“Fish & A Chip”

When I first thought about a title for this blog post,  “Fish & A Chip” seemed to be a bit of fun:  it was both a nod to the classic dish found everywhere during our 17 day journey through SW Ireland (Cobh and Limerick), Northern Ireland, Scotland and London, as well as a tongue in cheek reference to our determination to eat somewhat modestly.  Hence, “a chip”, not “chips”.  And given the UK reputation for soggy, fatty, over cooked comfort food, which I shudder to even think about, I thought that the goal was a reasonable one.

Well, as you might imagine from the set up, we were doomed to failure. I now realize that neither Ben or I have enough self restraint to go on a cruise where tempting foodstuffs are available 24/7.  I never eat pastries. Well, “never” now means “hardly ever”.   At our hip hotel in Dublin, the art deco extravaganza in Belfast,  and the multi table breakfast buffet at the stately Adare Manor, the breakfast pastries were over-the-top delicious.  Of course, I always think that my next breakfast could not be as nearly wonderful, so I might as well sample one pastry.  All right, two, because they were so little.  All right, even if they weren’t little.  And it wasn’t just the breakfasts which tempted me:  there is something about the texture and taste of the dark wheat bread in southern Ireland which naturally led me to the fresh rich butter and sweet tart marmalade.  Bread at every meal is such an extravagance and one that I indulged in.  A lot.

In fact, you might say that indulgence was the theme of our whirlwind tour.  Ben’s son, Scott and his beautiful wife Tricia, were our agreeable travel companions for the first 14 days of our UK journey.  We stayed in a combination of home exchange, boutique hotels, a VRBO condo and more corporate hotel type accommodation.  We also spent the weekend in a fabulous Irish country manor:  with all of the money we saved from the exchange of our house in Mexico, we justified the expense of Adare Manor, called by some, “the best country house in Ireland, if you have the coin”.  Truly, I can rationalize just about anything.    Just like I can not say which country or city I enjoyed more, I would have a hard time stating a firm preference for accommodation.  We tried always to get good value for money, at every price point,  and I think we were successful.  Certainly, every place was a different experience.

Of course, I think that the Adare Manor was the standout.  A big part of what drew me to that particular property was the opportunity to experience Falconry.  Since I read the book “H is for Hawk”, by British writer Helen MacDonald, I have been fascinated by the idea of working with predatory birds.  When I was searching for a “castle” to stay in (my daughter-in-law and I had decided that staying in an Irish castle was a fine plan and there are a lot available.  Many ancestral family homes of, for example, the “8th Earl of WeWereWealthy Before Grandad Gambled, Drank or Whored it all Away”,  have been opened up for guests, a necessary evil when your leaking roof dates back to the 17th century.  After a brief misunderstanding (that’s a polite way of saying that this usually fine Hotel screwed up), the Manor staff recovered nicely and Ben and I were upgraded to a suite.  With a tray of chocolates and mini macaroons to say how very sorry they were.  Indeed.

We were eager to experience something of upperclass country life at the turn of the century, when aristocratic English families had lots of money and lots of leisure time. Accordingly, we had signed up for clay pigeon shooting, gun dog trials and falconry.   So after spending an entertaining hour with Willy, owner & trainer of prize winning Labrador and spaniels,  we moved on to Charles and his group of birds.  Notice that I don’t say “flock”:  birds of prey do not flock.  Or stay around after mating.  Only one of the type is the least bit social and when it was “mantling”, (protecting its food by spreading its wings around his dinner), I wouldn’t describe it as friendly.  We learned so much:  that owls are actually the dumbest of the group, that all birds weigh much less than they appear to because their bones are hollow, that they are superbly aerodynamic and possess extraordinary hearing in order to sense movement of their prey.  It was thrilling to have such a creature land on my arm, and to stare into their unblinking raptor gaze, even for a moment.  Actually, likely just a moment was a good thing, before they had time to size me up as an appetizer.

What else?  There is a noticeable bar culture in the UK cities:  everyone under the age of 35 seems to congregate at bars every night of the week.  In Dublin, there are cocktail specials for college students on Mondays, and they roam up and down the streets in packs, the boys noisy and jostling each other, the girls teetering on stilettos or strutting in boots, dresses in short skirts and “bar tops”.  (A new phrase to me:  “bar tops”, refers to a presumably provocative article of clothing that you can wear out with regular clothes on the bottom.  Think glittery or low cut or both).

On a related note, about 2 years ago, when I had to quit drinking alcohol for medical reasons,  I came across a woman’s only online community  called “Soberistas”.   It had lots of confessional postings from young women who had been alcohol free for a period of time, but had recently gotten plastered in a bar, forgotten most of the evening, and were equal parts ashamed and regretful, looking for absolution and encouragement.  This support group was based in Britain, and I could really see why it found an ready audience, especially for the under 35’s.    “Pubbing” is so engrained in the UK culture.

The spectre of Brexit hangs over the Irish cities of  Belfast, Dublin and London:  among ordinary folk like cab drivers and servers, there is worry,  concern and general unhappiness.  Dublin itself is very friendly and walkable but the Irish still feel the Diaspora of more than 150 years ago. There is no forgetting the harm that England did:  food was piled high on ships destined for English or French tables, while the Irish starved on country roads.

Recent memories of the “Troubles” in Northern Ireland are even more acute and our tour guide thought that it would take a generation or more to calm those troubled waters.  I saw black & white billboards of with images of tortured and murdered people that were so graphic and bloody, it brought back my memories of the infamous killing fields in Cambodia.  And when all of the convicted political prisoners were freed from prison as part of the 2000 Good Friday Agreement, murderers on both sides were walking amongst those who were their victims’ families, only  2 months or even 2 days before.  The bitterness is tangible and the walls that separate the 2 factions still exist.

The Titanic Experience in Belfast is a absolute treat and a must do when you visit Belfast.  You must, if only to visit a bar called the Harp:  so much fun!  There was a young singer/guitarist playing who managed to sound like a 4 piece band:  he was doing enthusiastic covers of songs we recognized easily, and then he rocked the house with his version of “She’s a Belter”.  And what is a “Belter” you ask?  Well, it’s Scottish slang, implying that someone is stupid or uncool.  Or, in the case of this song, it means that she is one hot babe, “diamonds on her fingers, and she always looks her best”.  The song had the crowd yelling and screaming out the chorus:   apparently, being called a “Belter” when in Belfast is a high compliment

We had a grand time in Ireland, and then flew the next morning to Ben’s birthplace in Scotland and then onwards to London.

As I write these words, summer in the leafy town of Oakville on the Lake is quickly winding down.  This weekend is Labour Day, a national holiday started to acknowledge the achievements of workers:  ergo most regular working folks will resume their daily grind this coming Tuesday.  Ironically, this weekend is also the last hurrah of the “cottage country” crowd here, those families who are fortunate enough to enjoy second homes on the pristine blue waters of lakes a few hours north of Toronto.  What passes for a “cottage” in Ontario can range from a simple wood frame 2 bedroom uninsulated bungalow, decorated with lumpy mattress and castoffs plucked from the “soon to be recycled” pile, all the way up to multi-million dollar Cape Cod style mansions (with fully outfitted guest house/boathouse of course) that are regularly featured in the pages of design magazines.  Simpers the owner, “I wanted to keep it simple:  only 6 bedrooms, and no maid’s quarters”.  But I digress.

The level of traffic on the major highways going into and around Toronto will go overnight from being mildly annoying to stress inducing, fingers on the wheel clenching, swearing like a drunken sailor horrendous.  What took 20 minutes on a sunny July morning will now take a mind numbing 100 or more.  (And then the children of privilege go back to private schools the following week and then the traffic horrors intensify.  BMW drivers can be so aggressive!)

For me, the event that signals that the wind is coming out of the hot air balloon that is summer in Ontario is the arrival of the Canadian National Exhibition.  The “Ex” is a dizzingly chaotic and crowded mashup of amusement park, concert venue, circus, hucksterism, greasy disgusting and somehow irresistible  foodstuffs (deep fried Mars bars anyone?) an irresistibly cute dog show, and something called Horse Capades!  Everyone I know has been there at least once.  Over a hundred years ago,  there were real agricultural competitions at the EX, a holdover from the glory days of Ontario farmlands when capturing the 4H prize for growing a gigantic pumpkin or raising the finest looking doe eyed heifer was a real coup for a budding farmer.  Awh shucks and pats on the back all round.   There are still gardening awards, but most of the true celebrations of the rural farming life were replaced earlier this century by an elaborate petting zoo (140 animals!) and an urban gardening wall.

My personal highlight of the Ex is overhead right now:   The Toronto International Airshow.  Our Oakville home is almost right on the flight path of those glorious silver birds like the World War II Allied heavy bomber, the Avro Lancaster which flies into Toronto from the Warplane Museum in Hamilton.  There are only seventeen remaining of these worthy Leviathans of the sky in the world, only two are still flying and that Museum has one. It’s a sight to behold, and our good neighbour and aviator, Brock Mason, holds a neighbourhood tailgate party and arranges a “fly by” every summer in honor of the plane.  A crowd stands out in the middle of the street, waving madly as the plane goes by,  briefly wagging one wing in regal acknowledgement. It’s a perfect summer moment in a summer that was pretty darn perfect.

So what pray tell is “glamping” ?  It must have an element of camping in it, and camping lost its appeal for me decades ago.  I am a product of Northern Ontario,  and my parents, who were passionate about fishing, took me out in a 12’ aluminum boat at 6 months of age.  My memories of lakes, rocks and pine trees are consistent over my early childhood and into my teenage years, and you know, those rocks and trees don’t change much over time.  Same green pine, same black water, same grey rock. 

But glamor? Well that is my passion. In accommodation of course. I have a Master’s degree in luxury, courtesy of an executive position with the platinum coated global company that is American Express.  My handsome husband thinks that I am spoiled in lodging specifically, and he is so right.  So how did my first adventure in “glamping” turn out?

Our first night at El Nidal evoked a strong, unexpected emotional response in me.  The smell of a campfire, listening to the crackle, watching the flames do their hypnotic dance, brought back memories of our family weekends at various lakes around my small home town of Atikokan (“cariboo bones” in Ojibwa) in northeastern Ontario. Half a century later, a whiff of smoke and I am instantly back in the Pre-Cambrian shield, roasting marshmallows, jostling with my cousins for space at the fire and comparing marshmallow readiness.   But no singalongs in my childhood, which is strange because my Dad had a beautiful voice. Before they put radios in cars, he would sing songs from the Kingston Trio as our car bumped along on the way to the Floodwaters, or whatever lake we were fishing in that weekend.  When we made camp, the first task that my brother and I would set ourselves to was finding long green branches to skewer hot dogs and most importantly, marshmallows. My dad would take his ever-present pocket knife and sharpen them to a fine point. I remember marshmallows:  a sweet sticky treat, perfect when golden brown, but never made inedible by burning black. You just gingerly removed the burnt skin, and started again.  

Glamping is an interesting concept, which could only be dreamed up in an age where adults are so divorced from the outdoors yet so committed to their comforts and novelty, that they would pay serious coin to sit in a clothing optional yurt, or safari like tent, or a restored Airstream for the very cool, all to watch the sun come up and go down.  Your choices at glampinghub.com range from a tiny treehouse to rustic reconstructions of five star hotel rooms complete with hot tubs.

El Nidal is the vision of new age, eco-entrepreneur, Marcello Castro Vera:  it is situated on over 50 hectares of  land that has been in the family for 50 years.  In addition to the compound of 8 “accommodation containers”, he has a farm with pigs, sheep, goats and chickens, a micro brewery, a mescaleria, a winery which uses technologies that the ancient Romans would recognize appreciate, and a vineyard which looks like it may take a decade to produce a single grape.  There were 8 couples booked in for 2 days and the container reminded me of an upmarket version of the camper my parents had in the 70’s except with a stylish decor, hot water, satellite TV, and comfy duvets. The event was described by organizer and the best food writer in San Miguel, Glenn Griffin (aka “Don Day”) as an adventure in eating, drinking, then eating drinking followed by more eating and drinking.  As he promised, the typical Mexican food was all cooked over open flames and it was robust, filling and delicious.  There was a smoker too, and the smoked charred beef ribs that came out of that contraption of rusted oil cans are the best BBQ that I have ever tasted.  Really.  

We did sing songs on our first night, led by Bob’s funky guitar playing and charming voice.  There were 8 couples there and I speculated about the possible bickering or blowouts that seem to happen whenever you get couples together out of their natural element and apply copious amounts of alcohol.  But the open air seems to have calmed whatever marital beasts there might be lurking within and conjeniality reigned.  It was a lovely group of people. On the last night, I was alone in the container and could not figure out how to use the “church key” (bottle opener for brown stubbies and now, cool micro brews):  apparently,  I have been out of the North for too long. 

How did I like glamping?  Well, honestly, I missed some of the fun:  I decided that I was going to taste a bit of everything on offer, mescals, gin, grappa, and just a thimbleful each mind you.  But after 2 years of taking only an occasional sip of a special wine from my husband’s glass, I got a little tipsy and needed to retreat to my bed.  Never even made the visit to the ale house. So I missed the competitive bocci ball, and something called “corn in the hole”, and the ride up the mountain to see the sunset.  Ben & I did get to meet some interesting new folks and we had some quiet fireside chats that would not have happened back in San Miguel, with its frenetic socializing. We had intermittent wifi, but no CNN or phone, so the world went on without us for a few days.  The chill on our bones from being 8,000 above sea level gave us plenty to talk about in the morning, comparing strategies for keeping warm and for finding coffee making implements.  The experience was relaxed and friendly, it was certainly a change of pace, and an unexpected benefit:   in one inhale of smoke, I was transported to a favourite time and place that had been on the fringes of my subconscious, but no longer.


maybe we ain’t that young anymore”..*

The Day after my 60th Birthday.  (11\11\1958)

I  am writing this posting as I wait for Alicia to come and work her masseuse magic on my back, neck and legs.  Yes, while at our home in Mexico, we indulge ourselves in an almost weekly massage, in front of the living room fireplace, while listening to soothing spa instrumentals. It is a Sunday, so no daily housekeeper:  Ben has told me that he will tackle the dirty dishes in the sink from last night and this morning and not to touch them.  I wouldn’t dream of it:  it’s my birthday week and I am in full “princess” mode.

Later, we will sit in our living room, watching the birds flitting in and out of the cedars by the pool.  It is a little cliched to say how grateful I am for all of the good things, experiences, and of course, the good people in my life.  (My handsome husband is of course the top of that list.)

But its true.  If being truly grateful makes you happy, as current research says, then I am joyful.

Never mind that I have a 14” zipper scar on the top of my head, and a head which, post 7 weeks of radiation, bears a strong resemblance to Mr. Maggoo. Then there are all of the other annoyances of aging that you were warned about but blithely think won’t happen to you:    hair that behaves like a weed which grows where you don’t want it (facial), and thins out where you do (scalp), the skin under your upper arms has a life of its own,  enlarged pores and diminished sight.  To my surprise, my bedside table suddenly looks like my mother’s, crowded with skin cream, reading lamp, tissues, used & new tissues, lip gloss, and alarm clock.

Ben comes into the bedroom to find me crying:  as I do every year on my birthday, I read family stories of loss from the Great War and World War II.  And at 11am, no matter where I am in the world, I stand straight backed, arms at my sides, to observe the silence at 11:00am on Remembrance Day (Veterans Day for my American friends) , the 11th of November.  This little gesture is made in honour of the fallen, for whom the wind blows between their graves in Flanders Field.  (Canadians will understand the reference). I think about the freedoms that I enjoy, and give thanks that there were young men willing to die for God, the Queen and Country.  I will not sanitize that statement, even though it’s not very current or politically correct.   That would be a betrayal and a dishonour to their memory.  I am here, enjoying the personal liberties of a liberal democracy because they are not.

We have arranged a birthday party this evening at a San Miguel Karaoke bar.  I had this idea that Karaoke would be a great way to have our groups of friends mix and mingle, have a few alcohol induced laughs and possibly embrace the microphone as the evening progressed. We are starting off the fun with a romantic, upbeat duet from the 50’s called “Come Go with Me”.  We are Karaoke neophytes, and our single rehearsal was a performance on the stage of a grungy bar/restaurant/betting shop in an Oakville strip mall.  (If you drop something on the carpet, you pick it up gingerly, and with a napkin).    It wasn’t the sort of place where the WASPy tennis ladies from The Oakville Club would soon be having afternoon tea. But the small crowd of truly idiosyncratic regulars was enthusiastic, accepting and I really appreciated that the DJ cranked up the canned applause as we left the stage.  A Star was not Born….but she didn’t fall on her butt either.

“Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night…you ain’t a beauty but hey you’re allright”*


*lyrics from The Boss of course. 

Health Update:  after the bitch, aka,  the tumour, reared its ugly head in the spring, I had 7 weeks of radiotherapy.  Based on my recent MRI, the doctor thinks it has been halted in its evil tracks.  Begone and good riddance!**

**from Shakespeare, 1609, for those of you whom like me, find that sort of etymology fascinating.  


*written by my rock & roll hero, the late, great Tom Petty.

For the past 6 months, I have been “running down a dream*.  Or jogging. Or plodding. I attribute the plodding, not to my age of course, but to the advice of my wonderful  physiotherapist. She is the young woman who saved my life by telling me, after months of her pushing and pulling my muscles, that my right side ailments were likely not physical in nature,  and that I should get to hospital immediately, and get my brain checked out. So when Sharan tells me that, if I want to keep running into my eighties,  I have to shorten my stride to a geriatic cadence now, I listen.

So, the point being, is that when I plod along the street called Lakeshore, in the beautiful golden community of Oakville, I have lots of time to think.  My companions are varmits like coyotes and squirrels, and charming little chipmunks and grey bunnies.   Every day, a red fox trots up the sidewalk from the Lake, and disappears into the undergrowth, looking for breakfast.  Most days, he proudly trots back to the den with a furry evidence of a successful hunt hanging in his jaws.  I don’t look too closely but sadly, I have not seen my bunny friends lately.

My plodding track is Lakeshore, the “Gold Coast” of Lake Ontario. It is an avenue lined with multimillion dollar faux Tuscan villas, where 5 bedroom 3 bathroom homes are routinely torn down to build 5 bedroom, 8 bathroom homes.  One pissoir for everyday and an extra just for the guests.  These are homes that have an attraction that have always eluded me:  why would anyone, except Martha Stewart perhaps, that doyenne of domestic excess, need a gift wrapping room?  A gigantic, stylish laundry room for people who have people to wash their clothes?  Stunning “chef’s kitchens”   with appliances that are never turned on? I imagine in a town where a Maserati is the weekend runabout that these type of trappings of wealth are normal.  I admit to envy of the kitchen (I already take most of our clothes to the cleaners). When I see, horrors, an empty water bottle lying on the meridian, I am surprised that the ground has not opened up  beneath it before the Mercedes SLK leaves the driveway.

But what is not normal, at least to me, is the lack of civility. I plod along in what I refer to, tongue firmly in my cheek, as my “running burka”.  Not to be guilty of cultural appropriation here, (and again, with the tongue) but I always go outdoors fully covered.  Long tights, long sleeved windbreaker, hat, and sun glasses. When I was crewing on my brother’s J24 race boat, 10 years ago, there was little shade, so I dressed  the same way. And always in black.  Hence, the moniker, “the sailing burka” was born. My husband has had melanoma and I am not taking any chances.

So perhaps I do look like the unibomber, but really, would it kill some of my fellow outdoor exercisers to raise their hand in acknowledgment? They need not even say “good morning.”  Just twitch the fingers of the right hand.

But perhaps they don’t know that “the twitch”  is part of the universal runner’s etiquette. It’s the unwritten code. So I have made it my personal mission to enlighten them.  I have taken to giving everyone that I encounter a little wave of the hand and  a cheerful “good morning”, louder if they have ear buds in.   As any friend of mine  will tell you, this is not normal  behavior for me, to be so resolutely chipper, especially in the morning, before coffee, and to strangers.

I have lived most of my life in the comforting coccoon of anonymity of the city.  Where you barely make eye contact, ever. But this behavior has really irked me.

I am hoping its not because all of that wealth has made them insufferable snobs.  But I am going to try a little behavorial experiment  tomorrow:  rather than wear my usual cap which has a barely visible but respectable BVI Divers Tortola badge on it, I am going to don the cap emblazoned with a large USA-76 Oracle BMW Racing logo.  Ben picked it up in San Francisco when he was at that race. And we shall see how many more waves I get.

Now you may ask what am I doing jogging when I am recovering from 7 weeks of radiation therapy.  Fatigue is one of the side effects of this treatment and I am really feeling it now.  Only a month ago, I would wake up at 5 and wait impatiently for sunrise,  so I could go outside without worrying about running into those stinky black & white varmits.

Now, when I see the last block, I really  have to dig deep to give it my usual sprint.  But as my Spanish speaking friends would say “poco a poco”, or  “Little by Little.”

I have put some photos of the beautiful gardens and wrought iron gates from my morning outings.  A coincidence:  when Ben and I were scouting out sources in San Miguel for some additional wrought iron work, we found an agreeable American man who was designing large pieces for homes.  And for gates in Oakville, Ontario.   Really.  He told us Oakville was a big part of their business.  Every time I plod on Lakeshore East, I can think fondly of San Miguel.







Those Mel Brooks fans among you will recognize the voice of young Dr. Victor Frankenstein (played by comic genius Gene Wilder) commanding his servant, the hunchback Igor, (another comic genius, Marty Feldman)  to bring him the brain of a prominent & brilliant dead scientist, a brain which will complete his creation and redeem his family name. (Igor famously brings him another brain, from a specimen jar labelled “Abby…normal”. Yuk yuk) 

Now following 19 days of radiation therapy to my skull, I cannot decide if I look more like Igor with my cute head wraps or perhaps, with the scar tissue, it’s The Monster (Peter Boyle), that is my doppelgänger.  

No, I think that one have to conclude that the movie star most likely to play me, being me right now,  is Richard O’Brien as Riff Raff in the Rocky Horror Picture Show (Of course, I would have preferred Susan Sarandon:  I read somewhere that she has the best rack in Hollywood.  Really.)  Richard wrote all of the music for the RHPS, and the signature song “Time Warp”, was actually an afterthought because they were running short and needed filler. Really.   

It is an odd feeling, waking up one morning and literally, not recognizing yourself in the mirror:  huge chunks of hair fell out overnight, leaving me with wispy bits around the crown and long straggly bits to the shoulders.  It exposed my 14” of scar tissue in all of its pink and ropey glory.  I was really hoping to have that evidence hidden for a long time.  I have big issues around personal privacy (as in, I need a lot) and having to wear a head scarf that screams cancer patient makes me cringe.  I see young girls and women in the treatment room who proudly show off their shaved bald heads:  but for me, I never want to be defined by my condition.  

And so, well you might ask, why was I not mentally prepared for the hair loss?  The radiologist told me it was coming and so did the genuinely sweet young technicians in Treatment Room 16, my daily destination for 5 minutes, 35 days in June and July.  You can see in the photo the huge machine that they roll me into:  first, they put me in my personalized mask, affix the mask to the table, start the tunes (I have heard everything from Louis Armstrong to Guns n Roses) and then quickly scoot out.  The machine starts moving around me, delivering green radiation beams from 3 directions, and before the chorus to “Sweet Child of Mine” is finished, they are back to release you.  The custom mask is made of a plastic mesh material, and it is snapped down and in so tightly that I sometimes have mesh tracks on my forehead and nose.  Nice. 

So again, why was I not prepared? Well, I do believe that the good Dr. underestimated the area required to ensure complete treatment.  The regrowth is only 6 cm long and 1 cm wide. The thickness of a piece of paper.   And because it is growing flat on the top left side, they need to target the beams from an angle that skims the skull all around the area.  Picture shooting beams at the top of an orange to target just the surface peel, and that is pretty close.  

So much larger than the regrowth area is perfectly reasonable, but I am stunned to have lost more than half of the hair on my scalp. Not to mention that there is hair everywhere, in the toothpaste, in the hand cream, in the mascara, and for awhile there,  it was reminiscent of being up north in mosquito season, except that instead of bugs, I was breathing in strands of fine hair through my nose and mouth!

In the interests of making lemonade from life’s lemons, last week I visited Lora, the lovely and compassionate owner of the medical wig store here on Oakville.  I bought a variety of pretty head coverings:   a few of them are definitely channelling the whole Woodstock ‘70’s thing, which is cool, since I missed being a flower child the first time through.  (Ironically, we just watched the opening sequence of the brilliant 70’s movie, American Hustle, in which Christian Bale carefully pastes down his combover and hairpiece.  Too close to home!)  I  will likely order a stylish hairpiece through her as well:  the only downside of the easy care synthetic variety, is that you cannot BBQ or even open a hot oven with it on! Melt Down Madness!

Will my hair ever grow back?  The answers range from maybe to not completely to not likely.  We will give it a good 6 months before I order an expensive piece of natural hair.  Chemo patients have a better history of regrowth:  radiation is so hard on the skin.  

So again, why so unprepared? And why so upset? I was and still am.  Getting past it, but of course, it is well known that women have a fundamental attachment to their hair.  Crowning glory.  Defines and expresses one’s feminity.  A tool of seduction when tossed in the right direction.  Why else so many products, salons and appointments? You may have gained a few pounds, but your hair can always look good.  You may need a morale boost, so get a new cut or colour. Only compliments will ensue.   Do you remember the old song, “I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair”.  A bit before my time actually, but I always appreciated the sentiment. And of course, nothing says “still young” like a full head of bouncy, shiny hair.  Pale blond wispy bits floating across a pink scarred scalp says “frankly darling, its a head only Ben could love”.  And that is a darn good thing too.

Most of you will allready know about this development, but since this morning is the first day of my radiation treatment, I thought that I would update you all. Here is the email that I sent out shortly after I knew about the regrowth.

In the interests of not having you look at me strangely when next we meet, and of course,  because I consider you to be a friend, I wanted to let you know that my menginioma has resurfaced, and that i will have to go in for targetted radiation treatment this summer. The treatments are quick and painless:  15 minutes a day,  M to F, in Toronto, for 7 weeks.  
The most painful part will be getting there and back, but traffic does slow down during the summer.  
There is a high probability  that I will experience fatigue as well, so forgive me if I am not my usual bouncy bubbly self.  (I have no idea how “fatigue” differs from just just needing a nap in the afternoon, which I do so enjoy) 
The strange looking part is that the hair on my head in the radiated area will fall out about 3 or 4 weeks into it. Regrowth may take a year or more, or if ever.  So if anynone has any good ideas or sources for weaves, partial wigs, even comb overs, bring it on! I left my wig from post- surgery in SMA, but a wig can get hot in the summer. 
Other than hair loss and fatigue, the doctor expects no other side effects and the progonsis is good. Our hope is that this treatment will finally stop the little bitch from creeping further across my poor knobby scarred skull.  
So the Update:
Since we have been considering replacing Ben’s almost 10 year old car for a few years now, we decided to accelerate the decision (an almost pun):  last night we bought a low mileage grey Lexus 350 RX to make the drive into Toronto easier.  I am not really a car person,  but this is one sweet ride (custom interior, best sound system, shiny sparkly wheels, oh my.)    I will spend the drive into Toronto with my head in the manual, trying to figure out how the audio system works.
I have already had a consultation with Lora, the warm and friendly owner of Medical Wigs here in Oakville.  I saw Lora almost 2 years ago when I bought a wig* to cover my head which had been completely shaved off before my tumor surgery. (See my blog from the summer of 2016 for the photos. I have a happy but strange smile.  The photo below, taken at my brother’s wedding, is with about 2 months growth).
She is still dispensing wig wisdom, and has assured me that I can have a hair piece made to cover the roughly 12x10cm blank spot and that it will enhance my overall look by adding height, readimade curls, and beautiful bouncy shine.  There you go, we have made lemonade.
The Road Travelled Well” blog
* The “Miley Cyrus” model at the height of her twerking nonsense – women with greater sensibilities than mine refused to buy it based on the name. I thought it was mildly amusing.