The Cure For All Cancer: All 9 Seasons of MI-5 (Spooks)

I have this bubble. It is a cozy, amazing womb of a bubble.

I go into it, and magically, the memory of the fact I have metastacised breast cancer disappears. Anywhere else, including in my own house, or while driving in my car, the cancer invades my consciousness, zings my anxiety into high gear, and grips my heart with fear.

Here is what the bubble looks like: It is an old, turn-of-the-century, two-story house in the heart of downtown, on a leafy, residential street. It has five-foot high, black, wrought-iron fencing around the front yard. 

Behind that fence is a pretty Magnolia tree whose petals are sadly dropping early as they always do. The stone patio in the front, and French courtyard in the back, are covered in Apple and Cherry blossom petals, like a garden in a child's imagination. An ancient Apple tree grows right out of the stone courtyard. An unused sauna stands at the back. Bright, pretty flowers lean enthusiastically from pots high and low.


The bbq in the back serves up the best steaks in the country: The homemade bbq sauce has garlic, ginger, and Montreal Steak Spice in it. The meat is rare and tender and thick. In foil, next to the steaks, the thinly sliced onions and potatoes bubble away, and on the stove in the kitchen, a big batch of mushrooms to supplement. The world's best home-made Caesar Salad dressing (the secret is anchovy paste) is added to the Romaine lettuce at the last possible second so the croutons won't be soggy, when covered with home-grated fresh parmesan and lemon. This is the perfect meal. What I would order as my last meal on death row.


In the mornings, I am reading on the most comfy, deep sofas, and drinking the world's tastiest coffee. A frittata with asparagus and feta is served. The conversation is witty and affectionate, a loving, warm atmosphere, filled with laughter and love.


Overnight, in the guest room, Simba, a two year old goldendoodle lets me spoon her, and her soft ears feel like silk on my cheek. She rolls on her back and pushes out her breast bone, imitating the pup I first knew her as, at three months old. 

She guards me with the fiercest love a dog has ever shown me. I am her possession. Her brother, Poirot, a chubby, happy-go-lucky, soft-hearted Bernese Mountain Dog, occasionally braves Simba's bitchy possessiveness over me, and pushes her out of the way to lie close to me on the bed. The sheets are clean, crisp, high-count Egyptian cotton, the mattress envelopes me in softness.


But in the evenings! Oh the evenings!  In front of a five foot wide ancient old fireplace with a roaring fire in it, each of us in deep, soft, enveloping heavy couches (Michael in his man-chair, a Lazyboy..one big enough for his 6'6" frame) surrounded by dog flesh spread out on antique Indian rugs, Christine and Mike and I indulge our addiction, while drinking Diet Cokes, and snacking on popcorn, chips, chocolate covered almonds, nuts, and occasionally, ice cream. 

That addiction is MI-5, the BBC series still in production in its tenth season. We rent the previous seasons, and watch the episodes one after another. If anyone is lost, we order Mike to "Pause!" so we can clue back in. We are crazy about how good this show is, how smart, how contemporary, how fast, and occasionally witty it is.


Christine is my guardian angel, so smart, so loving, so pretty, so witty. She isn't even jealous of her daughter's--Simba's--abject adoration of me. I am like Mick Jagger or Sting to Simba and Poirot. Every little thing I do is magic. 


Once Simba slept at my house when Mike and Chris were out of town, and I would awake to her low growl, as she warned my own three dogs to stay away, when they tried to come in and jump on the bed. 

In a fog of sleep I'd see them huddled, wide-eyed, at the open bedroom door, a look of amazement on their faces as Simba would leap from the floor next to my side of the bed and appear in their faces, letting them know that the threshhold was hers, the body next to Dave's in the bed, hers, and that if they wanted to extend their lives a bit longer, they wouldn't try to sneak in again while she slept on the floor next to me.


Simba would hear me say her name in a sleepy admonishment of her, and she would be instantly next to me, standing on the floor, administering quick, tiny licks to the skin near my mouth, as if to say "Shhh, shhh, my angel, you go back to sleep, let me deal with these assholes of yours." Like a Jewish grandmother, at a sick child's bed. "Don't worry your fevered head, I am taking care of it all."


Sometimes Courtenay, walking Baxter, rouses the dogs in the morning while we lounge and read, Chris always working from her blackberry. I went off with Courtenay and Baxter, picking up Tulip and Sasha, nearby, on Sunday morning, to the dog park, to wear them all out for the day. Courtenay and I then had a great time strolling at the booths in the Landsdowne Market.


When I leave and return home Monday, I hear about a friend's mom, who has lost her voice. She has to live now without speaking. I am up all night, sobbing, phoning Liz in B.C., Dave trying to comfort me. My friend's mom has lost her voice because her metastacised breast cancer has formed a tumour in her brain. When it was removed by surgery last Thursday she awoke to the complete inability to speak. Her breast cancer was the same as mine: metastacised to two or three nodes in her armpit. 

My bubble has definitely popped.