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I Bificus

Page 21

by Bif Naked


  I called this year of having cancer and the subsequent treatment the Year of the Tit, and it would reveal so much more than my bone marrow biopsy ever would. It would reveal more about my own resiliency and patience than I ever had imagined possible.

  Somewhere along the way, my marriage ceased to exist, unofficially anyway. My husband seemed a figment of my imagination. But I continued to be optimistic. I went to the recording studio every single day. My managers had moved our recording studio up the block from my apartment so I could walk there, even though it was uphill. Once the effects of chemo had subsided enough for me to get out of bed, I would drag my feet up that hill, like Quasimodo, one foot after another, hands shoved in pockets. There were only two times in any given day that I allowed myself to cry: in the morning in the shower, where I could freely sob without detection, and at night when I washed my face and brushed my teeth.

  I was bald and covered my head with my Boston Red Sox baseball cap, an embroidered “B” emblazoned on it. I wasn’t a big follower of baseball, but I sure liked the “B.” All my ball caps were now too big for my hairless head, and I looked pretty sickly. Just a few months earlier I had been in the prime of my life, and now here I was, reduced to a puffy, yellow-skinned woman with a surgical port in her chest and a great big dent in her left breast.

  I didn’t look like Bif Naked; I looked like a bald, yellow, fat frog. I was self-conscious, and every day I had to eat the shame I felt, confessing to no one, swallowing my embarrassment. I felt I had no one to confide in, not even those closest to me, like my mom, or Peter or Naz—for some reason, I thought that I was expected to be Miss Positivity. But deep down, I just felt too ashamed to talk about my illness and failing marriage. Thankfully, I still sounded like Bif Naked, and I started making my record.

  The recording studio is generally a place I dislike, but it was better than being at home, given my domestic situation—I was finding it very difficult to be around my husband, who I felt often blamed our problems on my cancer. So to the studio I went for my escape, and the production of The Promise album went ahead as scheduled.

  My sanctuary would become what I called the cancer gym, which was a clinical trial group study I volunteered to participate in—a randomized, controlled national clinical trial of combined aerobic and resistance exercise in breast cancer patients receiving chemotherapy, also known as the CARE Trial. The principle investigators were Dr. Gelmon, Dr. Don Mckenzie, and Diana Jespersen of the University of British Columbia’s sports medicine centre.

  I was the first woman in Canada to sign up. Eventually, ninety-nine other women joined me in the Vancouver portion of the study, and we became a sisterhood. Three times a week, we all went down to the cancer gym, where our hour-long individualized exercise sessions were supervised by trained staff. I was determined to exercise as usual—every day, like I once had—during my cancer treatments, determined to control what I felt like and looked like. Control was the goal, but I soon learned that I could control nothing, not how I looked, not whether I survived breast cancer, and not whether my marriage survived. But I was still determined to give my survival my best shot.

  I managed to get through the chemotherapy, despite the malaise and unpredictability of it. My hair started to grow back—lanugo, like babies have, that downy-soft fuzz that allows your bald head to shine through. I felt like a lady monk, and I loved it. I felt better every week.

  The radiation was focused directly at my breast, five days a week for about four weeks, with sixteen regular rounds and a few booster doses. These were supposed to reduce recurrence of the cancer by 70 percent. A CT scan had been done to determine precisely how I would be positioned so that the radiation beams would go where they should go, and spare my healthy tissue. Two small dots of ink were tattooed on me, one in the centre of my chest and one on the side of my left breast.

  The technicians doing the tattooing were serious and focused, no matter how hard I tried to make conversation with them or joke. I assumed the cancer centre would have tattoo guns, like at the tattoo shops. When the women pulled out an ink bottle and a rather large needle, the size used for sewing leather, I laughed.

  “Just like in jail!” I exclaimed. They did not laugh. I lay quietly on the table and let them do my tattoos in peace. I still call the dark-blue dots my jail tattoos, and they remain favourites.

  The daily routine of radiation therapy was at first a pleasure for me. No longer sick from chemotherapy, I was happy to move ahead with my treatments. Although I still went to the chemo unit every three weeks for infusions, it was the antibodies/immunotherapy I was now receiving, not the chemotherapy drugs, and I was growing enough curly hair that I looked like Jerry Seinfeld. I loved this. Radiation would surprise me with its incapacitating fatigue, but I continued to work and record my record, with Jason Darr co-writing, producing, and playing.

  The Promise was released in 2009, just three weeks after my ovariectomy, which was the cherry on top of my cancer treatment, the last nail in the coffin for that evil estrogen, to rid my body of any growing tumour. This meant that I would promptly go out on a national tour, whether I was ready or not, to support the album. I looked thirty pounds heavier and now had a terrible complication that I had not counted on (likely caused by a blood clot that formed in my surgical port): I’d choke constantly, my face and neck turning purple. This happened at almost every concert we played, even after the surgical port had been removed to try to fix the clotting problem, leaving a piece of plastic tube lodged in a vein directly under my collarbone, and leaving me to get the last few rounds of treatment before I left for tour via a vein in my hand. I think of this scar by my collarbone as a commemorative badge and feel lucky to have it. In my world, scars are badges of honour.

  We did a show almost every single day on that tour. By the end of each performance I was embarrassed about my neck and face swelling up and impeding my ability to perform. I was always exhausted and struggled every night. Sometimes I felt ashamed and stupid, and I lost my confidence. It seemed as though there were no faces in the crowd, just a sea of iPhones recording and streaming images of my swollen face to the universe.

  Entire performances were uploaded to the Internet before we were even back at the hotel after the show. I felt humiliated and disillusioned. I wanted to quit playing music all together, didn’t want to tour ever again. I was feeling so bad about myself that I wished I were still in treatment. I wished I were sick just so I wouldn’t have to feel ashamed about my appearance all the time. I felt like a huge failure.

  What saved me out on the road was my band: Flavio Cirillo, J.D. Ekstrom, Joe Veltri, Eddie Tiegs, and Doug Fury. They never judged me or said one word about my purple face or my obvious fragility. They were tremendously kind and supportive, and I felt completely safe with them. They were my protective big brothers, who helped me every day. They made me laugh and we had a good time together. I was caught between feeling like a failure and grateful for being with these great musicians and friends, and back on the road.

  Being Bif Naked was all I knew how to do. But I was determined to be positive and optimistic, unfailingly. “Every day was a gift,” I thought, and now, after surviving breast cancer, that was even more true.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Annastasia Louisa Monalisa Molinare

  THE TRUTH IS THAT I ACTUALLY LIVE A LOT LIKE my bichon frise, Annastasia, lived. She didn’t have an off switch—it was all or nothing. Same with me. When anything in life came my way, when the great bag of life spilled before me, just like Annastasia would attack a bag of dog food left on the floor, I’d rip it open and eat the contents until there were no more, then I’d stick my head in the bag, risking stomach ache and even suffocation, to finish every last morsel. And then lick the destroyed bag clean. Life, love, career, touring, recording, my dogs, it was all or nothing with me.

  Annastasia Louisa Monalisa Molinare was her full name. She deserved this name. Anna was regal. She was unyielding, completely unstoppable. She never stopped
eating, never stopped wagging her tail, never stopped loving. No matter what anyone ever did or didn’t do, Anna kept being Anna. I am pretty certain that if terrible things had ever befallen Anna, like many abused dogs, she would not only have forgiven the person who hurt her but go on to love them, and try to make them happy, even more feverishly.

  The first time Annastasia had a surgery, she was a year and a half old. She had torn her ACL chasing Nicklas, my Maltese poodle, around Ian’s and my apartment. She was barking and laughing as she tortured poor Nicklas. Until she let out a dog-scream (referred to by many as a yelp, but for me it’s a scream) mid-run, then quickly turned and hid under the bed.

  I didn’t know she had a torn ACL when I took her, crying and limping, to the vet, but I knew something had happened. I’d do whatever I could to make her feel better. Annastasia had surgery and recovered completely and before long was running and chasing her beloved Nicklas again. Then, about a year later, she tore her other ACL, had surgery again, and again recovered completely.

  Then that summer, Annastasia started deteriorating for no apparent reason. Her organs were failing. I believe she may have been poisoned, maybe from eating something at the park. It was heartbreaking. I took her back to Canada West animal hospital, which offers the best pet care money can buy in western Canada. It’s where you needed to go if your dog was dying for apparently no reason. Like any parent, I would do anything to save my child. Annastasia stayed at the animal hospital for about ten days, heading downhill, and I went to see her every day, twice a day, without fail, both with and without Nicklas. Her tail wagged and she got excited every time she saw me. I worried that her IV fluids would spill out all over the place, she was so wiggly. I’d hold her, sobbing into her soft, curly hair, but trying to be brave for her.

  I loved her so much and naturally was very upset. I was basically preparing to say goodbye to her. And then she started to improve, just like that. It was like a miracle. I took her and home and she eventually recovered fully. Then, almost a year later, her disc slipped. Herniated disc disease is common in people, and also fairly common in little dogs with short legs and long backs, like my twenty-three-pound bichon, Anna.

  The veterinary team said that if she had the surgery to fenestrate her disc, it would mean a life without pain for her. This was all the encouragement I needed: Annastasia got her first back surgery, five days before a tour, bus booked, venues booked, the band rehearsed, crews hired, the works. With the blessing of the vet, I left on tour with the two dogs. At every venue stop, I took Annastasia for her daily rehabilitation walks, Nicklas in tow, though he was not helpful and often required much more attention than Anna. Anna was strong and eager to play with Nicklas, and although I did my best to keep her calm, she was rambunctious.

  She got physiotherapy on the bus. She would lie on her back or side as I took her little toes in my hand and rotated her hips one way, slowly and carefully, then the other way. I had it down; she was so good about it and I didn’t skip it a single day, despite my heavy schedule. Anna never complained, even when she had to walk with a big sling around her belly to aid her in her recovery. After many weeks of this, Nicklas was eager to resume his place as the centre of attention, but he was incredibly patient and seemed to intuitively know that this was Anna’s time.

  Those two little dogs were always so happy on the tour bus, sleeping in my bottom bunk with me, especially Annastasia. And what a time she had on tour. She made the rounds, climbing into every bunk on the bus to share a special snuggle, with band and crew alike. Annastasia loved everyone and everyone loved her. It took about ten weeks for her to make a complete recovery, and by the time we went for her checkup in Vancouver, Anna was able to run in the door, excited as she was to see the team she knew so well.

  I always believed Anna’s truth was that she lived for the happiness of others. Nicklas was shyer, more interested in being with me than anyone else. The Maltese in him, his loyalty, kept him skeptical of others and a bit of a fear-biter, a teeth-gnasher, and a barker. He’d behave well in order to get deli-tray snacks snuck to him by the band. Annastasia, on the other hand, was a saint all the time.

  Over the course of the next decade, Annastasia would have more herniated discs, and she’d go through the surgery and subsequent rehab and recovery every time. And at every single checkup, she would be running, giddy and barking, straight into the vet to thank everyone for her mobility. Once she was fully recovered, she continued to thrive and excel, year after year, and she was always-pain free for at least another two years, in between surgeries. The girl was invincible and sweet.

  Until one Sunday morning, in 2008, just after my cancer radiation was completed and all I had left to do was get through the rest of the infusions and finish recording my album. My little bichon once again lay on the floor in the bathroom, where it was cool and dark, and for the second time in her life she did not come to the kitchen for breakfast when the rice cooker shut off. This was a big, fat red flag. That click of the rice cooker shutting was Anna’s dinner bell. She never missed it—she could hear it in the middle of her dreams. It would wake her out of the deepest sleep.

  Anna’s last back surgery had taken place on the first day of my chemo treatment, only a few months before. I couldn’t imagine a disc had slipped again so soon. She was ten years old, and I knew that the time might come when the operations lost their miraculous effectiveness and we’d have to seek supportive methods, like anti-inflammatories or pain medication. I sighed and kissed her, pressing my cheek against hers. “Don’t worry,” I whispered, “Mama get everything better.”

  I called the animal hospital. The receptionist knew my voice. “Is it her back?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid it is. Can we come?” I was pacing.

  “We’ll get her into ultrasound and assess what’s happening before the neurologist comes in this morning.”

  I carried Anna, quiet and still, down to my car. The drive to the animal hospital took around twenty minutes. I didn’t speed because I didn’t want to jostle Anna. I had left Nicklas at home with Ian—Anna needed my full attention. The staff at the animal hospital took Anna from my arms and told me to go get a coffee—they would do an ultrasound and call me in a couple of hours once the surgeon had reviewed the images. I thanked them and returned to my car. I figured I should go home and get Nicklas’s daily routine started—I was confident he had not yet been taken out for his morning walk. As I pulled up to my building my cell phone rang. It was the animal hospital asking me to come back for an emergency meeting.

  “Beth, it’s not her back,” the vet said.

  I was alert. “I see.” I was steady, listening intently. The ultrasound had revealed that Annastasia had a tumour in her liver, which was leaking and about to burst. They did not expect Anna to live, and had put her on pain meds to keep her comfortable. I asked what they could do, and they said there was nothing other than keep her alive with chemotherapy for a few more days. I was numb. “I need to tell my family,” I said.

  “Take your time. She’s sleeping comfortably now; she’s fine.”

  “I’ll be back there in about an hour. Is that okay?” My mind was racing.

  “Take all the time you need.”

  I parked the car and went to Peter and Naz’s suite, and we called a family meeting. Naz and I were both crying, and Peter offered to accompany me back to the animal hospital. He drove, and we were both silent the whole way.

  We were met by one of the senior vets, who explained that although we could keep Annastasia alive for a few days longer with chemotherapy, she would have to stay in the hospital. Cancer had been detected in her blood. There was no hope for recovery. I was heartbroken. Peter and I agreed that Annastasia would not want to be kept alive for only a few days more, stuck in a hospital and sedated and losing her functions. The vet knew what had to be done, and we trusted her. I could never have anticipated this moment, never.

  She carried Annastasia, on a pillow, out to our private room, the room for
families in times like these. Anna was limp and could barely open her eyes, and her breathing was shallow. She was not stressed or in pain, just quiet and still.

  I lay on the floor with her, my face at her face, my mouth touching her nose. I started talking to her about how love was surrounding her and how everyone who ever had the blessing of ever meeting her loved her so much, and how God loved her so much that he needed her to go to be held in his arms. The tears covered my face and tasted salty in my mouth. I sang Hare Krishna ragas in her ear as Peter showered her with his sweet tears of affection. We left sobbing and did not talk all the way home.

  Nicklas did not seem to notice that Anna never returned home. He simply went about his day-to-day barking and running and biting and eating and sleeping, never missing a beat. But I believe that he secretly knew, the way animals do, that Anna was going to die, and I like to believe that they were both okay with this. I always maintained Annastasia was a Buddhist. Perhaps it is true. Regardless, I will always miss her.

  FORTY

  My Fallen Man, My Mended Heart

  IN THE TIME IT TAKES TO WRITE A MEMOIR, LIVES PASS.

  If you were to ask anyone who knows me, they will tell you that Nicklas, my dog, was the love of my life. I would have to agree. He was my life partner. For sixteen years, Nicklas was my every deliberation and my muse. He was the inspiration for most of my artwork, both cartoons and paintings, the subject of my songs and poetry, and he even had his own twitter account, @nicknaked.

  From the day we retrieved him from the cardboard box in Mr. Anh’s Burnaby garage in 1997, he and I were in mad love. Peter and his daughters, Riley and Brittin, and I drove out to see the seven-week-old puppy, the runt of a litter born of the Anh family dog, a poodle, and the Maltese next door.

  “Very unfortunate love affair,” complained the Hawaiian shirt–wearing senior citizen. “My wife very angry.” And he picked up Nicklas from the cardboard crate—the last puppy left—and swiftly gave him an injection with a syringe. “Shots done,” he said, handing the dog to me. “You need more shots from the vet,” he added, “puppies have worms.”

 

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