Let the F-Us fly.


Yesterday I got three blog updates from friends with cancer (or those who’d lost a spouse to it). Weird. Must’ve been cancer update day.

There was a recurring theme. Positivity. Moving forward and keeping a brave face. Cancer’s funny that way. It hits and then suddenly you realize what you are capable of. (But, yes, we climbed a couple of mountains in the 14,000 foot range and I ran a marathon prior too.) The outpouring of support has been staggering. And you can’t help but stand up and keep braving on. It lets people know that this doesn’t have a to be a deal-breaker. No one really wants to see you curled up in a blubbering ball anyway.

For now, we’re finally home, all fed, in bed. After one of yet another of the longest days in my life.

Last night my anxiety-ridden dreams morphed into something about me sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag and seeing a huge, brown mouse running straight for my face. And just as those psychotic-style dreams tend to go...I COULDN’T MOVE BECAUSE THE SLEEPING BAG HAD ME TIED UP. So I apparently started flailing and hitting the bed repeatedly, waking the hubby from his Ambien-induced sleep. Hard to do. Eventually I woke up too and mr. mousey went away.

Then it was morning.

I had an 8:30 am meeting (rarely do I schedule those any more) and it was a 25-minute drive. So I had to fly out of the house like my ass was on fire. Miss-miss was in such a shock to see me dressed and out of bed and apparently going somewhere that she barely spoke. And bean had chosen that day —of all days— to sleep in. (They both slept until after 8, of course.) So I grabbed the latte my dear hubby had made and had to fly away on one of the most stressful days of our lives to date.

Mom called me in the car and the texts started from there. I was able to focus pretty well during the entire hour and a half meeting. (Yay me.) And got back home as fast as my pilot would take me without alerting any coppers. I wonder if I had simply said, through a torrent of tears, “My husband starts chemo today and I’m running late to take him” if I would’ve gotten a pass. Playing the cancer card is just simply not beneath me and I expect every single one of you to use it on our behalf too as much as necessary (if you haven’t already and you know who you are).

We packed up everything we could think of to pass the 4+ hours ahead (including Steph of the recent buffalo-riding fame) and made the trek to the cancer center.

Blood work, wait, vitals, wait. Then finally the PA came in. “Hello. My name is Andrea Montoya.” So I said, “You killed my father. Prepare to die.” (She swore that she’s never seen the movie, but has heard that about a ga-gillion times. So much for originality.) She walked us through some things and told the hubby that he shouldn’t have any alcohol for the entire treatment. [Insert crickets chirping.] Uh, come again? See, you lost us at any. Apparently alcohol enhances cancer cell growth. Huh.

So even though she had a great name and was generally landing right in the awesome category, we kind of blanked out on the rest.

Then we headed to the infusion room, found a chair by the window and got down to business. There was a lot of talk about anti-anxiety medication, though I am pretty sure they were all looking at ME. There is just something about watching poison being pumped into your beloved that makes me think a mouse is about to crawl on my face.

After he was all set, I left him with buff-girl and went to grab lunch from Dish. It was after 1pm by this point and we’d been there since 11:30. (Note to self: BRING LUNCH WITH YOU NEXT TIME, MORON.)

But, seriously? The whole time really flew. I never pulled out a single magazine, movie or laptop for the entire time. I just watched the hubby’s skin turn green and asked him a hundred times if he needed my help going to the bathroom. (The answer was, NO.)

Luckily our dear oncologist stopped by. The hubby said, “Hey. Are there any dietary restrictions I should know about?” “No. You can eat whatever.” “Okay. Even alcohol?” “Sure. You can have some.” [Insert collective sigh of relief.] Then she added, “I mean, don’t go all BIG GULP or anything, but a glass or so won’t hurt.”

And I mean, how in the hell are you supposed to GET THROUGH CHEMO FOR COLON CANCER without a DAMNED GLASS OF WINE??? (Okay, I feel better now.)

He did great too. The old power port did its job and he got all filled up with the FU CANCER. It’s over. The first chemo treatment is over. Yee-freakin-haw.

So we made it home after a brief decompress at Purse Girl’s pad since she had bean. Neighbor Jane and her hubby brought over yummy dinner and L-Rocks brought our pot back full of ratatouille. (My neighborhood rocks.)

Then the hubby reached into the freezer to pull out the ice cream for dessert and threw it on the floor. It burned him like fire. And then he started to wince when he chewed. And then he went hoarse. And then his throat started hurting. So we’re officially in it. I keep wondering if it’s like being pregnant: the worse the symptoms, the healthier the results. Or something like that.

But we put a call into the on-call doc for a bit of reassurance. And, yep, it’s peripheral neuropathy. (I am sooo smart now that my head won’t fit in the door.)

So as our eyes roll back in our heads from exhaustion, we’ll finally go to sleep to the sweet whirring of the chemo pump that is now the hubby’s new little buddy. I think we’ll name him Inigo (‘cause in two days, Outigo).

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Go It Alone. Beck. Jingling a wish coin that I stole from a fountain that was drowning all the cares in the world.