Introducing...... my mother!

May 26, 2010
Today is my mother's birthday and it struck me as a good time to introduce her to you all -- and to explore that extraordinary relationship that exists between mothers and daughters everywhere.

My mother, nee Vera Bonvicini, was born in Venice, Italy, in 1923 (she would kill me for letting that out -- but she doesn't do computers!!). I have a feeling she was a bit of a rebel, though she conveniently claims to have forgotten her youth so her past is shrouded in mystery! What I do know is that she met my father during World War II when his British regiment was stationed in Venice, having fought its way up the Italian peninsula. Against her parents' wishes, she booked a train to London and set off on her first overseas adventure, aged 23, to marry a man she hardly knew and whose language she didn't speak. That took some guts.

My two brothers and I grew up bilingual, which was perhaps the greatest gift my mother could give us, but it also set us apart from our peers. When we spent our summers in Italy, we were the 'inglesini', the little English kids. When we got back home to London, the pale English kids wanted to know why our skin had gone brown. But the memory that solidified my difference to my schoolmates was the time I threw up my lunch in the pick-up line, and the entire class crowded round to look at the undigested bow-tie pasta on the floor. "What is it?", they all cried. Even the teacher had no idea.

They say the apple never falls far from the tree, so guess what? I was a pretty rebellious teen, left home for university and never went back. During that period my parents divorced, so there wasn't anywhere to go back to anyway, but those were the days, at least in England, when young people shipped out and made their own lives. I think my mother had a tough time with my uber-independence (sorry, can figure out how to do the umlaut..) and we drifted apart. I lived in Italy for a few years and then moved to the USA and letter-writing was never my forte.

Now that I'm a mother of four fabulous kids who are about the age I was when I left home for good, I wonder how much pain I caused my mother by upping and leaving. I would be devastated if my children disappeared from my life. Just the thought makes my toes curl.

As often happens in mother/daughter scenarios, my mother came back into my life when I had my own children. For some reason, the relationship seemed a lot easier. My mother was thrilled to be involved with her grandbabies and she was there for every birth. In 1993, she decided to be an immigrant again, and she moved to the USA so that she could be closer to us all. She's an interesting character, fiercely independent and still fascinated by the world and what is going on around her. For the last 25 years, she has spent her winters in India, undertaking the long journey for the pleasure of walking barefoot along the beaches of Goa with a bunch of total nutters from Italy who meet there every year. I hope I have her energy when I'm her age!!

I'm quite surprised at how well my mother is dealing with my cancer. She looks at my bald head and smiles. "Sei bella come sempre". I remind her of what I looked like when I was a baby!! Here's a shot of me with my dad, aged 4 months. Fewer wrinkles, but I guess I look pretty much the same?

A total mystery

You're probably all sick to death of me rabbiting on about my hair, but something major is bothering me and I need to talk it through.

OK, so recapping what we all know from my previous posts ........ after the second chemo treatment, your hair falls out. From your head as well as from all other body parts. Eyelashes seems to be a question mark, but everything else goes. Hard fact supposedly.

Since this, added to the chemo, is a fairly catastrophic event, most people prepare for it by cutting their hair short, getting wigs, buying fancy hats and scarves, and shaving their head. That's what I did. You can see the result in the photo of me with my son, Sebastian.

So I had my second chemo treatment and waited for the stubble to rub off my head. To be frank, I was really looking forward to it coming out because let me tell you-- there is one major drawback to having a shaved head. The top of your head feels like it's coated in the hook side of a Velcro pad. Every time you put on a T-shirt or sweater, your neck jerks back as the 'hooks' catch in the fabric and it's not that easy prying your clothes off your head. It is really very, very irritating.

You'd also be surprised at how cold your head gets with no hair -- I had no idea it would be so drastic. I even had to wear a beanie in bed on chilly nights, which for some reason made me think of Charles Dickens and the Victorians, when men wore pointed nightcaps and ladies covered their heads in frilly-edged bonnets.

Another bizarre thing kept happening when I was newly shaved -- I kept whacking my head against everything, not something I normally do and I just couldn't figure it. I came to the conclusion that our hair must be like cat's whiskers --if we brush against something with our hair, it sends a signal to the brain, "Watch out! Too close!! Step back!!!". I've learned to compensate, but it was very odd.

So now we come to the conundrum. This morning, I had my FOURTH chemo treatment and my stubble is still there!! Why?! Without getting graphic, I'll share with you that nothing much has happened in the other hair departments either. I don't get it. Dr. Z, Mary at the Smilow Breast Center, the internet and my friends L and S were all quite adamant that I'd lose my hair between treatments two and three.

I keep rubbing my head (feels quite nice if you go with the 'grain') and can feel a couple of slightly smoother spots on top of my head, but I can't see them. However hard you try, it's next to impossible to see the top of your own head, especially if you're wearing progressive lenses. Maybe it's just coming out really slowly? Maybe the chemo isn't working (though Dr. Z says it is)? Or maybe my hair is just so strong that it's refusing to go down without a fight.

That's my mystery. I just don't know.

Backtracking.....to the haircuts!

One of the givens of the type of chemo I'm getting is that after your second dose, BANG! the hair falls out. It's practically the first thing Dr. Z told me. Mary, who runs the Smilow Breast Cancer Center, said the same thing. So did Nikki, the lady who organizes a wig for you (if you want it, which I didn't...... I'm going commando!! WooHoo!!). It tells you on-line. Second treatment, good-bye hair.

So over the space of a month, I had my hair cut three times, by my daughters, none of whom have much experience in the tonsorial department. Francesca, daughter #3, got to go first, deftly wielding the scissors to give my overgrown mop its first trim. Hmm.....not sure about that central part, but well done, darling!

Dimity, one of my twins, who had just rolled out of bed, was up next and she angled and snipped her way to what turned out to be quite a decent haircut. In fact, I got a lot of compliments from people who had no idea that a total novice had been hacking away at my hair!

The reason I wanted it all cut off ahead of time was because I'd had the fear of god instilled in me by all the warnings of the Nuclear Hair Fallout. Much better to be proactive, I figured, and chop it all off. After all, it's one thing to choose to cut your hair and quite another to find in a pile on your pillow or clogging up the shower! I mean -- can you imagine?!

Emma, the other twin, finally got her turn a couple of weeks later, just before the second chemo, and she gave me an interesting spiky look that we all quite liked. One of the things about my hair, apart from the fact that it's totally unruly, is that is unbelievably thick. Also, the scissors seemed to be getting rather blunt, so poor old Emma had a tough time. But I think this looks pretty cool!

Comfort food

Wobbly tummies aren't easy to feed and trying to come up with nourishing food that sits well is turning into a major preoccupation. After my first bout of chemo, I overdosed on chicken soup, so the second time around I tried for a little variety in the comfort food department.

I think most of us have foods we associate with feeling icky, ingrained in us from when we were children. Take the BRAT diet. Pretty much universal: we had it in England and in Italy, and then I came across it here when my kids were little. BRAT, of course, stands for Banana, Rice, Apple Sauce and Toast....... nice bland foods that keep you going when all you really want to do is curl up and die!

Comfort food comes in interesting forms, depending on where you're from. Take Marmite. You've probably never heard of it, but ask any Brit and they'll tell you they were brought up on the stuff and if you were sick, you ate Marmite soldiers. Marmite comes in a black jar with a cheery yellow and red label. You can find it in the supermarkets over here, though I expect sales are limited to ex-pat Brits. Open up the jar and have a sniff......hmmm. Just the thought makes my mouth water. Smells like concentrated bouillon. It's actually all vegetarian, basically concentrated B vitamins, so really, really good for you.


To make Marmite soldiers, you toast and butter a slice of bread and then spread the Marmite VERY thinly. It even says "Spread thinly" on the label. It's pretty salty. Cut the toast into four soldiers and you have a fantastic, nutritious snack that's easy on the tum. Try it, though I warn you, it's an acquired taste. Once you're feeling better, you might try cheese and Marmite sandwiches, a staple of the British sandwich repetoire. Two slices of buttered bread, smear of Marmite on one piece of bread, add a slice of Cheddar or any other hard cheese and enjoy! Pickled onion on the side would be good..... but I'm getting ahead of myself. Pickled onions aren't on my horizon for a while.

Soft boiled eggs are another classic nursery food that's helping me keep my protein intake up. If you want to get creative, you can combine the egg with the Marmite soldiers, that way you don't need to salt the egg!

I must say that these days I find myself standing in front of the open refrigerator, sounding like my kids. "There's nothing to eat in this house!" So yesterday, I was gazing blankly into the fridge when a container of freshly cooked chickpeas and an avocado caught my eye. Oh my..... I whipped up a concoction that I just have to share with you.

1 cup of cooked chickpeas
1 ripe avocado
1 lemon, juiced
1 tsp salt
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup water
Tabasco to taste

Put the whole lot into the blender and whiz until smooth. Add more water or olive oil if you need it. I buy dried chickpeas and cook them in the pressure cooker. You don't need to soak them, just rinse and make sure there are no stones hiding among them. They'll cook in about 30 mins. If you don't have a pressure cooker, soak overnight and boil the next morning. Save some of the cooking water to use in the recipe.

We ate this with chips, then we added some of my home-made wine vinegar and used it as a salad dressing, and finally I have to admit that I polished off what was left with a spoon. Delish!

Time for a grumble

I think I've been a pretty good sport about this cancer gig....... so I think I'm entitled to a bit of a grumble . If I had to put myself into a category, I'd say I'm one of those people who takes pretty good care of themselves. I'm not overly obsessed with my health, just mindful of what needs to be done to keep well.

Growing up in post WWII London, we children were all trotted down to the community clinic for weekly doses of cod liver oil, concentrated O.J. and, to our total mortification, ten minutes standing in our undies under ultraviolet lights, wearing goggles sealed to our eyes with Vaseline. You spent the rest of the day squinting through smeary eyeballs. I suppose this was all good stuff as none of us developed Ricketts, but we dreaded it. And then of course we walked everywhere. Everyone walked. There was a bus, but if you didn't ride the bus, then you'd have sixpence to buy a little bag of pear drops from the sweet shop! A mile to the train, a mile and a half at the other end to school. Lots of unplanned exercise.

My mother, being from Italy, where even during the war there was no shortage of decent food, had a tough time coming to grips with the English diet. She became an expert at ferreting out food she recognized. Olive oil, in tiny bottles, came from the chemist shop. Spaghetti came in two foot lengths wrapped in blue greaseproof paper. If she found it, she'd stock up. When my grandparents visited from Venice, after 26 hours on a train, it was like birthdays, Christmas and Easter rolled into one. Their cases were jammed with salami, prosciutto, olives, grissini, wine vinegar, fragrant cheese - even the stale bread tasted fantastic. We feasted!

My dad had a big vegetable garden, so that's where my brothers and I spent our weekends. We were expected to plant, weed, and harvest our crops. We had apple and plum trees, gooseberry bushes, and vast quantities of greens. My grandmother canned the apples and made pies. We made jam with the strawberries. I was the envy of the school lunch crowd with my salads and roast chicken, while the other girls filled up on fried Spam, gelatinous stews and lumpy custards. Ugh.

So healthy eating and regular exercise have always been part of my lifestyle. Regular medical and dental tune-ups were added in as I got older. I really took very, very good care of myself. Which leads me to last February and my annual date for the mammogram.

The day I walked into the Breast Center I was just about as fit as I could be. Great diet, heavy on vegetables, grass-fed beef, lots of fish, whole grains and plenty of fruit. Tons of exercise...... if you've ever trying rowing you'll know exactly what I mean. Yes, I had a little stress on the side, but the exercise helped neutralize that. So healthwise, I was pretty much a straight A.

Then suddenly, despite my high health grades, they told me I had a serious illness. How could this possibly be? I didn't feel ill at all. It was really difficult. I've always been pretty good at listening to my body for clues. If I'm tired, I slow down. If I crave red meat, I must need iron. If I'm feeling antsy, I need to work out. My body hadn't sent out any signals about this cancer thing. Not that I could remember, anyway. I'd certainly lost a few pounds the previous year, but that seemed to be exercise related. Or maybe not. Interesting thought.....I'll have to ponder that one.

So now that I'm under treatment to make the cancer go away, I've gone from being a perfectly fit and healthy person, to a shadow of myself, feeling pretty ghastly most of the time. The chemo really knocks you down. The best way to describe it is...... you feel pregnant. Vaguely nauseous, very tired, certain smells bother you and your taste buds are screwed up.

It's ironic. Take a fit and healthy person and make them feel awful. Then they'll get better. Quite frankly, this sounds like a bunch of codswallop to me, but, hey, I'm giving it a shot!