they weren’t too far off from that expectation. Why there? When I went to see about restarting my cataract surgery course, the surgeon had insisted that, before doing anything to my eyes, I needed to make sure the freckle/nevus in my eye wasn’t cancer. (Did you know? they’d ask every time.) But I’d now had cancer twice, so… It was, quite honestly, a very scary thought. With my health anxiety, I worried and stressed that I already had eye cancer, and I was going to lose my eye. I fought this every day, telling myself how many decades I’d had this freckle without anyone commenting much on it. As a cancer survivor, it’s never that simple. Every ache, pain, change anywhere is an alert, nothing to be ignored, but carefully looked at and written off as ‘nothing.’ I was also scared at not knowing what tests they might do on my eye. I trusted them, but I barely trusted myself to be patient and cooperative. Spoiler: I was.

What happens at such an appointment? First, an eye chart. I was the expected “terrible” at this one. (Not their words, mine.) Numbing drops, dilating drops. Waiting. Then, when my eyes were so blurred I took my glasses off, so I didn’t notice it so much, they called me in for more tests. These involved looking into machines that focussed and unfocussed images, made me stare, don’t blink, and flashes — scans, photos… More waiting. The final test was the one I was dreading – an eye ultrasound. My brother had guessed “closed eyes,” but no. More numbing drops, a bunch of gel squirted into my eye and then a cold, slippery sensation as they scanned my open eye with the ultrasound wand. Weird but not awful. What a relief.

Princess Margaret Hospital was bustling. I’m always thinking, all these people affected by cancer. It’s something…

More waiting. Krish brought me a soup from downstairs. We were close on the four-hour mark.

Finally, they called me in again. A doctor announced herself and sat at a computer, looking at images. She asked if I’d known about the freckle, and I told her I had. How long ago, she asked. Decades, I let her know. I held my breath. Well, there’s no cancer, she said. More relief. Another, more senior, doctor came in, and she repeated to him what she’d learned from me. It’s not cancer, he proclaimed, and I was done.

View from the eye clinic. Interesting taking photos when you can’t focus on what you’re seeing. If it’s blurred, you’re sharing my view

The arm on my glasses, the one that’s come off and been stuck together with metal clamps or sticky tape, fell off. I stashed it in my pocket, fed up with the whole thing. When I got home, it wasn’t there. I now have only one arm on my glasses. Nice. Lopsided and out of focus, and needing to zone in on a better solution. Stay tuned.

Am I the only one who hates the feeling of dilation? I’m cross-eyed! And my eyes look brown…?

On Wednesday, I had a good day. The first in forever. I’ll save that for another post. I’ll say, however, that the words No Cancer have a very profound effect! I need to learn.

(Not) Lymphatic Massage:

On Thursday, I booked myself in for a lymphatic drainage massage. I thought I had, anyway. I had had to postpone this one two or three times to fit in with everything else, and realised that my port incision might still be too fresh to be touched. While not a super failure, it had its challenges. I arrived at the student clinic a full hour early and asked the driver if he would drop me at the shop across the road. He refused – citing the rules, which I know, but some drivers are more relaxed with them – life happens. He said he needed to drop me safely at my destination. I told him thank you but I would now have to cross the dangerous road. He was stoic. I got on with it. I lived. The store is huge, and I found and bought a few things there. I crossed back again and again I lived. Inside the clinic building, I headed towards the clinic only to be faced with several stairs that I couldn’t go down with my walker. Someone told me there was another accessible entrance at the other side of the building, but did I need help? I asked if she could manage to carry the walker down for me, and she did. Hooray.

I was assigned to Justin. I’d told them that I didn’t mind what gender my masseur was, but I admit to being slightly concerned when it was a young man, maybe in his late teens. I needn’t have worried. He didn’t know I wanted the lymphatic drainage, but he did his best after speaking with his instructor. I didn’t have to take my clothes off, and he did some gentle strokes on my arm – that’s all you need, apparently – and some more energetic moves in my armpits and around the collarbone. He finished with a head and neck massage, which was good. I’m not sure I will go back if it’s not the massage I really need. I suppose I have to cave and spend the money on a ‘real’ one. Cancer cost reminder.

The receptionist told me that WheelTrans uses their accessible door. I went out that way, but it was an asphalt path, and I doubted they would drive on it. I called them and said I was at the accessible exit, but they didn’t have a clue. Of course not. I told them that I was next to the parking lot, at the back of the building and would wait there. The call centre agent asked me many questions and seemed no further ahead. He said the driver would call me if I wasn’t around – no, they rarely ever do, so I said I would walk around to the front if I could get there from the parking lot. When I finally got there, I saw a WheelTrans vehicle already waiting and asked him if he was there for me. Yes, he was. I let the agent know I was OK after all and hung up. On our way out, the message came over the radio to meet me in the parking lot. Oh well, whatever.

On the way out, the driver stopped to talk to a young man who leaned in the window and looked at me. ‘My son,’ the driver said. The son had come out of the new LRT (Light Rapid Transit) station beside the clinic. What timing! Turns out the driver lived just a block away. Since I had lived in the general area for a couple of years in 1967, we chatted about how it’d changed. When I told him when I’d lived there, and what the changes were, he stopped talking and exclaimed, 1967? I was born in 1968. Whoa. (He looked older. Maybe I looked younger?) The LRT is infamous. It had taken 15 years to build that crazy (25 station, 19 kilometrelong) line It caused so much havoc.

On the way to the bra fitter. Leaside got an update

Maybe hard to see, but the crazy stretch of cars ahead of us. Toronto traffic!

The building for the student massage. In the Don Mills area. More ‘middle of nowhere’ stuff – for this urban dweller, at least

Compression bra fitting

Friday was interesting. I had an appointment to be fitted for a compression bra. I have lymphoedema after my radiation. It’s a pretty common aftereffect and, to be honest, I don’t really know I have it…except for the darn bras. I’m the type of person who, despite being large-breasted, would happily go braless. I’m that woman, like many, who throws the bra off the minute I get home or if already at home, the minute the guests leave. A compression bra is my nightmare. Think of a corset or control panties. But it’s a bra. It’s made to bind and constrict. You’re supposed to wear it all day long, even when home, and all night long is even better. It has hooks, zips and velcro fastenings. (Picture at the link.) The straps are wide and pulled/velcroed tight. It reaches several inches below the bust. It looks like a serious sports bra-meets-corset. It doesn’t end there. Inside the bra, you need to wear a compression pad. It looks like a sanitary pad, but it’s filled with beads or chips that compress the breast even more. I have some fancy silicone ones, but I much prefer the handmade ones my therapist cobbles together for me each time we meet. You need a new one every four months, and you pay a portion each time because the Canadian health service won’t cover the whole cost. Another time I can talk about the cost of cancer…maybe.

I’ve had to delay these bra-fitting appointments about half a dozen times. Remember me saying I need a secretary? Both the massage and bra-fitting appointments have had to be changed many times. While at the eye clinic, I had a call from the bra fitters that they would see me the next day. No, I said, that was cancelled and gave them the new date. Noted. It took me about half an hour to realise that I’d now booked both places for the same day and time. Square one again. The next day, I looked firmly at my calendar and made the call to get it right.

The bra place was in the north end of the city. It’s a Jewish area mainly, and I was reminded of Stamford Hill but with different costumes. My driver got me there and then asked, Is this it? I think so, I said. I’ve never been here before. If it’s 3077 this is it. Do I park here, he asked. I don’t know.

Inside the building, there were stairs up but no elevator. I pressed the button for assistance. Janice? came a voice from the top of the stairs. Then a whirring noise that went on for two to three minutes. A chair lift had been sent down. No, I called up. I have a walker and just need it to come up with me. Apparently, no, I had to leave my walker at the bottom of the stairs next to a busy walk-in clinic. I prayed.

There was much talk about where my government forms were. No one could find them, and I had to retrieve them from deep inside the hospital portal. And the bra. It’s certainly lighter weight and less cumbersome than the one I’d bought full-price, but I’m dismayed to hear that I need to wear it all the time with the 250g weighted prosthesis I reserve for “special occasions” to maintain the compression. I protested, in vain, of course. I’m at home most of the time, I said. Would YOU wear it to do dishes or watch TV? She smiled and said nothing. I was now in full whining mode and decided to just smile. I was surprised to be given two after paying my share ($88). One to wear, one to wash, they said. OK!

I visited the toilet, using their key. I rearranged myself and my head. I was already so tired and still planned some shopping before my ride came. My walker was still at the bottom of the stairs. Hooray. (Don’t ask how I walked around upstairs without it – answer, not very well.)

I crossed the road to the kosher restaurant I’d planned to get some take-out food for lunch. It had four stairs and no ramp. A passer-by swooped in and took my walker up for me, then retrieved me. I always feel grateful yet embarrassed at these gestures. I don’t know if I can fix that. After some exploration and noticing that every crumb of bread was gone from the shelves (it’s Friday!) I dismissed the menu and left. A lady saw me, and I was swooped again. She said she worked at Baycrest, a huge Jewish care facility in the area. I did not want to break a hip, she said. I tried to decide how I felt about being treated like an elderly patient. Maybe it showed on my face. You look really good, she said. Strong. Hooray.

At the supermarket by my ride meeting place, I picked up a slice of pizza that went into the oven and came out lukewarm. I was too tired to argue. I bought some vegetables and wandered over to the freezer case section. There were Hassidic women in this store with their kids. They were in their bubble, just as the Haredi had been in Stamford Hill. I smiled and went to pay.

The WheelTrans ad told me to wait at the north end of the supermarket building at the K Karate and BMO sign. K Karate, OK, BMO nothing there. So I waited for my Beck cab to arrive. Beck cabs kept pulling up and picking people up from the shop. None said WheelTrans, and none came out to talk to me. The sun went in, and it got cold. I messaged Krish that I was waiting to come back. A moment later, he messaged me that he got a message that I was a NO SHOW. When I’d entered and left the store, there was a collection of poles that stopped carts from leaving. It was about two inches too narrow for my walker, but I got through with a bit of shoving. I’d come out the same way with a cashier’s help. As I stared at my No Show notice, the cashier came over and asked if I was Janice. Apparently, a driver had stopped and asked for me, but not at the K sign, at the supermarket door, and she noticed it had no WheelTrans sticker. Foiled! I phoned the call centre and talked to a very impatient agent. I just want to make sure that the next person you send comes to the K Karate sign or phones to find me, I said. You’ll have to take that up with Customer Service on Monday, I was told. I’ll try to find you a ride, she said. I hoped so. I was ‘in the middle of nowhere.’

K Karate door. The wall had the K Karate sign

I waited. I shivered. I didn’t dare move. I saw a WheelTrans vehicle coming in past the supermarket, not the model I was told to look for, but I waved, just in case. The vehicle passed me by and stopped in a parking spot, perhaps 20 metres away. Not mine then. Ten minutes later, it left again, but the driver called out to me, Janice? It was my ride, and no idea why, once again, there was miscommunication. But I was in. His very first WheelTrans passenger ever, apparently. Two minutes after leaving, the radio announced, Meet Janice at the K Karate sign. I give up.

We passed Casa Loma. The driver told me the story of how it was built. I don’t think it was a true story at all, but it was entertaining. Bottom line, it’s frivolous and likely a vanity project, and it bankrupted the owner

The driver was shy, nervous and nice. I tumbled indoors, wiped out. I emptied my pockets. I still had the toilet key!

Some days. And days. And days.

Index of all my Breast Cancer Journey Posts

3rd April 2026

Endings

Thursday, 2 April, 2026

Some decades ago, I made a decision that changed my life. I don’t know who I would have been if it hadn’t happened. After a fairly average pregnancy, I felt a pull to support people through their own experience. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. I was agoraphobic from a young age and, once on the road to recovery, stepped into the directorship of an organisation that helped others cope with their phobias.

To make a long story short, I found somewhere that trained prenatal teachers who had no university or nursing background, and I applied. They told me they accepted 1 in 10, so I was thrilled to be one of them. The training was long and serious. I had a very young baby, but I knew I was where I needed to be. It’s a vocation. It has to be because no one ever got rich from it. During my 100 classroom hours, I learned something (enough?) about a staggering number of things. Anatomy, anaesthesiology, pharmacology, embryology, massage and other complementary therapies, pain theory, pain management, exercise, nutrition, parenting, newborn care, high-risk pregnancies, and much more. I attended births as an observer and as a labour supporter. I swaddled babies, held hands, talked to children who were expecting siblings, and led tours for teenagers where I had a chance to shape their understanding of pregnancy and parenting. I attended and ran conferences. I met some incredible women – my fascinating and strong fellow teachers, and the amazing experts in my field. Many are dead now, but they live in my head, my heart and my resolve.

I loved to write, and so I was accepted as a contributor to the national pregnancy and parenting magazine and gained fans. It felt good and important.

I taught for years, then was asked if I’d consider joining the hospital I was working for as admin support. My main job was to bring their registration system into the present by working with the IT department. I would also be writing their patient/client literature. Life was sweet. Out and about, I’d be stopped by young families – “You were our teacher. This is our child.” I glowed. I stopped teaching and began instead helping to train new teachers, and in the age of the internet, I counselled people on an online parenting site, and I began writing articles for the hospital outreach – branching out to all women’s health issues. Through my work online, I was offered a co-author (localisation) of a Dummies book. I’m not sure I recommend it – the American side of it is “off” – but it’s here. NB Writing a book is many, many, many hours of writing and rewriting, and in the end, might pay a few pennies an hour. Lesson learned.

Tools of the childbirth education trade/ We get used to it. Fabic placentas and breasts and knitted uteri are normal. Even now, I’m thinking about teaching how that big baby head passes through the pelvis. Clients were always surprised to see how it actually happens

I left in 2002. I had had a cancer diagnosis, and I wanted to get back to London. I tried to teach there, but it wasn’t the easy path I’d found in Toronto. It was also going to be costly. I felt sad, but my vocation was over. But it wasn’t really. My heart is still there, even now. My interest is still high, and I still challenge how things work for women. It’s such a feminist issue. I’m here for it.

Endings? Oh, yes. On Monday i went to Sunnybrook Hospital to meet my friend, Leslie. My department had moved there from a women and family-centred hospital downtown (Women’s College Hospital) to a much more corporate hospital with a patriarchal system (Sunnybrook Health Centre). About a month ago, the hospital informed them that they were closing the service. I could say a lot about this, but I’m not sure it’d help my stressed brain to do so. Closing. After I don’t know how many years, to be honest, maybe fifty. There’s a lot of opposition, frankly, it’s about profit and nothing else. The women’s and families’ needs come second. It’s brought up a lot of memories for me. So many good ones, including those I’ve talked about here. I feel like I’ve lucked into many golden ages of many things in my life. Perhaps that’s just ego, each generation believing they lived the best. I don’t know.

Sunnybrook Hospital is looking like a mall these days

I didn’t ever get a chance to see their new premises. It came and went without me, as so many things have and will. I looked at Leslie’s windowless room, thinking about the luxury of windows and space we’d had at Women’s College Hospital and how informal and friendly everything had been. No matter how busy or how large a task I took on, it never felt like work. How lucky I’ve been. I photographed the collection of teaching tools and the wonderful cubby hole cabinet we’d used that once had the teachers’ names at the slots. It was beautifully custom-made by a teacher’s husband. Where would it be next? There was anger, sadness and despair in the air, so we made our own happy memories and thoughts in this new, now vanishing, space. With such interesting and independent-minded women on board, we could recount many ridiculously funny stories.

Everything ends.

We have decided to stay in this flat for a full year at least. Have we resigned ourselves to being here and leaving London behind? Hell, no. We are both far too conscious of what we left behind. We know that things aren’t always rosy there, and there are many changes – many that make us very sad – but what we’ve lost wasn’t ever about those things. Will leave this here.

The rest of the photos tell the story of what I’ve done, where I’ve been. Hint – not much and not far! Ha.

The second bedroom is full of boxes, empty or not unpacked. It’s a mess but it will slowly empty … right?

This is an old Italian neighbourhood for the most part – it’ll fill it with vegetables soon, and I’ll be longing to pick some. Used to love foraging and scrumping as a child

The Crazy Store. Still haven’t made it in there. I really have to go up with my camera one day, and hope they don’t mind me taking photos

Daffodils. Memories of a London spring. Bunches and bunches of the damn things in our flat every day till they stopped selling them. I can’t imagine this now. Sigh

Waiting for the Artemis launch on 1st April.

Almost tempted but $10 for an individual one. Not sure. Need to learn to make my own. The fish pie had no smoked fish in it so easier to pass by.

Maple Season. I’ve always wanted to go see them tap and boil the sap. Never happened

Buds! Finally. It will be May before things are in full leaf and bloom.

Restaurant kitchen work Just love these guys and chatting to them. They are so kind and friendly. The restaurant is open Wednesday through Saturday. We aren’t bothered by the low volume music, can’t hear any talking, and we won’t see the diners until things move outside – June?

Friday Photos

March 27 Backyard. We haven’t seen the Old Man yet. Oh dear

23rd March 2026

Spring sprung a leak

Sunday, 22 March, 2026

It’s one month since we moved in. The second bedroom is full of boxes waiting to be unpacked or put away. Until we have a longer-term commitment, we won’t be changing anything. We want to, and it’s a long list. For now things feel messy. On Friday after my hospital visit, I came upstairs, took a photo – it was my Spring Equinox set – and almost didn’t post it. Seriously messy. Seriously real.

It’s a little better when seen from the couch. Our TV had been so far away that it strained our eyes to look at it, so we moved it closer. I thought, hoped, the coffee table would be a temporary measure, but Krish is keen to keep it. I do hope that won’t be the case. The coffee table isn’t my style, but I suppose it’s serving a purpose right now, and it’s nice to have the TV for relaxing.

There was a rare treat this week. We unpacked one of the boxes from our shipping container. Everything has sat in storage since November 2022. I was beginning to think I would never see our belongings again, but we needed frying pans and it made sense to rescue our own. So pleased about this.

I have my quiet mornings waiting to work. It’s snowed on and off for ages now, like winter can’t bear to go. One morning, looking up from the table where I was setting up my laptop, I noticed the light, the snow, the pale blue of the sky and thought perhaps I might be in Scandinavia. Throughout the snowy days, the people opposite still need to smoke, even during b;ixxards. Nordic it might look out there, but still quintessentially Canadian.

Winter passes, and Spring is next. Speaking of Spring, it came in very, very wet. It continues that way. At least the rain isn’t freezing anymore. That’s the worst kind of winter weather.

Spring in Toronto is funny, anyway. One day snow, the next warm, then a blizzard and so on. They say Toronto has eleven seasons:

Winter: Cold, grey, and long.
Fool’s Spring: One 15°C day in March where everyone wears shorts, followed by immediate regret.
Second Winter: Snow returns right after you put your winter boots away.
Spring of Deception: It looks sunny, but the wind is biting.
Third Winter: A surprise April snowstorm.
The Pollening: Everything turns yellow, and everyone sneezes.
Actual Spring: Lasts approximately 3 days.
Summer: High temperatures, high humidity, and nonstop patio time.
False Fall: A nice, crisp day in September.
Second Summer: Hot weather returns, causing panic over air conditioning.
Actual Fall: Leaves turn brown, and construction season finally ends.

While this may seem silly, it’s remarkably true.

Crocuses are ready to bloom. They usually go into full flower only to be blown over and snowed under shortly afterwards

Downstairs, the restaurant comes alive Wednesday through Saturday. They were smoking something for dinner. I’m always curious what’s on the menu, the one I can’t really afford

My friend, Judy, had asked me if I was interested in one of the restaurants her gym friends had recommended. Of the two, she chose a Korean hotpot place not too far away. The bus was late picking me up, but I got there in good time. My only other hotpot experience had been a shared (with Robin) pot of both on a hotplate that kept it simmering. That time, we collected some ingredients and cooked them ourselves in the broth before drinking it. This was different. We collected a metal bowl and some tongs and then moved along a long counter filled with meats, fish, vegetables and noodles. A server helped us understand what each thing was.

I chose lamb rolls, a pork belly roll, shrimp, squid rings, enoki mushrooms, tofu, Shanghai bok choy, kelp shoots, and a Chinese doughnut (looking just like a mini Yorkshire pudding). At the counter, they weighed it – it came to around $13, less than expected – and I chose a broth. Mala with sesame. A slightly spicy choice and a good one. They brought the bowl to the table when everything was cooked, along with a drink. After the meal, we got a mini Yube soft-serve cone, a lovely ending to a delicious and comforting meal. I’ll go again and make some different choices.

My finished mala broth with all the ingredients – doughnut on the right. Yum

I’m lucky to have the WheelTrans option. It sometimes feels like I’m cheating, but, quite honestly,I don’t know if I’d go out much without it. They have buses, accessible taxis and regular taxis. On the day I met Judy, it was a bus. The drivers are excellent and help you every step of the way. The downside is that they hold more people, so there are often pick-ups and drop-offs that turn short rides into excursions. Because of all the activity, along with crazy Toronto traffic and roadworks, they can be late. I stood outside in minus 13 just over a week ago, and I waited for 45 minutes. Not good, but how do I complain about this fantastic service, a first-class ride for the price of a bus ticket?

I also took another walk to Contra Cafe on an unusually mild day. There are some odd houses in this neighbourhood, and I’m reacquainting myself with them. There are some strange garden decorations, the art house, the rubbish house and the Greek house. I’ll have to reconnect and check them all out more closely when the weather warms up even more.

There are also some colourful utility boxes along the way. These are on Shaw Street.

Finally, at Contra Cafe, I had a chai latte. I like how they make it here, with a large tea bag and no sugar

I got inspired by the Hotpot, and I skipped the hospital cooking class that day. A friend shared a recipe from the class, and I made it at home. I ad-libbed a miso, carrot and ginger soup and added some shrimp instead of chicken. Enjoyable!

And another insider’s treat with the next photo.

We don’t know if the Old Man is still there, but we were heartened to see some work being done in the next-door garden. Bring on planting season. We had so much fun watching it evolve last time

Friday Photos (20 March, Spring Equinox)

Front. Freezing rain turned to just rain

21st March 202614th April 2026

Breast Cancer Journey – Bye Port

Friday, 20 March, 2026

It was my turn to get my port removed.

According to Google, a Port (cath-a-port) is an implantable venous access device. It’s a small medical appliance, consisting of a reservoir (port) and a thin tube (catheter), that is placed under the skin—usually in the right side of the chest—to provide easy access to a large vein. From the outside, it’s similar to a pacemaker – a bump under the skin on the chest,

Mine has sat there for about a year now. It wasn’t always cooperative, but considering the problems I had with bloodwork and administering the various medications and the damage chemotherapy can do to our veins, I was grateful to have it.

Chemo and immunotherapy over, I had some blood tests done to prove I was healthy enough, and off I went to get my little friend removed.

I arrived, as asked, at 8:30am for my 9am appointment. I spent that extra half hour sitting and trying not to think ahead. They’d asked me to have someone take me home, which meant sedation would be involved. I’ll be honest and admit that my fearful imagination had me lying with blood spurting everywhere when they removed it. The surgeon had told me, at the insertion procedure, that he’d had “challenges” getting it done. What if they had the same challenges removing it? I have the best imagination *(or is that worst?).

I was called in pretty much right at 9. I got my “clothes above the waist” into a bag, and I waited until about 9:30 for a doctor to show up.

When he arrived, he read my blood test results out loud and explained that he would be removing the port now. I waited for my sedation, but it didn’t happen, nor was it mentioned. I was torn between being relieved they wouldn’t be accessing and possibly botching up my veins, and nervous that I’d be, well, nervous. No time to dwell on it.

The doctor warned me that “this was the painful part,” injecting me around the site – just above my breast on the right. It really didn’t hurt that much. After all the slicing and dicing, prodding and pioking cancer brings, it was just another thing really. The doctor had also told me that he’d be taking the port out and that, since it had been in there a year, it might not want to leave that easily. I did feel a bunch of pushing and pulling that went on for about five minutes. Then the doctor asked, do you want to say bye to your port? I said yes. And he held it up for me to see. Wow. It was smaller than I’d imagined. And plonk it went into a dish. “Now the longest part, the stitches.” I imagined it in my mind as it was going on. Would it be neat stitches or a just-so job like with my lumpectomy? I wouldn’t know until all the dressings and steri-strips were gone, a couple of weeks away. I let the doctor know that I was allergic to adhesives, and he told me that it was just a clear plastic to protect the wound and shouldn’t be a problem.

When he left, I felt a bit dizzy and weird and asked if Krish could come in, but they said, not yet. The nurse put this down to anxiety and brought me some juice. That helped. A few minutes later, they brought Krish in, and he helped me get dressed.

It was well and truly done.

We shared a maple walnut muffin and hot chocolate afterwards

At home, I had a long nap after a bowl of soup. I was tired and a bit sore. Tylenol helped. I was well enough to make dinner later, then was glad for my bed just a bit earlier than usual.

Today is Saturday. I’m aware that the adhesive is a bit of a problem after all. My skin is itchy and inflamed around the edges. This is how it starts, so later we’ll change the bandage to something that’s easier on me,

I’m not really looking forward to my next blood test or IV but I’m not sorry that this chapter is now closed. I’ll put some photos below but give some warning space for anything triggering.

Index of all my Breast Cancer Journey Posts

At my bedside

The itchy redness starting around the adhesive patch

13th March 2026

Where is spring? And the backlog

Friday, 13 March, 2026

The February blues inevitably become the March blahs. Spring should be around the corner, but it seldom feels like it in Toronto. Yet last week we had a sudden three-day taste of days to come. Temperatures climbed to as high as 18C, and all was right in the world.

I went for a knee assessment downtown on one of those days. The sky was blue, the air felt mild to warm, and everyone was smiling. At the small hospital I went to, Holland Centre, I had a déjà vu moment, and it took me a minute to figure out it reminded me of my GP practice in Hackney at Somerford Grove.

At any rate, what an excellent physiotherapist. I came home with the usual raft of papers, including exercises (which I have yet to start) and people to call. Today I must make a list. even if I can’t cross anything off it. “People” like it when I say nice things about Toronto (you know who you are) so this is something to make me smile about being here:

The Scotiabank at the corner of Wellesley and Yonge – gateway to ‘The Village’ (Gay area of Toronto). I do love the apparent acceptance of everyone here. The bank is close to the Holland Centre

The Holland Centre on Wellesley Street. See how blue the sky is!

This email from Denise sums it all up:
It’s starting to look like Spring. We still have the Christmas tree up for you and Krish;
HOW IS YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE TODAY???
Jesus, our emails are turning into medical files.
xxx

PLEASE invite me for Christmas. I’m ready! Today I took Friday photos, and everything looked like winter was over. Two hours later, it looks like Christmas again. The fast-falling snow is blanketing everything. I shall have to do a second set of Friday photos before the light fades.

Speaking of the medical report, I made it to my eye appointment last week. The first time since I had my cancer diagnosis and had to put everything on hold. It went well, although all my measurements had to be retaken. I’m good to go, but only after I get a special “oncology eye test” at Princess Margaret Hospital. I don’t want to know what that entails, but do it I must, when I hear from them. I also had built in time after my long appointment to meet Robin for lunch. After a failed attempt at a ramen place (don’t ask, but autism can really suck), we headed down to find tamales in Kensington Market only to find that they were sold only on a weekend – boo. So we each had an empanada – cheesy! I forgot to take photos of the indoor food market (mostly Mexican/South American), but I did take photos of the upper part of Augusta Avenue. Kensington Market is a 70s throwback every time.

Wanda’s sells sweet fruit and cream pies. Originally, I planned to go here, but all plans can change. Next time

The cannabis shops are thinning out a bit these days – this neighbourhood is down to 6. Mushrooms are popping up (yeah, I know…)

Near College Street, this balcony is always vibrant. Is that an effigy?

It’s the neighbourhood iconic wall art. It’s been there for years

A part of the Kensington Market sign. Is it supposed to be bicycle chain links? The wall art behind makes me cringe, but Toronto lacks finesse generally with street art, and you have to dig hard for the gems

Chinatown and Kensington Market share borders, Instead of a Chinatown gate, Toronto has raised art installations symbolising something or other. Must research!

One of the Young (Emmanuel) Jarus murals. He has several in Toronto, and it would be worth tracking down all the existing ones here. Young Jarus was born in 1992 in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada and has artwork throughout the world now

Approaching Trinity College from Queens Park Crescent by taxi

This will be another busy medical year with all the backlog. It would be painful to list it all, but hopefully it’s all worth it. On the other hand, I’m looking ahead. I’ve started to plan a “walk” (a misnomer, really, but a way to get those 3,000 steps in that they’re recommending for my rehabilitation), which will certainly include not only almond croissants for my brother but a revisit to Trinity College, which I passed on my way back from the Holland Centre. In this long Toronto winter, when snow and cold have been brutal at times, it’s good to have warmer dreams.

I’m not ready to move about the neighbourhood yet. It’s been too snowy and icy and cold. Last Friday was my birthday, though. I braved it out to the local coffee shop, Contra. To motivate myself, I ordered a 2good2go surprise bag – I needed to be there between 4:30-5 to pick it up, so I showed up around 4:13 and ordered a mocha latte. Got to say it was the most delicious one I’ve had anywhere. Very decadent and chocolatey. Usually, I order the chai latte, which I like because it’s made with loose tea and no sugar. I mentioned to the woman at the counter that it was my birthday, and when I got home, there was a bag that said Happy Birthday. It was a pain au chocolat. Chocolate for my birthday, yes please.