Bump-n-grind. Then rewind.

I wasn’t going to write today. I’ve found myself to be at the short end of a french fried stick for the last few days. And I keep looking at this sticker I bought. It’s on my desk and I can’t decide whether I want to go all hippie with the new Pilot or not. So I look at it every day due to a bad case of indecision. But I try to live by it since I stare at it daily. As it looks up at me with anticipation. Not a bad mantra I suppose.

The last few days have been rough like the ocean before a huge storm. When the clouds are low and dark. Like the opening of a cheesy, badly-written novel. Only this is my life.

We knew, yes knew that recovery wasn’t going to be easy. That it would have a whole new set of challenges waiting for us. And we were ready. Family flying in: CHECK. Girl-care covered: CHECK. Dinners delivered every other day: CHECK. Work taken care of: CHECK. Friend support system: CHECK. Wine cellar well-stocked: CHECK. House re-organized: CHECK. But. There is no way in god’s green earth to prepare yourself for this particular form of mental angst. Of the gut-grinding variety. (Okay, so the hubby has both forms of gut-grinding, but, as I’ve explained before...I will always be front-and-center in this drama. Yes, he has cancer. And, yes, he’s the one going through the intensely physical side-effects of colon re-section surgery. But I’m the one who has to watch him endure. Try to be brave. Break down. Get up again. Turn gray. Go lie down. Hope (and, yes, pray) that he gets back up. Soon. Set his jaw against a day (or small task) in determination of gettin’ ‘er dun. And I feel my heart break. Again. And again. (And again. And again.)

Mainly, it’s that I’m the one writing. So, as the reader, you get to hear about M-O-I. (I’m starting to feel like Miss Piggy.) But back to him. (Albeit reluctantly.)

It’s all a crap shoot (as cousin Cheryl so wisely intoned today). And it is. We jump around from cramping, to crapping, to incontinence, to the next thing that rears its head daily. Trying —mostly in vain— to puzzle out what is causing what. Beef? NO. Two days of intense gut-grinding of the physical variety (on his part) and mental (on my part) as I watched him writhe. Wine? That seems to be okay in moderation. But what fun is that? Then a call to the doc to ask about why it is so hard to shit out a chihuahua-sized turd. (We call it shitting chihuauas for short.)

I can tell by his facial color how he feels at any given moment. Which comes in quite handy when you have a hubby who (warning: huge understatement ahead) is not the best communicator around. In fact, just today I realized that —at his most expressive— I get “hmmm.” There’s the no hmm that is slightly lower in tone and face stays impassive. Then there’s the maybe/yes hmm that is higher in pitch with a titch of a raised brow. He’s a real puzzle, that one.

And he now closes the door when he poops for the first time in our 24-year history together. Just when knowing how it’s going has reached an all-time-urgency. And it’s because he’s just too damned expressive when he’s shitting a chihuahua. So I’m banned.

And left to inquire, “So?...” There is seriously nothing left in the humiliation department. Between him seeing me naked, shaved and strapped Jesus-style to a gurney on my way into an emergency c-section, and now my asking how his poopies went. Well. Enough said.

I’ve been channeling my control-freaked-out self into a massive re-do of the house. The cleaning out while mom was here has now morphed into changing up and organizing anything that isn’t tied down. Or requires major construction. (Which is also now in the queue for post-chemo/radiation life when we can handle having our kitchen being gutted without having a nervous breakdown. Though some may say that I could be on my way with all of this over-zealous getting shit done manic energy streak.)

I’ve sanded and painted rocking chairs on the front porch, replaced house letters (and, yes, Rock-es, you had ‘em first. Though I still maintain my innocence.), re-painted the porch light, finally painted the unpainted desk we bought almost 10 years ago, bought new pillows, re-painted a flower can, washed down the front door, planted, weeded, organized and still have big plans. I even had to go out for an emergency printer run when mine went on the fritz, installed it and immediately took the box, styrofoam and old printer straight to CHARM for recycling. (Now that I read this all, I think you’re right. I’m going certifiable.)

The hubby just watches me. Thanks me profusely. And I kiss him good-bye as I run out to the post office to ship off that box of hand-me-downs to the brother and SIL. Gotta go. Gotta go. Gotta go.

My very smart, and intuitive therapist friends would probably find a name for me right away. I call it “getting it done while the getting is good.” The hubby smiles very largely and fist-pumps a big “yes!” So that’s worth every minute of exhaustion.

The biggest bonus is that we really like being home now. Which is a good thing. Seeing as how no one would relish the idea of shitting a chihuahua in a public restroom while someone is impatiently knocking on the door. Seriously.

Friday, it’s the oncologist. Who holds the next few months in her skilled, and highly-recommended hands. On to the next one.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: On the Grind. Nelly. Now if you gonna ride, get inside let’s roll. If you runnin’ yo mouth, shit then shut the door. I ain’t got nothing on my hands but time. Tell me were you the one that’s on the grind.