OMFG is the Name of My Cancer Folder

You know the weirdest part about cancer? It’s that life goes on anyway. There are still weeds to pull, laundry to pile up, groceries to buy, work emails and calls to deal with. So I started today by dropping bean off at preschool and high-tailing it for the DMV because our brand-spankin’-new Honda Pilot needed itself some tags and taxes to be paid. $923.59 and about 10 minutes later, I was on my way to pick up TRPL TRBL, sip a latte courtesy of her hubby and hit the road to shuttle us all to Anschutz Medical Campus at the University of Colorado Cancer Center.

We were so excited that we got there early so TT suggested that we hit FedEx to take some copies of the hubby’s arse. We thought slipping it into my newly formed cancer file would be just the ticket to help us get through the day. We’d innocently say, “the last doctor took this and asked us to bring it to you.” We also discussed the possibility of asking to have the “smart” taken out while they’re in there. Or maybe just asking them to enlarge it a bit, since he’s always been such a tight ass. The hubby wasn’t nearly as amused as we were. Needless to say.

Suffice it to say, I thought I just might have diarrhea myself — right there in the colorectal center. That’s how nervous I was. The hubby — on the other hand — was all zen due to his yummy new diet of cherry-flavored holly-go-lightly. (We’ve since heard that orange half lytley is the only way to go. Thanks Keely.)

We were so pissed because we’d planned to cook this big, yummy dinner and splurge on wine to have a real day off. And just as Kenny was reaching for a bite of leftover Zolo for lunch (courtesy of Liz), the hospital called and said, “Fast is back on mo-fo.” Time for colon-cleanse numero dos. Of the week. Shit-damn.

But we made it through. Kept it going on. I ran out for a pedi and dinner with Purse Girl since she was leaving for her big, 3-week-long OHIO PAR-TAY and had spent every waking minute with us all week — while the hubby watched some b-ball with T-Rocks and ran to the potty every 5 minutes or so. Miss-miss was sleeping over with the Walsh twins and Bean tagged along with me for some big girl fun. We spared him the tantalizing smells of dinner by hanging at the bar at Centro, and he spared us the...well...you get the point.

So as soon as we were all gowned and IVed up at the cancer center, the doctor’s assistant comes in and says, “Oh. So. Yea. We tried to call you, but you’d already left. Seems that we’ve had a bit of an emergency and you’re going to have to wait. About an hour and a half.” Kenny hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the night before (and nothing but clear liquids since noon) and it was already noon again. Smack down number two. But, we figured it must’ve been some big damn deal and our little hunger strike would be the least we could offer in respect of that other poor sap.

Three HOURS LATER, they finally take him back. TT had joined up in the curtain room by then and was about to slap down the nurses for the shitty IV job. I caught her just in time and we shuttled out of there to grab some food. It was 3pm.

We tried in vain to eat a sandwich while I could’ve sworn that I was crawling straight out of my skin. TT kept eyeing me with that, “I hope she doesn’t lose it before I finish eating” look. I tell her to hurry the hell up and we race back to the waiting room to sit some more. We kept getting the head tilt because we’d met everyone on the entire floor by this point. They all assumed we would soon be paying rent or something. Even the info desk lady had started sharing her private stash of mints with me in solidarity.

It wasn’t until 4pm that they finally came for us. TT had been rubbing my feet and back and trying to talk me down off of the ledge. I’d been running back and forth to the bathroom so much that I finally noticed that the doors were manufactured by a company called Hiney Hiders. Seriously. Is everything about ass?

The next part was kind of a blur. But this little boy — who couldn’t have been more than 5 years old — was introduced as the doctor. How do they do that? Graduate from medical school before they are even born.

He spoke so quickly that TT hadn’t even finished her last phone call before he was half-way through. Luckily it was all good news, because I was ready to ask for a refund. No indication of the effin thing anywhere but there — about 12 cm in. He said he didn’t think we’d need chemo before surgery, that they hadn’t biopsied any lymph nodes (a good thing) and that it looked like we’d caught it fairly early. Translated: we passed. We get to pass GO and collect surgery straight-away. The only thing that would’ve been better was if they could’ve gotten it all out during the endoscopy. No dice. It has gotten way too comfortable. And settled in. I want to kick it right in the ass.

I asked, “So what is fairly early versus very early?” You know, I’m a writer and I need to know these things. So, early means easy and fairly means less easy. Surgery ahead. Pieces of colon removed. So I ask, “And...chemo? After? Or none?” The answer: “Sister, you’re going to have to hold your horses.” Okay then.

This we can do. Now we wait for Monday. It could mean heading to the newly built Rocky Mountain Cancer Center and checking out the digs or going straight to some surgeon to schedule a resection. Okay fine. Now can we just have a normal weekend for godsakes?

Next up: Miss-miss has her panties in a twist and it looks like our breakfast conversation will be spilling the beans to both girls. Softening the blow a bit. No “C” word. But Bean keeps saying, “Daddy’s sick. Can I still touch him?” Along with, “He needs to poop not just in the morning, right Mommy?” And Miss-miss said tonight, “I’m just confused. I don’t even know what sedures Daddy’s had.” Crap, crap, crap. Lucky us with the smarty-pants, precocious kids.

I’d really love to sleep for about 5 years now.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Paper Planes. M.I.A. No one on the corner has swagger like us. Hit me on my burner, prepaid wireless. We pack and deliver like UPS trucks. Already going to hell, just pumping that gas.