A blood pressure check, an exam, and a blood test later, and the physician’s assistant said, “That’s it. You’re all clear.”
I sat up straighter in my paper-towel dress. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. You can get dressed now,” she said, closing my file. “Except one other thing.”
I knew it. I only had six months to live. Maybe less. Or just a general “there’s cancer everywhere” statement. Because that happens from a blood test. “One other thing?”
“We’ll move you to annual checkups now. You’ll still have your mammogram in October and then your checkup with us in April, so technically someone’s checking on you every six months still, but you don’t have to see us every six months.”
Huh. Okay, well, that would be good, right? Fewer oncology appointments can’t be a bad thing. And I’d found the lump myself the first time, so I certainly know what I’m looking for. Plus, now I had plant-based superpowers on my side!
Back at home I celebrated by cuddling with Seamus; making a mango, avocado, and black bean salad with lime juice, olive oil, and cilantro dressing; and going online to join Farm Fresh to You, a community-supported agriculture group that would deliver local, farm-fresh produce to my door every other week. I was feeling good and becoming a believer. Perhaps even an evangelist. My cancer wasn’t back! We were winning the war! All hail kale!
Emboldened, I continued to arm us for battle. Though there was a misfire. Inevitable, I suppose. For Seamus, an important part of my troops, I bought a thirty-dollar, one-hundred-page, holistic canine-cancer-fighting book online that seemed to be everything I was looking for, and it was written by a doctor. When the book arrived, though, I soon noted that nowhere did it say what kind of doctor the author was. Technically, as I have a Juris Doctor degree, I am a “doctor” too. Please don’t ever take medical advice from me. Blood makes me pass out, as does the word “stitches.” (Hang on while I come to again…) And I’ve had no medical training whatsoever, except as a patient.
As I read the book, I began to question, as the author intended, not just the proper feeding of a domesticated dog, but also much of the traditional gospel of pet care. Could neutering dogs really increase the risk of cancer? Seamus was already neutered when I got him, so it hadn’t been my choice. Was adding apple cider vinegar to his drinking water really going to fight off fleas and cancer (win-win!)? But then the author started to lose me. He was adamantly against chemotherapy treatments for dogs or for anyone. This seemed too far outside the norm for me, especially since chemotherapy had been the only treatment available to both Seamus and me following our respective cancer surgeries.
When I read his “muscle testing” procedure for determining areas of health concern, he completely lost me. It seemed to be a version of the Ouija board where, instead of passing hands over an alphabet on a board to receive messages from a spirit, one passed their hands over a dog and asked certain true-or-false questions. “My name is Tippy St. Clair” would be a warm-up question to make sure I had the technique down. (And if I did, the circle I’d make with my index finger and thumb would easily break when I passed my other index finger through the point where the fingers touched since this was a false statement…or my middle finger would rise, something like that.)
I had wasted thirty dollars. Thirty dollars I’d never get back, and frankly I didn’t deserve to. I hadn’t done my homework once again.
• • •
Summer arrived. Our battle with cancer looked less like a war and more like a truce. Despite my misfiring, Seamus was thriving. He looked lean and muscular, and he was clearly enjoying his new food, supplements, and exercise. Chris was still the one primarily responsible for taking Seamus on the “serious” walks, but I like to think Seamus enjoyed the more casual walks with me, sniffing anything and everything as he pleased. And I was clearly thriving on my plant-based diet. In just over three months, I’d lost thirty pounds. It had not even been difficult. Sure, occasionally I looked longingly at what Chris was eating, and occasionally I accused him of eating my old favorites (steak and blue cheese!) just to tease me, but mostly, the effects of my diet were so instantaneous and rewarding, I stuck to it with relative ease.
I enjoyed the foods I was eating. I enjoyed preparing my meals. In the past I’d been a decent cook, as long as I was following a recipe. But it wasn’t something I was passionate about, and I was never one of those people who could look in the cupboard or refrigerator and say, “Oh yes, I have red pepper, dill pickles, and beef; therefore, I’ll make my delicious pepper-dill-steak casserole gourmet meal!” (See, I couldn’t even cook properly with words! Seriously, who would eat that?) I didn’t have any understanding of what flavors went with what or how, when, or why meats should be prepared, and I never liked looking at raw meat, let alone handling it. I just figured the kitchen wasn’t my forte. I left that to Chris.
Now, though, I was enjoying the kitchen. I bought a separate cutting board (no meat!) for my veggies, and I learned about quinoa, lentils, hemp, and the miracle of kale. I began to follow vegans on Twitter and Facebook, all of whom regularly shared delicious-sounding recipes. I was constantly printing off new recipes (ahem, with apologies to the environment—and Pinterest, which clearly I needed to join).
I prepared lemony quinoa with pine nuts and spinach; gingered quinoa with dates and watercress; fig and blue “cheese” pita sandwiches; a rainbow salad of kale, cabbage, oranges, red onion, bell pepper, and sunflower seeds in a Dijon mustard and orange juice dressing; a curried quinoa wrap with avocado-citrus slaw; and, every morning, a delicious, energizing kale (or other leafy green) smoothie. Mix up pineapple, mango, coconut water, kale, and chia seeds, and it was as if I were on a tropical vacation. Frozen bananas, almond butter, almond milk, and cinnamon whipped together was far more like a milkshake than the healthy drink it was. And frozen cherries, cabbage, and cinnamon blended with coconut water? 7-Eleven could sell it as a Slurpee.
I convinced a group of plant-curious friends to get together on Sundays and prepare various dishes that we could divide up and take with us for lunches at work over the next few days, in addition to enjoying one fabulous, healthy, energizing dinner together.
And, most importantly, Chris joined me for many of the meals. Occasionally he’d still insist on a chicken breast next to my quinoa creation, or he’d throw a steak on top of my kale concoction, but he was eating far better than I think he realized. I realized, though, exactly what was happening to my body.
My energy was way up, I was sleeping through the night, and as I told anyone who listened (willingly or not), everything chemo had done to my body, the plant-based diet reversed (except for the part about killing off the cancer cells…that part was sticking). I could have starred in any one of the food and health documentaries I’d been watching—the same documentaries that now had me thinking about the animals in our food system in a way I never had before
I still made mistakes—like forgetting that honey was an animal product. I had to research that one. Was there actually a health problem with eating honey? Turned out, opinions vary. Not everyone thinks an insect is an animal, for one. But there is the theory that honey is an animal protein that contains something distastefully (on purpose, I assume) known as “animal ferments” and therefore is not good for human health. I also learned that bees make honey by continually eating and regurgitating it. Lovely! And then there was the vegan approach—the production and harvesting of honey involves enslaving and exploiting the bees, which are removed from their natural environment and can be harmed in the harvest process; therefore, if one is vegan, one does not eat honey. Eating honey is apparently the gateway to the slippery slope away from a true vegan ethic (a bee’s pain is okay; therefore, maybe a fish’s is too, and then perhaps a quail, a rabbit, a pig…).
The difference between the plant-based diet I’d been following and a vegan lifestyle began to crystallize. A plant-based diet was abo
ut me. A vegan lifestyle was about the animals. I tucked that thought away in the back of my mind. And I tucked the honey away in the back of the pantry.
Then I went to a wine dinner at Chris’s wine shop. The winemaker from one of our favorite Paso Robles wineries, Dubost Winery, was there to share and discuss her wine while her husband grilled and served wild game he’d shot and prepared himself. We loved Kate and Curt and their wines, so there was no way I was missing this event, even with the thought of grilled boar to discourage me. Chris resolved my dilemma when he asked Curt to grill some additional vegetables for me.
The salad course was delicious, and while the others enjoyed the grilled oysters and Kate’s Sauvignon Blanc, I nibbled on bread in a delicious, garlicky olive oil dip. And then I had more bread. And then more. And perhaps some wine.
Chris stopped by my table to see how I was faring.
“I can’t believe you aren’t eating oysters. You love oysters,” he said.
“They’re an animal. I’m sticking to this.”
“I don’t think they even feel pain. Aren’t they lacking a central nervous system?”
“Well, that’s not really the point. Or true. I don’t think. Anyway, I’m fine. Besides, this bread and olive oil is delicious.”
“So you’ll eat anchovies but not oysters?”
I dropped my yummy-soaked bread. “Anchovies? What?” I vaguely recalled Kate mentioning anchovy-something when she discussed the menu. I had not thought anchovy equaled animal. Nor had I thought that salty, savory taste in my dipping sauce was anchovy.
Chris pointed to the nearly empty saucer in front of me. “May as well eat the oysters at this point.”
I was crestfallen. I’d done so well! First honey, now anchovies. Who knew? Well, of course, anyone who thinks about what they’re eating before they stick it in their mouths would know. I pushed the bread plate away, though part of me wondered how much empathy I could really muster for an anchovy.
It was a learning process, and I had a lifetime of eating habits to get over. But I was determined to do it. I was vain enough to be inspired by the weight loss, but smart enough to know my physical well-being had greatly improved, so I was sticking to the plant-based diet, stumble though I may. I was just going to have to think things through a bit more.
Already it took me twice as long to grocery shop than it ever had before. I started shopping at Trader Joe’s and Sprouts, which were farther away from me, and fervently hoped for a Whole Foods or Gelson’s to magically appear in my city. I visited a local farm stand as frequently as I could and drove downtown on Saturday mornings for the farmers’ market. In the stores, I had to read ingredient lists diligently (they sneak milk, eggs, and cheese into just about everything, and why is there honey in wheat bread?), which meant a constant on-and-off with my reading glasses, which I viewed as a mocking symbol of my middle-aged-ness. I was also learning about ingredients I’d never heard of before. Where does one find nutritional yeast? Is it with bread yeast? (No, it’s with the vitamins and protein powder.) There is such a thing as dairy-free yogurt? Yes, yes there is; it’s made from nut milks. Tempeh? Seitan? Yep, over near the tofu, which is, ironically, over near the refrigerated dairy section. Chia seeds? Flaxseed? Hemp? Bags of it, and again over near the vitamins and supplements. And now, my favorite aisles were the bulk-food aisles: raw cashews, walnuts, grains, quinoa galore, all to my heart’s content. And fresh ground almond butter! And wait…macadamia nut butter? Heaven! I’d also discovered the joys and many uses of coconut oil, which I now cooked with and also used as a moisturizer and makeup remover. On the other hand, there were entire rows and sections at the grocery store that no longer applied to me. I could sail past all the processed foods and the dairy and meat departments (in other words, three-fourths of the grocery store).
The shopping part I was getting down pat; I’d have to work on eating out. But I’d get the hang of this sooner or later. I’d watched Forks Over Knives, the documentary Julieanna had recommended, and I was more determined than ever, both for my health and for the animals.
• • •
Buoyed by my new lifestyle, inspired by my ability to change, and with Seamus doing well, I had another life-changing idea around midsummer. I shared it with Chris in the hot tub one evening, perhaps surprising myself as much as him.
“I’m thinking of going to India.”
“Huh?”
Fair enough response. Chris and I both love to travel, and we’d both traveled a fair amount. There was a long and ever-expanding list of places we wanted to visit, but India was not yet on it. Given that some of my least favorite past travel experiences were in Asia, it’s understandable that “India” might catch him off guard.
“I can explain.”
“Please do.”
“One of the breast cancer blogs I follow is written by a young woman who, post–breast cancer, did a sort of trip around the world by volunteering. She went to something like four countries on three continents, volunteering in orphanages and whatnot, as a way to refocus her posttreatment life.”
“This is not explaining India at all. In fact the mention of ‘orphanages’ just makes me think you have a high fever and none of this can or should be explained. Though I do love your clarity on the stranger you met on the Internet who maybe sorta did, you know, stuff,” Chris said.
Dang, I hate it when he makes sense! That was perhaps not my best, most impassioned statement. I was new at this. I was not the kind of person who travels the globe doing volunteer work and living in youth hostels, and certainly not anywhere near an orphanage. I want to be that person; I just also want my blow-dryer, plenty of quiet, relaxing down time, room service, and cute outfits. And no children around. But I pressed on.
“So this young woman, Terri, she’s formed a nonprofit called A Fresh Chapter. And she’s putting together a group of twelve cancer survivors from around the world for a volunteer program for two weeks in India. Mornings are spent volunteering and afternoons are spent learning the culture and touring about, including a cancer center in Delhi. I think it sounds kind of amazing.”
“Who are you?”
“I know. I know. But—and this is key—the trip happens over my fiftieth birthday. So I kinda think it’s perfect. This is my first ‘big’ birthday since the whole cancer thing, and remember I said I wanted to do something spectacular, but something that wasn’t all about me. Not a party or a weekend away. Celebrating with other cancer survivors, doing hands-on volunteer work, and seeing one of the Wonders of the World in a country I consider both frightening and fascinating…that seems to fit the bill.”
“It does.” He was quiet for a short moment. “I’m kind of amazed. But it might be a great idea. Certainly an experience. How much does it cost?”
“Well, that’s being worked out. It’s a nonprofit and gets some grants that underwrite part of the trip, but we’re also supposed to raise funds. It’s like a crowdsourcing thing. I was thinking that if I get selected, I’d just tell friends and family if they want to know what to get me for my birthday, they can pitch in there.”
“Not a bad idea. Definitely a once-in-a-lifetime trip. I think you should do it.”
One of the many things I love about Chris is that he can respond like that. Just a supportive “you should do it,” without days of angst and agonizing or picking the idea apart, finding a million reasons why it was crazy. No, that would be my job, and he knew that. His job was the supportive, upbeat “go for it” part.
“I have to apply. I might not even get selected. I imagine she’ll have a lot of breast cancer survivors applying, just because of her blog. And she’s trying to get a good mix of people—men, women, folks from different countries, survivors of different cancers. So who knows?”
“Right. You won’t know unless you apply.”
“I’m going to seriously consider it.”
“You, India
, forced togetherness with a group of strangers, touchy-feely cancer discussions, volunteer work with kids… What could possibly go wrong?”
One of the other things I love about Chris is his sarcasm. It’s a good thing I love that.
We literally and figuratively enjoyed the salad days of summer. My memoir would be published in October, and we were excitedly making plans for that. I even managed to not talk myself out of applying for the India trip. I was proud of myself for recognizing a great summer when it happened without simultaneously expecting a disastrous fall or winter.
I should never let my guard down like that.
Chapter 4
Words, Wine, and Wags
In early September a photographer for a national magazine came to our home to photograph Seamus and me for an article on our story. He took several shots inside the house and then wanted to move to the back patio, which has an expansive view of the city.
“Can you pick him up?” he asked.
“Well, I can try, but he hates to be picked up. You’ll have to shoot fast before he starts struggling.”
I picked Seamus up, and he fought me just as expected. I wrestled him into position, and we faced the camera.
“Turn slightly to your right.”
I turned. Seamus squirmed. But I held him tight. Glancing at him, though, I noticed he was blinking. “I need to turn him out of the direct sun.”
“Just a few more.”
In a few more clicks of the shutter, it was over. I looked at Seamus, still holding him in my arms, and I saw it.
What is it with photographers and sunlight and pools of red blood in this dog’s eyes? It seemed too ridiculous to be true. But by the end of the day, the eye was swollen and visibly bothering him. He was no longer blinking so much as holding the eye shut.
We took him to his specialist the next day, and they increased the eye drop medication. We were up to four drops a day. Then one morning shortly thereafter, I woke up and headed downstairs with Seamus following behind me as usual. When I turned on the kitchen light and looked down at him, I was horrified. His eye had swollen to nearly the size of a golf ball.
Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) Page 3